by Fiona Page
A single snowflake dances across the stage, white smoke swirling around her legs. Arms raised in a soft curve, fingers barely touching. Legs straight and strong, smile wide and unchanging. Her fellow dancers spin out around her in perfect, out-of-sync orbits.
Slips of paper slide under her white pointe shoes, whispering across the wood. Every move is perfect, in time with the rise and fall of the music coming from the orchestra pit.
She can picture herself from the audience, dancing with such ease, every lift of her limbs and spin fluid and effortless.
When she’s on this stage, she is neither human or real, just a fantasy brought to life—a snow-covered dream.
She can feel her humanness all too clearly. Her arms shake from exertion, trembling just so slightly . The muscles in her calves ache, fire in her thighs. Her smile slips, and she fixes it, mouth molded into this shape, jaw tense. Her toes are numb in her pointe shoes, and if she looks down, she can see blood staining the white silk, blood trailed across the stage, red against white tissue paper snow.
She spins, slips, corrects herself, doesn’t raise her arms enough, doesn’t twirl enough times, her heel hits the stage when she should be on her toes, her orbit is too close to another snowflake, she moves slightly out of sync with the rhythm, she fixes her smile, looks straight ahead, tries not to think, relies on her body’s instinct.
Time unravels so slowly.
Don’t think, don’t slip, keep smiling.
Don’t ruin the illusion of magic.
Leonardo Magazine 