Young Writers Society

They wore bright colors and danced their hearts out. This act was when Swanhilda and her friends went into Dr. Coppeliaus shop and wind up all of the dolls and create havoc on Dr. Coppeliaus. I, Marie Picard, played one of Swanhilda’s friends.

re-applying there make-up, fixing there hairdo’s, and re-tying there Pointe shoes.

With the simple act of taking off my costume, walking over to the attendance, in my corset, and petticoats, handing it to her, I transformed myself from a beautiful dancer, to a girl living and dreaming, in poverty.

My blue dress swished from my hoopskirt .My black shoes made a soft crunch with every step that I took. Snow blew down every street. Sending chills into your bones;

I dropped my pink pointe shoes and sat there on the ground for a few minutes, mentally and physically tired. I felt like crying, but bit my lip to stop it from quivering.

some assistance?” A gruff voice asked me.

I looked up and saw a figure in a dark coat, tall silk hat, and was carrying a note-book. He had black hair with a goatee. I knew who he was, Monsieur Degas, all of us at the Palace Garner Opera House knew who he was. He was usually present at our morning rehearsals and afternoon classes and performances.

Never when we were beautiful dancers. He wanted to show us when were being true. I liked that about him.

He smiled a rough, kind, smile and

follow me, “he announced, turning on his heel and paraded up the street in long strides.

I just stood there trying to figure it out. He turned and looked at me,” Come”, he barked. I raced up after him. He started his strides again. “Blast these wretched skirts!”

It had dust tutus, Pointe shoes. But, there was also, a zinc bathtub; well-loved books; stools; a small piano, a violin and other instruments.

not as comfortable as 4th position though… I was begging to feel light headed, blood rushed to my head like a river.

I will see you two times a week, more if I need you, less if I don’t. On Tuesdays, and Thursdays. Is that all right?”

I ran home, dodging people; of who gave me looks, I apologized to them.

“Posing for Monsieur Degas. I answered coolly. Searching around the kitchen and finally picking up a carrot to peel.

Genevieve was 19 and a professional.

My family like so many before the war of 1871, was refined and elegantly dressed, lived in charming houses and had servants. Also, my father had died some months after the war, so we were, “as poor as rats”, to me.

I gave myself up to, longing for transformation, at night, when all of Paris was asleep; my mind would be alive with friends as dear to me as any in the real world. Writing and dancing was my escape from everything in this world.

The lights dimmed in the Palace Garner Opera house, all the talking from the gentlemen and high class ladies, hushed.

The foyer de la dance was crowded with dancers quickly changing into different costumes, re-applying there make-up, fixing hairdo’s, and re-tying pointe shoes.

Sending chills into your bones; I hugged my brown wool coat tighter around my chest as I walked up Rue de la Chausses d’Antin toward Place Pigalle.

The lights dimmed in the Palace Garner Opera house, all the talking from the gentlemen and high class ladies, hushed. Scrap that comma before hushed. The Opera house was ghostly silent as the red, heavy, curtain swept across the stage as the dancers took to the stage to dance the second act of, ‘Coppelia.’ You used "stage" twice in one sentence, I would suggest reworking it a little bit.

They wore bright colors such as red sashes, black fans with gold tassels at the end of it. Along with pink trousers and danced their hearts out. This act was when Swanhilda and her friends went into Dr. Coppeliaus shop and wind up all of the dolls and create havoc on Dr. Coppeliaus. I, Marie Picard, played one of Swanhilda’s friends.

The act was finished and I rushed off to change into my street clothes.

By doing the simple acts of taking off my costume, walking over to the attendance, in my corset, and petticoats, handing it to her, I transformed myself from a beautiful dancer, to a girl living and dreaming, in poverty.

But he never acknowledged me.

How would you feel about being a model for me? “he announced, turning on his heel and paraded up the street in long strides.

My mother had beautiful pieces of material to make dresses; she was in the middle of teaching Genevieve and I.

