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Rae stood on the threshold, peering down into the eyes of her beloved dog, the dog she had adopted one year ago and promised to love forever. His eyes broke her heart. He knew she was hurting. He knew she was leaving - and that almost tempted her to stay - again. She wished she could make him understand why. “Why does this feel like you're leaving for good?” her fiancé asked her. Because it is, she didn't answer out loud. She offered a weak smile through her tears and kissed him one last time. “I'll see you in a week,” she lied, and closed the door behind her. With her head held high and fists clenched, she silently got in her car and backed out of the driveway. It wasn't until she was around the corner that she let the sobs escape. Once released, they came forth in violent waves – months and months of heartache, frustration, anger, despair, anxiety, depression, confusion, fear, grief. She cried so hard she gasped for breath and her tears blurred her vision, but she couldn't stop - not this time. She had to keep going. She had turned around so many times before. It had to be for real this time. Episodes from their 14 years together replayed in her mind – scenes she'd replayed over and over again, analyzing every harsh word exchanged, wondering for the millionth time if she had over-reacted. But even if she had, did his words and actions have to make her feel so horrible? She'd let it slide for 14 years. She'd made up excuses for him – he'd been neglected by his father and bullied by peers, so it made sense that he always had to be right, that he was constantly trying to prove himself. She could forgive that. She could forgive his bossiness, his need to be in control, his double standards. She could forgive that he sucked at romance and thoughtful gifts. She could forgive a lot of things, and she had, for a long, long time. But then they bought a house, and got a dog, and they both had careers they loved, and she'd asked him (again) if they could get married…and he said no. That's when she finally started to realize that there would always be excuses, because he was a controlling, emotionally abusive, narcissistic asshole. That's when Rae had come to the incredibly painful realization that she had to leave. She had to somehow let go of the last 14 years of her life and find a way to move forward on her own, no matter how terrifying it might be. An hour later she arrived at her cousin's, who greeted her with a kind hug and showed her to the spare bedroom. A twin air mattress and small table had been set up in between the closet and the rabbit cage. This was going to be her living space for the next several months. Deciding to embrace it, Rae set down her luggage and drove across the street to the Walmart to pick out some bedding. Standing there in the aisle, viewing all the options, she couldn't help but smile. Is this what freedom felt like? She couldn't remember the last time she'd gone to the store by herself, let alone picked out something she wanted, without his opinions and insults of her tastes, and his disgusting misuse of the word “compromise". There had never been any compromising with him – it had just been him convincing her why his idea was better. Nothing had ever been good enough for him if he wasn't the one to make the decision. Selecting a blue and purple sheet set and a small lamp, Rae made her way to the check out with a little skip in her step. Back at her cousin's apartment, she reflected on how amazing it felt to actually have a space to call her own - just hers. She realized that this feeling she was experiencing - this feeling of inner peace and safety, of self-expression - was what she had been missing for so long. Was it the absence of this feeling that had driven her to therapy and antidepressants? Was it really as simple as just having your own space? Rae didn't sleep that night. She was too anxious; excited for the new sense of freedom and positive experiences that lay before her, but also dreading the grief and despair she knew she would have to endure in order to heal and move on. A few days later, she drove two hours to the airport. She parked her car in the long-term parking lot and boarded a shuttle. She checked in for her flight, received her ticket, and found her way to her gate. All by herself. After boarding the plane and finding her window seat, she sent a selfie to a friend. They responded, “You look happy.” Gazing out the window, Rae realized that she was, in fact, happy. Deeply, authentically happy. More than that, she knew that this was the first of many amazing adventures she was going to take herself on. She was a strong, amazing, independent woman, and she was going to be okay.

