Raygun had never been good at anything. Not at school, not at work, and certainly not at the few hobbies she'd tried to pick up over the years. But at 37, she'd finally found something that made her heart race with pure, unfiltered joy: breakdancing.
It all started one afternoon at the local park. Raygun had been wandering around, trying to kill time after yet another failed attempt at baking. She'd burnt the scones so badly that the smoke alarm had surrendered without a fight. "Cooking's not for everyone," she'd muttered to herself, tossing the charred remains in the bin.
As she walked past a group of breakdancers, she was drawn to their energy. Their movements were fluid, precise, and somehow carefree. Without thinking, Raygun joined them, flailing her limbs in what could generously be called a dance. The others stopped, mid-spin, to watch. It was as if a kangaroo on roller skates had decided to perform Swan Lake.
"Is she... okay?" one of the dancers whispered to another.
"I think it's performance art," the other replied, squinting at Raygun as she attempted a backspin and ended up flat on her back, staring at the sky with a blissful grin.
"Yeah, mate, she's definitely doing something," the first dancer agreed, though neither could quite put their finger on what it was.
Raygun was oblivious to the whispers. She felt alive, her heart pounding not from exertion, but from the sheer joy of moving without a care in the world. After a few minutes of her chaotic routine, she bowed to the bewildered onlookers and walked away, feeling like she'd just conquered the world.
That night, Raygun's phone blew up with messages. Apparently, someone had recorded her "performance" and posted it online. It had gone viral. People were calling her the next big thing in avant-garde art, praising her for "pushing the boundaries of dance" and "challenging traditional concepts of rhythm and coordination."
"I told you I was special," she said to her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She had a twinkle in her eye that hadn't been there for years.
Her family and friends were less enthusiastic. "You know they think you're a joke, right?" her sister Janine said over tea the next morning.
"They said the same thing about Picasso," Raygun replied, waving off the concern. "And look where he ended up."
"In a museum, Raygun. Dead."
"Details, Janine. Details."
Raygun wasn’t deterred. She threw herself into breakdancing with the same enthusiasm she'd once reserved for failing at other hobbies. And somehow, against all odds and reason, she ended up qualifying for the inaugural Olympic breakdancing event. When the official letter arrived, she framed it and hung it above her kitchen sink.
Her friends were gobsmacked. "The Olympics? For dancing? Did they see you dance?" her best friend, Donna, asked over drinks.
Raygun grinned. "Apparently, they did. Guess who’s going to Paris, baby!"
The glitz and glamour of the Olympics were like nothing Raygun had ever experienced. She arrived in Paris in a whirlwind of press conferences, photo shoots, and interviews. The other competitors were young, fit, and impossibly talented. They looked at Raygun with a mix of confusion and pity.
"Hey, aren't you that... performance artist?" one of the Japanese dancers, named B-Girl, asked during a break between rehearsals.
"Yep, that's me," Raygun said, flashing a smile.
B-Girl nodded slowly, trying to be polite. "Cool, cool. So... what’s your strategy?"
"Strategy?" Raygun blinked. "I dunno. I just sort of... do whatever feels right."
The young dancer struggled to keep a straight face. "Right. Well, good luck with that."
As the competition drew nearer, the pressure mounted. The judges were a mix of seasoned professionals and celebrities, all of whom took their roles very seriously. The buzz around Raygun's participation was electric—was she a genius, a joke, or something in between?
The day of her performance, the stadium was packed. The audience was a mix of curious spectators, die-hard fans, and a lot of people who had come to see if Raygun would crash and burn. The air was thick with anticipation, and as her name was announced, Raygun felt a flutter of nerves in her stomach.
"Raygun! Raygun! Raygun!" The crowd chanted as she stepped onto the stage. Dressed in an outfit that could only be described as "retro chic meets garage sale," she gave a little wave to the audience and took her position. She had no routine, no plan, just the sheer determination to dance her heart out.
The music started—an upbeat, bass-heavy track that was perfect for breakdancing. But Raygun, true to form, was anything but perfect. She flailed her arms, spun awkwardly, and attempted a windmill that ended with her rolling across the stage like a tumbleweed. The audience gasped, then giggled, then roared with laughter.
"Is this for real?" one of the judges whispered to another.
"She’s... unique," another other replied diplomatically, though he couldn't suppress a grin.
As Raygun continued her routine—or whatever it was—the laughter in the stadium began to shift. It wasn’t just at her expense anymore; it was joyous, infectious. The crowd started to cheer her on, clapping to the beat, encouraging her every awkward move.
In the stands, a cynical art critic named Clive watched with a furrowed brow. He'd been sent to cover Raygun's performance, expecting to write a scathing review. But as he watched her stumble through her routine, something in him began to change. There was something pure about the way she danced—no pretension, no fear, just raw, unfiltered joy.
By the time Raygun finished with a spectacularly ungraceful attempt at a split, the crowd was on its feet, cheering louder than they had for any other competitor. Raygun stood up, panting and grinning from ear to ear. She gave a deep bow, her heart swelling with pride and happiness.
The judges exchanged looks, unsure of what to make of it all. They awarded her not a single point.
As she walked off the stage, she was met by B-Girl, the young Japanese dancer. "That was... something else," she said, shaking her head in disbelief.
Raygun winked. "Thanks mate. You may have won gold but it's me who'll be remembered. Not bad for a chick who just goes with the flow, huh?"
B-Girl laughed. "Yeah, not bad at all."
Later that night, Clive sat down to write his review. But as he stared at the blank screen, he realized he couldn’t bring himself to criticize Raygun. Instead, he found himself writing about the joy of participation, the beauty in imperfection, and the courage it took to dance like no one was watching, even when the whole world was.
Raygun didn’t win a medal that day, but she walked away with something far more valuable: the knowledge that sometimes, success isn’t about being the best. Sometimes, it’s about being yourself, no matter how clumsy, offbeat, or uncoordinated that self might be.
As she left the stadium, Raygun couldn’t help but feel like she’d won something even better than gold. And as the crowd chanted her name one last time, she knew she’d left her mark on the world, one awkward dance move at a time.
"She's had a go representing our country, and that's a good thing." Australian Prime Minister, Anthony Albanese.
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