I just got to shy and stared at the ground, practicing my releve’s and turnouts.

ballerina13 wrote:Chapter 1
The Opera
The lights dimmed in the Palace Garner Opera house, all the talking from the gentlemen and high class ladies,[b]no need for a comma. hushed.(How they were decked out in jewels, fans, silks, and top hats, with one look you could tell with one look(should go here) that they were of 'good society'). The Opera house was ghostly silent as the red, heavy, curtain swept across the stage as the dancers took to the stage to dance the second act of, ‘Coppelia.’
They wore bright colors such as red sashes,and black fans with gold tassels at the end of it. Along with pink trousers include this with the previous sentence and danced their hearts out. This act was when Swanhilda and her friends went into Dr. Coppeliaus's shop and wind up all of the dolls and create havoc on Dr. Coppeliaus. I, Marie Picard, played one of Swanhilda’s friends.
The act was finished and I rushed off to change into my street clothes.
The foyer de la dance was crowded with dancers quickly changing into different costumes, re-applying their make-up, fixing hairdo’s, and re-tying pointe shoes. By doing the simple acts of taking off my costume, walking over to the attendance, in my corset, and petticoats, handing it to her, I transformed myself from a beautiful dancer, to a girl living and dreaming,no need for comma in poverty.
My blue dress swished from my hoopskirt underneath it.My black shoes made a soft crunch with every step that I took. Snow blew down every street corner, sending chills into my bones inot my bones? that doesn't really make sense. Try to rephrase it, like maybe "sent a chill down my spine?". I hugged my brown wool coat tighter to not around my chest as I walked up Rue de la Chausses d’Antin toward Place Pigalle. The street was steep and iced over in some places, making it hard to walk.
“Blast!” I groaned as I lost my balance, and fell onto the cold cobblestones. I dropped my pink pointe shoes and sat there on the ground for a few minutes, mentally and physically tired. I felt like crying, but bit my lip to stop it from quivering.
“Excuse me, mademoiselle, do you need some assistance?” A deep voice asked me.But he never acknowledged: realize, that does not go in the sentence. me.

I looked up and saw a figure in a dark coat, tall silk hat, who was carrying a note-book under his left arm. He had black hair and a goatee that clung to his chin. Everyone knew who this man was, Monsuier Degas. He was present at rehearsals, afternoon classes and performances. He would sit in the corner of the class rooms or in the wings of the foyer de la dance, no need for comma sketching us, while we sat on a bench resting or when we would flop down on the ground and adjust our Pointe shoes .Never when we were beautiful dancers. He wanted to show us when we were being our true selves. I liked that about him because he was showing the world the real dancers, mixing exhaustion and passion into it as well.indent..during a convo so liek this:
“No, thank-you. I am all right.” I assured him, getting up off the ground. He smiled a rough, kind, smile and looked down at the ground at my Pointe shoes. “I have seen you work, you are extraordinary; one of the best that I have seen in a long time; How would you feel about being a model for me? “he announced, turning on his heel and paraded up the street in long strides.
" Yes, I would be honored!" I told him. " Excellent." He said, as he turned on his heel and started to walk again. I got up again, only to sli and fall down again.“Blast these wretched skirts!” I mumbled, scarmbling up to street.
We walked up the streets a ways, to Rue Frochot. Monsieur Degas stopped at a green, chipped door with the number 4, on it. We walked up the flights of stairs until we got to the fifth landing. He opened the door. The studio was very similar to the Opera house. The walls were a cream color and there were very few paintings up; the studio already looked very cluttered and busy, so I guess few paintings was alright. It had dust tutus, Pointe shoes. But, there was also, a zinc bathtub; well-loved books; stools; a small piano, a violin and other instruments. There was a window on the far side of the studio. Along side of the window, laid up-against the wall was paintings in gold frames, some not in frames at all. Also, a worktable covered with used and new, tubs of paint, brushes, and lumps of clay, lose paper, sketches not yet finished. His cloak and top hat were still on when he told me to go and change into a tutu and put Pointe shoes on. I slipped my boots off and put them by the door, as we did at home. I went over to the bin and sorted through the dusty, worn-out, tutus. I decided on one with a yellow ribbon; my favorite color.
I changed behind the screen fairly quickly, walked to the model stand and began to tie my Pointe shoes.” Hold that pose”. He barked. I was bent down in second position, a position that I was very comfortable in, not as comfortable as 4th position though… I was begging to feel light headed, blood rushed to my head like a river.
For about an hour, I was in that pose. To get the pain off my mind, I thought of pretty ball gowns with lace, silk and hoopskirts. My mother had beautiful pieces of material to make dresses; she was in the middle of teaching Genevieve and I. We usually spent our time at night sewing, reading or just talking. Finally, Monsieur Degas said, “That is all, thank-you. I will see you two times a week, more if I need you, less if I don’t. On Tuesdays, and Thursdays. Is that all right?”
“Yes, it is fine. Thank-you”, I said, looking down at my pointe shoes.
“Excellent, you may go change.”
I nodded and smiled.
Once I slipped on my petticoats, hoopskirt, and corset, I pulled on my blue poplin dress, and stepped out behind the screen, Mousier Degas resumed telling me the dull information.”3 francs, each time you come. What is your name dear?”
“Marie, Marie Picard.” He wrote it down in small, black notebook.
“We will start next Tuesday”, he announced.
A smile fell across my rosy face and I rushed down the steps. The air was cool and the wind crisp. It refreshed me as I skipped. The sun was setting and the sky looked gray, the clouds a soft shade of blue-black. I ran home, dodging people; of who gave me looks, I apologized to them.

