31 Days of Halloween

The Muse

Gazing across the terrace and four floors beneath him, he watched in awe as she danced on the hardwood floor of the now deserted warehouse. Her only light, the moonbeams that washed over her through the broken windows. From this distance she was beautiful. Long, brown hair pulled into a bun wrapped in ribbon, a dancer's body, muscular yet filled with grace, her movements fluid. She practiced and practiced each night for the past three, he watched her for hours each night. Never once did she look up at him, she was lost in her own world.

Plies and pirouettes graceful and smooth, her fingers and hands holding perfect tension and form. If he listened close enough, over the cars and city sounds, he could hear the soulful, emotional music to which she danced. Why that building? He wondered. Who was she? Something about her presence set him a little on edge, but not enough to keep him from watching. He felt guilty as if he were spying on her, yet all he had done was stand on his balcony. It soothed him to watch her move. Perhaps she was a famous dancer and had searched out a place to practice privately, only to have her private time encroached upon by a man she didn't know watched her. As the clouds played across the sky, the trickle of moonlight became dimmer, his tiny dancer disappeared into the shadows.

Inhaling the cold, night air, he exhaled sharply. Running his fingers through his thick, wavy hair, he turned and walked back into his apartment. He needed sleep. The alarm would sound soon, and he still hadn't been to bed, he had been lost in the woman dancing below. His sleep distorted by an unknown woman spinning, twirling, jumping through his dreams. Why did she matter so much? He could have watched and gone on, but for three nights he had been drawn back in. Cursing the clouds as they blocked the vision before him.

Fumbling with his morning coffee as he sat behind his desk, his gaze drifting to the sliding glass door, wondering, would she be there tonight? Oh, this woman consumed much of his day, his writing sitting before him on the glowing screen, waiting for sentences to be completed. Where was he? Lost in his own story, he began to write something brand new, but where was it all coming from? The thoughts were forming in his mind, but he didn't recall ever thinking about this before. Long ago he learned that if it appeared, write it. Get the story down and go from there. So he began to write. As his story began to unfold, he knew he had found his muse, in the form of a dancer in an abandoned warehouse.

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Blinded by stage lighting, she gracefully curtsied to the cheering crowd. Flowers filled the stage around her as they threw her single long-stemmed red roses, her favorite. Dancing professionally had long been her dream, and now, here she was, doing what she loved and sharing her passion with others.

Blaire Wesley, twenty-three years old, and a household name. The hard work and dedication paid in full. The countless hours on bloody toes in pointe shoes, the blisters, small fractures in the bones of her feet, the tears, the sweat, she had poured her entire being into this. Yet it didn't come without its own share of problems. The jealousy, the hate, the rage of other dancers. Those who deemed themselves more worthy, having seniority and losing out parts to a newcomer. Oh, some of the women hated her. On stage, she was loved, but behind the curtain, she was loathed by many, for nothing more than being born with a talent no one could compete with. For that, she suffered in silence.

Tonight she had danced with a ballet company which dancers dreamed of being part of. For the first time, she had been made to feel welcome, part of a family. They didn't look down on her for her abilities, they praised them, for they, were as good as she, and she, as good as they. Opening night with the lead in 'Swan Lake,' a ballerina's fantasy. From the stunning costume to the immaculate execution of the intricate choreography, she had been breathtaking. Moving with the grace and ease of a leaf blowing in the wind.