The Dance
Day Three of 30 Day Challenge – Third Person Omniscient
Writing prompt from

One evening, no editing.

This was it. Donald’s moment to shine. As he stepped onto the dance floor a quiet hush fell across the room. Even the bride and groom reverently vacated their prime position in the center of the hall for him.

He was nervous. Nervous, yes, but also exhilarated. Sixteen months he had waited for this chance.

Sixteen long months since his niece Tiffany and her fiancée James had been married. Sixteen excruciating months of suffering through the soul-crushing jokes and unnecessarily cruel taunts from his family. Sixteen eternal months of embarrassment.

He could dance! Of course he could dance! He was a master dancer!

He slowly took his position, lowered his head, and waited.

The first beat started his feet. The second, his knees. The third, his hips. The music was his puppet master and he its marionette. As he looked up for a quick glance at his audience he caught the eye of his daughter, Brielle.

She was beaming. She had never been as proud of her Daddy as she was right now. He was doing it! All the hours she had put in to teaching him were paying off. She watched as he nailed each pivot turn, landed each jump. She couldn’t believe how well he was doing.

After the last wedding her Dad had come to her with one request:

“Help me.”

She had spent hours on Google trying to figure out how to teach someone to dance. Daddy was her project. She would fix him. They had practiced this routine until he could do it in his sleep. One time she needed a glass of water in the middle of the night and thought she actually did catch him doing it in his sleep. He was that determined. She was that great a teacher.

In the weeks leading up to the wedding Brielle had even missed a sleepover at Ashley Clarke’s house so she could help her Dad master his moves. Ashley. Clarke. This was that important to her.

Brielle turned to her mother.

“Isn’t Daddy the best, Mom?”

Susan smiled grimly down at her daughter.

“He’s sure something else!”

She was mortified. As if it wasn’t enough that she had to live with an aspiring Fred Astaire who danced more like he was falling down stairs, but did it have to be so public? So loud? So in front of so many people?

Susan looked behind her and saw the smug self-satisfied grin on her sister Joan’s face. Perfect. Why did her husband have to be the embarrassing one? Joan’s husband was having a serious discussion in a corner of the room with an important looking businessman. Why couldn’t her husband be talking politics instead of gettin’ jiggy with it?

And that’s when it happened.

Donald zigged when he should have zagged.

As he tripped over himself and landed in a tragic heap on the floor, Susan knew it was more than just his ankle that was crushed. As he struggled to stand, Susan heard a tiny cry from somewhere near her elbow. She looked down to see Brielle’s hands clasped around her throat. She saw the defeated, mortified, apologetic look Donald gave their daughter. She watched as a single tear formed in Brielle’s eye.


They had worked too hard and for too long for this to be the end of it. She grabbed Brielle’s hand and marched her into the center of the room, directly beneath the sparkling disco ball.

“Brielle, let’s do this.”

And with Susan and Brielle supporting him under his armpit and elbow, respectively, the little family proceeded to dance their hearts out.

Everyone agreed it was the best rendition of the Chicken Dance they had ever seen.