Dance With Me ~ Chapter 1 (Sneak Peak)
In a world of beauty, a ceramic-made ballerina awakens atop her music box, enchanted by elven magic. What is her purpose in life? To just dance for her owners? Or there is more to life?
Chapter 1: A Beautiful World
The magic awakens me, bringing the colours of life, sparkling golden and opalescent. The scent is overwhelming, a sweet but earthy fragrance, like silk and oil paintings, thickening the air into a soothing welcome. I breathe, but the stiff ceramic of my body barely moves, the air’s perfume whiffing away rather than blending in.
The enchantment fades but the music teases me sluggishly, falling into a sequence only to shy away. I feel it chiming on my fingertips, tinkling on my ceramic toes... yet it slacks again, threatening with oblivion.
A mechanism creaks, a winding key twirls around, and the music gives me life.
It flows unrestrained through my ceramic body, blossoming into reality. I flourish in a coil of elegance, rounding with an arm poised up, my wrist tilting, fingers spread. I kneel, and my romantic tutu flows like delicate petals edged in gold, spiralling alongside me, bobbling while I pirouette, whirling with the music.
The ballet is my purpose and joy, and I drift with the tune. Each note revives me, each sequence reinforcing the magic. I giggle and someone echoes my bliss, delighted.
I keep dancing, uncaring about my surroundings. Their bliss joins the melody, each gasp adding chimes, each giggle strengthening the spell that binds and enlivens me. I leap and pirouette, uncaring about where the dance floor is—this music just brought me alive, and dancing is essential to my existence; it is me.
Another jubilant gasp whooshes by and only then I look around. An elven boy stands nearby, clasping his walnut hands below his belt. His neck and head are partly shadowed by the shelf above, a halo of light surrounding his body as it eclipses the room’s chandelier. He moves slightly and I notice the intricately braided hair, his opulent lips gasping with bewilderment, and his emerald doe-eyes.
I smile back from my music box, and the boy’s joy ignites my magic. The melody decants and I adage, a forefinger reaching towards him. He leans slowly, captivated and trying to touch my miniature finger.
With a brisé, I waltz playfully sideways, catching his attention. He watches me as I swivel, following the melody around the dance floor.
A crescendo livens up the magic and I glide through the music box’s narrow area, tracing its circular, gilded edge but returning to the centre. I fouetté, over and over, spinning and whipping my leg in perfect synchrony with the melody all around me. My gentleness catches his gaze, drawing a gasp and sparkling giggles.
The tune halts as I salute with both arms up, and the elven boy claps again, skipping in place. His gigantic height becomes comprehensible, and vertigo overwhelms me—he is so disproportionately large that the barest of movements could damage me irreparably. A shiver of dread tickles my smooth ceramic shoulders, yet I stand regally, holding a lovely smile. Charmed by my acting, the boy bends with arms stretched down, but the edge of the shelf’s floor and ceiling hide part of the movement.
“Such a charming figurine!” He says with a smile, head so large it covers my entire field of view. “I’ll name you Lyra because of the music you dance to.”
“How should I call you?” I ask as gentle as possible, curtseying—but although my mouth shapes the words, no sound reverberates past me. Bewilderment floods me as the silence stretches until I finally understand.
He can’t hear me because his magic didn’t grant me a voice. It gave me purpose and let me dance… but that is all it did.
My ugly silence does not linger, soon livened by the boy’s amused chuckling. He backtracks, stretching his arms towards the shelf as if to command it. Wood creaks and glass clatters on a frame, and two large doors loom in front of me, embracing the cupboard to seal me within it. A latch—hidden from my view—clicks locked somewhere, and the sounds beyond the glass mute down.
The elven boy casts his gaze above and below my level, hands clasped at his back. He takes a few more steps away and nods with pride before turning and departing; his embroidered long jacket flares artfully with each step, almost casting a rhythm I cannot forget.
I follow him with my gaze towards the room’s thick wooden door, my heart sinking the closer he gets to it. At last it creaks open and the boy vanishes, shutting it behind him. Another latch clicks locked, sealing the doorframe motionless, golden light rimming its edges.
A clock ticks endlessly as I remain centred on the dancing area, waiting for his next command—but nothing happens. Half an hour later, I finally sigh, releasing my posture.
My gaze decants to my pointe flats while curiosity overwhelms me. I haven’t seen myself, so eager I was to dance for the boy—and so I lift my hands to watch the pale, bisque ceramic. My fingers are slender, and my palms are smooth, flexing without marking the material. Bending, I touch the textureless romantic tutu sculpted in ceramic and awakened by magic. It has a peplum of gilded petals, baring my collarbone, hugging my lithe ballerina body, and barely grazing my knees. My legs are strong but svelte, and my pointe shoes lace up through my calves, unremovable.
Movement distracts me, and my reflection in the glass doors catches my attention. I have a cinnamon updo, blushed pale cheeks, and tawny eyes. A roguish smile curls my lips—faintly tinted in a demure pink—but my gaze scatters into the background, following the shimmers of light on the circular, gilded edge of the dancing area.
I amble through its glazed mirror surface, each step dainty and measured, toes first before gently pressing the heel down. The music box’s lid opens at the back, trimmed in gold filigree and brimming with the magic that mists the edges. It feels small, but I pirouette into a corner and collect my breath before performing a grand jeté all across; I bow upon landing, clapping in delight—my box is nicely sized.
