Here's the voting for <b>round four</b> of the Writing Prompt Contest!

There were a total of six entries all labeled with letters <b>M - R</b> of the alphabet.

<b>Prompt:</b> DANCING
<b>Word Limitation:</b> 2,000 words (2,500 max)

So sit back, relax, and read through all these wonderful entries from the contestants. Once you're done, feel free to skim them over again, and vote.

Contestants may not vote until <b>June 22nd</b>! Please don't vote for yourself or your entire vote will be void. Comments are recommended---feedback helps a writer improve, and tweak their work but do it in a constructive manner.

Each post contains two entries.



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Entrant M (1,347 words)
"Just One Dance"

“Come on, go to the dance with me,” implored John.
Robert didn’t even look up from his drawing as he dully replied like he had been for the past five minutes, “Thanks, but I’m busy.”
“With what?” asked John, pulling a chair near Robert and sitting on it. “With that?” He gestured at the half completed drawing of a young woman that Robert toiled over. “You know, mate, you’re going to need a girl sometime soon”
“I don’t need a girl,” hissed Robert. The memory of Marisa still burned him even after two months. “Besides,” he continued. “I don’t even know how to dance.”
“So? I don’t either.”
Robert didn’t answer as he continued to draw, forming swift dark lines on the paper.
John sighed and pleaded again, “Look, just one dance and I won’t bother you again.” He paused to give himself time to think and then said desperately, “If you go, I’ll clean the dorm.”
Robert looked around the dorm with the five month old pile of dirty clothes, discarded papers, empty bottles, and spent pens and simply said, “Fine.”
John grinned and clapped him in the back.

<center>Moi je m'appelle Lolita
Lo ou bien Lola
Du pareil au même
Moi je m'appelle Lolita
Quand je rêve aux loups
C'est Lola qui saigne</center>

Three hours later, Robert was leaning against the bar, with his half-empty drink in his hand, still wondering how in the world he allowed himself to be convinced by John. Despite his multiple vows on the way to the club, John had abandoned him in favour of the band of girls who had instantly ensnared him. So Robert was left, looming near the bar and watching the couples in the centre dance in their ecstasy. He tried to avoid watching scantily clad girls twirl their bodies to the French pop song or the burly men who lingered near them. What he couldn’t avoid watching was the girl dancing in the centre of the floor. Distorted reflections formed across her bright red dress as she swung her attractive body around underneath the spiralling lights. Had John been sitting next to Robert like he had promised, Robert wouldn’t have doubted that John would persuade him to dance with her, one way or another. I suppose that’s one good thing, he thought as he continued to stare at the girl.
<center>
Quand fourche ma langue,
j'ai là un fou rire aussi fou
Qu'un phénomène Je m'appelle Lolita
Lo de vie, lo aux amours diluviennes
</center>
“Go and get her,” a voice commanded. Robert turned around to see John, sweating profusely from his early dances.
“What?” Robert asked, though he knew exactly what he was talking about.
“Don’t be an idiot. I didn’t drag you here so you could just sit here and drink yourself to death.”
“You didn’t have to drag me here, you know.”
John ignored him as he persisted, “Seriously, mate. Take a look. It’s probably your first chance to get a girl like this.”
“Look,” hissed Robert. “If you want her so badly, why don’t you go dance with her?”
“Can’t, mate. That’ll be just plain mean of me.”
Robert didn’t budge, causing John to sigh exasperatedly and say, “Fine. Be like that. Let the other idiots get the chance they don’t deserve.”
He couldn’t deny that truth. Indeed there were several guys lingering around the dance floor, eyeing the girl in the red dress like wolves stalking a prey.

<center>C'est pas ma faute
Et quand je donne ma langue aux chats
Je vois les autres
Tout prêts à se jeter sur moi
C'est pas ma faute à moi
Si j'entends tout autour de moi
Hello, helli, t'es A
Moi Lolita
</center>
Uncertainty clouded Robert’s mind like a smothering fog. It was either that or the alcohol, Robert wasn’t quite sure. His senses were slowly dulled as the girl spun her body as if she was using her perfect form to hypnotise him. At infrequent occasions, she would turn towards him, her eyes flashing invitingly, before continuing her frenzied dance.
<center>
Moi je m'appelle Lolita
Collégienne aux bas
Bleus de méthylène
Moi je m'appelle Lolita
Coléreuse et pas
Mi-coton, mi-laine</center>

He finally had enough. Not knowing exactly what he was doing or what was going to happen, he gulped down the rest of his drink for nerves and approached the centre of the dance floor. As he slowly walked, she didn’t pause in her dance but continued to sway to the music until he was a foot away from her, feeling like a complete moron. She slowly stopped as she recognised the presence of the student. They stared at each other for a brief minute before she took his hand and drew him closer to her.

