Hello dear readers, so I have been on a creative high lately or maybe it's just a whoverse high. Anyhow it's yielding some very interesting results. This is some of what I wrote. There's an angel in there, and there's running, and it's going to be quite a ride. If things keep going like this.

So enjoy part one of a Dancer's element.

I'm running, while my heart thuds in my ears. I'm late - I'm going to be so late. The bus lurches forward, without me. It's eleven and I just missed my bus, the next one is going to pass by in about fifteen minutes. The people that hired me to dance at their wedding to entertain guests are going to be very angry if I get there late. And taxi's cost money, more money than I like to see go on public transport. English money is strange, I can't get over how little value it has, say compared to Trinidadian money. Or even the US dollar.

I take a taxi never the less, the driver staring at my purple and blue dance gharara, the scarf piece is over my middrif and he looks like he wishes it would move a little.

"Eyes on the road Drive!" I snap.

"Immigrant," He insults.

I eye him disdainfully, "You should talk cabbie." I say the word 'Cabbie' with all the most distaste I can manage, "Driiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiivaaaaaaa aaaa, yuh cyah talk because I giving you money, not the other way."

He screeches to a stop, and tells me get out and I oblige. I also don't pay him. The minor traffic jam behind is motive for him to drive off.

I run, dodging people walking, and skirting round corners. It's not too far, just around this next park. If I go through the park, I can get there faster. I can see the reception hall, pristine and pretty. I brace against a tree and breath.

You can dance they say,

People will pay they say,

No one ever told me that I would be running to weddings that aren't even mine but I guess that my fault. I look up and notice an old statue of an angel. That sure looks out of place in a park full of new benches and water fountains.

I finish dying from effort, and walk – straight into another statue. I'm face to face with it. It's old, and nearly grey, and taller than me by two feet. Its hands are over its face like its weeping. I look back at the other one.

It isn't there.

I look back, and the statue is snarling at me, eyes no longer hidden, with fangs or very long teeth. It's arms are stretched out to me, long hands and it hates me. I feel the full force of its marble eyes. I blink.

She blinks and when she opens her eyes, she knows something is wrong, terribly wrong because every one is babbling in Hindi. And, and worse there are horse drawn rickshaws. And the women are wearing saris. Not the flashy, ready made one piece that are only slipped on, but cotton, pleated lengths of cloth. And there's the occasional British looking face but not many.

She looks at her hands and them up, the street is crowded, and there are no telephone lines above. People are staring at her, and wondering. And she realizes she seems out of place. Her dress garishly opulent compared to theirs – the cut wrong, the creases wrong.

She isn't just out of place.

She tries to remember what little Hindi she knows – the phrases she learnt from Bollywood movie and from her grandmother. She realizes she can't ask what year this is – that she only learned simple verbs, and stupid expressions.

Bollywood characters don't ask what date it is in their stories – because those stories are timeless.

Now she supposes she's timeless too.