Master of the Dance

Master of the Dance
February 20, 2013 16 Comments Writing Stephanie Ayers

This story, Master of the Dance,  is originally published on My Write Side.

image courtesy of dalbera (via Flickr Creative Commons)

She winced as she caressed her ankle anxiously, the sound of the dance instructor’s voice  a hammer in her head.

“Walk it off! This is no time to give in to pain!” He said.

There was never time for pain, for rest, or for anything but dancing. Even when her slippers fell apart at the seams, her toes bloody and bent from constant pointe, he expected her to dance.

“Success doesn’t come to quitters,” he quipped.

She wasn’t a quitter. She was a hater. She no longer wanted to dance, no longer cared about being the Prima Ballerina. She was tired of being swans, of having to set the example and starving herself. She wanted to eat. She wanted to date, get married, have babies, but she was always exhausted.

Today, she hurt her ankle. Her pirouette was perfection, but she’d come down from her brisé volé wrong. Something crackled within her leg. The dance master refused to bring in the doctor.

“You are above this. Pain is your friend,” he said.

Anger colored her vision crimson. No matter how hard she massaged, her ankle refused to move out of the odd angle it had frozen into. She applied pressure, only to collapse on the dance floor. She reached up, anchoring her weight with the barre, and tried to stand. Curses filled the air as her ankle buckled from underneath her.

“Walk it off!” He said.

She grabbed the barre with her other hand and spun on her good leg to face him. “What do you think I’m doing?” she said through clenched teeth. She hobbled toward him. “Did it occur to you that I could, in fact, be hurt?”

He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering momentarily on her ankle. “Nonsense. Take ten and stretch it out. You are better than this.”

Disgust wrinkled her face as he turned back to the three other students in the room. Gingerly, she worked her way down the barre until she reached the bench. Her back on the bench, she propped her ankle on the barre, her foot pointing and relaxing with precision. The pain started to subside. She sat up and stretched her arms to meet her toes, feeling the muscles of her thigh expand. Three more times she stretched until she felt her shin loosen and the pain disappeared. Holding the barre again, she testily flattened her foot to the floor and lifted her other leg behind her. Her ankle trembled but didn’t collapse. A smile lit her face.

“I’m ready,” she said, joining the others in the centre practice.

“Welcome back, Sophia,” he answered, a matching smile on his face. “I knew you could do it.”

Revulsion flickered behind her congealed smile. Her body followed his instructions effortlessly although her mind was elsewhere. Scarlet flashed behind her eyes each time she looked at him. She was finished. Today would be her last dance. He just didn’t know it yet.

Sophia stretched on the barre patiently as she waited for the last student to leave. A ten-pound weight was curled up in her fist.

The Master strode over and stood next to her. “Let’s have a look at that ankle, shall we?”

She dropped her leg to the floor. He bent over, his fingers whispering along the sides of her foot. His touch burned her skin and she swooped down with her fist, the weight making contact with his skull, once, twice, three times until he collapsed on the dance floor.

“Never again will you enslave another. Your time as Master is done. I’m free!” She hissed as her legs, in perfect chassé, moved away from him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m linking up with Write On Edge this week. The Write at the Merge prompts were the Degas picture at the top of the post, and a quote from Ayn Rand:

It stands to reason that where there’s sacrifice, there’s someone collecting sacrificial offerings. Where there’s service, there’s someone being served. The man who speaks to you of sacrifice, speaks of slaves and masters. And intends to be the master.

I always welcome and appreciate your honest feedback. Please share your thoughts in a comment.

Thanks for stopping in!!

 

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Stephanie Ayers A published author with a knack for twisted tales, Stephanie Ayers is the Executive Creative Director of OWS Ink, LLC, a community for writers and readers alike. She loves a good thriller, fairies, things that go bump in the night, and sappy stories. When she is not writing, she can be found in Creative Cloud designing book covers and promotional graphics for authors.
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  1. 16 Comments

    Write on Edge

    Oh! He deserved that, I guess, but I don’t know that I expected it. I think you did a great job building tension and desperation throughout the piece.
    ~Angela

    Reply
    1. 16 Comments

      SAM

      Good. I was hoping that it would be unexpected, though I left a few subtle hints. Thank you for commenting on the build-up.

      Reply
  2. 16 Comments

    Carrie

    It’s a shame she had to resort to violence to be free. Of course, he definitely imposed mental abuse on her so I suppose it coming out as a violent act is appropriate.

    Reply
    1. 16 Comments

      SAM

      Abuse can do many things, including turning a Prima Ballerina into a murderer.

      Reply
  3. 16 Comments

    Shelton Keys Dunning (@SheltonKDunning)

    Ha! Take that!

    Some minor concrit: “Revulsion flickered behind her congealed smile. Her body followed his instructions effortlessly although her mind was elsewhere. Scarlet flashed behind her eyes each time she looked at him. She was finished. Today would be her last dance. He just didn’t know it yet.”

    There are two things that are flashing behind. Revulsion/smile, scarlet/eyes. I would suggest restructuring the paragraph if/when you revisit.

    I love that the bun-head exacted some revenge before she danced away. Brilliant!

    Reply
    1. 16 Comments

      SAM

      Thanks, Shelton. I’m glad you pointed that out. I will definitely do some restructuring later.

      Reply
  4. 16 Comments

    tmwhickman (@fercryinoutloud)

    I guess she was mad, huh? Good job building up the tension!

    Reply
    1. 16 Comments

      SAM

      Just slightly. Thanks for reading, Tina!

      Reply
  5. 16 Comments

    The Baking Barrister

    The details and description was great. I was a bit surprised by the ending – it seemed a tad extreme? Perhaps, due to the word-count restriction, you couldn’t include more examples of the Master’s abuse to explain her drastic actions – but I love how she danced away at the end 🙂

    Reply
    1. 16 Comments

      SAM

      Word count restrictions can get in the way sometimes. I will definitely keep your words under consideration if I decide to revisit this piece. Thanks for sharing them!

      Reply
  6. 16 Comments

    Kir Piccini

    reminds me of BLACK SWAN and I swear starving yourself (Body and soul) like most ballerinas do, can make you crazy.
    I loved the ending, but I feel bad that her pink tights are now red with the blood of a man who hurt her. Soap can’t clean everything my dear.

    WOW.

    Reply
    1. 16 Comments

      SAM

      black swan was a great movie. thank you!

      Reply
  7. 16 Comments

    Annabelle

    You know, I know I shouldn’t be, but I was totally satisfied by her demolishing him at the end! He deserved it.

    Reply
    1. 16 Comments

      SAM

      he did, and I’m glad you were satisfied with the ending. Nothing to be “ashamed” of. Thanks for reading!

      Reply
  8. 16 Comments

    SBhealy (@SBhealy)

    I absolutely love your dialog. It always keeps me riveted to the story. This was a good take on the prompt. I never danced, but I imagine it is a very demanding sport and perhaps could lead a weary dancer to find her own way out:~)

    Reply
    1. 16 Comments

      SAM

      Thank you for the compliment on the way I write dialogue. It means the world to me.

      Reply

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