Inkling | rejected & unpublished short stories

Middle of Foxtrot

She curtsied and he bowed, but none of them could leave after the dance.

She had to leave.

They could dance as long as they wanted but the night was not to stay forever. It was as present as a background but distinctive enough to make her choke on her own saliva. Her dress swept the ground but it never lagged her dance moves. The more she danced, the guiltier she felt. It was logical, the more time spent in the glorious ballroom, the more attached she grew to the ball, to the prince with one hand on her waist.

"If I don't go back, a war will break."

He swung her around, eyebrows furrowed. She landed lithely on the floor two seconds later.

"What do you mean?" he asked, contorting a confused expression as he demanded for an elaboration.

"The villagers are attacking the city. They're lighting up hays and sharpening gardening tools. Massive slaughter is going to happen."

"But, why?" they kept dancing but their pace slowed. She could not help but continue the dance even though what she just blurted out had casted a crawling mist in the ballroom. The prince was still puzzled, piecing what the damsel says with the lively band music was a hard task. They were on their toes, literally and idiomatically.

The words spilled out of her like rubber from a tapped tree, "They're heading for the city. They're going to take down every lamppost causing the stars to be less visible. Chop them down like trees, they say, they want the sky to be as dark and clear as it used to be."

"I'm sorry, but what's your role in stopping all this?" the prince asked, leading them to the edge of the ballroom, still lingering on the foxtrot steps. Their shoes bumped with each other more than before, signaling the focus they misplaced. "And what city?"

"Our city!" she exclaimed, drawing back to hunched shoulders when she realized how loud she bellowed, "I'm sorry, I'm not supposed to be here."

"What's your role?" he repeated the question, curiosity making his voice raise a notch higher.

"I'm not supposed to dance with you."

Noting that direct questions could not bring out answers, the prince attempted another angle as he twirled the damsel on her feet, "Do the villagers hate me?"

Their dance moves slackened as the prince failed to catch one of the damsel's slow, slow, quick, quick pace, causing her to trip on the slippery tiles. Eyes darted their gaze towards them and the chandelier felt lower than its position.

"No," she whispered, "It's not about hate."

It made him angered a little, a mixture of not knowing and having his dance crumble.

"The war is coming," she said, "I shouldn't be dancing with you."

"I hate it when this happens," he uttered, running a hand down his face, the same hand consistently holding her waist along the dance a few minutes ago. It was safe to say that they had stopped dancing. "Let's do this. I won't dance with you for a few hours. Then see how it goes."

She gulped, decided that it was for the best. The prince in blue let her go although he had no idea what war she was fighting or halting. And the fact that no matter how good she was at the dance, she was still a ballerina and not a foxtrotter.

She curtsied and he bowed. She left the ball in the middle of a foxtrot.

Author's Notes:

Clue: the dance is the metaphorical form of conversations.