<center>Motus et bouche qui n'dis pas
À maman que je suis un phénomène
Je m'appelle Lolita
Lo de vie, lo aux amours diluviennes</center>

Robert had absolutely no idea what he was doing or what was going on. All he knew was that the girl was gripping his hand tightly and dancing to the pop song. He tried to move his legs, which suddenly felt like stiff blocks of lead, but couldn’t seem to do it without looking like an idiot. Whenever he did move them, his legs tripped over themselves, almost forcing Robert to fall on his knees. In the distance, he could hear the sound of the spectators jeering as if hinting that they could do so much better. However the girl smiled encouragingly, flashing her perfect white teeth that shined like mirrors in the sunlight. Robert sighed as he regained whatever wits he had left and started to move in rhythm with the girl.
<center>
C'est pas ma faute
Et quand je donne ma langue aux chats
Je vois les autres
Tout prêts à se jeter sur moi
C'est pas ma faute à moi
Si j'entends tout autour de moi
Hello, helli, t'es A
Moi Lolita</center>

He was soon dancing, well, not extraordinarily great, but with moderate success, much to his delight. Apparently his partner was pleased as well as they danced, their twisting bodies overlapping one another. The tempo of the song gradually slowed down as the artist sang the word, “Lolita”, her voice echoing through the dance floor and inside Robert’s head. Chills ran up through his skin as their bodies gently collided against each other. Slowly his vision began to cloud, blinding him to everything except the girl and the music. He wasn’t sure if it was the drink, the music, the lights, the dancing, the girl herself, or some perverse combination of the different factors. Whatever it was, Robert couldn’t deny the euphoria that he felt from it.

<center>
C'est pas ma faute
Et quand je donne ma langue aux chats
Je vois les autres
Tout prêts à se jeter sur moi
C'est pas ma faute à moi
Si j'entends tout autour de moi
Hello, helli, t'es A
Moi Lolita</center>

The pace quickened, way too fast for Robert’s taste but the girl ravished in it. She swayed her body in perfect harmony with the tempo, her short brown hair swinging as she danced. The catchy pop tune peaked in volume and speed as he tried (and failed) to match his partner with his frenzied and ungraceful dance. He was barely paying attention to the speeding song when the girl wrapped her hands around his head and pulled him to her lips. A blissful feeling developed in his body as he felt the warmth in her mouth envelop his. For the first time in this night, the girl stopped dancing as she held a rather bemused Robert in her arms. The song burned through its climax like a dying star, barely covering laughter that Robert knew was from John. And finally the song ended, with a new, less appealing song playing. Robert wondered if his short-lived pleasure would end with the song when he noticed the girl was still holding his hand. She smiled again, her eyes sparkling, and said, “So, are you going to buy me a drink or what?”




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Entrant N (919 words)
Untitled

Reticent.

Somber.

His dark eyes quietly glanced over the room, all thoughts hidden behind the mask of silence that covered his face.

A young girl, maybe fifteen, appeared at his side, her light eyes and hair contrasting with his darker complexion.

“Do you dance?” She asked quietly, sensing the deep quiet and thoughtfulness inside of him.

“No.”

Her face shifted into a questioning look, and her blue eyes seemed as if they were about to laugh. “Why not?”

“More suited to swords and music,” he replied quickly, looking slightly to the side to see the girl.

She laughed. “So is my brother.” She pointed to a young man with curly light brown hair dancing among the guests at the party. “So I don’t take that as an excuse.”

“I would frighten you if I tried to dance,” he said.

She tried to figure out if he was joking or not. “I’ve seen worse.”

“So you think.”

“Maybe if you showed me I’d change my mind a little.”

He smiled half-heartedly. “Or maybe I’d haunt your nightmares forever.”

She wrinkled her nose and shook her head, then stuck her hand out for him to shake. “Lizzie.”

He took her hand loosely but firmly, and shook it quickly. “Jacob.”

Silence.

“Why do you hide like this?” She asked finally.

“Hide? I’m in entryway of the ballroom, am I not?”

She shook her head. “Not like that, and you know that.”

“Maybe there’s nothing to hide.”

“Or maybe it’s hidden behind the mask you wear,” Lizzie added.

“Perhaps.”

“You can’t be much older than my brother. Eighteen at the oldest. What reason do you have to wear a mask?”

“You are correct, I am eighteen. As for the mask, that is a long story.”

“We just ate dinner. You know the way balls are – guests sometimes don’t leave until early morning,” said Lizzie.

Jacob nodded stiffly. “Aye.”

“Care to tell me?”

“It’s probably about time I let the mask slip,” Jacob motioned to two chairs near where they stood, and both he and Lizzie sat. He stared at the dancers for a minute, then turned to Lizzie.

