Thank you, Pidgeonholes, for publishing this weird little story of mine about dancing and animals and elusive fame.
My small-town modern ballet class competed and won the honor of dancing for the elevation of mankind in a pasture stocked with live animals. All expenses paid and eternal fame and so forth. Plus a token of gratitude for each.
We showed up in the middle of nowhere, undressed and dressed behind the van, giggling and cursing the cold. Our costumes were blood-red catsuits, which flattened our underdeveloped breasts and cut into our balls. We were eleven or twelve, tall or plump, of various genders and talents. Pancake is what the lady called the stuff she smeared on our faces—to make some of us look less ghostly, we thought.
More? The entire story can only be read on the website of Pidgeonholes.
Artwork by: Svetlana Pochatun