Coleman Riggins
She danced. She danced in the dandelion glow as a dewdrop on the daytime daisies outside dropped, splattering on the brick road. She danced as the sun shimmered on her features, wavering slightly as she rotated on a routine track. From her pointed finger to the tip of her toe, the shine shimmered along. One full rotation, and then the light started over.
The clock chimes chirped two minutes too late. From an elven clock on the west wall, six total bells rang their course, and the sign on the front door flipped from a red “Closed” to a green “Open” to give the go for any passerby walking the streets. In the morning rays, the brick road looked orange, untainted by pedestrian commotion. It was just Golden Days Antique Shop on the corner of west 22nd and B street. Just that one antiques shop that housed items ranging from aluminum animal statues to small music box dancers in the window sill. It was the only thing bursting with life on 22nd street during the weekday morning rise. Nestled amongst the multi-layered office buildings, it was the flower in a field of wheatgrass.
Humming along to the music of the dancers, a man sat at his desk reading a newspaper. The Dancer, sitting on the bottom shelf, watched him with curious admiration when her rotations allowed. She couldn’t twist to see him all of the time; Her gold foil skin wouldn’t allow it. So instead, she looked ahead when her movement faced him. During that brief moment, she saw him take a sip of his coffee, the scent of which she could still smell when he crouched close to her earlier that morning.
“Today’s the day,” he had whispered to her through coffee-stained teeth just before turning the shop’s sign. His long salt and pepper hair had been tied back into a ponytail, the graying strands illuminated in the rising sun. With meticulous fingers, he weaved his way around her body, cleaning her of any dust that had accumulated over the past night’s bouts. All the while, she stood, unable to move from her eternal pirouette.
“Today’s the day,” he repeated again, staring at her with those beautiful, green eyes that mesmerized her every morning and night. “Today, you’ll be one of the Chosen Ones. You’ll find a home to go to.
Chosen One. That had been the word he used to describe those that were taken from their pedestals on the shelf and placed into the soulful hands of the wistful people that walked the streets, caught up by the dancer’s prancing. With green eyes that glowed like the unnaturally plastic plants just outside, he tempted her into believing what he told her every morning. And so she did, under those watchful eyes full of so much hope for her. Did she fully believe in what he said? Yes. Why? Because today’s the day.
So she danced, remembering his caffeinated words, and she danced with vigor and spirit that kept her energy up. On the rail, she danced to her own melody, waiting for the world to take attention. Like most days, her calves ached in their metallic coating, and her stance, though permanent and unmovable unless broken, felt as though it wavered. She looked forward, watching, any chance she got, the ghosted streets. She waited for a sign of life to show itself, and while she waited, she danced. But it was still early in the morning. The street was empty except for the occasional bird that dropped, pecking at the bricks until realizing with disdain that it wouldn’t budge. So, she danced, despite there being nobody there to watch.
Stained words on the window cast long shadows into the shop. From the morning sunlight, the words appeared on a sun-kissed backdrop that stretched towards the man’s desk. “Golden Days,” it spelt from the golden rays, and The Dancer looked on from her spot on the bottom shelf, waiting for the words prophesied from the lettering to come true for her. Waiting for her golden ways to finally pay off. “Golden Days” slowly shrunk as the day drew on, daring not to dwindle or allow for The Dancer to freeze time.
The day continued, and then eventually ended. Then, golden days stretched into silver weeks, which eventually stretched into bronze months. The longer the wait, the duller the hope for The Dancer got, but she held onto the golden thread that told her to keep going and wrapped around her to make her skin.
She danced. She danced in the same way she always had for the passing months. She danced to the growing number of people on the other side of the glass, but to her dismay, the traffic within the antiques shop didn’t increase the same as it did outside the shop. Instead, it stayed the same as it had months before: shadowed and silent. The chime of the old clock sang its two beautiful notes with the grace of a robin in the morn, but the people continued to pass, choosing to drown out the inviting rings.
She noticed the way the people glanced, which almost hurt more than if they wouldn’t have even noticed them at all. They made it clear that they did in fact see them in the window, but chose to ignore the skeptical. Instead, they walked past, faces in their technology or a book instead of looking up.