“My father was a sailor,” Jacob began. “Well, the captain of an East India trading ship. We were rich until the storms came.” He paused. “One day we got word that he had stayed behind on the sinking ship to give others a chance to escape in the lifeboats. His death hurt me more than anything, driving deep into the my ten-year old heart. I began to shut myself out from the world, encased in my thoughts, locked in my own world… I was just beginning to come out of this when the next tragedy struck. The fever came, and it took my mother and sisters with it. It was just me and my two younger brothers left, and I had to take care of them. Our neighbors rushed us to my uncle’s house, and my uncle became our legal guardian. The months passed, and I grew some, learning sword fighting, music, critical thinking, arithmetic. One of my brothers ran away, and we never found him. I personally took the blame for this, in trying to hide from the world and consuming myself with my studies, I had ignored my brothers. And little Jonathan took that as hatred.” He stopped talking, fiddling with his necktie. “There was such pain in my heart, and the only way of escape I found was to throw myself into my studies all the more, going at sword fighting and music all the more vigorously. But it didn’t work, the pain was still there, encased in a mask, encased in silence. It hurt more than ever.”
Jacob brushed a hand over his eyes, closing them and trying to go on.

“You do a good job of hiding your pain,” Lizzie commented.

“Lizzie, if you learn anything from me, learn this – a shell against the world will not get you anywhere. If my uncle had not been as wise and discerning as he was, I would still be like I was then. Yet by the grace of God he took me aside one day, and it all came tumbling out. It was humbling, I, a fifteen year old boy, sobbing in my uncle’s arms. But it felt good, and some pain was gone after that, but the shell was not. I found it hard to love, hard to smile, hard to take pleasure in anything. I stopped dancing, and the music I played stayed dark and somber. Habits of five years are hard to break, Lizzie. Some have taken these three years and are still not broken.”

Both were silent.

Lizzie trembled. “I am sorry I pressed you so about the mask…”

“Don’t be. Sometimes the only way to get rid of pain is to release it and share it with another. Thank you for listening, Lizzie.”

“That story wasn’t so long,” she commented. “There’s still music here… still dancing. A chance for healing.”

Jacob stood. “It will be the first time in many years, Lizzie.” He bowed. “May I have this dance?”

Smiling, Lizzie stood and curtsied, then took Jacob’s outstretched hand. “Of course.”

The next month, Jacob again stood in the doorway of Lizzie’s house, watching the dancing from a distance, yet this time smiling slightly and not looking so reticent. A petite girl, blue eyes and golden hair shining approached him, and her arm lightly brushed his.

“Do you dance?” she asked.

“Aye,” he whispered, and both smiled.

_________________
<center>

THE HALLOWFEST 2010
<a href="http://www.arwen-undomiel.com/forum/viewtopic.php?t=20958">information here</a>

</center>

Entrant O (2,370 words)
"A Dance With Doom"

The third time Sraethil'omnyx the Terrible attempted to charbroil his visitor, Ana decided that her career as the Chosen One was fast coming to an end.

“Thou shalt stay far from me, ye great green freak!” she cried, brandishing Silverlight the Magnificent Splitter That Has Thus Far Decapitated 578 Goblins and 1.49 Frost Giants.

Sraethil'omnyx the Terrible was decidedly not flattered. He opened his great green maw and hacked out another cloud of dragonfire that kind of resembled a cheese puff as it spun closer. Unfortunately for Ana, it didn’t feel like a cheese puff. Neither did it taste like one.

The lady warrior threw herself on the stone floor of the cave. The ball of dragonfire whooshed over her head with the roar of a thousand galloping dwarves. She coughed and played possum. She was adept at that, just like she was adept at swordplay and archery and cooking and smiling and getting the stupid bloke next door to stop feeding hamster food to her pet griffin.

So brilliant was her possum performance that Sraethil'omnyx the Terrible poked her for three full minutes without provoking the slightest twitch. Finally the dragon shrugged and dragged itself over to the adjacent chamber. His bed of gold clatter-clanked when he plopped down. Within seconds, he was snoring. Armageddon might wake him up. Then again, it might not.

Ana sat up, faced the wall, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Life isn’t fair.”

The wall provided her with the same response that most walls are wont to give.

“It’s too hard. I’m sick of being the Chosen One. Maybe I’ll just get myself killed one of these days and see how the kingdom likes it.” She glared at the wall to measure its reaction.

“Are you sure about that?” the wall replied.

Ana jumped.

“Look behind you.”

She leaped to her feet in one graceful, fluid, effortless motion and seized Silverlight the Magnificent Splitter That Has Thus Far Decapitated 578 Goblins and 1.49 Frost Giants. Her weapon made it halfway up before she stopped, confused.

