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I remember when I was a kid, my mother would like to enroll me to a Ballet class. Yet with the travel distance to the Ballet school, I was not able to join.
By Yellowbelle on 03.22.2015
performance player theatre spectacular woman white curtains beetle
By m on 03.22.2015
A slap on the back of the head for not pointing hard enough. Bleeding toes and broken bones. We are not beautiful, we are broken
By Riddle on 03.22.2015
As I stepped onto the stage, I realized this was it. This moment was my future. Julliard. I need to make this happen. I need to dance hard. I took a deep breath, looked at the judges and danced like I had never danced before. All the pain, all the practice I had endured over the years was all for this moment. I let the music take to a place that I could never describe in words. I can only describe it with the movement in my body. Dipping and spinning into a bright future and I bow to the judges and exit the stage. The sweat beading off my body from strain and satisfaction.
By Liz on 03.22.2015
Her huge tutu
making it more pronounced
she looks so pretty
just like a ballerina.
By Gabriella on 03.22.2015
as a guy, I’ve often been told not to partake in ballet. It’s not manly, they said. You have to wear tights, they said. Well, they never considered that I don’t care about manliness and tights look fucking amazing on me. I will be the best ballet dancer there ever was, plus, getting to hold pretty girls in the air all day doesn’t seem like the worst faith a man can have…
By Daphne on 03.22.2015
the ballet. the grace of a dancer. bending his or her limbs to their limits. pushing their strength and ability in focused movement.
By Jonathan Saine on 03.22.2015
This ballet of waiting. The moment I mention it, the moment the tendons strain, the moment the choreography changes.
By Ella Emma Em on 03.22.2015
She never liked the ballet. Her sister loved it, studied it, trained as a dancer from the age of four. Sally saw what it did, besides making Minnie graceful; it made her anorexic and broke every bone in both of her feet.
By Annie on 03.22.2015
there was nothing graceful in you,
no ballet in your desperation
but i liked the way your nails dragged
across my back
By Annie P URL on 03.22.2015
A movement. The intricacies would seem esoteric if explained in detail – yet the untrained mind is drawn to its near mathematical precision. The exercises, the training – repetitive? meditative? torturous? – the abandonment, analysis, and tentative exploration of emotion as one travels across an endless line – to bring something, anything, from those who watch.
To speak the unspeakable.
By Isis on 03.22.2015
Friday nights. I’m going to make it there someday, I swear I will. All I can picture is the precision of form that sense of release, and control, and losing myself in my body rather than out of it, that I’m dying for. And walking home through a warm night, with a cup of tea, body stretched and warm.
By DG on 03.22.2015
i sometimes dance with life, maybe not always willingly but when i do i like to tango. when i can control my footsteps it is such an experience to fly on the ground and when i cannot take charge i will surely swim through solid ground.
By grldg on 03.22.2015
It was almost like they were on their own stage, twinkling lights of the most unusally usual kind, a pair of voices that played off of each other in the most awkwardly beautiful of ways, a ballet of their own – one that has yet to be released to the public, able to compete with the Nutcracker and Swan Lake. Together they danced with shadows, pirouetting and twirling in their own way, creating moves that no audience of all ages would be able to handle, and yet, it’s so perfect it’d be a shame not to expose to all.
By Madison on 03.22.2015
a division of Identity Crisis, Inc.