DANCE FOR ME

This story is by Sandy Juker and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Eight-year-old Grazelda Mandel, bullied and shamed by classmates and family, curled her gnarled hand into the folds of a dingy white tutu. With her good hand, she grasped the discarded curtain rod that served as the barre, and danced for the girl in the cracked mirror; a ballerina with gold-flecked eyes and, in Grazelda’s wishful vision, two perfect hands.

Every position, and every practiced leap, developed her rare natural talent. But only the pigeons cooing in the rafters of the old warehouse witnessed her performance. She had not the nerve to refute those who would laugh at her deformity.

 

On her sixteenth birthday, Grazelda tucked her twisted hand deep into a jacket pocket and peered through the scratched paint on The Dance Academy window. Dreams of perfectly executed fouettés and pirouettes as she spun and leapt across the stage played in her head. She wiped tears with her perfect hand, then with a series of pique turns, moved gracefully into the dark alley.

She halted mid-spin, jerking her head toward movement in the shadows. The muscles in her strong legs tightened, poised for flight.

“Good evening, Grazelda.” A smooth baritone voice floated through the chill air. Top hat in hand, a tall, svelte man stepped forward, his cape swirling about him.

Grazelda lurched backwards. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”

The man bowed dramatically, his cape wafting hints of leather and tobacco that sweetened the alley’s stench. “I am Sogni Dorati, maker of golden dreams.” He replaced his hat, sliding a gloved finger along its brim.

Grazelda glanced about, searching the shadows for a hiding place. “What do you want?”

“It’s not about what I want.” His gleaming black eyes locked with hers. “What do you want? What is your dream?”

Unable to look away, she pressed her disfigured fingers against her heart. “To dance! I want to dance.” She shook the misshapen hand. “I want this wretched claw to be perfect!”

The dream maker removed his gloves and enfolded the deformity in the warmth of his large palms. With eyes as black as tar, he gazed into Grazelda’s widened eyes. “You shall dance! For two decades your dream will be a reality.” He released her hand and snapped his hat brim.

Grazelda flexed and clenched the magically restored fingers. “How? How did you…” She pressed her hands together, both perfect as she had always dreamed. Staring at the miracle, she whispered, “Why would you do this?” She looked up and hissed, “What do you want?”

Sogni Dorati smiled as if discussing fair weather. “If you accept this golden dream, your old age will be shortened by one decade, and the gods will extend my virility in kind. You may dance in perfection until your thirty-sixth birthday. The choice is yours.” He pointed a long finger at Grazelda. “Do you accept this gift? Do you wish to dance?”

“Yes! Yes!” Balancing on one foot, she raised a leg, toe pointed behind her, and curved her arms in front where both hands extended in perfect ballet formation. She had performed her first flawless arabesque. She sighed and turned to speak, but only the shadows remained.

 

Grazelda Mandel’s career flourished. Famous for dramatic performances throughout Europe, Russia, Australia and The United States, she devoted her life to ballet. Lauded for her stylistic perfection, and sought after by top classical dance companies, she starred in The Nutcracker, Swan Lake, Cinderella and her favorite, Giselle, a romantic ballet.

She performed the frantic dance of love and betrayal, life and death, to perfection. Audiences moved to tears, fulfilled Grazelda’s need for love, like no man could.

After living her dream for nearly twenty years, she still loved the dance. Without dance, what would she have?

Concluding a magnificent performance, Grazelda bowed, sweeping crimson nails along The Royal Opera House’s polished dance floor. White roses showered the stage in honor of her thirty-sixth birthday. The prima ballerina graced the audience with the radiance of a genuine smile.

Between the footlights, a young girl, haloed by a golden aura, stretched a disfigured hand toward the dancer. Amid the deafening applause, she mouthed, “Happy Birthday, Grazelda. Today your dream ends.”

Shocked by the reminder, Grazelda crumpled to the stage floor, agony pulsing through her veins.

Gasps replaced cheers and clapping hands froze in silent anticipation. Hushed voices filled the theatre. “Did she faint? Is she dead?”

