She lifted her skirt and began to dance. At first, Adella only swished and stepped. But soon her rhythmic hips whispered to her wrists and they to her shoulders and they, in turn, to her voice. The words to the song came easily. Memorized through years of communal singing, the lyrics burst out with vibrant trills and shouts. All eyes followed her. Adella’s crimson blouse, its ruffles wavering, gave fleeting peeks. Her bleach-white skirt billowed and flashed her tan legs. She cast back her head and laughed. “Frederico, Marcello, join me. Margarete, Chicas, please don’t let me dance alone.”
Who could deny her? Glasses drained and chairs squeaked and soon the family and all their friends were dancing. Dancing with abandon, without a thought as to who pranced well and who only shuffled, who matched the beat and who fumbled to keep up.
Dance releases something within our hearts, a connection to our primordial spirits. Joy bubbles up and tingles our senses, lifts our step, loosens our restraints. To dance is to open oneself to the world.
Adella dropped the hem of her dress and clutched her breast. A great squeezing had seized her lungs. At sixty, she imagined living until her hair turned white as Mama’s. Her daughter, Consuela, caught sight of her stricken face and rushed to catch her as she slumped to the dance floor.
The polls are in.
For nearly all of you, you read the above without prejudice of content or doubt as to quality. The editor in you remained quiescent, perhaps only bumping your conscious at that authorial interjection I let slip.
I’m afraid I do not join you in this trend.
I do applaud you though. I hope you never lose such an ability.
Thanks for stopping by.
Anonymole - apocryphal agitators 
I still love dancing with myself.
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It’s the most honest of dancing, I’d say.
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That’s how I see it too.
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“If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution.” I loved the imagery here and the ending was such a good twist!
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I laughed when I read this one because I told you last time that I read as a reader and not an editor and yet in the first sentence – I wonder how many skirts she had on. You later only go on to describe one skirt and/or a dress. Once I was able to get over that typo, I enjoyed dancing with your characters.
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It’s interesting what writing can say about the writER. To write something as visceral as this piece, I imagine you must have experienced it. There’s joy there. I would have happily read it just for the joy. Why kill it? Literally?
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Small pieces allow me to focus on every word. Evoking emotion is always the intent, no?
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lol – no! Not always. In short works yes, in longer works you have to allow the Reader to come up for air every now and then. 🙂
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Well, that’s not a bad way to go…
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Fantastic beautifully written scene. I don’t understand the critics at all. Better to enjoin a wonderfully written scene. .
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Thanks, Mike.
All voices are welcome.
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I don’t want dancers who want to dance. I want dancers who have to dance – George Balanchine.
I do not try to dance better than anyone else. I only try to dance better than myself – Mikhail Baryshnikov.
There’s a simple fix for that ‘dance is’ paragraph but it would force you to connect with the character. But to each their own narrative concerns, eh? Some of us have enough trouble with derivatives.
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Hi A. Mole,
Okay … got to say, she lifted her skirt, is a great beginning. The great squeeze, is a close second insofar as imagery. The final postscript about editorial intent was Wpress meta. All in all, a good read and thought provoking. Where the hell is 2022 going? Any thoughts?
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Focus on the non-essential, pointless crap eats time like M&Ms. All that’s left is a bitter aftertaste and a sense of emptiness.
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