WISER THAN SERPENTS.
Viktor and Belava were born as debts of their father and were forced to give up their lives for the glory of the corrupted system of the USSR. They were caught up in lies. Still, they both excelled and both fa...
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A SLUSH OF RIDGED ICE TWINKLED UNDERNEATH THE MORNING SUN RAYS.
The golden beams — that were peeking through the obscured windows — stroked Belava's hair and outlined her body. She held out a hand to reach toward the reflecting light as she felt the subtle warmth touching her cheeks, inhaling deeply the chill of the ice rink that pinched her nose.
Belava Mikhailova was a flying swan among the crows.
One foot was forward to the inside edge of the rink with a bended knee and the other was backward, achieving her favorite Ina Bauer. Her arms were spread out, showcasing her wingspan. Feeling, the pearl feathers ruffled by the breeze of the moment, she glided with grace. She closed her eyes as her back bent as she was carried and lured by Tchaikovskyij playing in the background.
She was a lost bird searching for a home. The only petal in the stormy seven seas. She was a piece of dust sent adrift.
Her fingers curled up delicately, proceeding to let her touch the harp made of air. Her fingertips brushed the invisible strings that resonated a melody in her head, a siren's aria that followed her heartbeat.
One foot after the other completely eased. The way she touched the twines, copied her moves.
Belava followed a step sequence with subtle jumps as if she was attempting to cross a river, ignoring the slippery stones. Like a pond skater, she felt the water's flow by touching its waves. She outsmarted the stream, trying her best to not get swept away by the ripples, she follow them as a pattern. She turned in both directions, bedazzled by the golden spotlight, lifting one of her feet swiftly to trace the ice.
She grasped the air soon as the world started spinning with her. Faster. Her arms were moving like a blooming flower. A hand rose to the ceiling, just like a thread of a puppet that was pulled. The other one grabbed the free blade and pulled it above the level of her head. Her back was a bowstring, arching upward until she let go, scratching the ice with easy strokes.
A half-silent cheer resounded the rink that was before concealed in the tranquility of the ice show. As usual, Ionna, Belava's mother, came to see her training and was thrilled.
