Dream Dancer

Some fiction for this Sunday:


I'm on a stage, a big stage, the kind where people gather to see spectacular shows on Friday nights. I'm wearing a tight, purple button-up shirt. My hands coalesce with the darkness. The air around me is cool, vacant. And then a gleam of light.

There are curtains in front of me, curtains of dark blue, and they part, the ray of yellow spotlight becoming thicker and thicker. My fingers feel chilled but I lift them, slowly, and I swipe my right foot against the sleek, wooden stage chick-ah. My left knee bends and my foot brushes the wood faster: chickah chickah; and then a new rhythm: chicka chick-AH, chicka chick chick chick chicka chickAH AH AH AH. Both of my feet are moving now. I know how to tap dance. So I spin in a circle, my feet creating rhythm that rises up all around me, the beam showering me in yellow light.

Before I know it, I am flying to the front of the stage, sashaying, a series of perfect kickball changes, and I look out to greet the enticed eyes of the audience, but I am faced by a sea of dark blue. The auditorium is empty. I am alone. Clomp. My shoes meet the floor. As if by a strange hand beyond my will, the curtain closes, encasing me in darkness once again.