Writing Prompt

Once upon a time there was a ballerina box in an antique store and one day a little girl came over with her grandma and declared I want her and she got everything she wanted so of course she got it when she got home she opened it the ballerina danced and danced she kept it open and she kept dancing for 1 hour until the ballerina had enough she stopped dancing and glared at her then little girl Abby said grandmaaaa my dolly is broken ugh she is asleep whatever this was cheap anyways she said then she decided to break it by smashing it on the floor oh my goodness why I danced so much for you I danced all day without a break then she got shut oh my what a horrible child then she got smashed again this time she broke off then she cracked then she felt lighter her metal body was fragile ur now she felt free she was human but what happened to the girl she couldn’t be found when she opened up her old case she dropped it of fear they had switched places

Stuck. That’s how I feel. Stuck in this small jewelry box. Cursed to forever dance in the same place. To forever spin. Around and around. But that’s when it’s open. When it’s closed, I’m trapped. Trapped in this tiny box, forever. I like to dream though. Of being free. I could still be a ballerina, if I wanted too. I would love to actually dance. To actually move. Or I could be a singer. A florist. A baker. Whatever I wanted. But no, I’m stuck. I try not to think about it. The pain. The little girl makes things easier. I love to watch her dance to my music. She spins and twirls around her pink room. Jumping higher and higher. She laughs. If only I could join her. To dance with her. Laugh with her. She’s my human. My only friend. I can imagine us dancing together. She tells me she imagines it too. She loves to talk to me. If only I could talk back. But I’m stuck, in this jewelry box. Forever. If only I wasn’t Stuck.

The end

Mariettes life consisted of two things. Waiting to perform and performing. It was always so dark, waiting, always oh so dark. She would sit, twiddle her thumbs and fidget with her pale pink tutu. Sometimes she would stand up and try to peek outside through the little keyhole in her box. She never saw much though. She liked to listen instead. She stretched, practiced, and waited for her human to come and watch her perform. While she waited, she liked to think about the past.

She adored her human. She had known her since she was a grubby toddler who's jam covered hands would press the button that made Mariette perform and would dance alongside her in a sparkly tutu of her own. When her human was small, she would talk to Mariette. "When I grow up, I'm going to be a ballerina too!" If she could have smiled, she would have. She remembered when her human had given her her name. "You're names Mariette! My name is Lily! We're both ballerinas!" The toddler giggled and then pressed the button to make Mariette perform again. She performed almost all day back then.

As Lily grew older, Mariette performed less and less. She heard more and more though. Lily arguing with her mother, Lily playing pretend with her friends, Lily blasting music from a radio, Lily crying about a bad grade, and Lily excitedly talking about some boy to her friends. Mariette knew everything about Lily, she watched her grow up and she loved her like a sister. Lily had seemed to forget about Mariette though.

Now, Lily was a senior in high school. Mariette hadn't performed in over a year or so. She only knew because she counted the times the keyhole went dark, then light. 405 since the last time she performed. She thought about her last performance. Lilys friend had opened the box and pressed the button. Mariette jumped up, and danced with so much energy she thought she might fall over once it was over. She was proud of that performance. Lilys friend had just laughed, and said something like, "I used to have one of these. I don't know what happened to it." Lily just smiled.

Now, Mariettes life consisted of waiting. She wondered if she would ever perform again, or if she forgotten about. Lily was using a new word all the time. "college". Somehow, Mariette knew that her end as a ballerina was near. The thought made her want to cry, but she couldn't. She was just plastic after all.

She lives for the moments out of the blackness of her room. Moments when she is let out. Even if it is just to dance.

She often imagines the life before this colorless box of a room. Before the solitary sameness of every day.

A life of choice and time biking through the city in a sundress. Bare feet paddling on while smiling and grinning to the people walking along sidewalks in shorts and short shirts.

How the parks where full of young people sitting in circles, talking and listening to music. Playing games. Laughing. Cheering each other on. Throwing their hands up in the air when missing their mark. The woodden stick missed by an inch.

All these moments captured while biking past them on a hot summer day. The dress yellow and dotted. The hair loose and ruffled from spending the night with him.

Again.

Leaving as the one on top. The one needing the other less. The other left hungry for more. Slightly uneased. Unsure of their situation.

Being happy she was not the hungry one.

Life felt warm and happy. And so bright. Sun shining from a blue sky. How the shadow formed from rays touching the trees in the park.

Two girls shaking from laughing while walking next to each other as they crossed the park. Waving at a group of friends. Possible some boys they like.

All the little moments that she saw from the rush of her bike.

These are the moments she relived from the depth of the darkness in her room.

Not cold, nor warm. Less like a room at all. No windows or doors to open or close. No wind moving through the air around her. Instead it all stood still. As if time wasn't real in this room.