Within the crowd, The Dancer caught the glance of a small tan-skinned girl with black, bobbed hair. She had a golden dress, sewn with clouds for shoulder puffs and a mist for the lacing on the bottom of the garment. For just a moment, the little girl stared directly at her and The Dancer stared back. But the look only lasted a moment as The Dancer was swept away by yet another rotation. For the time, she was forced to look out at the depressing emptiness of the shop. A cruel duality, her life was. One moment catching the vision of a vanity apprentice seamstress, and the next filling her with doubt as she peered into the deserted antiques shop. It wasn’t until the rotation came back around and she saw the pointed fingers of the same young girl that she remembered why she danced so vividly.
When the antique shop was a mere babe, just opening up on the corner of 22nd and B, The Dancer had stood in the window display just as proudly as she did now. She danced, but without the same internal vigor as she did now. Her movements had mimicked that of a casual ballerina rather than a professional. Though the typical person that wandered into the store on their debut wouldn’t have known any better, the trained eye could tell that she needed some exercise in the routine and maybe a good oiling down of her track.
There had been another young girl at the opening of Golden Days Antique Shop. The Dancer had noticed that the small girl mirrored herself, short, braided hair on golden skin and a short tutu that ruffled with mighty energy as she ran across the store. Mom in hand, she bobbed and weaved, hopping over an old barrel out of its place that the mom nearly tripped over in the sudden rush.
“Hey,” the mother had cried out, avoiding another stranger and apologizing along the way.
But the young girl didn’t slow. She had her sights set on one thing and one thing only. The rest of the world had fallen away to this young girl as she hyper focused on the top shelf of the window display. The shadowed words, “Golden Days,” passed over her face as she ran through the sunlight and towards the display with the dancers. The Dancer on her bottom shelf, had watched with intrigue as the small child ran straight towards them without a thought in her mind except the one dancer on the top shelf, who danced with trembling terror. But still, a hint at the taste of excitement found its way to her tongue.
As the little girl approached the dancing display, the music took over. The world around them buzzed into white noise. From the top shelf, the small girl plucked a golden dancer from its position and turned to show it to her mother, who was exhausted after the run.
The girl’s mother had looked up towards her daughter when she presented the dancer to her mom. For a brief moment, The Dancer watched the mother’s cogs churn until she pieced together that the music box dancer that spun in circles had the same exact features as her daughter. Instead of anger for nearly bowling over half the opening crowd, she picked up the dancer and spun it around on its axis. Without even looking at the price tag, she pulled out her wallet.
Maybe it was the circumstance, or the fact that it was yet another little girl and her mother, but The Dancer saw the bob-haired girl as a sort of reincarnation of the girl from the opening day. And here she was, about to run straight for The Dancer from across the crowded streets, dragging her mom along behind her. About to push her face up against the glass, fogging it up with her ferocious breath. About to slam the door open, tripping over the fuzzy rug during her rush. About to run through the light, words scampering across her face, but her not minding. About to pick up The Dancer on the bottom shelf, waiting to welcome the small girl with open arms and a song to suit the girl’s beauty. About to show her mother, who would already be pulling out her wallet without a second thought. About to, but not quite.
But instead, the little girl looked up at her mom, who looked down at her phone. Hair slicked back and a formal indigo uniform to match, the mother jabbed her phone a few times before placing it over her exposed ears and harping. The small child looked from her mother’s furrowed brow to the dancing stance of The Dancer on her bottom shelf.
Trying to peel her mom’s attention from the light of her phone, the little girl waved her caramel-colored hand and desperately pointed to Golden Days ahead, speaking all the while. From across the busy street, she looked as small as a golden figurine in the daylight, tip-toeing circles around her pedestal mother, who looked unbothered by the whole ordeal. Eventually, the mother turned her gaze up, a crease of concentration appearing above her brow line. Finally, as a final resort, the young girl tugged on the sleeve of the suit jacket that separated business from play.
