The curtain rose and there was silence throughout the crowd of patrons.
As the curtain disappeared the crowd admired what had been hiding behind the great cloth.
Sitting on a wooden chair at the very centre of the stage was a maiden with skin as white as ivory, her to-too pink, her eyes the colour of burnt emeralds both beautiful and glazed over.
For two whole seconds the crowd’s gaze was fixed on the beautiful creature, a cough escaped one young man before the orchestra played.
The music was slow at first, a flute being played at a whisper’s pace. It drew in the patrons, forcing them to concentrate and subconsciously lean forward. Then the drums started and the woman on the chair moved with a new determination.
Slow, sluggish, mechanical in a way; the maiden’s dance was anything if pretty, yet there was some odd grace to it. The crowd’s attention was a fixed upon this small marvel, her dance hypnotising them, the music drawing them in.
The music appeared to be moving the ballerina. As the rhythm increased, her dance sped up, and similarly when the music turned to a whisper, her dance took on a softer tone.
The ballerina then performed the impossible. While spinning her body around on her toes, her head stayed still. The crowd gasped at this feat.
Then as the music ended and the impossible ballerina gave a bow.
Her impassive face showed no exhaustion, no sweat, and no breath escaped her.
The crowd roared. Clapping, they shouted for encore, but there would be no second performance. The choir of the applause continued long after the certain fell and the audience were able to view the writing on the curtain which had risen only ten minutes.
BARRON MCKENZIE’S CLOCKWORK MARVELS.