“You may call me Lord Doom,” said the man in the maroon doublet and the cuffed leggings. His ebony cloak flapped on a nonexistent wind. A mask of death, shaped like a skull, leered down from where he’d bound it around his head with a rubber band.

“The mask looks retarded,” Ana informed him.

Lord Doom yanked it off, grimacing. “That’s what the last Chosen One said. Devil’s curses, this is the final time I’m digging through the clearance aisle. Pardon me, but where was I?”

“I don’t know about you, but I was just getting to the part where I shout, ‘Have at thee, villain!’ and chop your head off.”

“Oh, you’ve a temper.” Stroking his chin, he shot a sideways glance at her. An eyebrow quirked. “I don’t suppose I could ask you for a dance?”

“Do you sport a crippling scar down your back, are long lost heir to the throne of Gondor, and/or have a father who turned to the dark side?”

“No to the first, no to the second, and my father was Lord Voldemort so he became good friends with a troubled chap named Henry, but—”

“Sorry, not interested.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have the most beautiful eyes?”

That one caught her off-guard. “What?”

He smiled. He really did have a lovely smile. So dark and intense. It tripled the manliness factor of his chin. He gestured helplessly. “Your eyes, what else? That divine shade of piercing blue flecked with even more piercing gold. It pierces me to my very soul.”

“Really?”

A tiny little pause. “Actually, no. I don’t have a soul. But may I dance with you anyway?”

Angst blacker than a very, very, very black night clouded his eyes. Oh, poor, desperate soul in need of salvation. Ana couldn’t possibly refuse. Besides, Prince Chyar’ming’s acne was hideous to behold. She wouldn’t share a happily ever after with him for all the decapitated goblins in the world. “Very well,” she sighed, and offered him a shapely hand with tapering fingers.

The disarming Lord Doom pulled her up, and off they twirled around the dragon’s lair.

“So tell me what’s bothering you.”

“Oh, everything,” she sighed again, and it was a deliciously attractive sigh. “It’s just that… oh, it’s just that…” She sighed a third time. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Do you have asthma? I can spare you an inhaler, if you like.”

Her glare was quite piercing, indeed. “You want to know? Fine. I’ll tell you.” She trod on his toe by accident before huffily continuing, “It’s this stupid Chosen One business. I’m sick of it. Sure, everyone thinks it’s all fun and games—taking out legions of Nightsuckers and promoting world peace—but do you have any idea how bad the jet lag is when you fly your griffin from point A to point Z in fifteen minutes? Or how hard it is to maintain your shining waterfall of honey-gold hair when someone’s trying to mince your sword arm? They compare my hair with honey! How can I govern a kingdom when people look at my hair and think of food? Never mind that I never asked for a kingdom! My father raped my mother, my mother fell off a building, and my adopted aunt had a heart attack when the Nightsuckers showed up at our door. Oh, and guess how old I am?”

He double-stepped to match her quickening pace. “Thirteen?”

“Seventeen!” She accidentally trod on his toe again.

A wince. “Sorry.”

She forgot to spin when he held up his arm and ended up bumping into him instead. She also forgot to apologize. “You know what? I quit.”

Lord Doom tripped over a randomly placed rock on the cave floor.

“That’s right. I quit.”

“But what about the Omnipotent One Who Wields the Blunt Pencil? She’ll be devastated.”

“Maybe she should have thought of that back on page 4 when she named me Analeyi’xaria Silversword. That’s Ana to my friends, Princess Analeyi to my allies, and Xaria the X to my enemies. You try being me and see how you like it.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m perfectly secure in my gender alignment, in case you were wondering.” He removed his hand from her waist to straighten the lace trim on his collar, which had rumpled during his trip over the randomly placed rock. He frowned. “Then who’s the new Chosen One?”

“Nobody. The world doesn’t need a Chosen One.”

His frown deepened.

“I mean—the world doesn’t need—it can’t possibly need me as the—”

“Then who’s going to stop the Nightsuckers before they suck out everyone’s soul? Who’s going to overthrow the Pyro Lord in his quest to set fire to everything he sees? Who’s going to keep Sraethil'omnyx the Terrible from regurgitating his cheese puffs?”

“Not me.”

“Then who?”

For the first time since her twin brother turned into a vampire on page 514, Ana found her arsenal of witty retorts woefully empty.

“Well?”

“Well, I don’t know. Somebody—”

“And what if that somebody fails? What if that somebody isn’t meant to be the Chosen One? What if you and you alone possess the serendipity to save the world?”

They were twirling more rapidly now. Around and around and around and etc. they went, out of the dragon’s lair and onto a really big ledge that just happened to be on this really high mountain somewhere. A moon shaped kind of like a banana winked down at them.