With pure annoyance and rage, the mother’s void hair whirred around like a top that had been toppled one too many times. She looked at her daughter, who was unfazed by her cold glare. Instead, the young girl just pointed straight towards The Dancer as she hopped with innocent excitement. For just a moment, The Dancer saw the mother look in her direction. She saw the mother across the way ignore the price tag and pick her daughter up, sprinting through traffic and discourse. She saw the mom rush inside and buy The Dancer to keep the joy on her daughter’s face.
But what The Dancer daydreamed and what actually happened were two completely different things. Instead, as the dance made its rotation back around to face the window, The Dancer saw that the mother not only didn’t do that, but dragged her daughter off in the opposite direction. Ruddy eyes stained with moisture, the young girl whined and tugged more on her mother’s jacket sleeve, but was silenced by a cold over-the-shoulder glare, narrowed eyes keen on keeping her calm demeanor and not causing commotion on her call.
In a final act of desperation, the girl let out a screech, catching the attention of a few passerbys, before they shrugged and continued on. The Dancer’s final snapshot of the stubborn and wild girl in the sun-stained dress was one of her being yelled at by her frigid parent, hair spiked with rage. But The Dancer’s rotation was up, and her view returned to the dusty shop and the words “Golden Days” cast thinly on the floor in front of her.
“You dance,” he said with concentrated eyes. “You dance, but what for?”
I want to be a Chosen One.
“You dance in the summer sun. Doesn’t the heat ever get to you?” He looked her in the eyes, and they sat there staring at each other. His eyes, green and natural, and hers, purely mechanical. There was a sense of hollowness in her eyes as she danced, but joy still clung to them.
I want to be the Chosen One. I want to change one life.
As if reading her mind, he paused, looking from his hands and back to her. “You’ll find your owner.” He softly dusted her face as she spun, but stopped there. Then, as if he read her mind: “But can you find that one life to change if you only dance your whole life?”
The Dancer looked up at the man, then down at the clothes he was wearing. He was wearing a typical plaid button-up with blue jeans and boots that looked like they belonged on a shelf of the shop. All this, she gathered while continuing on her carousel of collapsed dreams. One rotation after another, she took in the small details that she’d never noticed before. He had a name tag, she noticed for the first time since the shop’s opening about a year ago. “Cyrus,” it floated to her. “Cyrus,” it shone bright in thin, white letters. “Cyrus,” so obvious right there, and she wondered how she had never noticed before.
So, she danced as he spoke to her. “But if dancing’s your passion, wouldn’t you say you have fun with it?”
Yes.
“So, wouldn’t you say that’s what is important to you,” he looked her in the eyes again, and a sorrow lay in his emerald eyes. His shoulders slumped, and suddenly, it wasn’t clear who exactly he was talking to. “And isn’t that what your life should revolve around? Doing what you love?”
And with that, he turned off the dancer’s track and left her to dwell in her own thoughts, which had begun to drown again with thoughts of her posture and dance technique.
Stiff and still as the night air around the shop, The Dancer looked out across the barren bricks of 22nd street. Sometimes a group of hooligans would occupy the road, but tonight was just the dancers and the moon which shone upon them. The landscape was always cast in a new glow at night. To her, The Dancer on her bottom shelf, she noticed the yellow glow change to a prison purple, the tangerine bricks, cracked with curiosity, folded in on themselves and turned navy, the lime plastic of the plants wilted and appeared turquoise in the basking light. The golden days tarnish as the sun sets.
For once, the world was in insufferable silence. No mechanical music to compliment the metallic shimmer of the sun off the dancers’ skin, no scrape of a pencil on sandstone paper as secluded people walk in and out of the shop, no scream of a child who wanted The Dancer more than anybody had ever wanted her before.
The death-sentence silence was only occasionally broken by the chiding chime of the elderwood clock in the corner of the enclosed store. Just behind the shelves and out of sight of The Dancer who faced outward tonight, it rang. One, two, three. Three chimes to start, and The Dancer counted each meticulously in her head. Three chimes of hope and dreams. Four, five, six. The next three chimes ring, and The Dancer watches out the window again. A leaf blows across the road where the young girl had stood just earlier that day. No longer there, only a sense of hopelessness and broken dreams stood. Seven, eight, nine. She sees the man and his green eyes as they glow in the nightly purples. She feels his presence close, but still so far away, and she sees the way he meticulously cleans his prized antiques, and the way he constantly has a paper out in front of him.
