Gravel dug against, and through the cloth abominations that she'd learned to call shoes, the discomfort was fierce upon even the most calloused portion of feet and as sure as it throbbed, it was going to bleed. The sky cried down upon her forcing the fabric of her dress and the silkiness of her hair to cling to her weightless body which was almost scripted in movements.
Enola wouldn't stop, not even when the soles of her feet stretched at the tendons and threatened to snap like frail twigs, not even when the tips of her toes bled. She could hear her mother screaming elegantly into her ear"her mother, who was a dancer herself, who knew the stunning agony and the trade like no other. It was she who had adorned her daughter in shoes of cloth and dresses of lace, and pushed her passed a line that couldn't be drawn by mankind or any superior deity.
She was a thin, starved line that would bend, and swirl, and swoop on cues that were not defined by the music that hadn't been playing. A taffy spine would bend at will; and her arms would gravitate to one another, only to spread out like the wings of some majestic bird; and her legs, her support beams, her enthusiastic pedestals would carry the dance into the early hours of the morning and beyond.
The performance, if not wet, would have been festooned in never-restricted buttery locks which now only blended with the sallowness of her complexion"which was one of the three things she often wore, the others being doused dress, a muddy mixture of pink and gray, and the bloodstained shoes. The rain dripped from her plentiful eyelashes, flung from the ends of her hair, and would gather at her feet had they stayed put long enough.
Only when she missed a step and stumbled, would she utter a sound from her lips. It was a sound of disgrace coupled with shame. It was a sound heard not habitually by the too often alone, Enola. Only when her knees gave out, when she'd slip on the sticky plasma that oozed through her shoes, when her head got faint and her eyelids couldn't support themselves, only when her teeth chattered and her lungs couldn't expand; only then, would she stop. Only then, would she feel the agony.
Musical inspiration. Thanks for reading!
Enola wouldn't stop, not even when the soles of her feet stretched at the tendons and threatened to snap like frail twigs, not even when the tips of her toes bled. She could hear her mother screaming elegantly into her ear"her mother, who was a dancer herself, who knew the stunning agony and the trade like no other. It was she who had adorned her daughter in shoes of cloth and dresses of lace, and pushed her passed a line that couldn't be drawn by mankind or any superior deity.
She was a thin, starved line that would bend, and swirl, and swoop on cues that were not defined by the music that hadn't been playing. A taffy spine would bend at will; and her arms would gravitate to one another, only to spread out like the wings of some majestic bird; and her legs, her support beams, her enthusiastic pedestals would carry the dance into the early hours of the morning and beyond.
The performance, if not wet, would have been festooned in never-restricted buttery locks which now only blended with the sallowness of her complexion"which was one of the three things she often wore, the others being doused dress, a muddy mixture of pink and gray, and the bloodstained shoes. The rain dripped from her plentiful eyelashes, flung from the ends of her hair, and would gather at her feet had they stayed put long enough.
Only when she missed a step and stumbled, would she utter a sound from her lips. It was a sound of disgrace coupled with shame. It was a sound heard not habitually by the too often alone, Enola. Only when her knees gave out, when she'd slip on the sticky plasma that oozed through her shoes, when her head got faint and her eyelids couldn't support themselves, only when her teeth chattered and her lungs couldn't expand; only then, would she stop. Only then, would she feel the agony.
Musical inspiration. Thanks for reading!