Ana’s piercing eyes of cobalt blue caught the moonlight and deepened to a striking shade of [insert poetic synonym for “silverish azure” here]. Those eyes drove a stake right through Lord Doom’s heart. “You’re not making any sense. The kingdom can get along fine without me.”

He whirled her around in midair. “Have you already forgotten about the terrorist organization you disbanded yesterday?”

“What—oof.” She landed heavily on the ground.

“If you hadn’t come plummeting down on the back of your griffin like a silver spear and driven an arrow through Marty the Hobgoblin’s heart from an altitude of 671983430259 feet, the world would still be a much darker place today.”

Ana almost—but not quite—came remotely close to a perilous proximity of nearly stumbling whilst trying to keep her eyes on him. “Who are you?”

He flung her out, then reeled her back in and fixed her with a smoldering glare. A blackness blacker than the blackest pits of his nonexistent soul shadowed his face. “I? I am the epitome of death. I am the harbinger of apocalypse. I am Lord Doom.” Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked. Suddenly he looked very emo, very angsty, and very much like a shmexy beast. He leaned in close. “Would you like for me to tell you what would happen if you quit being the Chosen One?”

“Okay,” Ana squeaked.

“Dum dee dum. Doo-dee dum dee dum. Doo-dee dum dum dee dee dum dum.”

“My mom picked that ringtone, not me,” Lord Doom hastily interjected. He reached into a pocket of his leggings and extracted a small blinking device, which he flipped open and pressed to his ear. “President of the Underworld speaking.”

He frowned. And scowled. And frowned some more. He covered the mouthpiece and rolled his eyes. “A queer wench in Sunny Days Forest just accepted a free apple from some hag or other. She wants to know if she should bake it in a pie or eat it with caramel.” He uncovered the mouthpiece. “The pie, dear. You know you’re allergic to caramel.” The device snapped shut and dropped back into his pocket. “Now, where were we?”

“A disturbing affair concerning an unfulfilled prophecy and the tragic fate of us mortals.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you.” He smiled, and this time his smile wasn’t lovely in the least. “Allow me to let you in on a secret: If you quit being the Chosen One, then the world will most definitely end.”

Ana blinked. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“How?”

“According to my calculations, I can firmly reach the solid conclusion that I have absolutely no idea.” He shrugged and spun her around. “Being the Chosen One is a job that no one’s ever quit before.”

“Then how do you know the world will end?”

His smile widened, revealing teeth that better suited her bloodsucking brother. “I am Lord Doom, remember?” With that, he spun her faster and faster until she staggered like an intoxicated gnome. Then he spun her faster still.

It was that precise instant, no earlier and no later, that Analeyi’xaria Silversword discovered exactly how close she was to the brink of the ledge. She yelped and leaped back. “You could have killed me!”

“That wasn’t the idea?”

“No! Why would you think—oh.” Her fear/awe/haiku-inspiring [insert poetic synonym for “silverish azure” here] eyes morphed into a thousand flying daggers. “I don’t want to die like that. Walking off a cliff—that’s what the baddies do because they aren’t flawlessly graceful like me. I’m supposed to die a Chosen One’s death. You know… Getting mortally wounded in battle. Taking my last breath in Prince Chyar’ming’s arms. Stuff like that.”

“But I thought you said you didn’t want to be the Chosen One.”

“I don’t. I mean, I do. I mean—Are you deaf? I told you—I’m sick of jet lag, sick of replacing my hair straightener once a week, sick of not looking like legal drinking age… I don’t want to save the world anymore.”

“Which do you think is worse—burning the world, or watching the world burn and doing nothing to stop it?”

Ana pondered this for a moment. At length she arched a feathery eyebrow. “I think you’ve been eating too many fortune cookies.”

Lord Doom chuckled. “You caught me. It’s still good advice, nevertheless. It sounds like a question Mom would have asked before Dad… er…” He cleared his throat and stepped back. “My point is, quitting now would make you no better than a baddie.”

Ana was silent. She’d never considered it in quite those terms before. What if he was right? What if she really was the only one who could keep darkness from obliterating all hope? What would happen if she quit her job? The universe might implode. Oh dear. She couldn’t just sit back and watch the universe implode, could she?

“Well?”

Slowly, she replied, “You know, Sraethil'omnyx the Terrible has an unarmored patch above his left breast.”

“Indeed. He showed it to me during his psychotherapy session last week.”

“Convenient.” She fingered the hilt of her sword.

“Go get ‘em, princess.”

Unsheathing Silverlight the Magnificent Splitter etc. etc., Ana started off at a stride back toward the dragon’s lair. “Thanks,” she shot over her shoulder.

“Don’t mention it.”