Hello there. I am a young dancer, and I'd like to share a story that I am too afraid to share with anyone who will recognize it, so here I am anonymous. I have a specific memory in mind here. We were doing a photoshoot for a show that was coming up. I was very excited because although I had done some small photoshoots before, it was always exciting. An artist specializing in clothing had come, and he chose a few adults (we were working with a company of adult dancers that we knew) and one girl from our company to dress up, and then the rest of us were in our costumes for the show. He picked Avery to wear his garment, and I don't blame him. Avery was probably the best dancer in our company, and she was very pretty. She was often picked for promo images and lead roles. That, I don't have a problem with. There is a difference between favoritism and just being able to recognize talent and beauty. No, my problem is with what happened next. So, we were shooting pictures, the photographer was a bit intimidating, but it was fine. Our teacher was positioning people and then the photographer tweaked our movements as we went. Then, when they decided to go for another angle, something happened. Our teacher was positioning people around but left out about around five of us. Now, we five were not popular in the company. Not for being mean or incredibly bad, but we just didn't… stand out. So, when asked what we should do, our teacher said: “just go stand out of frame, this photo is pretty full of people already (to be fair, there were quite a lot of people), and this will only take a minute, and then you'll be back in!” Okay! We were happy to do so. So we went into the shade, happy to get some break from the sweltering sun. time passed. Five minutes. Ten. twenty. They hadn't called us back into the frame yet, so we just sat and waited. Then they started re-arranging people again. But they didn't notice us. Eventually, we realized that if we didn't say anything, we might be forgotten. Mind you that we weren't out of sight, just in the background. So I raised my voice and asked if we could be in yet. Our teacher was surprised, like she had forgotten we were there. She put us back in, but it still hurt. Getting to see the same four or five people get chosen to be in the spotlight again and again, while we five were continuously forgotten? I tried to act like it was fine, but it stung. It really stung.

“And...Aster, you're up!" I shakily drew in a breath and bent down to check if my en pointe shoes were tied. Why did the air suddenly seem so cold? Why were chills running up my spine? And why, out of all things, was I scared? It's gonna be alright, I assured myself. My brain believed it, but my heart didn't. It beat fast, as if it was saying, "Oh, I'm not sure..." My friend Wonder's voice interrupted my thoughts. "Pssst. Aster, go on," She nudged me with her elbow. "You can do this!" Wonder's sunny, smiling face encouraged me, but didn't do much to move my fears. "I can't do it." "What?" Wonder's face fell. "I just can't. I'm too scared." "But you can do it!" Wonder protested. "Then how do I do it?" "Just face your fears." * * * The first time my mother told me to try ballet, I was really skeptical. Ballet? Really? With music that goes, dodo-do-do? Nope, not for me. Then, she MADE me try it, which I complained about for a long time. She pushed me into our custom-made Porsche car and said, "You can't think that ballet is terrible before you've even tried it." Sigh. Grown-ups. "I still think ballet is a waste of time and torrible." I declared with a matter-of-fact look on my face, staring at her through the rear view mirror with my brown eyes. "Oh, Aster," murmured Mum. "Using words you've made up." I did make up words if there wasn't a good enough word in Merriam Webster's dictionary. Terrible and horrible both sounded the same and meant the same thing, so I decided to merge them to create, "Torrible". It's a word that's twice as strong than your ordinary negative adjective. Once we got to the ballet studio, I crossed my arms to make myself seem like I meant business and didn't want to be there. "Welcome!" cried a bright-eyed woman. "I'm Madame Natalia!" She had her hazel hair in a tight bun and was wearing a black leotard paired with white tights and ballet shoes. "Please come inside!" I reluctantly entered the studio. It had glossy walls, wooden bars, and a huge mirror at the very front. I had thought that ballet was going to be boring. Boy, was I wrong. Ballet now seemed like it was part of everything in my life now. It was in my schedule, and I tried to do anything to please Madame Natalia. I was having so much fun doing pliés and tendus and pirouettes that I even forgot how I first felt like when I went to the studio! It was as if I couldn't feel that way about ballet anymore. Soon, three years had passed and I was a high-level fifteen year old. Madame Natalia had long gone; I now had a teacher named Madame Trance. Her name suited her. She looked as if she had been taking too many sleeping pills. Her blonde hair always seemed to float and her gray eyes were always dreamy as if she were far, far away from the studio. One day Madame Trance said, “Aster, there's going to be a competition at the Lincoln Center Ballet Stage. Do you want to go for it?” My eyes grew wide. A competition? For real?“YES!” I shouted, jumping up and down. Madame looked at me disapprovingly and shook her head. “What's wrong Madame?” I asked, cocking my head, settling down again. “Oh, dear. The people downstairs will complain again.” I grinned sheepishly, embarrassed. * * * So here I was, at Lincoln Center making a fool out of myself. My brain had already confirmed that I couldn't bring myself to dance on the ballet stage. I had looked down at my feet and moped. Then, Wonder had given me one of the best pieces of advice that I had ever heard in my life: "Face your fears". I looked up. Wonder nodded. I thought about spiders. Poison. War. Stage fright, and another gazillion things that I never knew that I was afraid of. "If you're ever gonna do something in life," soothed Wonder, bring me back into the present, "If you're ever gonna try something new, you have to go face-to-face with whatever you're afraid of." She stared at me so intently that I snickered."Wow!" I laughed. "You sound just like a teacher!" "Thank you."Wonder giggled. "Number 26, are you coming? I repeat, number 26, are you coming?" I inhaled deeply and stepped forward. I put on my best calm face. It didn't matter which place I came in. All that mattered was that I had faced my fears.