“Marie, darling, where have you been?”Momma asked me from the kitchen once I had stepped through the door to our apartment.
“Posing for Monsieur Degas. I answered coolly. Searching around the kitchen and finally picking up a carrot to peel.
“Heavens, above! For how much?” She shrieked.
“3 francs each time I pose.”
Momma nodded approvingly.
“Truly, Marie?” Genevieve asked, while she peeled potatoes.
Genevieve was 19 and a professional dancer at the Opera. She was bubbly and charming with blond hair and bright blue eyes and a lovely smile. I envied her with the way she talked to people and how she held her self. Head held high, with a smile on her face all the time. Also, Genevieve was always happy and fun, even while she was being elegant. When I was in front of people talking I always said the wrong thing or was as quiet as a mouse. Seen but never heard. I just got to shy and stared at the ground, practicing my releve’s and turnouts. You see, it is interesting because, I would hear people whisper to their friends or relatives,” I never hear her talk!” I wished that I could get over my shyness.
“Yes!” I replied excitedly.
My family like so many before the war of 1871, was refined and elegantly dressed, lived in charming houses and had servants. Also, my father had died some months after the war, so we were, “as poor as rats”, to me since then. We lived comfortably but, I wished we could go back to the way we were before. “Marie, will you help me with the dishes?” She smiled at me. “Yes, momma.” She handed me a towel.” Thank-you for helping me.” Momma told me as she sponged down a dish. I nodded,” It is no trouble. I enjoy it.”
I retired to my bedroom that I shared with Genevieve.
The stars and moon shone brightly through the window in the room as if a beckon hope to those souls how were lost. The window pane was frosted over, weak light from the moon poured through it. The sky was a dark, beautiful blue. I lit a candle and sat down at my writing desk. This was piled over with short stories, quill pens, empty bottles of ink. I gave myself up to, longing for transformation, at night, when all of Paris was asleep; my mind would be alive with friends as dear to me as any in the real world. Writing and dancing was my escape from everything in this world.

