The Last Eight Counts

The following is a paper assignment for my Creative Writing class. What i got out of it was that I'm to depict what a Dancer, a professional dancer, might feel, think, or see? if given the news they have to lose both their legs.


The Last Eight Counts


One, …Two, …Three, … Four, …Five …Six, …Seven, …Eight

Leaping and flying I felt boundless, unlimited by the world. There was no amount of gravity that could hold me down. No length of letters to the law that could keep me from dancing. I knew exactly what I had to do, and what I was capable of doing. My teacher never told me to fix my posture while in 4th position. He never yelled at me to point harder or straighten my leg any better. He always showed me as the prime example in passé. The way I look at ease in this position. I was his protégé. I was only 16 in a class filled with students much over 21 years of age, they having had lived more of their lives dancing then I could in a single day dream. I was always given more then my own space, more then enough room to dance and not hit anyone.

One, Two, adjust my shoes.
Three, Four, I am forlorn.
Five, Six, I danced like this.
Seven, Eight, Time is gone and now its too late.

Kicking, punching, and screaming now replaced Pliés and Elevés. Chassés and Dégagés were performed with anger, grief, and malice. Infused with rage towards myself, creating a cruel mixture called Life, My Life. Where did I go wrong? Did I miss my marker? Was I on the wrong count? No, that can’t be it. I’m sure he said five I just know it! This isn’t how its supposed to be. He never said I’d be doing this alone. He said he would always be there for me to make sure I was jumping high enough, pointing hard enough, dancing just, enough, to suit him. I didn’t audition for this solo. It was never planned in the schedule. Then again, nothing is ever planned, its only jotted down in the hopes He’ll allow us to do so. Sometimes we write it down and all He can do is laugh because it’s not what he has in mind.

One, …Two, …Three, … Four, …Five …Six, …Seven, …Eight

Fiery balls of gas fell from the night sky. They hid from me behind mountains, and trees, and large boulders from a far off. Once they held my power, my strength and agility. But now they simply burnt holes in my pockets. Where there was once a cyan blue sky, now sits my black shadow. I sit here alone, awaiting my fate as I hear his footsteps coming closer and closer. A small chance that I could walk away with a minor set back or to be constrained to a wheel chair filled with self-contempt. What would be the prognosis? My life lies in His hands.
I can’t leap or bound, I can only fall. But at least I know how to fall, the right way. My mama once said to me “If you do something over and over again, it will soon become you.” I used to practice my leaps for hours and hours on end. Jumping and jumping as high as I could. But now, I can only turn and turn as far as I want to go. Push and push and be pushed for the rest of my life. The strength required is small, but in large doses does it prescribe. The milligrams though large they may be are do able, but don’t subside the pain.

One, …Two, …Three, … Four, …Five …Six, …Seven, …Eight

After my first failed “Flying Stars” audition, my father raised me from the floor into his arms, looked me in the eyes and said “ Don’t you ever give up. They aren’t worth your talent.” As he placed me back on the floor, the paper that stuck to my chest with the number eight withered in my tears.
I used to think that I could fly off the face of the earth if I wanted to, that I could get anywhere I needed to go. But now the only axis I can move on is X. There will never be a Y again. Do I bother even trying if I know I’m just going to fall down again? Why am I this point on the graph, stuck on the Line of Life unable to move up or down, diagonal in direction? Was this really my role? Was I to be assigned to be the part of the paraplegic? How would He have known what my response would be?
I’m not ready to let go, because I’d never know what I’d be missing. What I’d be sitting out for. I would lose everything I never found, everything I never saw, never felt. But as two turns to zero, zero turns to four; I’m left alone to ponder with my thoughts. “I think it’s me. … At least I hope it’s still me. Half of me really.” I am left to live the other half of my life this way. I never asked for this. It wasn’t in my plan, it wasn’t on my schedule, but then again those things are really only jotted down to make Him laugh aren’t they?
One, …Two, …Three, … Four, …Five …Six, …Seven, …Eight










Yours Truly,
Amanda Jeannette.
Stay True, Stay You.


Ps. Courtesy Editing help, and keeping me sane by not letting me abuse my delete button: Jenna King.