Gingerbread #11 - Magic Mirror/ Cherry Vanilla #19 - The Dream That Isn't a Dream
Author: three_penny
Challenge: Gingerbread #11 "Magic Mirror" and Cherry Vanilla #19 "The dream that isn't a dream"
Word Count: 526
Rating: G
Story: The Untitled Story
Summary: She doesn't know where she is, and so, she dances.
Notes: This is the first piece from "The Untitled Story" I've been brave enough to post. It takes place somewhat later in the story, but it doesn't give too much away. I have a LOT written for this story, but first I need to build up the courage to show it to people.
Pas seul.
Upon first glance, she did not look like a dancer. Morgan was not possessed of the usual grace or shape typically attributed to Odette or Clara. She was tall and curved, a shapely figure that was attractive but not supported in the world of thin, petite swans and fairies. She often wondered, in the back of her mind as she looked at her colleagues around her, if she was really cut out for this art. Most would look at her and say no.
They have never seen her dance.
Porté bras, relevé...
Her arm reaches upward as her body follows, rising and falling with music only she can hear. She’s not sure where she is, but it’s familiar and strange and somehow seems like the perfect place to dance through her thoughts. Her head bows back as she remembers who she is, or at the very least, who she thinks she is. She doesn’t really know anymore. When did her world become so bizarrely unclear? There was mystery before - there were questions, as there are always too many questions but never enough answers - certainly she could never claim her life was entirely rational, but to confuse her own identity and then find herself in a place she could barely recognize was still a bit more unusual than normal.
Demi-plié, glide, petite jeté, fondu...
She had never assumed she was a good person. There was nothing to say that she wasn’t, she simply never felt comfortable saying she was. There was always something nagging at her, something she’d known she could never redeem herself for, but couldn’t actually remember doing.
She reaches forward, arabesque. Things should be more clear to her now. She knows who she is, now. That lingering mystery in the back of her mind should be gone.
But she has no desire to be evil. She has never had any. Or at least, in her current persona. Her one desire is the same as it always has been, to dance. There was always magic, always experimenting, always darker things hidden in the shadows in the woods, but they never concerned her. She could always turn a blind eye.
Her dance picks up speed. She turns, again and again and again. Like Odelle, her foutte turns become more frantic the more she turns. Her arms whip out around her, strong and graceful, betraying both her own power and her own crippling uncertainties.
Her imaginary music swells. She spins and spins.
This doesn’t make any sense. Where is she? Why is she dancing, why is this all on her mind at once? Why is nothing making sense anymore, why is nothing calm?
Who is she really?
Arabesque.
Suddenly she is leaning against her nightstand, balancing herself. Familiarity crashes in around her and she realizes she’s posed in her own room. She brings her arm and leg down and plies into fifth position, finishing. Was she always here in her room?
There is silence. A soft rain patters against the glass window. Her only answer is her own reflection.
Challenge: Gingerbread #11 "Magic Mirror" and Cherry Vanilla #19 "The dream that isn't a dream"
Word Count: 526
Rating: G
Story: The Untitled Story
Summary: She doesn't know where she is, and so, she dances.
Notes: This is the first piece from "The Untitled Story" I've been brave enough to post. It takes place somewhat later in the story, but it doesn't give too much away. I have a LOT written for this story, but first I need to build up the courage to show it to people.
Pas seul.
Upon first glance, she did not look like a dancer. Morgan was not possessed of the usual grace or shape typically attributed to Odette or Clara. She was tall and curved, a shapely figure that was attractive but not supported in the world of thin, petite swans and fairies. She often wondered, in the back of her mind as she looked at her colleagues around her, if she was really cut out for this art. Most would look at her and say no.
They have never seen her dance.
Porté bras, relevé...
Her arm reaches upward as her body follows, rising and falling with music only she can hear. She’s not sure where she is, but it’s familiar and strange and somehow seems like the perfect place to dance through her thoughts. Her head bows back as she remembers who she is, or at the very least, who she thinks she is. She doesn’t really know anymore. When did her world become so bizarrely unclear? There was mystery before - there were questions, as there are always too many questions but never enough answers - certainly she could never claim her life was entirely rational, but to confuse her own identity and then find herself in a place she could barely recognize was still a bit more unusual than normal.
Demi-plié, glide, petite jeté, fondu...
She had never assumed she was a good person. There was nothing to say that she wasn’t, she simply never felt comfortable saying she was. There was always something nagging at her, something she’d known she could never redeem herself for, but couldn’t actually remember doing.
She reaches forward, arabesque. Things should be more clear to her now. She knows who she is, now. That lingering mystery in the back of her mind should be gone.
But she has no desire to be evil. She has never had any. Or at least, in her current persona. Her one desire is the same as it always has been, to dance. There was always magic, always experimenting, always darker things hidden in the shadows in the woods, but they never concerned her. She could always turn a blind eye.
Her dance picks up speed. She turns, again and again and again. Like Odelle, her foutte turns become more frantic the more she turns. Her arms whip out around her, strong and graceful, betraying both her own power and her own crippling uncertainties.
Her imaginary music swells. She spins and spins.
This doesn’t make any sense. Where is she? Why is she dancing, why is this all on her mind at once? Why is nothing making sense anymore, why is nothing calm?
Who is she really?
Arabesque.
Suddenly she is leaning against her nightstand, balancing herself. Familiarity crashes in around her and she realizes she’s posed in her own room. She brings her arm and leg down and plies into fifth position, finishing. Was she always here in her room?
There is silence. A soft rain patters against the glass window. Her only answer is her own reflection.