The contentment lasts very little, as another detail captures my incessant curiosity—I haven’t seen much of this cupboard, and this shelf extends tantalisingly.
Mindful of my steps, I approach the gilded edge of the music box and peer down. The shelf’s lacquered wooden ground seems distant, reflecting the scattered gemstones that emanate a magical, colourful mist. Stretching, I see a silver-carved tiara, miniature portraits, and a book holder restraining leather-bound books.
Curiosity sparks me into a nervous titter, and I shyly stretch my leg out of the music box, hoping to descend—yet my pointe shoes grace the sculpted shore, the toes teasing the air itself. Another shiver tickles my ceramic shoulders and I pull back, heart battering and unhinged. Scared, I attempt to sit on the box’s cliff, but vertigo forces me to retreat further inside, clutching my rampaging chest.
The dread of falling paralyses me and I glance around, not daring to move much more; after all, the elven boy may return soon and I should be ready to dance for him whenever he arrives. A penumbra shades the gigantic room, but after blinking, I see the contours of the opulent furniture taking most of the space.
The table at the room’s centre is round, walnut-made and lacquered, decorated with pressed flowers as a mantelpiece. A single chair of impressive manufacture crowns the narrower side, a small filigree toolbox near it. Beyond them, I notice the other cabinets lining the walls—and I take time to study them from my vantage point. The bookcase at my right sparkles golden as if lanterns flickered from its books, and those cupboards across the room seem to absorb the light that permeates through the curtained window; they appear… old and unkempt, their contents sealed behind thick wooden doors.
I stare at them for a long moment, my fingers grazing my lips as I wonder whatever they may hold. That unsettling curiosity overwhelms me again, and I peer down at the music box’s edge—then gasp in realisation. The shelf’s wooden floor is an inch away from the closed glass door, leaving enough space for me to slide down into my demise.
Apprehension tightens my shoulders for a long pause, my heart skipping a beat or two—until voices and merriment seep from that gap. It quells my incipient weariness and, only after a few tempos, light suffuses into my level.
A smile curls my lips, soothing yet gentle. Clearly, there are more enchanted figurines in this room.
That realisation ignites my inquisitiveness, and I kneel with my hands on the dance floor’s mirrored surface, my slender body stretching to peer down. I glimpse right and left, eagerness building up as I seek something with relentless desire. My motions are always elegant, proper of a ballerina like me… yet they slow down, stalled by confusion.
What am I looking for? Why would I attempt to leave this music box?
The answers elude me, impossible and unreal and so I stare at the room beyond in search for clues—the dark cupboard across the room, the table’s mantlepiece, and the abyssal gap before the glass doors. The latter induces giddiness, startling me out of my reverie and terrorising me with a fall.
I blink it away, but the peril persists like an endless refrain, sustained and resonant albeit unwanted. It fades slowly, carried away by the constant ticking of a clock I cannot see, its echoes subdued by the voices of the statuettes inhabiting the other shelves.
My eyes close as I keen into that music so natural and loving. I can hear movement, fabric shushing, pages turning, and melodies arising from everywhere around me… and imagine the beautiful silhouettes, some wooden-made, others porcelain, some elongated and delicate, others smooth and elegant. I open my eyes to seek them, following the flickering dots of miniature candles on the other cupboards and shelves. My lips press into a prim smile, a gentle chuckle escaping me as I note the steps traversing the ledge above me.
There is a world in this room, so full of life and magic, of beauty and art.
I stand again, eager to be part of it until a yawn overtakes me. Sleep demands my attention and I do not refuse it—I must rest to wake up and dance for the boy when he comes to see me.
Prodding my elaborate updo, I assess my music box from my position; beautifully made, gilded and flourished, gentle yet opulent. A velvet sleeping bed awaits near the open lid, and I tiptoe towards it, dainty and flowing like a proper ballerina. Kneeling close by, I graze the mauve, soft fabric with my fingertips before sliding inside. It is snug, securing my body between cushions.
Relaxing, I hum a quiet melody, letting the comfort drift me into a dreamless sleep.
To be continued…
About Dance With Me
As writers, sometimes we pour ourselves into our writing—so much, that the stories become personal, taking a bit of us.
In my case, DANCE WITH ME is by far one of the most personal stories I've written. It's an allegory of trauma, self-love, and self-discovery derived from the imagery I used to explain my own self-perception. I wrote it in my darkest moments, seeking relief and creating a cast of characters that told me exactly what I needed to hear.
This is a literary fiction novella told through the allegory of a ceramic ballerina doll brough to life through elven magic and expected to dance for her owners.
I used an allegory of enchanted dolls to signify power dynamics, the locked cabinets to indicate the places and situations that trap us, strike-through styles to hint at the thoughts we deny or don’t allow ourselves, and a cast of whimsy characters to help Lyra (the main character) understand that no matter what, we must love ourselves.
Where can you read it full? I’m currently pre-launching a Kickstarter campaign for a beautiful illustrated edition. This special tale helped me heal, and I hope it can help others heal as well.
If you are interested, going to Kickstater clicking "Notify me on launch" on its prelaunch page is incredibly important. It tells Kickstarter the project has momentum and shows it to more people.