Ten. The final chime for now. The time is 10:02 in the dead of night, but it feels so much later than that. Between the cool, summer shadows and the desert dry atmosphere, there’s a hollowness in the ringing. Some prefer the quiet of night, while others feel it as repressing, but the tenth chime hadn’t happened yet in The Dancer’s life. What comes now? Is there a redemption for her, or was she stuck dancing for the rest of eternity?
She can do nothing but look forward now, stuck in a static stance that kept her looking forward. Towards the outside world. Towards Golden Days. Towards hope. But also, as she took note, the dust at the base of her shelf, which Cyrus had forgotten to get rid of while he was so focused on her dancing.
Six chimes, and the sign flipped from “Close” to “Open” as it had fourteen times since that day with the little girl. Fourteen days. Two weeks with little to no sale in the old antiques shop. The Golden Days’ golden days were coming to an end, and all the small antiques inside were taking the toll. The Dancer, on her bottom shelf danced with a might and hope not seen before. Her every action led back to her dancing, and it seemed that even her own thoughts danced within her mind.
After opening the shop, Cyrus stopped in front of the dancer’s display, looking at each of them individually. His half-lidded eyes stared seemingly into space. With a single sigh, he sent the dust that had continued accumulating on the display shelf flying into the dry air. There, it fluttered for a bit, and then settled over the dancers as they continued their song, casting a film over them and into every crevice and cog they had. The man only turned on the dancer’s music that sat on the highest shelf for today, so as not to waste the battery on the rest of them when unneeded.
By the time the chimes struck nine, the place had settled in a bit. The soft buzz of a fan from above kept the atmosphere dusted, but the man couldn’t be bothered to mind, reading through the daily newspaper, flipping the pages occasionally despite having already read all the stories twice through. The casted shadow of “Golden Days” stretched just in front of his desk, catching the light of particles flowing through the sprinkled air. In the window display, the shimmering light of the sultry summer sun shone on the silky skin of the dancers on the shelf. Their gold foil reflected the light as they spun, sending light bouncing around the room and further accentuating the dust particles flying through the air.
However, the sun on their skin also served another purpose. As the morning crowd passed, they couldn’t help but notice the bold dancing of the gold dancers in old Cyrus’ Golden Days.
It wasn’t like this was all that unusual an occurrence at the shop–that’s why they were put into the window display in the first place–but there was something different about today. Maybe it was the size of the morning crowd on this particular morning, or maybe it was just something in the air, but people slowed more than on other days. Some even stopped and observed the dancers as they did their thing.
In front of the window display, The Dancer observed a pair of young siblings gaping at the powerful display of dancing on hand. With a glance, she caught the smaller of the two–a small boy with pale skin and red hair that curled around his head like a dream cloud–as he was looking around. She caught his green eyes and put all her passion into her dance, thinking of the previous missed opportunity. Above him, his sister wore blue overalls to match what her brother also wore, but she had on a white frilled tee instead of his plain brown polo. She was fixated on the dancers’ routine just as her brother was. When he pulled her towards Golden Days’ door, there was no fighting it.
As the door opened, Cyrus practically threw the newspaper across the desk, sending The Dancer’s heart pumping with it.
“Hello, hello,” Cyrus began, wide-eyed. “Welcome to Golden Days Antique Shop! How can I help you?”
The dream-haired boy looked up, only now noticing the older man, and quickly slowed to hide himself behind his sister. Lucky for him, she took the wheel.
She waved her innocent hands and forced a smile. “Uh, hi. Can we look at the dancers in the window?”
The Dancer watched with intrigue as Cyrus continued talking to the two children, leading them slowly towards them. It wasn’t a rush like on the opening day with the braided girl and her mother. Rather, the three of them meandered over casually, Cyrus afraid to scare away one of the few customers actually interested in buying something in weeks, and the two children, timid as lambs. When they arrived in front of the display, The Dancer made immediate note of their blue eyes, deep ocean and pale sky, to contrast the man’s forest green. For those eyes, she danced and nothing else. Individually, across each of their faces, the shadow of Golden Days passed by.