Ana had almost vanished into the shadows of the cave when she heard Lord Doom call out again behind her, “Wait! I forgot to give you something.” He jogged up to her and handed her an elegantly sealed envelope. “It’s from a guy who said he shouldn’t have waited this long to tell you this.”

She tore open the envelope. It took five seconds to scan over the letter. It took another thirty seconds to read it a second time. And a third time. Her shoulders drooped. The parchment fluttered to the ground. “Life isn’t fair.”

“Let me guess. You inherited another kingdom.”

Silence.

“Your father’s an elf?”

More silence.

“You inherited another kingdom and your father’s an elf.”

More more silence. Then, “Psychotherapy, huh?”

“You want my business card?” He handed it to her. “My number’s at the bottom. Toll free 1-800-SUICIDE. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Just give me a call whenever you need it.” Gathering the folds of his cloak, he prepared to step off the ledge.

Ana sighed. “Thanks for the dance.”

“No problem.” A tiny pause at the edge of the precipice. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“That elf guy who wrote the letter? He lies. He’s only pretending to be your father.”

Hardly surprising. “Who’s my real father, then?”

Lord Doom grinned. “I am. Happy dragonslaying.”



++++++++++++++++++++++



Entrant P (999 words)
"The Last Dance"


They say the sky is far above…

Lilly lay on the grass, her arms folded behind her head, looking up at the stars. Those very stars that the radio was singing about in that moment. The night sky was shining brighter than the sun did on a warm summer day, and the wind was blowing peacefully, causing a slight breeze. Lying beside her was her boyfriend, and most trusted friend, Adam. He had shaggy brown hair with dark blue eyes. He was lying with one arm behind his head and the other resting over his chest. He was looking up at the stars through the gap of the leaves in the tree they were laying under. It was one of the most romantic nights of Lilly’s life, and she never wanted it to end. They laid in silent for a good while, listening to the tunes play on the radio, most of them love songs. Adam normally was a rocker and didn’t listen to love songs, but tonight, he made an exception. Lilly was the first to break the silence.

“It’s so beautiful here.” She said, still looking up at the stars.
“I know you are.” Adam said, turning his head to look at her. Lilly was thankful for the darkness that surround them besides Adam’s trucks headlights, for she turned a bright crimson at his words. Lilly turned and looked at him, his blue eyes gazing intently at her.
“What?” She asked him, wondering if there was something on her face.
“I am gazing at you while I still have the chance.” He said simply. Lilly winced a little. No, she didn’t want to think about that. Not now. She didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that these few precious moments might be her last with Adam. That thought alone haunted her every day and she wasn’t going to let it haunt her tonight – at least, not until she went home and would be alone. Adam saw her wince and sighed. He wondered if she thought this was an easy decision for him; if he didn’t feel pain every day knowing their days together were numbered and now the numbers were slowly running down. Then, a song on the radio caught his attention.

Every night in my dreams…

Adam jumped up to his feet, causing Lilly to jump with surprise. She sat up on her elbows, looking at Adam, about to ask him what he was doing. He looked at her, put a finger up to his lips, and bowed. He came back up and in mid-bow; he looked up at her and put his hand out, extending it towards hers.

“May I have this dance?”

Lilly’s heart jumped as she heard the song, listening to it. My heart will go on, by Celine Deon. It was her favorite love song from her favorite movie. She remembered telling Adam that in a text once. She was surprised he remembered. Looking back up at Adam, she placed her hand in his and allowed him to help pull her to her feet. Adam pulled her up lightly, smiling at her the entire time. He placed his arm lightly around Lilly’s waist, pulling her close to him so that their noses were almost touching. Then, he put his other arm around her waist. As he did so, Lilly placed her arms as his neck, staring into his eyes the entire time.

And then, they began to dance.

Near, far, wherever you are,
I believe that the heart does go on…

As they danced under the pale moonlight and under the old willow tree, Lilly’s heart could not stop racing from the excitement and pleasure this brought her. She never thought she had ever felt happier in her entire life. And yet, her mind wouldn’t stop thinking about Adam…and him leaving. Oh Lord, Lilly thought, why are you letting them take this man away from me? Why are you making them put Adam’s name on the recruiting list for the Air Force? I believe – no, I am sure, that there are other young men who could go in his place. Why him? This might be the last night I see him for at least five years, unless… No. She wouldn’t even consider that alternative. To think of her lover, dying on the battlefield…the thought almost killed her. So she decided not to even think about it. Lilly put her head against Adam’s chest, letting him lead. She was never much of a dancer, but tonight, that didn’t matter. The chance to feel Adam’s arms tightly around her and to be able to dance with him…Lilly would never give that feeling up for anything in the world.

I know my heart will go on…
Your safe in my heart,
My heart will go on and on.

