| Author: | Arryn Frey | ISBN: | 9781466103146 |
| Publisher: | Arryn Frey | Publication: | July 21, 2011 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords | Language: | English |
| Author: | Arryn Frey |
| ISBN: | 9781466103146 |
| Publisher: | Arryn Frey |
| Publication: | July 21, 2011 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords |
| Language: | English |
Midnight.
Club's still awake, just like it always is. One room, seething in semidarkness, wide enough to drive a jet into. Used to be a warehouse, but they've found a better use for it. Much better.
Music blasts from speakers in every corner, pulsing irregularly, some fusion of a remixed beat and a singer's voice. And as it escalates to the breaking point, the entire place jumps. It's like someone hooked them up to the lightning storm outside, and everything is motion, a wave, a single mass that ripples and breathes like one being. Then the music mellows out and people start to break into their own rhythms, slowing down a bit as they calm their frenzied nerves. There will be more time for them to get their fix, and I'm just getting started.
Place's packed. I've got on a loose shirt and pants with way too many pockets, and I feel both pressed against me as I weave through the crowd. Fringe-dancing is fine for those that like it, but I love the core of the place, dancing where one great speaker hangs from the ceiling and beats out divinity from a woofer the size of a truck tire. You can lose yourself in the sound, just let the music suffuse your cells and bleed your consciousness dry until there's nothing else but the movement in your limbs. It's heaven.
Underneath the beat and the voice there's a heavy patter of raindrops on aluminum. I ditched my jacket at the door—it was a cheap one, anyway—but everyone seems to have a spatter of wetness across them. Like a badge of honor, almost. I made it, I can dance now—I'm free. But now the patter is a roar, and anyone outside is probably soaked to the bone. I smile at the thought. Part of me wants to go back out and bask in it, but then I wouldn't have the music. And the music is life. It's as simple as that.
The air's heavy with sweat, and the heat is enough to make me add a bit of my own. My skin’s damp before I get halfway to the center of the place, and I'm not even started yet. Just moving, moving, moving to the center. But dance isn't just movement. Dance is ecstasy, dance is violent and complete, dance is perfect. And then I'm finally at the center, and the music picks up, and I dance.
In the flare of laserlight and points of brightness from mirrorballs I break into it, one seamless fluid motion that has no beginning and no end, a rippling of my limbs that merges into the dance of others. My eyes are open wide, and light scatter makes them go wider as I stare into reds and greens and blues that play across the ceiling. The music goes soft and smooth and I match it, turning around and letting my arms hang, and then it rises again and I meet that too, throwing my hands up and letting loose as a voice soars around the room.
Then the lights go out. And the music.
And then things really get interesting.
Midnight.
Club's still awake, just like it always is. One room, seething in semidarkness, wide enough to drive a jet into. Used to be a warehouse, but they've found a better use for it. Much better.
Music blasts from speakers in every corner, pulsing irregularly, some fusion of a remixed beat and a singer's voice. And as it escalates to the breaking point, the entire place jumps. It's like someone hooked them up to the lightning storm outside, and everything is motion, a wave, a single mass that ripples and breathes like one being. Then the music mellows out and people start to break into their own rhythms, slowing down a bit as they calm their frenzied nerves. There will be more time for them to get their fix, and I'm just getting started.
Place's packed. I've got on a loose shirt and pants with way too many pockets, and I feel both pressed against me as I weave through the crowd. Fringe-dancing is fine for those that like it, but I love the core of the place, dancing where one great speaker hangs from the ceiling and beats out divinity from a woofer the size of a truck tire. You can lose yourself in the sound, just let the music suffuse your cells and bleed your consciousness dry until there's nothing else but the movement in your limbs. It's heaven.
Underneath the beat and the voice there's a heavy patter of raindrops on aluminum. I ditched my jacket at the door—it was a cheap one, anyway—but everyone seems to have a spatter of wetness across them. Like a badge of honor, almost. I made it, I can dance now—I'm free. But now the patter is a roar, and anyone outside is probably soaked to the bone. I smile at the thought. Part of me wants to go back out and bask in it, but then I wouldn't have the music. And the music is life. It's as simple as that.
The air's heavy with sweat, and the heat is enough to make me add a bit of my own. My skin’s damp before I get halfway to the center of the place, and I'm not even started yet. Just moving, moving, moving to the center. But dance isn't just movement. Dance is ecstasy, dance is violent and complete, dance is perfect. And then I'm finally at the center, and the music picks up, and I dance.
In the flare of laserlight and points of brightness from mirrorballs I break into it, one seamless fluid motion that has no beginning and no end, a rippling of my limbs that merges into the dance of others. My eyes are open wide, and light scatter makes them go wider as I stare into reds and greens and blues that play across the ceiling. The music goes soft and smooth and I match it, turning around and letting my arms hang, and then it rises again and I meet that too, throwing my hands up and letting loose as a voice soars around the room.
Then the lights go out. And the music.
And then things really get interesting.