One by one, the children observed each of the dancers, taking in their technique and beauty. One by one, they took note of their spinning, their cogwork, their tutus, their face. One by one, they observed these areas that The Dancer had worked hard to improve in herself to the best of her abilities. One by one, they passed the dancers until they reached her on the bottom shelf–the last one to observe.
She wasn’t anything special, but being the last one, they began to talk more.
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Cyrus asked as The Dancer made another rotation around.
The sister looked at him excitedly, yet again taking the reins. “Yes, they are! I love the music as well.” It was at that point that The Dancer noticed the red-headed boy staring intently at her as she spun.
“Yea, though I only turned one on today,” Cyrus explained, as The Dancer looked at the young boy when given the chance. “Their music comes from inside, did you know that? Many of them have worked just as hard on their music as their dancing. Just for you.”
“Just for me?” The girl pressed her hand to her chest, looking over all the dancers again with wonder.
The boy, however, turned all his focus to The Dancer on her lowest shelf. She gave him all her focus as well, trying to impress those emperor-blue eyes. Letting the rest of the world fall away, she gave him the best performance that she possibly could, letting her gold glimmer in the great warmth of summer and making each movement as precise as a cut diamond. On her pedestal, the boy drummed to the beat of her song. Within his finger’s wake, the dust built up over the past few weeks lifted from the base. For just a moment, she could be free of dust, and it was him that got rid of it for her. She was certain that he was the one.
“What about this one,” the small boy asked, hair twirling as he whirled around. The conversation between the girl and Cyrus stopped at once as they looked on. The girl looked towards the boy, and then to where he pointed: The Dancer, fingerprints already on her base. “Don’t you think that she kind of looks like Grandma a bit. I think it’s the perfect gift for Grandma and Grandpa!”
The girl shrugged, looking to Cyrus to see what he thought.
“Well, of course,” Cyrus enthused, then reaching towards the top shelf, he turned off the music that had been playing from above. “Just let me check that her music box is working spik and span.” With a twist, her box sprang to life.
Then, it was just her in the spotlight. From behind, the sunlight backlit her so her features were accentuated, punctuated by the dusty particles lingering in the air that resembled snow. She basked in the glow like a lizard. On her rail, she spun, looking each of the three people in the face. She saw the sparkle in Cyrus’ green eyes as he thought about how much she’s grown since a year ago. How much she’s worked on her dancing since then. The boy and girl, both with different hues of blue for their bulbous wide eyes, watched with curiosity and softly hummed along with her song. But they all watched her dancing for a moment, and basked in her glory as she pranced for the giants. From atop her pedestal, she could see “Golden Days” being outlined by the golden light outside, and then everything fell apart.
The children’s hands clapped to the side of their head almost immediately, and panic struck Cyrus. Though she was in a frightened state, she couldn’t do anything but dance as worn hands wrapped around her and lifted her up. She was left in a state of wonder, until she eventually realized that a steady siren rang throughout the dusty silence of Golden Days. She cursed whatever siren dared to interrupt her moment. She looked for any sign of her music over the brash sound until she realized with a sinking heart that the siren was her music. Something went haywire, and the dust manifested itself inside of her, making her internal music a monotone type of music that nobody wanted to listen to.
And so she was taken away from her one opportunity.
She no longer danced. The Dancer no longer danced, even though it was all she’d ever known, she no longer could. She danced too much and pushed too far, but there was dust in her cogwork. Now she was alone. Alone, and surrounded by dust in the dark. The dark of the closet, and she was broken by this dust. Her dancing was all she ever knew, and it still proved to be the best around. But her other aspects were lacking. In the spotlight of the sun, in the eyes of the audience, in the rush. She blew it.
Now The Dancer sat in the dark, listening to the conversation through the door. Another dancer got sold. Another Chosen One who wasn’t her, but she got so close. All she could do is sit by and listen by her lonesome, no other eyes but her own to impress. And the constant lingering dust of Golden Days.