Thoughtful Tuesdays: Borrowing

By Eithne Cullen

Welcome to Thoughtful Tuesday’s May page. We’ve survived the worst of the very wet winter and enjoyed the peaceful spring season with its bright flowers and freshness. May is one of my favourite months, it’s always a colourful one in my garden and, with long weekends and Bank Holidays, we have lots to celebrate, too.

Our theme of Borrowed could apply to any of my pages, really. I use Thoughtful Tuesday to showcase and share all kinds of writing, and the pieces I share have been borrowed from all kinds of writers, in all sorts of places. I’m always grateful to those who let us borrow their writing for the page.

The first piece I’m sharing today came from a workshop I attended, run by Farzana Hakim, a Write On! star herself. In the workshop we discussed different aspects of womanhood, including our bodies and, as a collaborative piece, produced this poem. All the participants who came up with a couple of lines passed them on to me, to borrow and use on my page. Thanks for sharing!

If My Body Were A Map

If my body were a map, it would be on an old scale, not metric
it would be made of that old fashioned linen stuff
that folds and holds the creases of experience
If my body were a map, I would hunt down the blackest boldest
felt tip pen mark X where the treasure lays then roll it up tightly
padlock it and hide it at the bottom of the gothic marble chest
at the end of the world beneath the hologram of a double rainbow 🌈
If my body were a map, it would be revised and disguised,
each plateau as tempestuous as the seasons it resides within.
You are just a body, no, you have a body.
I thought I saw it floating, barely seen above the ebb tide.
If my body were a map
It would point you to peace
Not war but laughter, love
And an abundance of good vanilla ice cream.

© Eithne Cullen, Tricia Waller, Zeyana Yussuf & Donna Arthur, 2026

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The next piece was sent in via our submissions folder. The narrator is a dancer, Arabella, who ‘borrows’ an abandoned space where she can live her fantasy life dancing to an invisible audience.

Arabella

The gutted theatre glows under soft lamplight as I take my place centre-stage. The grand, musty-beige walls swamp the stage. Iconography of painted biblical figures loom above, with each face more faded than the last. The souls of saints lie deep within the sandstone walls. Every inch of space screaming powerful teals and leaden maroons; a unique atmosphere designed to showcase the bend and sway of music and dance.

Tchaikovsky rumbles from the ancient record player, urging me to rise en pointe. I obey. Each movement more certain than the last, my plié is controlled; I master my arabesque and my pirouette, my turns dedicated to every dancer who came before me. Each and every step has grace and elegance embedded within. I’ve well and truly honed my craft, and I make no attempt to conceal it. The minuscule specks of glitter layered upon my salmon tutu catch the light, every twist and turn sending small bursts of diamonds across the walls.

Wavy hair slides against my face with every move. Historically, it would have been pushed back into a bun but these days, I prefer letting my hair dance too. My eyes dart around the room, taking in the magnificence of it all. The soft light makes my pale skin shine. It is cloaked in layers of rose, magenta and fuchsia, only interrupted by raisin-coloured splotches dotted across my knees and elbows.

As the music fades, the needle of the record player crackles. The room is filled with an ambient static. I curtsey, my arms stretched out far behind me, as though I’m attempting to metamorphose into a magnificent swan. As usual, my smile beams out at the empty seats; each holding individual memories of former splendour. I rise and exit stage left, finally lifting the needle from the record and releasing the room from its static void. Silence holds me like a lost lover once did.

I make my way down through the empty stalls, dodging the discarded pieces of wood, stone, and fabric all caked in dust and grime. The further back I go, the darker the space becomes until I’m left with darkness and silence. I turn to face the now-empty stage, solely illuminated by two gas lamps either side of the wings. From all the way back here, the space is truly entrancing, and I begin to wholly understand what makes us dancers so captivating and almost magical. Many years have come and gone since that lonely stage was bright, brilliant, and filled with the Baroque.

Only a decade ago, I danced on that very stage alongside a collection of the most talented dancers this city has ever offered. Every night, audiences came in droves from far and wide to see these ‘pretty little ladies’ dancing – God’s gifts to a hungry world.

