Write a short story in which the main character is transformed when faced with a daunting challenge.

#625Lab. Corrected by an experienced examiner, graded as 91/100 with feedback on how to improve below. You may also like: Leaving Cert English Complete Guide (€). 

The Phoenix

It’s Friday night at the Palace Garnier, Paris. I am behind stage re-applying the make-up us danseur’s are told to wear. A cloud of frosted powder dusts over my audacious tattoo nested on my temple. I take a glimpse of my eyes through the antique French mirror which most certainly had been resting there a while. My eyes are bloodshot. Those poor eyes which had once seen the beauty in every little thing in their surroundings, no matter what, now just two emerald marbles floating in a doomed, bloody sea. I inhale, breathing in the distinct fog of smoke that I am well immune to, after all these years…

Monsieur Arnaud Pelletier comes to inform me that I have ten minutes before my solo on stage. I quickly wipe my tears and fake a smile, trying to hide my thoughts of departure. He pauses under the doorway; “Sergei, can I help you v-with your leg?”, before leaving. I smiled the most courteous way I knew but just shook my head, and he left with a vibrant wink. His foreign language trailing behind as he spoke into the walkie talkie which was once attached to his salmon belt. Monsieur Arnaud was my teacher as a child. He took on the role of manager and choreographer after hearing of my accident. My parents must have persuaded him after their failed attempts of encouraging me back into dance, although that didn’t stop him from being the most rational and coherently understandable man I ever knew. Never once did he treat me like the poor creature I had become, and in fact, was the only one that managed to keep me optimistic.

The shimmer of my reflection through the mirror blinded me, taking me back to the summer of 1953; I was in London, auditioning for the ballet ‘Giselle.’ Myself and the ballerinos all seated to the left of the stage, auditioning for the role of Duke Albrecht of Silesia, and all the ballerina’s to the right of the stage, auditioning for the beautiful Giselle. The long, Victorian hall was crammed. Jittering butterflies outside the opened doors mimicked our emotions. We were all young dancers, all new to the world of ballet auditions. All ambitious and aspiring to become famous and recognized by the remarkable. My name was called by a stern woman with a clipboard in one hand and glasses in the other. It was my turn. After warming up and stretching out my muscles and tendons, tarsals and metatarsals, (If you are choosing to write through lofty wordplay, it has to suit the context of your response. You are writing about a ballet dancer which would belong to a very sophisticated world and for that reason such language is appropriate. However, there is no need to use such grand language. Stylistically it is a choice that you are allowed to choose, but be mindful that it can be hard to sustain and write spontaneously on the day in June.)  I took to the stage. I closed my eyes and composed myself. A heavy sweat spread over my body. My hands were moist and my face dripping with glow. My performance lasted a full seven minutes. The most meaningful seven minutes of my entire life. As I bowed on stage that evening in London it was clear to me that my profession would entail ballet and ever since, I’ve dreamt of performing all over the world. However, before I could dwell on the reality of my busted limb, Arnaud tapped me on the back and pointed to the stage. The time had come. This would be my first real performance on stage since the mishap which led to an amputated leg. (This is a great surprise for the reader – well done!)

So, I fumbled to fit the prosthetic leg to my limb. My heartbeat quickened. The titanium device was clearly an eyesore on the exterior; However (Capitalisation), it had a cunning mind of its own which took me all through winter and six months of training before I could take my first stride. I fastened the mechanism securely with a jerk before arising to the mirror and accepting my appearance. However, I still wanted my real leg. I wanted my plain, ordinary life back, although, I knew that I had to finally see this through. Monsieur Arnaud smiled and assured me that my training would not go unnoticed and that everything would come together. He was an awful liar, poor Arnaud. He and I knew very well that I’d never dance the same way that I once did but I headed towards the stage, nonetheless. The tinkling of my machinery leg filling the muted air.

The blush curtains draped over the stage cutting it in two. I glanced over the first division looking out onto the audience. To my surprise, no seat in all of the theatre was empty. Crowds of people of all ages and nationalities filled the hall. I was bewildered and couldn’t help but feel faint at the thought of that many pairs of eyes staring over me as I would clumsily try to dance again, as if nothing ever happened. As if my leg never got busted (The words “got busted” do not sit well with the rest of this story. You are writing with very sophisticated language and another description that would be in keeping with the graceful art the rest of the story displays may be more suitable) …

The string chamber music commenced, and I slowly walked to the stage. The curtains twisted upwards exposing the audience. The stage was stunning. It was lit only by the shimmering globular lamps hanging from the roof, coaxing me to the stage. As I reached centre stage the auditorium came to a hush. I reviewed the audience, curious to see who had come to pity me. Almost everyone’s faces were full of sympathy. Pity I didn’t need. I shut my eyes again. This time gasping for breath. Inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling. The conductor gave me a nod and I began my solo. This was it, my last opportunity as a dancer. Opening with a brisé I set off, extending my leg to a one-hundred-and-thirty-degree angle. Then a plié. (Sentences typically follow a subject-verb-object route. Consider revising so that “Then a plié” becomes “… angle – then a plié.”)  I thought of my life, what had become of me. I was completely lost in the music. The face of an angel, planted on the theatre ceiling, staring at me as I pirouetted around the stage. The hardware of my leg hitting and gliding from the floor with every turn. I was a beautiful, crimson-gold phoenix, rising from the ashes with renewed youth and beauty. Not a worry left in me. I was free. Transformed. (“I was free – transformed.”)

That night as the curtains closed, the crowds of people on their feet with astonished faces, all calling out my name; (A colon is the appropriate punctution. A colon ( : ) is used as a reveal for a clause. A semi-colon ( ; ) is used to create a separate but connected clause; typically the second clause is also written as a full sentence without a capitalisation at the start.)  “Sergei!”, “Sergei”, “Bravo!”, the electricity struck at me, internally. My heart beat so ferociously that my hands went to either side of my ribs to keep them from unhinging. Not anymore was I the poor patient with the amputated leg.

I was a man.

Sergei Polunin the ballerino.

Transformed.

A very original story that was well paced and generally articulated very tastefully. The protagonist is very likeable. You’re writing style reminds me of Oscar Wilde or F. Scott Fitzgerald. Some minor punctuation errors are made but they are so few that they are overlooked in the ‘Mechanics’ of PCLM.  Well done on creating a very interesting and engaging story.

Grading

P 27/30

C 27/30

L 27/30

M 10/10

Total 91/100