A blackness so thick it made reality disappear. She might as well be swimming in the depth of an ocean. Or gliding through the universe.

But even then, she would be surrounded by fish or a sort of life in the sea. fluorescent bugs or large octopuses. Or in space there would be stars. And stardust. The occasional comet or asteroid. Or a blinking sattelite would pass her.

She would see life in the depth of the ocean, or experience things out there in space.

She would see human innovation. Space stations with large space telescopes showing us what is out there in the great beyond even further into space. A blackness, but with moons and stars and the burning soon.

Here, there was nothing.

Not even a stir in the air.

A sort of prison that would be horrid, if at all it felt like it existed. Like she existed.

It left no hope.

But then the lid would be lifted. She would be blinded from the light. She would be deafened by the tiniest sounds.

A sort of temporary hearing loss from coming into existence again.

One or more objects would show themselves below her. Shiny artefacts that someone loved. That would feel the warmth of someone. Be close to someone.

Be part of the world somehow.

Move past things and people, see colours and hear birds churping.

Like biking down a summer street while passing people living through small moments in the blossoming park.

They would go out into the world.

But she would be stuck.

Forever turning and turning, being blinded and deafened. Only to return in the darkness of the box once more.

I live in my box, just stuck in an awkward pose; waiting for someone to open my box so I can finally move for their amusement. But, unfortunately, at this moment, it seems that my box is not “modern” enough for people to open it. I have been left inside my dusty, old, wrecked box, and that I am lost at some place. I would not know where….because I AM STUCK IN THIS BOX ….of mine so I can only see what is inside my box and NOTHING else. I am alone, all alone with no one, with nothing, but just me IN THIS STUPID THING! TRAPPED IN THIS….this box of mine, just….trapped with nothing, nothing……at……all.

I can’t see anything, I am encapsulated in darkness. My porcelain body is pressed perfectly into the indent where my body rests. I know that I wear a pink dress and pointed shoes. I know that my arms and backs of my hands are pale and that they shine. I know that the walls around me are made of wood, painted pink and white with gold trim. I am only reminded when someone is kind enough to unlach the lid and peer in with gleeful eyes.

What am I?

This isn’t going to work one word after another word changes nothing besides I’m fine I’m always fine even when I’m not maybe it’s because my life is one long piece of performance art falling somewhere between high church ministrel and gallows humor circus the music plays and look at me dance always twirling command performance with a smile or not who cares I’m fine

sometimes yeah it’s too much the grief seeps through the box corners weep a bruised stain that when I reach out without thinking to call him to tell him what hurts forgetting he’s gone forgetting he is the hurt in that space of my hand reaching before my mind remembers that’s the happiest that’s why words don’t work words like snapshots, memory and thought fix my feet in place lock my limbs making me the robot the happiest is in the forgetting

As I walk into my room, a burning sensation grows between my thighs. Skin chafes against skin, feeding the fire of pain and irritation. Until now, I couldn’t acknowledge the rashes growing redder with every step. I peel off my leotard, the sweat on my skin clinging to the thick fabric. When I struggle to pull my legs out, I see the rips in my new tights, I see my mother’s money thrown out the window.

I let my duffel bag slip from my fingers. The old ballet slippers and almost gone deodorant spill onto the floor. My figure, clad in a tight bra and underwear, stands before the mirror, reminding me of my yellowed walls and stained matress. I’m shown for the hundreth time the dead cockroach hiding in the corner. Wind billows from the open window and wraps around my body in a blanket of chill before teasing my wispy hair. For a fraction of a second, I don’t see the door. For a frightening moment, leaping out my window to my death was my only path free. When my eyes meet the rotting, wooden threshold, I sigh with relief.

A soft melody pulls me further from my rattling mindset. I see a small, tiny ballerina spinning atop of the jewelry box on my desk. Her performances are short and repetitive, but the dancer has never once faltered. Neither has her smile or her pirouette. Her flamingo pink tutu and blush tights are as new as the day I got her five years ago. Stress and worry don’t pull down her delicate features.

I wish for her be in my mirror instead.

But on the music box she will remain forevermore.

Prim and proper when they open up the box.

I dance and try to hide my cracks.

“Make them happy. Make them happy”

The light fades as the box closes.

Did they see the blood on my dress? Did they see the scars on my face? If they did they might throw me away!

Live in constant fear of rejection.

Life is surly worse than death.

My feet glued into fifth position. The springs age like a grandparent. The mirror smushes me down. The box felt so empty, small, smushed, sad. Paint chipped off the box as if it was old memory’s.

————/ me no feel like finishing this but i dont wanna leave it rotting in my drafts sooo/————