Young Writers Society

Tightening. Loosening. Upwards. Downwards. Forward. Backward.
The string jerked upwards bringing her hand with it, the joints in her elbows creaked and her wrists groaned with the movement. The strings loosened, dropping her arms to her sides and her head tilted to the left as her right foot was jerked forward to cross the ground. Her large crinoline dress folded and ruffled as it slimmed at the waist allowing for half circles covering her breasts. Her left arm jerked upwards, and gestured out before her. She tilted her head to the side, the buckles that held the thick leather neck-strap to her throat clicked and shifted. She watched as he placed the needle onto the record disc, the audible scratching made her want to flinch but she was unable to move. He smiled over at her before returning to his controls where he began to pull levers, moving her upwards, downwards, forwards and backwards. She was nothing but his marionette.







Avarice placed the toe of her ballet flat to the ground, and lifted her leg before springing from her left leg and landing on the point of her toes. She raised her arms above her head and spun, lifting her foot up and down as she added to her momentum. As she stopped she drew her left arm down and circled it before her waist, and then leaped to the side before her plier. Her black tutu rustled as she walked on toe point towards the center of the stage, and once she’d reached it the spotlight sliced through the dimly lit darkness and rested on her. Avarice turned towards the audience, nearly able to hear their whispered confusion as every pair of eyes rested on her immobile form. Then, the music began to play and Avarice was alive again.
She pirouetted, leaped and plier’d each movement graceful until the end when she fell to the ground. Not a part of the routine, she told herself but she couldn’t stop herself now it was becoming to painful to be everything everyone wanted. She rolled upon the ground, flexing her legs, twisting before arching her stomach and forcing her legs over-top of herself and landing on her pointed toes. She spun and stopped in a bow-like curtsy relishing the silence that ensued her performance. Avarice rose and looked out to the audience, and the clapping built in crescendo before slowly dying out as she walked off stage.

“What was that, Avarice?” demanded Jacques Titian, instructor and coordinator of the monthly ballet recital that ensued a large practice of well-known ballet artists.

“Exactly as you told me to,” she responded quietly in her patient voice, not at all caring that this man could very well destroy her future as a ballet dancer.

“I told you- I told you what?” he asked, eyebrow raised with his brown eyes glaring.

Avarice reached up and unpinned her hair, taking her time as she shook out her long black hair. “You told me to feel the music, to become the character for which I danced, Jacques.” she sighed, sliding the tutu off her waist and stepping out of it.

Jacques opened his mouth, then closed it with an audible snap before finally deciding what it was he wanted to say. “I never meant-” he sighed, “Well done, Avarice, well done.”

She grabbed her tutu and walked off, padding quietly upon the ceramic tiles that lined the hallway towards her dressing room. Avarice swiped her mouth with the back of her hand, removing the red lipstick from her chapped lips. She pulled on the dressing room door handle but it made no move to open. A frown sidled onto her face as she jiggled the doorknob, it was then that she heard the loud shattering of glass.
Avarice bit her lip as she dug through her pocket for her credit card before sliding it in the crack of the door, jiggling it a tad and hearing the tell-tale sign of the lock’s turn. Avarice pushed open the door, licking her lips as she entered the dark room, the lights shattered. She assured herself that the door was left opened as she stepped further into her dressing room. A small amount of light was shed from the open doorway, but it quickly vanished. Avarice spun around, dropping her items to the ground and folding her hands into fists as she prepared herself. The figure in the doorway made no response to her aggressive actions other than to step forward.

“Who are you?” she hissed quietly, her own fear forcing her from raising her voice. The figure stepped forward once again, never responding to her asked query. Avarice backed up, her fists still raised before she cried out as she hit something solid. She gave a low cry and turned her eyes to the obstructing object and turned her eyes back to the figure in relief. Only, the strange silhouette was nowhere and for a moment she was surrendered to confusion, until cold hands wrapped around her throat and began to tighten. Avarice opened her mouth as she struggled to grant oxygen to her lungs only the moment a thread of sound began to escape, the pressure on her throat was suddenly released. She paused, raising her hands to feel her throat, only to find it smooth and untouched. Avarice swallowed, turning around to pick up the items she had dropped, breathing hard. What had just happened?

Hallucinations, she reasoned. Mother said they would side with the anti-depressant medication.

Avarice heard the subtle buzz of her cell-phone and sighed as she bent to pick it up, on the floor where her phone lay was a piece of blue fabric, nearly black in the dim light. She picked it up as she flipped open her phone.

