He danced down the sidewalk with an elegant precision in each step. The swift movement of one foot in front of the other prepared him for the next jump. He landed within an inch of perfection at the tip of his toes, regaining his balance instantly. He pictured how they would react, the crowd. They would know instinctively, as did he, that this would be the Grande Finale. The most crucial of moments, in which the true value of his entire performance would be substantiated. A collective sigh would go through the crowd in anticipation of either a failure or an epic display of control and willpower. He drew in a short breath, tensing his calf muscles to the extreme and leapt through the air pirouetting three times, landing impeccably clean. Sitting head bent over knees, he felt the cool of the autumn air. He felt the sweaty moisture dripping from his forehead down the tip of his nose and onto the pavement. He felt the fuzzy ball of warmth spreading from the pit of his stomach and all the way to his vibrating fingers and toes. Finally he looked up, smiling.
I have chosen to write about the abstract notion Passion in fiction.
