A Ballerina's Opinion of Doors
I might have known I shouldn't have pushed the papier-mâché walls, I might have known better than to scream so loud, talk so fast or chew quite so noisily if I hadn't been so god-damn, over-the-fucking-moon, spectacularly, disgustingly happy. I might have even known that the doors closing behind me in a neat row of sounds (thump, thump, thump) were doors I would have to pry open, kick in, on my way back. And I who already had a sore foot from dancing on dry, evil grass.
A four-inch-long, yellow, hollow straw was still stuck in the flesh of my left foot from piercing it during a lovely pirouette (followed by a graceful leap and a soft reach of one arm before pushing the air and finishing with a spin in the opposite direction and a graceful bow). The straw sang desperately, whistling wildly as I walked ever so gently on the purple-grey rocks that was my path, leaving tiny heart-shaped smudges of blood as I moved along.
Standing by the brink of the foaming, silver river, you laugh at me as I come closer. Your skin is pink and flustered, the tip of your nose burnt from waiting so long under the scorching sun and your lips are dry and splits in a second's shower of blood as you strain them with that uneven smile that I adore. I take a leap to catch you, to capture you, but no, the visibly invisible door shuts in my face (THUMP!). And my blood on see-trough wood makes a lovely note to tell you I'm alone and waiting on the other side. Now it's time for you to learn how to walk through locked doors.
Short story by True Words Embellished
Read 1035 times
Written on 2006-10-07 at 20:15
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Ian Bowen |
