The light fantastic swayed before him, pulling him closer, like a semi-drunk date at a high school dance. He raised his arms to the ceiling and closed his eyes. The rhythm held him, and shook him to the core, a tsunami of life, a margarita of triumph, riding a wave of consciousness to the steady shores of understanding.
The colours danced before his very eyes, twisting and spinning, and turning and groaning, like a kaleidoscopic yogi dead set on impressing a much younger student. His legs, legs that resembled chicken drumsticks upon closer inspection, moved on their own, an entity separate from the motors that drove him. The arms that flailed before him, drew celestial shapes in front of him.
The dancer was no longer mortal, no long human, he had transposed, he had reached a new level, he was electric. He plucked items from the imagination of the carbon dioxide that surrounded him as his heart pumped a heady rhythm. There were big fish, there were little fish, there were cardboard boxes. It was the sermon on the mount, and he was Jesus, he was hope, the light and our salvation.
And the Lord said 'let there be light' and there was.
YOU ARE READING
The Non-stop Dancer
Short StoryWhen Britain was still Great, one man started to dance, and passersby started to join him. Find out how one man's movements became a movement.
