He Danced Her

He stopped talking

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She could not set light to her room, nor could she fall high enough to make much sense of that solid sensation of moving not at all.

Each limb lead and the sound of echoes making no movement upon the walls and no sense – just vibrations that touched nothing.

So she enameled the floor ebony and coated the walls black. Upon her bed, she encased it with Egyptian cotton dark as the night and flung across the canopy blackest velvet curtains.

Then invited him in.

Desire is a blindness, this he knew and despite the pallor of her skin, the blackness of her room he entered in, prepared for nothing.

He could not speak to her, he did not know how. He could not plead with her she could not comprehend sincerity.

So he stretched out his hands and embroidered the edges of the black velvet curtains with pearls of milky white and cast upon her ebony pillows the silver moonlight.

Upon the floor, he danced and swayed over the darkness a midnight blue in soft undulating waves and placed upon that stream small pinpricks of shining stars.

She gasped in protest as he pushed aside the curtains and raised his hands as a master musician. The stars, moon, and galaxies from afar rose up and sprang into heavenly instrumental song.

He turned to her exhausted, awaiting his fate.

She stood pale and small before the darkness of all light, naked and exposed from gloom of tomb to the vast universe just outside her room.

He placed a hand gently on her waist, held her hand and slowly waltzed about the ebony gates and out into the clear floor of eternity

 

Author: SK Woodiwiss and SW Woodiwiss

We are writers. We love flash fiction, short stories, poetry, and novels. We love to write ghost stories but have tried our hand at simple conversations, inner fears and peeked into the madness of the mind. Our greatest love is the novel and its ability to explore character development. We simply enjoy the writing process.

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