It was the second monsoon of the 877th year of the Wyvern that the world fell apart. The Dionysiac night was fast approaching and I along with every other sixteen year old was to come of age. Time had flown fast by me and I had learnt little of the art of magic. I had preferred to be buried in books rather than practice magic. I had but mastered just the five basic dance forms of magic.These forms were called the scirtoes. Each scirto when layered with another gave a new scirto; leading to an endless number of scirtoes.

Each dance was a painting in time instead of a canvas, each form a stroke of the brush. The world bent to the dancer's will to the extent of their strength. Saltator was the title given to those with potential enough to master at least one basic form. Though at one time saltator were rare and highly respected, today they are the rule and not the exceptions. A saltator with mastery over eight scirto was common and any one below that was named a trivial. To find a trivial was uncommon and they were ousted from the society. They lived in slums beyond the gates of the city. Theirs was the world of logic, ours that of magic. But no, it wasn't yet mine and perhaps never would be. To qualify as a pertinent I had to master eight of the scirto before the Dionysiac night. I go through the motions each day, with little or no progress. Each day my muscles rebel. Each day my books lay gathering dust. Books are rare these days though in olden times the cities were filled with them. My mind rebels against the monotone of movements, my body joins eagerly. A week before the fated night I give up and retreat behind my books again. There, among books of tales and fables of the ancient world, I lost myself.

A day before the night, as I lay among my books and doze off, a vision comes to me. A girl stands before me, she stares into my eyes and I look back. She moves her hand, I mimic, quite captivated. She moves slowly, surely without taking her eyes of mine. I mirror her movements and the world mirrors mine. Her each scirto is faster than the earlier and each more intricate. I do not pause to think, I dance in an enchanted trance. There are some that gather to see us. She seems to takes no notice of them. Neither do I. We dance and the world bends to us. The very air bursts into music. It rains and each drop plays a note as it falls. The spectators scream for us to stop. We move faster as in reply and the winds drown their shouts. Some stand against us and try to counter our scirtoes with theirs. The earth shakes their feet off itself. We dance. And now some others, as if in trance, dance with us. The world bends further, the winds shriek and the earth rumbles. Things whiz past us, some by the wind, some by the will. A stray rock strikes the girl in front of me and she breaks into fragments of silvered-glass. I dance on and the world bends to me. It bends and then it breaks. It shatters into a thousand pieces of light, each piece dances with me. I beckon the light towards me and burn in its fire. And so commanding a new world, a better one, I end this one with myself. I end it with a Big Bang.

So ends the tale of the hallucinating suicidal girl who destroyed the world to avoid taking a test. And so too ends my first attempt at a writing prompt.