Pirouette on the Fault Line
By Caitlin Spinner
FIVE
In every movement, there is a story. A narrative written in sweat and scar tissue. In this story, I am the author. My writing is done with my motions. With each second that passes, I feel my tight ballet shoes glide across the glossy stage. I slowly reach out my left hand for the dancer beside me.
Movement tells a story, a story that sends a message to those blinded by ignorance. I yearn to be an awakening light. I tondu, leap, and fall. Within rehearsals in school studios, I have learned to fall without breaking.
As soon as I feel the skin of the dancer against my hand, a sense of connection runs through me. Isolation disappears as soon as I connect on stage. I am a ringleader and a puppet at the same time. I call my own shots, yet still feel controlled.
The bun atop my head is sleek and aerodynamic. The audience might see my style as predictable, something they’ve seen a hundred times before.
But it belongs to a kind of beauty that doesn’t ask permission to last.
I pay attention to the feeling—my face is warm, my body is dripping in sweat. I feel it behind my ears, dripping down my neck. As I release a quiet exhale, I let go of the hand of the dancer and move my arms in a swaying rhythm.
I move with every fiber of my being. I move like there’s no tomorrow, and time is fleeing. I dance. That’s what I do best. Controlled like ink guided by a calligrapher’s hand. Each motion placed like a chess piece.
I am inspired by what I can mold myself into.
A body that obeys with no hesitation, muscles that answer commands, balance held like secrets no one can shake out of me. I can make myself into anything I want.
Every jolt of my limbs looks crafted from my heart. Yet they are perfectly scripted, rehearsed, and a forced rhythm taken from my muscle memory that comes to me naturally. Art comes to me naturally, and so does pain.
SIX
I tip my heel upwards for the pirouette en dehors. The veins in my feet are filling with heat. I feel something dripping out of the top of my toenail.
Blood.
I spin myself in circles like a carousel. My head moves in staticky circles like a broken record. Despite the pain, the movement is straightforward; looking beautiful from a distance. I turn until the stage loses its edges, trying to outrun the ache in my bones.
I am very much aware of this game.
The reflection on the glossy floor does not lie. It catches every hesitation before I can hide them. A lifted chin that falters, ankles that wobble under pressure. This floor remembers me, knowing the weight of my landings, the tremor in my calves. It has felt my blood before, soaked into its scuffed wood like an offering.
Blood soaks into the fabric gripping my foot. It’s warm and uncomfortable. But I spin anyway. Bones taut and trembling beneath the intensity. I pour my heart out and strain myself to thread.
There is a heavy sense of violence in discipline. I’ve felt it my entire life. It lives in the corners where I force turnout past comfort. It lives in the ways I hold a balance long after my muscles begin to plead. Applause is a strange currency. It arrives loud, then leaves quickly. The thing that remains is the echo in my bones; the agony that proves I earned the standing ovation.
SEVEN
My movements cut clean through the air. I stick the landing. My sore feet plant into the floor. A sense of pain echoes up my leg. And I’m ready to go again. I’m taking chances like sips out of a broken glass.
No hesitation. No softness where there should be strength. Repetition is holy. Eight counts, again. And again. And again. Until my body no longer asks why.
I believe I am crazy. In the worst and best ways possible. My mind is a kaleidoscope of shattered glass—sharp enough to cut, but brilliant when the lights hit. I’m ripped at every edge, but I can twist myself into a masterpiece. The stage lights are bleaching all of the color out of my skin. I want to be pale like marble—cold and flawless, carved just to be admired.
But I can ’t be marble. I can’t even be porcelain. I can’t be perfect. I can never be perfect. And for that, I feel I cannot be anything.
I am faceless, and you can never see my soul, for it is hidden under scalding lights, tight leotards, and all I have been ordered to do.
I’ve been ordered.
I’ve been ordered by an audience that glimmers at me like a bird of porcelain pinned behind glass.
I’ve been ordered.
I’ve been ordered by big cities, companies, and all that say I must be perfect to matter. But after all, I am most ordered by myself. I am the one who orders myself to chase a dream at the price of my gravitas.
EIGHT
I spin in boundless twirls around the group. My arms are out. I soften my stance, ready to spring. I continue to move in a cadenced rhythm that feels like a building drumbeat. I yearn to be an object of desire; bruised knees hidden beneath school uniforms, a living mannequin, draping myself in the role of currency provider.
As I move, my thoughts slip their hooks and fall away. I lift both my feet off the ground. I stretch, and reach my hands up to the sky.
I’m refolding. I’m climbing up the walls with my double-jointed limbs and trying to reach the sky. There’s a heaven up there. And it’s one I’m unable to reach.
About the Author...
Caitlin Spinner majors in Creative Writing at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She's a part of several recognized organizations—including the Literary Arts Honor Society, National English Honor Society, Student Ambassadors, and Spoken Word Club. She's been published in two editions of Alternate Routes, two issues of The Weight Journal, and in Élan Fall/Winter 2025. In 2026, she was heavily recognized by her regional Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, receiving a Gold Key, three Silver Keys, and four Honorable Mentions. In the future, she wants to pursue music and game design.
About the Artist...
Alvin Jiang is a junior at Francis Lewis High School. He doesn't really have a favorite medium, but he is
willing to try out any medium and improve.