Are you really good at some things? Or do you just enjoy imagining that you are? This seventh grade writer happens to be a good dancer, even if it's only for an audience of one. What are you good at? Write to us in the comments!
Late afternoon --
The slow and weary time of my day
Like a broken watch with the soft tick melting weakly each time it sounds.
I open my bedroom door
With a creak and a squeak
And I feel the fuzzy pumpkin-orange carpet in between my toes.
I look at the books resting quietly on my shelf,
At my bed with the welcoming blankets
And smell my dinner cooking in the kitchen downstairs.
Hunger resides in my belly
As I flip the switch on my milk-chocolate-brown radio with a click.
I listen to a DJ gossiping as I sit down to read.
But then I hear it:
The performers singing, yelling and calling out to me.
And music fills my ears like the refreshing bubbling soda I had at lunch.
I stand up and start to move to the ever-pulsing rhythm
The beat, beat, of percussion
And I see myself in the mirror
Graceful as a swan pirouetting amid its shimmering waters.
Me, a dancer on a dark, silent, and lonely stage
Caramelizing her competition.
But then, I hear a quiet knock
And then two
Louder and louder each time
Knock, knock, knock.
My mother opens the door to tell me that my dinner is ready,
And crimson-red is the face of the mirror dancer,
Swaying silently in the late afternoon.
by Julianne M.
|artwork by Justin H.|