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I urge people to join in, comment with your paragraph of fiction to accompany the image. It doesn’t have to follow my story or reflect the same themes. It can be a poem or in a different language (provide a translation please :)). Anyone who wants to join in, is welcome. This photograph has been reblogged under Ermisenda on tumblr.

Their delicate feet tapped, their skirts bloomed like lilies and their fingers caressed the air. The show was beautiful, ephemeral and moving. I stared in awe and hatred. My body had once been as beautiful, flexible and delicate as theirs. Those naive girls had no idea what ballet truly was, but I did. While my husband teaches them everything he taught me, I sit and wait for a concert where I don’t dance. Ritualistic torture transformed from a once loved cycle of performance. As he runs his aging hands down their taut legs I feel mine alone, disappointed. My eyes grew wide with boiling hatred, if only I could snap those precious, beautiful, young swan-like necks. Would he still love them then?

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