He could still hear his father’s words: ‘You’ll never be special…just get a job. No son of mine is ever going to be a dancer.’
But, every night, after turning off the gaudy neon light at the family store, he would dance away his mundane day; this was his secret.
He smiled as he flowed into a perfect arabesque; there was nothing special about the three-day-old turkey either, but that too was a secret.
It’s been ages since I blogged, I thought,
I really want to write,
But I’ve stumbled on this writer’s block,
That seems wedged in pretty tight.
I’ll use the Daily Prompt, I said
It’s worked well in the past,
But after just a line or two,
Things fell apart quite fast.
So now I’m typing in the dark,
I’ve just turned off the light,
I’ll accept this post is not to be,
And so I’ll say good night.