This is my response to the weekly Friday Fictioneers prompt. Every week writers from around the world share their 100-word stories based on a photo prompt chosen by our amazing leader, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, who happens also to have taken this week’s photo. Play along if you dare!
Whenever Gayle sees art nouveau craftsmanship, she smells the old plaster, sawdust, sweat and incense lingering in the defunct synagogue where she first learned to dance. Much was new to her then—adulthood, the names of Adonai, the pulse of sacred movement.
Change, like a dancer’s form on stage, will ever be life’s only constant. The 25-year-old Gayle guessed at this. The 45-year-old Gayle knows it better than most. In Kansas City, the synagogue still stands—leased to another fringe group of devotees. Alone in her suburban home, Gayle makes a selection on her iPod, and the Spirit moves her.
Author’s Note: It bears mentioning that this photo struck a deep chord with me–a chord that led to a story that may be uncomfortable to some of you whom I know in real life. Whether or not you recognize the setting, I hope you can understand that some good comes from all things. There are more reasons than I can possibly put into words for me to write and post this particular story today. The life of a dancer can be complicated.