dance - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
When Alisha flowed in dance it was as if it were the only way her body truly knew how to speak. Verbally she was guarded, physically she would shrink and fade into the background no matter where she was. On stage her personality, her sensuality burst through into the most vibrant picture of a beautiful soul. Troy watched her move to the music filling the gymnasium, crackling somewhat from the old cassette recorder. For the most part that ancient music machine was her only audience, watching her with those two dusty black eyes. As she turned her eyes caught him standing there, him less adept at hiding in the shadows than she. He dropped his eyes momentarily before looking, his head tilted to one side and a hopeful smile playing on his lips.
When Kory heard the music it was like liquid adrenaline being injected right into his blood stream - not so strong as to freak him out, but just enough to make him tingle and start to move his body. He'd never had a dance class, but he and his mates had jived to music since their early teens, competing in the friendly way boys do to "up" one another. Now, just turned twenty, he was a well oiled machine on the dance floor. He didn't dance to show off, to make the girls watch - but they did. Anyone that could move like their limbs were half liquid in perfect rhythm and still look strong were interesting to say the least. He was used to the attention and he liked it. Then one day a new girl was at the club, not a mover and shaker, kinda shy in the way she moved, but he couldn't help but imagine them together. She was black, her hair in tight braids and he looked at her like he'd never really seen a woman before. Then for the first time in years he felt like if he opened his mouth nothing witty or interesting would come out...
Music, to her, was like turning back the clock, traveling and returning to a previous life full of agony and lose. She embraced the music and in turn the music took control. She found herself in a different world. A world of pain.
Her movements flowed with a dazzling grace that took away the breath of every person in her audience. She could feel her soul become one with the music and she unleashed her emotions into her dance. She needed this as badly as she needed to breath.
Her entire being moved with a purposeful clarity. With each stride she made, it became more painfully obvious how much heart she put into her routine and how punishing it was for her.
But no one saw the tears she let roll down her round cheeks.
To dance over the grass barefoot was a pleasure my new life forbade me. I was a girl no longer and new standards were expected. I was to be demur and give way to men in a submissive manner. It was a tension inside, the yearning to dance freely and the fear of non-compliance. I could dance in the darkness under moonless nights, yet even then the feeling would never be the same, always the unrestrained joy tainted by the fear of discovery. The life ahead was all obligation, duty and a deference that never sat well with my soul. It is bad enough I can't fly with the birds, but never to move with grace and freedom? I think that's why I did it - danced in the daylight with my hair hung loose in the breeze. When I realized the best I would ever get in the years that stretched ahead was one more dance, bare feet on the grass, it was freeing. My bruises, my punishment, lie in places unseen beneath my flowing dresses yet I have no regrets. Not one.
Jerome grew up in a household of women who danced. There was never a day that went by without his mother or an aunt taking him by the hands to waltz or boogie around the room. Music was on from first light to last. In a way it flowed through them and between them, creating bonds stronger than the walls of the temple. Every time he heard those old tunes in the years to come he was dancing again, dancing with those women who loved him more than the rising sun.
Polly never walked anywhere. Her legs extended like a prima ballerina and she glided from place to place, arms held in front, finger tips touching. For her a moment spent not dancing was a moment wasted. Others saw it as eccentricity, but to me it was perfection. Expression through movement was her genius and watching her hone it was more breathtaking than the new flowers of spring.
To dance was freedom, to dance was to become an opening flower or a bird aloft. To feel the movement was new breath for my body and nourishment for a soul so tired. I could dance until the sweat dripped to the polished wood and my reflection showed pink cheeks. After that sleep came easy and the dreams were of more twirls and leaps to the music that was part of my blood.
The girls dance around the tree weaving ribbons that bring colour to the woodland. Soon there will be flowers and brilliant leaves, but not yet. For now the ribbons are the only gay thing in the watery light of early morning. The music is on harmonica and it is the very same tune that has rung through these naked trees each late winter for centuries, beckoning the spring forth from the coldness. As the girls skip and weave in opposing circles and the trunk of last year's sapling becomes the reason for everyone's smiles, grins almost lost behind the rising puffs of their breath.
The young woman's celestial eyes shone behind the mask as she placed her delicate hand in his; he placed his hand on her waist and whisked her onto the ballroom floor and they turned and twirled as if they were professionals.