(no subject)
Want to read the first paragraph of my ***NEW*** book? My teacher, the head of the English department, told me to work on publishing. So I'm throwing my hat back into the ring. Taste and see...
That song was playing in his head as the street rushed to greet his face that balmy afternoon. “Boys and girls! They dance like it’s the end of the world. Boys and girls! They dance, dance, dance, oh-oh.” And he had. He had danced an updated waltz to this raucous tune. Trent wasn’t the only one who did the sweeping dashes and elbow thrusts to “Boys and Girls.” But he was the first to do it as a finale. It had been atop SC Johnson building, trying to get the sound out of his head. He thought the rushing wind would wipe it from his mind. Or maybe the startling heights. But once he was up 30 stories in Seattle, the only change was his altitude. He paced for a minute, curbing his desires to thrash to the intoxicating melody of Kill Hannah’s sound. And it was failure that he felt when his legs begin to bow in awkward angles, straightened knees fighting dancing. He succumbed, and as soon as he was in the midst of it, he felt no remorse. Trent went faster and faster, in circles on the rooftop. Passing the aluminum chimneys and the cooling fans with his wide arcs, he began bordering the edges of the building. And then, just as he was edging the guardrail with the backs of his calves, he stopped. Trent faced the open sky, then looked straight into the horizon. The music was calling him to dance in the open air, to let his feet be unbound by mortal rules. He ran for the edge, hopped it in a bound, and danced his rocker’s waltz all the way to the ground he so desperately wanted to leave behind.
That song was playing in his head as the street rushed to greet his face that balmy afternoon. “Boys and girls! They dance like it’s the end of the world. Boys and girls! They dance, dance, dance, oh-oh.” And he had. He had danced an updated waltz to this raucous tune. Trent wasn’t the only one who did the sweeping dashes and elbow thrusts to “Boys and Girls.” But he was the first to do it as a finale. It had been atop SC Johnson building, trying to get the sound out of his head. He thought the rushing wind would wipe it from his mind. Or maybe the startling heights. But once he was up 30 stories in Seattle, the only change was his altitude. He paced for a minute, curbing his desires to thrash to the intoxicating melody of Kill Hannah’s sound. And it was failure that he felt when his legs begin to bow in awkward angles, straightened knees fighting dancing. He succumbed, and as soon as he was in the midst of it, he felt no remorse. Trent went faster and faster, in circles on the rooftop. Passing the aluminum chimneys and the cooling fans with his wide arcs, he began bordering the edges of the building. And then, just as he was edging the guardrail with the backs of his calves, he stopped. Trent faced the open sky, then looked straight into the horizon. The music was calling him to dance in the open air, to let his feet be unbound by mortal rules. He ran for the edge, hopped it in a bound, and danced his rocker’s waltz all the way to the ground he so desperately wanted to leave behind.