ballerina13 wrote:Chapter 1
The Opera
The lights dimmed in the Palace Garner Opera house, all the talking from the gentlemen and high class ladies, hushed.(How they were decked out in jewels, fans, silks, and top hats, with one look you could tell that they were of 'good society'). The Opera house was ghostly silent as the red, heavy, curtain swept across the stage as the dancers took to the stage to dance the second act of, ‘Coppelia.’
They wore bright colors such as red sashes, black fans with gold tassels at the end of it while they danced their hearts out. This act was when Swanhilda IS IT JUST ME OR IS IT SPELLED AS SWANILDA? and her friends went into Dr. Coppeliaus shop and wind up all of the dolls and create havoc on Dr. Coppeliaus. Some of the dancers wh owere ITS SUPPOSED TO BE WHO WERE the dolls were stading ITS SUPPOSED TO BE STANDING up as straight as stone while others ran about the stage, doing jetes and pique turns; flitting about like faries. FAIRIES HAS AN I IN IT I, Marie Picard, played one of Swanhilda’s friends.
As the act ended I heard the excitement of the applause defen IT'S SPELLED AS DEAFEN as I rushed off to change into my street clothes so the third act could begin. My slim face was flushed due to the excitement of performing. When I danced on stage, it was like I was a bird that had just escaped from it's cage, stretcing ITS SPELLED AS STRETCHING her wings and singing a happy tune.
The foyer de la dance was crowded with dancers quickly changing into different costumes, re-applying their make-up, fixing THERE'S AN EXTRA SPACE OVER HERE... hairdo’s, and re-tying pointe shoes. By doing the simple act of taking off my costume, and hanging it up. I transformed myself from a beautiful dancer, to a girl living and dreaming, in poverty.
My blue dress swished from FROM ISN'T THE RIGHT WORD my hoopskirt underneath it. My black shoes made a soft crunch with every brisk step that I took. Snow blew down every street corner, sending chills into my bones. I hugged my brown wool coat tighter around my chest, as I walked up Rue de la Chausses d’Antin toward Place Pigalle. The street was steep and iced over in some places, making it hard to walk.
“Blast!” I groaned as I lost my balance, and fell onto the cold cobblestones. I dropped my pink pointe shoes and sat there on the ground for a few minutes, mentally and physically tired. I felt like crying, but bit my lip to stop it from quivering. I shook my head as Itried THERE SHOULD BE A SPACE BETWEEN I AND TRIED,but failed to get up.
“Excuse me, mademoiselle, do you need some assistance?” A deep voice asked. I looked up and saw a figure in a dark coat, tall silk hat, who was carrying a note-book under his left arm. He had black hair and a goatee that clung to his chin. Everyone ITALICIZE EVERYONE? knew who this man was, Monsuier Degas. He was present at rehearsals, afternoon classes and performances. He would sit in the corner of the class rooms or in the wings of the foyer de la dance, sketching us while we sat on a bench resting or when we would flop down on the ground and adjust our pointe shoes .Never when we were beautiful dancers. He wanted to show true beauty. I liked that about him because he was showing the world the real dancers, mixing exhaustion and passion into it as well.
“No, thank-you. THERE SHOULDN'T BE A HYPHEN BETWEEN THE WORD THANK AND THE WORD YOU... I am all right.” I assured him, getting up off the ground. He smiled a kind, NO COMMA IN BETWEEN KIND AND SMILE smile and looked down at the ground at my pointe shoes. “I have seen you work, you are extraordinary; one of the best that I have seen in a long time How would you feel about being a model for me? “he asked.
" Yes, I would be honored!" I told him. " Excellent." He said, as he turned on his heel and started to walk again. I got up again, only to sli IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE SLIP and fall down again.“Blast these wretched skirts!” I mumbled, scarmbling IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE SCRAMBLING up to street. THERE ARE TOO MANY AND'S IN THIS PARAGRAPH
We walked up the streets a ways, to Rue Frochot. THE PERIOD SHOULD BE A COMMA... (He had not said a word to me since we left.) THE PERIOD SHOULD BE AFTER THE PARANTHESES... Monsieur Degas stopped at a green, chipped door with the number 4, NO COMMA HERE on it. We walked up the flights of stairs until we got to the fifth landing. He opened the door. The studio was very similar to the Opera house. The walls were a cream color and there were very few paintings up; the studio already looked very cluttered and busy, so I guess SHOULD THERE BE AN "A" HERE? few paintings was alright. It had dust DUSTY? tutus, dead pointe shoes. But, there was also, a zinc bathtub along with well-loved books sitting on top of stools; a small piano, a violin and other instruments. There was a window on the far side of the studio. Along side of the window, laid up- NO HYPHEN HERE against the wall was paintings in gold frames, some not in frames at all. Also, a worktable covered with used and new tubs of paint, all the colors you could imagine, brushes, and lumps of dried up clay, loose paper, and sketches not yet finished. His cloak and top hat were still on when he told me to go and change into a tutu and put Pointe shoes on. I slipped my boots off and put them by the door, as we did at home. I went over to the bin and sorted through the dusty, worn-out,NO COMMA HERE tutus. I decided on one with a yellow ribbon; SHOULDN'T THIS BE A COMMA? my favorite color.
