My Muse (Flash Fiction)

My Muse (The Art of the Russian Ballet)

It was on my first day, my very first day of school that I saw her while my head was buried in my coloring books. Her first word, was…

“Hi!”

“Hu… hi.”

“My name’s Elena.”

“I’m, Arkady.”

She walked away, entrancing me from then on.

After Elementary school, she got into Ballet, but I saw her every day at the bus stop through the window. In a year, her movements flourished and became neon lights of black, white, and pink in my head.

When high school started, I saw her dancing in the snow, feet cold, black, and blue like her hands. I brought her coffee. She took it, quick with a step.

“Thanks.”

She finished it all while dancing.

I painted my next class. My teacher’s lips arose. She displayed it to everyone.

I saw Elena’s first performance at the theater. She moved like an Angel of light, my angel of light.

That night I splattered paint on the canvas and brushed it smooth. I called the gallery the next morning.

A knock bounced from my door. Elena awaited me. She saw the painting from my window and hers too.

My art at the gallery shined sublime.

The gallery director said it was… “abstract, bombastic, luminous, an aurora, a phenomenon.”

That night, I took her to the gallery. She kissed me in the moonlight shining down through the glass ceiling. She made my lips ice cold.

While performing Swan Lake, something happened. She fell from heaven. She broke her leg.

A couple of weeks later, she screamed “if I was a horse they’d put me down. I’m nothing.” So, she broke her reflection in the mirror. Sharp Death came.

I painted a mural by her grave, because I saw her, in my dreams last night. She is my muse.