For a while, it certainly felt as though we were – our evenings filled with flowers, champagne, and handsome young men vying for our attention. They watched us leap across the stage as one. Back then, I could never have imagined my life any differently. I was where I was meant to be.

One man in particular caught my eye: Jacques. He’d sit front and centre every night, paying especially close attention to me. After a long and painful wait, he gained the courage to speak to me directly. I was his precious thing, and he was my soldier. We were hopelessly in love.

Word of the talent in the theatre soon got out. Almost weekly, we found ourselves performing for talent scouts from some of the most prestigious ballet institutions in the world: Paris, London, Moscow, New York. One by one, our girls were offered scholarships, bursaries and sponsorships, whisking them away from our quaint theatre and launching them straight into the glitz and glamour of the world of professional ballet. Save for me, the runt of the litter.

Love alone often isn’t enough. I was under the impression my soldier would stand guard by me no matter what; though Jacques soon caught wind of what was happening and the implications of being wed to a world-famous ballerina. He followed Martine to Paris. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Jacques remarked before he left.

I thought I had. I never saw him again.

Locals said it was a sad sight watching a lonely ballerina dance her heart out in a desperate attempt to re-live her glory days. Tickets weren’t selling as they used to. Sir Dion had no choice but to put the theatre up for sale. With no buyers, it was simply left to decay, with only the memories of the institution it used to be.

I’ll never forget how frosty Sir Dion became during those final few weeks. He’d keep his distance from me, as though my depressing ability to remain impassioned, regardless of how the world around me perceived me, was deeply contagious and might infest his other financial endeavours. He had never been a particularly kind man but, suddenly there was a layer of hostility under his neutrality.

“It’s about time you live a real life,” he grunted at me as he locked the ornate doors for the last time. “Settle down, find a sorry husband, have some sorry kids.”

“Yes, Sir,” I murmured as he turned his back to me and ventured out into the cold city night. I watched as he rounded the corner and produced a cigar from the breast pocket of his overcoat, imprinting the final image I’d ever have of my first and only employer.

As soon as he left my sight, I sprang into action. I gripped the iron railing and hoisted myself up, clambering up the large door with incredible intentional movement. Soon, I found my right hand gripping the cold sandstone of the window ledge above the door and, with one final heave, I sat upon it. Until this very moment, I’d only known hairpins as the beauty tool they’re intended for, but I discovered a second, more useful ability on this night. I shimmied the pin into place in the window lock, pushing, scraping, spinning and jolting, until the window finally swung back with a great creak.

Though sometimes I long for the fame and renown of my former companions, I can’t help believing I got the better deal.

After a few moments of nostalgic reflection, I amble back through the vacant reception. I pass through the gaze of various saints who all appear sympathetic to my cause. On my right Teresa, Francis, Vitus, all embracing my life with unfortunate kinship. On my left, Myra and Labre shake, yet nod their heads.

Eventually, I appear backstage, where my sweet but simple bedroom lies. Satin ribbons of former costumes drape themselves across the ceiling in bows; pillows pile up on the mattress, creating a kind of nest; feathers and fake jewels adorn every inch of the walls. The lights of my dressing room table provide the sole source of light, coating the room in dim warmth; my belongings forming a tight community with my body and soul.

I methodically remove my costume, a pretty pink thing, from pointe shoes to leotard, until I’m completely uncovered. As I climb into bed and crawl under my covers, I continue to think about the life I’ve found myself in. To confess, I dream that one day my gifts will grant me fame and riches. I dream of being draped in pearls and diamonds, living in a large house with a handsome husband who well and truly loves me for me. I dream of travelling the world, sharing my talents with those dying to witness it. But deep down, I know that performing to the ghosts of my past is enough.

Many years ago, I took comfort from the fact that my passion is my lifeblood. I don’t need to be celebrated to know that to be true.

© Katy Cast, 2026

Connect with Katy on Instagram: @80proven or via their website: https://80proven.blogspot.com/?m=1

Finally, let’s keep borrowing words and ideas from all kinds of places to write our poems and stories. You never know what original ideas will come from them!

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