"Hello?" she offered into the phone, examining the fabric curiously.

"Annaline Stark?" a thickly accented voice on the other end queried, sounding hopeful.

"This is she." Avarice answered, after a moment’s pause. Uncertainty pressed in on her and she wondered why she was playing a role as her mother.

"Ah," the male voice began, "It’s Jorrick Bronswin, I’m calling in regards to the appointment your rescheduled for tomorrow afternoon. I was just wondering if you wanted to hear the results to the test right now, seeing as tomorrow we’ll be busy with treatments...” he trailed off, perhaps hoping for her silence to be recovered.

“Ah, yes. I’d like to hear the results now, if you’d please.” she said, wondering how often this Jorrick Bronswin had spoken to her mother.

“Well, Miss Stark I’m afraid to inform you of the results seeing as they came out positive.” he sighed, almost tiredly.
“Positive?” she asked.

“Your tests confirmed that you suffer an extremely advanced case of pancreatic cancer,”

Avarice took the phone from her ear and stared at it, shock reverberating throughout each individual cell of her being.
“Miss Stark? Hello? Are you there?” Jorrick’s voice squeaked from her phone, but without a second thought she slammed her phone shut and threw it at her wall.

“You didn’t tell me?” she screamed, tugging her hair in frustration as she thought about how her mother hadn’t told her of these tests.
Avarice licked her lips as she flexed her fingers before tossing her tutu onto the dresser’s counter, threw on her fur-lined sweater and nearly ran out of the dressing room. She needed to speak to Lynch, it was the only way she’d be able to stay sane.



“Pancreatic cancer? Seriously?” demanded Lynch in surprise, his blue eyes widening.

“Yea, and she didn’t bother to tell me because?” she asked rhetorically, frowning as she chewed on her fingernails.

“But really, pancreatic cancer isn’t something that can be missed like that; shouldn’t she be having pain or something?” he asked, scratching his stubble.

Avarice thought a moment before throwing her hands down to her sides, “No, she’s been too doped up on painkillers and medication that she wouldn’t notice if she lost a limb.”

“Damn,” he sighed, gripping his Pepsi in one hand as he propped himself up on a pole.

She envied his casual demeanour, wishing that at a moment like this she, too, could place a facade of cool calm.






[[Continued Later -- Any comments and constructive critism would be welcomed. Just don't be too harsh, it's still a draft.]]

I'll keep in mind that this is only a draft if you'll keep in mind that this is the very first review I've submitted on YWS.

I like the little poem you started it with. It gives me the impression of impermanence. Is this what you aimed for?

Now, the first paragraph was quite nice. A paragraph describing movement in close detail. But in between that we have this.

WrittenInStone wrote:Her large crinoline dress folded and ruffled as it slimmed at the waist allowing for half circles covering her breasts.

This describes the marionette's appearance. Perhaps you could have this somewhere else? It feels very out of place.

WrittenInStone wrote:Her black tutu rustled as she walked on toe point towards the center of the stage, and once she’d reached it the spotlight sliced through the dimly lit darkness and rested on her.

The start was wonderful - now that describes appearance it between movement very well!

WrittenInStone wrote:Not a part of the routine, she told herself but she couldn’t stop herself now it was becoming to painful to be everything everyone wanted.

Break up that sentence, please? Between 'now' and 'it' would be fine.

WrittenInStone wrote:Avarice heard the subtle buzz of her cell-phone and sighed as she bent to pick it up, on the floor where her phone lay was a piece of blue fabric, nearly black in the dim light. She picked it up as she flipped open her phone.

Painful paragraph. Split it up to make it flow smoothly. If Avarice sees the cloth as black, make it black. We as readers are seeing the world through your character's eyes - sort of - so don't tell us things she doesn't know. It's sneaky.

That's it, I'm done picking at paragraphs. ^^ The idea is good, and your action sequences are well done, but you could pay a little more attention to grammar and compound sentences.
And, in the last part of this prologue (?), I had no idea where Avarice and her friend were. You mention a pole, but where was the pole? Made me wonder.

I loved the parts where you described her ballet performance. The sentences flowed passably well there, and I don't know much about ballet so... enlightenment? The word 'avarice' as a name also struck me as unique, and probably a case of Chekhov's Gun. I don't know for sure.
This is good for a draft, and it doubtlessly requires a revision. Best of luck with revising and writing, and thank you for letting me read this lovely work of yours - it looks very promising!