I changed behind the screen fairly quickly, walked to the model stand and bent down to tie my pointe shoes."Hold that pose” THIS SHOULD BE A COMMA WITHIN THE PARANTHESES AND HE SHOULDN'T BE CAPITALIZED... He barked. I was down in second position, a position that I was very comfortable in, not as comfortable as 4th position though… I was begging to feel light headed LIGHTHEADED IS ONE WORD...due to the fact that my hed IT'S HEAD was bent down, blood rushed to my head like a river, making my face red.
For about an hour, I was in that pose. To get the pain off my mind, I thought of pretty ball gowns with lace, silk and hoopskirts. My mother had beautiful pieces of material to make dresses with; she was in the middle of teaching Genevieve of whom ISN'T THIS SUPPOSED TO BE WHO? was my sister, and I. We usually spent our time at night sewing, reading or just talking.
Finally, Monsieur Degas said, “That is all, thank-you NO HYPHEN HERE..... I will see you two times a week, more if I need you, less if I don’t. On Tuesdays, and Thursdays. Is that all right?”
“Yes, it is fine. Thank-you”, COMMA SHOULD BE IN THE PARANTHESES I said, looking down at my pointe shoes.
“Excellent, you may go change.”
I nodded and smiled.
Once I slipped on my petticoats, hoopskirt, and corset, I pulled on my blue poplin dress, and stepped out behind the screen, Mousier Degas resumed telling me the dull information.”3 francs, each time you come. What is your name dear?”
“Marie, Marie Picard.” He wrote it down in small, black notebook.
“We will start next Tuesday”, he announced.
A smile fell across my rosy face and I rushed down the steps. The air was cool and the wind crisp. It refreshed me as I skipped. The sun was setting and the sky looked gray, the clouds a soft shade of blue-black. I ran home, dodging people; of who gave me looks, I apologized to them. THE LAST SENTENCE IS PHRASED AWKWARDLY...PLAY AROUND WITH IT, POSSIBLY DELETE THE SEMICOLON?
with hnts IT'S SPELLED AS HINTS... of lavender making there way into the 'illusion'.
“Marie, darling, where have you been?”Momma asked me from the kitchen once I had stepped through the door to our town house.
“Posing for Monsieur Degas. I answered coolly. Searching around the kitchen and finally picking up a carrot to peel.
“Heavens, above! For how much?” She shrieked.
“3 francs each time I pose.”
Momma nodded approvingly.
“Truly, Marie?” My sister Genevieve asked, while she peeled potatoes.
Genevieve was 19 and a professional dancer at the Opera. She was bubbly and charming with blond hair and bright blue eyes and a lovely smile. I envied her with the way she talked to people and how she held her self. Head held high, with a smile on her face all the time. Also, Genevieve was always happy and fun, even while she was being elegant. When I was in front of people talking I always said the wrong thing or was as quiet as a mouse. Seen THERE SHOULD BE A COMMA HERE... but never heard. I was to shy and just stood there staring at the ground, practicing my releve’s and turnouts. You see, it is interesting because, NO COMMA HERE I would always say that I was not scared but deep down, I was terrified. “Yes!” I replied excitedly.
My family like so many before the war of 1871, once was refined and elegantly dressed, lived in a charming house and had servants. Also, my father had died some months after the war, so we were, “as poor as rats”, to me since then. We lived comfortably COMMA HERE but, I wished we could go back to the way we were before. Back to having a whole family. “Marie, will you help me with the dishes?” Mother smiled at me. “Yes, momma.” She handed me a towel.” Thank-you for helping me.” Momma told me as she sponged down a dish. I nodded,” It is no trouble. I enjoy it.”
I retired to my bedroom that I shared with Genevieve.
The stars and moon shone brightly through the window in the room as if a beckon hope to those souls how were lost. The window pane was frosted over, weak light from the moon poured through it. The sky was a dark, beautiful blue. I lit a candle and sat down at my writing desk. It was piled over with short stories, quill pens,and empty bottles of ink. I gave myself up to, longing to better myself. At night, when all of Paris was asleep; my mind would be alive with friends as dear to me as any in the real world. Writing and dancing was my escape from everything in this world.