The dream maker’s forgotten words echoed in Grazelda’s head. “You may dance in perfection until your thirty-sixth birthday.” She sucked in a ragged breath and wailed, “But I must dance!”

The distraught dancer jerked her elbows up. Like a marionette, her hands dangled. Shock silenced the crowd. Her back arched, and as if lifted by an invisible force, she stood, hunched at the waist, her fingers tapping the floor.

In a burst of energy, she straightened her back and extended her arches to balance en pointe. In a natural swoop, she curved her arms before her.

Her eyes widened. Grazelda’s scream pierced the silence. Fingers twisted from birth marred the dancer’s perfection. Tall, lean, slim-hipped, with flat buttocks and boyish, firm breasts, the prima donna represented the ultimate ballerina’s body… but that claw!

She glared into the crowd in search of the girl, but the golden aura now framed a svelte man, Sogni Dorati.

The dream maker smiled and bowed, looking as young and masculine as that day in the alley. She curled the gnarled hand into her pristine white tutu, and forgetting the grace and elegance of the cherished dance, she ran, heavy-footed, from the stage.

Staring into the dressing room mirror, Grazelda remembered the naïve sixteen-year-old girl who chose the dream, the miracle, the curse. She raised the wretched claw, grimacing at constricted fingers. Enraged by the curse, she thrust the hideous deformity into the mirror.

Shattered glass crashed to the vanity. Blood dripped from shards embedded in her knuckles. The pain released memories of her family laughing at her clumsy hand, and cruel children chanting, “Dance, Clawzelda. Dance.”

A soft tap on the dressing room door drew her attention. Blinking back tears, she turned as Sogni Dorati swirled into the room. He knelt, and clasping her wrist, the dream maker plucked glass from her deformed hand. “Grazelda, my dear, let me remove your pain.” He enfolded the disfigurement in his warm palms and intoned, “You shall…

Grazelda, for the first time in her life, refused to bend to the bullies who would control her dream. “No! I will not sacrifice one more hour to your selfish greed.”

Dorati scoffed. “Then enjoy the claw. I look forward to the day when only ten years remain of your natural life. On that glorious day, you die and I receive my reward.”

She squinted at the dream maker. “And if I die before that awaited day?”

“The gods control the external forces that will cause your death. Only by your own hand can that pre-destined day be altered.”

She picked up a narrow wedge of the broken mirror and pressed the sharp tip against her throat. “So, if I end my own life…” She twisted the crude blade, piercing tender skin near her carotid artery. Blood trickled down her slender neck.

“No! Stop! The gods will…”

“The gods will what? What are you afraid of?” She raised her elbow, the shard slanted at a lethal angle. “Tell me, or one plunging inch and I die.”

Dorati’s baritone voice diminished to a simpering sputter. “You must… You must live to within ten years of your pre-destined life or the gods will deny my reward.”

She dropped the glass shard and held up the claw. “How many decades of perfection can you grant, and how many years must I sacrifice?”

The dream maker lunged forward and pressed his hands around the deformity. “The claw shall be restored until your sixty-sixth birthday with a sacrifice of an additional fifteen years.” He released her hand and tapped his hat. “Do you accept this golden dream? Do you wish to dance?”

Grazelda flexed the magically restored fingers while she calculated the years of his offering; Sixty-six plus the twenty-five he would take. Her natural life would be at least ninety-one years. Her gaze lifted and her voice lowered to a growling rumble. “No! I do not accept.”

“But… But you have to. You must claim your dream. You must dance!”

“Oh, I shall dance, and on my eighty-first birthday, I will end my life and steal your reward. Leave. Leave now!”

The dream maker, his face twisted in torment, clutched his hat and disappeared.

Grazelda plucked a single white rose from a vase on the vanity and with a satin ribbon, she bound the blossom to her gnarled hand. She ran to the stage, kissed the rose and danced!

Every sweep of the hand wafted sweetness into the theatre. The audience, inhaling the rose-scented air, paused from their departure.

Applause and a unified chant filled the room. “Dance, Roselda. Dance!”