Slinky.

Hey guys! Hope everyone is having a great week so far. I was quite bored recently and wrote this very short story.

The colour of her skin was a mix of grey and pain. Her eyes held liquid fear, or was it anger? She walked with a tired feline gait, as though wasted hope lay heavily on her hips. She was the palace slave but a divine dancer. She would dance at royal ceremonies, waist adorned with the finest of beads, shoulders hidden in high and heavy ornaments. Her dance steps were slow and beckoning. How could an essence so strange carry such elegance on its shoulders? The stride of her hips, the expression on her face, spoke words she could never utter. The stamp of her feet against the rain-bathed soil left prints feet manipulation. The smile on her face carried men on an unsatisfying journey. And once in a while, as she moved towards the crowd, a frenzy of vibrations taking over her hips and shoulders, pride would flash on her face.  She was well aware of the empire she had created in our minds. This empire where the slave transformed to the dictator.