Hello. I am Azka. I am a homemaker having a caring husband with two beautiful kids. I am a graduate in Bachelors of Sciences in Computer science. Did three months of internship. Started work on some online business platform. My hobbies include reading online novels, dance on music for excercising. Loved to write since I was 17. Didn't wrote continuously though but wrote bit by bit. Mostly wrote on a private online diary. I would like to earn online from doing what I always wanted to do ie from reading or from writing. I am easy going friendly person. People love to accompany me. I am also a good secret keeper. I am happy with my love life and living. I'M Me the only unique one in my own way.

The Living “I'm so stiff,” cried the corpse, “I'm dying to dance again.” And there he rose, hopping off the autopsy table to do a pirouette on the pristine tiles of the room. He twirled and twisted in perfect synchrony to imaginary music, jumping and turning with such conviction that the coroner nearly heard that same music the dead was dancing to. He moved around the room, avoiding each object with such precision that the amazed onlooker couldn't help but wonder if this man had ever been there before. The coroner never got any company – only the dead came to visit him. He stared, amazed at the newly exhumed corpse jumping across the room in a perfect brisé. The dancer became akin to a top spinning out of balance, coiling around in some hidden rage before reaching a crescendo with a sweep of his hand. He moved into what looked like the final position, right leg outstretched, tracing a circle around him with his arms spread far behind, face wistful as he looked up past the ceiling. Spellbound, the coroner couldn't but clap at what had played in front of him. He had never been too much of a fan of the performing arts but to deny the dance proper appreciation would be a sin, even if it was to music he can't hear. The beauty of his form, his harmony, the sincerity of his expression; it was all utter perfection. The undead dancer gave a low bow to the coroner, a humble thank you coming from his lips. As he did so, the stunned man was reminded of something he'd read a long, long time ago. “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music,” he whispered, eyes wide. “Nietzsche,” the other nodded, pale as death but looking more alive than ever. He reached his right hand towards the still man. “Now, dance with me.” The coroner, entranced, put a hesitant hand on his. A gasp escaped his lips as their skin touched. “It's cold.” + The Dead If the corpse heard, he didn't show it as he wrapped his left arm around the living one. He hummed in approval as the other put his hand on his shoulder. The beat of the other's heart was intoxicating to his ears; the breath on his lips, the blood running through his veins. It had been so long since he'd last been alive that all he could do was admire the essence of life in his arms. He loved how it brought him on the cliff of ecstasy; dangling off the edge, so close to falling into intense, never ending pleasure. Infatuated he was with life – no – he daresay lusted for it. He lusted to feel life in his hands, in his control, doing as he desired. He waltzed the living man across the room, carefully avoiding the chairs and tables and gently twirling him around, making the other lose balance slightly just for the dead to catch him in his cold embrace once more. The unlikely pair did this again and again, their delicate stepping and turning becoming something more aggressive; they pushed and they pulled, their turns sharpening. The corpse shoved the coroner on to the autopsy table he came from, pushing him down on the cold metal. “You are mine now.” This shook the living man out of his enchanted stupor, and he writhed and kicked, trying to escape from the cold, rigid grip of death. “No,” the dancer tutted condescendingly; a reasoning mother to an irascible child. “That is not how you are to behave.” From the side table he produced a scalpel, blemish-free and all but gleaming in the harsh light. An unsettling thought came about the coroner. I had just finished sharpening my tools.

