American Ballet Theatre. Lele auditions tomorrow. Toes blood-raw, shiny cut runs the length of her shin.
Jeté, changement, développé… Feet soaking in tepid water, eyes closed, mentally rehearsing: balance, hold, reach, stretch, point.
Lele wraps her stress fractured arch, traces the stinging laceration—she cut herself so they would see.
Z. Shuff has an M.D. and an M.F.A. She lives, works, and writes in beautiful West Virginia with her husband, their two kids, their dog, and their cat.
I stare at the photo of my hand gripping the barre, cropped neatly at the wrist. I imagine the attached body isn’t skinny enough. Perhaps I have a sweaty grimace, a too-low leg, or an unpointed foot. I understand; I’m not good publicity.
Except my hand. My hand is acceptable.
Emily belongs to the least liked demographic, and wants to be a scientist when she grows up.
Music flowed through the room. In her mind, she pirouetted and sashayed across the stage, her tutu flouncing. The audience applauded in appreciation.
Then she opened her eyes, grabbed the pole and twirled. Her wispy black hair danced over her bare torso.
The audience showered her feet with dollar bills.
AJ Joseph is a bookaholic, semi-insomniac, unsuccessful recovering javaholic, but most importantly a writer. She is currently in the process of reinventing her life around her first love: words.