They Can't Stop Dancing

The old dark wood of the stage creaked a little as Daisy appeared, she almost seemed to glide onto centre stage.

 

Breathtakingly beautiful she looked almost as though she had stepped out of a pre-raphaelite painting.  Her delicate arms raised high above her head, the spot light shone down on her making a halo of her long dark golden hair.

 

To her the entire area beyond the stage was darkness but that didn't matter, she cared not for the audience and their adulation.  The only thing that mattered to her was the dance.  Her small white tutu was decorated with small pale flowers and Daisy herself was exceptionally pale.  The only colour on the stage at all came from her feet, or rather the red shoes she was wearing.

 

Each movement graceful and deliberate she danced and danced, just as she always danced for decades now ever since that day long ago when she found the wretched red shoes.

 

She had been so poor as a child, had never owned anything so pretty or colourful before, she had not questioned their sudden appearance but soon what she had taken to be a gift had turned into a curse.

 

Night after night for years now she danced, no matter how hard she tried to stop the shoes would not stop dancing with her along with them.

 

Her feet ached and blistered and bled but still they would not stop and Daisy feared they never would.  She never aged either for  a century now she had been a 19 year old girl, anyone she ever cared for long dead whilst she carried on, her dance echoeing for all the ages...

 

Her family all dead and no love had she known, she remained pure and innocent and echoeing.

Reviews

[Emily Wilson]

I find the word 'dark' is overused a bit in this work, but aside from that I really enjoyed it. Your sentence structure flows well and I felt I really got a glimpse into the dancer's world.

[Jennifer Pennington]

This was amazing. Short, sweet, and definately packed a punch! I like this one a lot hun. Good work

[Kenneth Miles]

This was a great little piece of writing. Kinda creepy, but that's a good thing. It could be made into a tremendous poem, in my opinion...