I met Lyrical when I was 2 years old. She was, and is, very special to me. The first time I held her hand, she spun me. When I was 9, Lyrical leaped away and that was disheartening, nevertheless, I found ways to follow her. She moved from town to town, but I always managed to keep in touch. I could dance with her even if it was a long journey to meet her. For some reason, she was aloof, waltzing from place to place -sometimes close, sometimes far. She required me to do more; stretch myself, comit, and not just be a friend to play with once or twice a week. Her companionship became costly, however, I always found ways to be with her. She was pushy. Twice a week became everyday and one hour sessions became four. I was spinning like the first time, but now out of control. Careening, wheeling, spiraling - Inside turns. Outside turns. I needed to learn balance. Finally, I found my center, landing in a new position. I worked harder and spent time with her. We would not always get along. She would often break my heart. I would bend to her whim then snap at her command, the shift making my body ache. But I loved it. The thrill of another day with it. I loved it most in high school where I directed my will to the discipline of technique. In the process, I was introduced to even more friends that knew her as I did. Challenging. Formidable. Intimidating. Even though this relationship has demanded much from me, it has always been my inspiration. Lyrical is ballet. She is jazz. She is Contemporary. She is tap. She is dance. She is it. Dance is my art form. It is the expression of my creativity through my body. It is the showcasing of emotions in ways words fail to convey. My everyday struggles are diminished while spinning, leaping, and jumping. And my life continues to be enriched because of it.

I spent the majority of my childhood watching my parents perform in front of large, roaring crowds. In Ethiopia, my parents were two of the most famous dancers who performed dances from all the native cultures in our country. When they made their way to the stage, their presence excited thousands. Although they were two different people, they danced as if they were one. Their dance moves seemed so magical; every step and turn was precise and had a meaning. My mother floated in the air, twisted, turned, and landed between my father's arms. The crowd would cheer and chant their names, and my parents became my idols. Nothing made me happier than watching them on stage and seeing people appreciate their hard work. These moments of watching them from a crowd solidified my desire to be a performer, just like my parents. I first shared my passion for dancing with my father when I was seven years old; I walked purposefully out of my bedroom to tell him that I wanted to be included in an important part of his and my mother's life. He was ecstatic as he proclaimed it to my mother who in turn was in disbelief but felt honored. They both hugged me so tightly, I could feel my tiny arms push against my rib cage. Two weeks later, my parents started taking me to their studio for dance lessons, where we danced for hours on end until my body gave out. They strongly believe that practice makes perfect and the earlier I started practicing, the better performer I was going to become. Every step I made counted. I had a goal in mind, and nothing could stop me from being amazing. My skills were clearly hereditary. I got every stance, pivot, and move correctly within weeks. As I danced my little heart out religiously every day, I saw how my parents admired my dedication. After three years of long and arduous lessons, they finally agreed to let me perform on stage with them. When they told me, I broke out in tears. I was overwhelmed by the emotion that I was finally going to perform before an audience and make my parents proud. Amid bright lights, rolling cameras, and chanting crowds, I was observing my parents in the middle of their performance when my father called me from backstage to do my routine. The night that I prepared for for years had finally come. When it was time for me to dance, though, I forgot all the moves. I stood still as I stared at the enormous crowd. My body started to shiver as the back of my ears got warmer and the tip of my fingers started to throb. The deafening speakers quickened the pace of my heart. After what had felt like millennia, I ran off the stage. I looked back at my parents; a hint of sorrow and pity was displayed on their faces. My body had failed me. For years this night has made me question if I will ever be a true performer. That night was the last time I was on stage as a performer, but it was not the last time I danced. Although I realized early that my stage fright hindered me from showcasing my talent to the crowds, this obstacle has made me more appreciative of my gift to communicate without using any words. Dancing is a secret language. It's a passion and an adventure. It's my quest for perfection and desire to portray a message through my routine. For a long time, my stage fright caused me to doubt myself, but now I realize that this weakness doesn't make my abilities any less meaningful.