The song slowly ended, fading away into silence. The couple stopped dancing and stood there, lingering in each other’s arms, Adam resting his head on Lilly’s and stroking her hair. The gentle embrace that would forever linger in their memories, never to be forgotten. After a few moments, Adam lifted his head off Lilly’s and lifted her face to look at him. Lilly looked up, her face wet from the silent tears she had shed during that dance. Tears of sorrow, and of joy. And then, unexpectedly, Adam leaned down and kissed her, softly. And Lilly kissed him back.

“I love you.” Adam told her, whispering.
“I love you, too.” Lilly said.

And then he kissed her again. It was the kiss that topped all kisses, the one that made the rest seem like only a peck on the cheek. That kiss proved their undying love for each other and in that kiss; it held all their memories. For after that night, even though the love of Lilly and Adam will forever endure, the relationship ended. Not that night, nor the morning when Adam departed, but three years later.

Three years later, when Lilly received a letter.

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Entrant Q (772 words)
"Heart of Fire"

I sit on the outer edges of the bonfire, watching them dance.

I used to love Midsummer’s Eve. Nothing but play in the day, and in the night, dancing until your knees are weak. I used to be the best dancer of them all.

That was before the accident. I can remember, like a horrible dream, the day I knew I would never dance again. Next I remember the Midsummer’s Eve, a year ago, to which I hobbled on crutches – wooden legs that are no use for dancing - and tried to whirl around the blaze, tried to play the part of a dancer. I didn’t miss the looks of pity, not one. What a tragedy, they whispered behind their hands. Doesn’t she know she’s crippled? Why does she try?

And others answered: She used to be the best, didn’t you know?

After that night, I never tried again. The first thundershower in which I did not leap to the sky with my exultation and cavort with the storm was a month later. I sat at the window and watched lightning shatter the sky into millions of pieces, while thunder scattered them to the four winds. But the next day, the sky was miraculously whole again. My legs weren’t.

There was once. Once I escaped to the meadow and capered through the long grass as best as I knew how. That dance was more a hobble than a jig, but who could know? It was only me, and my heart knew how to dance, even if my legs were forever deaf to its pleas. There, I could fall and lie under the sun in the soft grass and pretend, if only for moments, that I was whole and free and happy. It was always worse, dragging myself home after that, but who in this world will not seize a minute of happiness over an hour of pain?

It gave me hope, for a while, to stretch my hands to the sky and tell it that I could dance, because it did not judge. But the little boys that hid in the bushes judged. Their titters told me what I thought, and their shrill voices told me, even across the meadow, what they saw. She looks like a frog, or a monkey. My mama said she’s crazy, and her mind went when her legs did.

How soon they forgot. And how soon, I knew, they would forget again. Since then I have never danced. If they can forget, why can I not? I asked myself. I will forget. Perhaps I will learn to spin or sew or work a loom, and when I see dancing, my heart will have forgotten, and so it will not twist in my breast like the tortured thing it is. Then there will be no whispers behind hands.

Did it work? No. Because here I sit, staring past wild silhouettes into a fire that beckons my spirit to join it in its darts and leaps of reckless abandon; but my spirit must overcome my body, and my body is too great a weight for it to carry. It wilts like the flowers in the meadow, and with it I wilt, too. This time, I try not to hear what they say behind their hands, but I know its hurt nonetheless. Every day I hear the same from my trapped soul, which beats itself senseless against bars – wooden bars like the legs that cannot dance – and falls, only to awake knowing that it must do the same again. Why won’t she get up again and keep going? We all know loss. This is no different.

Mayhap it isn’t. Mayhap I am only weak. But does a bird burrow like a mole because it loses its wings? Does a fish turn to building nests in trees because its fins fail? Does a heart cease its dancing because its body cannot carry it?

This Midsummer’s Eve, I can feel the flames that kindle in my breast. For a year, they were ashes like a phoenix’s death. But every phoenix is born again. Every heart must again catch the spark that once made it blaze.

Is there talking behind hands, hands that have no hearts? I don’t know. What do they say about me, the girl whose legs will not dance, but whose crutches will? I don’t care. Which is the worse – wooden legs, or no legs at all? The fire leaps and dances with wood.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. Because in the end, all that is left is my heart.

And my heart needs no legs to dance.



+++++++++++++++++++++



Entrant R (880 words)
"Papa's Strong Arms"

We used to do it every night. We would push aside the furniture, and Papa would put on one of his old records, and we would dance. Around and around the room we’d go, often long past the time when little girls ought to be in bed. Sometimes it would be a slow waltz, other times a jig so wild that my bare feet scarcely touched the floor. Sometimes my Papa would laugh, sometimes, he would talk, and sometimes his eyes would get all misty for a second, but then he’d go right back to laughing and talking and smiling and putting on a grand show for his little girl.

