Notes on an Execution

by Danya Kukafka

Hazel’s real self was not this bathroom ghost. Her real self had cheeks blushing pink beneath scorching bulb lights, hair sprayed back into a slick, glossy bun. She wore long black lashes, glued sticky to her eyelids. Her collarbone jutted out beneath the straps of a corset that tapered down into a custom-designed tutu, glitter dabbed subtly along the ridge of her chest, engineered to reflect the stage lights with a turn or a leap. For a precious moment, Hazel was no longer leaning against the damp sink. Instead, she was following the sound of the orchestra into the velvet wings, as the instruments hummed the opening notes of Swan Lake. The smell, like elastic and rosin. She was rolling onto her pointe shoes, reveling in the ethereal stretch of her hamstring. The audience hushed, alert, awaiting her arrival. She was caught in that long, agonizing moment, before she stepped into the gold.

I was a ballet dancer as a child. Ballet always makes an appearance in my novels!