As I got a bit older, sometimes he’d talk about Mama. He’d tell me stories about how, when they were younger, they used to dance. That’s usually when his eyes would get misty, when he talked about Mama. I don’t remember her much, but according to Papa she was very pretty, with big blue eyes just like mine. And when they danced, he would twirl her just like so, and then I’d squeal in delight as he picked me up and spun me about. I knew he’d never let go because he told me as much. I was never afraid, not in Papa’s strong arms.

I grew taller and taller, and soon instead of clinging to Papa’s hands, I would rest mine on his shoulders when we danced. We couldn’t do it every night, what with homework and my growing social life, but it was still our special tradition. Boys started taking more interest in me (Papa claimed it was because I was just as pretty as Mama was), and soon Papa was showing me how to do a proper slow dance and lecturing me on what sort of boy to look out for. If they couldn’t dance right, he said, they weren’t worth the effort.

Eventually, I went off to college and started to make a life for myself. I was busy a lot and didn’t make it home much. But still we danced. Every time I did come home, he’d pull out that old record player that had no right even working still, and we’d dance. He’d spin me around the room, and I’d squeal like a little girl when he dipped me real low, and for just a little while, things would be the same.

One day, I came home with a ring on my hand. “Can he dance?” Papa wanted to know. I said yes, and Papa said good, and he gave his blessing. We danced that night, and at my wedding, too. He tapped my husband on the shoulder and asked if he could please have the honor, and we danced. And for the first and last time, I saw my Papa cry.

Our little family grew quickly, and visits with Grandpa were a regular part of the routine. He taught my girls to dance, just like their Mama. He’d tell them about how he would twirl her just so, and they’d squeal in delight as he picked them up and spun them around. I never worried; they were safe in Grandpa’s strong arms. And he taught my Jack how to hold a lady, how to bow to her and kiss her hand and treat her just right. (My Jack’s going to steal some hearts one day, thanks to Grandpa.) And sometimes, before it was time to go, Papa and I would dance. He was tired, I know, but he’d go on laughing and talking and smiling and putting on a grand show for his little girl.

Eventually Papa started getting even more tired, and he only resisted a bit when we suggested the move to a home. He didn’t get much worse for a while, but he didn’t get any better, and soon the dancing had to stop altogether. Not good for him to have so much excitement, they said. We still visited, of course, but it wasn’t the same. One night, though, about a month ago, he called me. He asked a favor of me – he wanted one more dance with his little girl. So I drove over there, and we found an old record player in the nursing home’s storage, and we danced. Not like old times – it was much slower, and I think I held him more than he did me. But it was still the same, really. He was still my Papa, and I was still his little girl, and we were still dancing.

Papa isn’t with us any more – he left last night. But no matter what everyone says, I can’t be sad. They all say that I’m in shock, and that it’ll hit me later, but I know it won’t. I’m not sad because it isn’t sad. Sure, I’ll miss my Papa dearly, and the kids miss their Grandpa, but it’s not forever and I know where he is. He’s in Heaven with Mama, and they’re both fit and happy and dancing like they’ll never stop. They’re twirling around and around, and he’s laughing and talking and smiling for real this time, and he’s picking her up and spinning her and dipping her until she squeals like a little girl, and she’s alive. Alive in Papa’s strong arms.

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Just became a college freshman; be on sparingly

Thank you for the help, Turwaithiel! =)

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C'mon guys! No votes? =(

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I'll vote this weekend- promise! I just haven't had time to sit down and read the entries yet.

I shall honestly try to come back and comment all of them if I get some time. Overall, great work guys. These entries were truly enjoyable to read... and some to reread.

1st - A Dance With Doom
2nd - Heart of Fire
3rd - Untitled
HM - Papa's Strong Arms

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"The piano is able to communicate the subtlest universal truths by means of wood, metal and vibrating air."

Thank you so much for voting FM!! :D It is very much appreciated.

And others should take after you!

VOTE!!

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Great entries, everyone! It was tough voting.

1st - Entrant O
2nd - Entrant R
3rd - Entrant Q
HM - Entrant N

Thank you so much for voting, Elenya! =)

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As it is, only two votes is rather disappointing!

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OK, I just had to finish reading all the entries (awesome job by the way!), but now I am ready to vote

1. A Dance with Doom (loved this one! so unique & creative...made me laugh )
2. Papa's Strong Arms (awww!)
3. The Last Dance
HM: Heart of Fire

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1st - Papa's Strong Arms
2nd - Just One Dance
3rd - Heart of Fire
HM - Untitled

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Thank you so much for voting, Gilraen! =DD

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Hehe you're welcome

But don't forget to thank LDM!

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