A chorus of voices, unseen, rose around us. From the shadows between the trees, and beyond in the open field, and beyond that, they echoed through the deep summer twilight.
I spun, searching for the singers. The pale fellow still leaned on the handlebars of the white bicycle, wrists crossed, no longer smiling. He watched me turning in slow circles like a broken musicbox ballerina.
"You said it yourself," his deep voice startled me. "The end, the death of your story."
I studied his face. Pale. His bicycle. White. I backed away.
"You're the last...the last Horseman...this is the end of the apocalypse...you're Death."
He nodded. "I'm here for your story. When the song ends, you'll see what my teeth are for. I have something else for you."
"What is this that I can't see
with ice cold hands takin' hold of me..."
The singing voices still floated through the trees. "This's the end of the story, not the end of you," he said, seeing my stricken face. "Not your time."
"Why the hell do you get to say my story is over?" I demanded.
He shrugged. "That's a mortal mystery. And simple as pie to me. Here." He flicked a finger at my feet. Brown suede boots wrapped them, laced up nearly to my knees. "Time to go. Want a new dress?" A slice of pie on a plate appeared in my hand, for good measure, accompanied by a fork. He was about to flick his magic fingers again.
"Hold it. I'll keep this one."
"Suit yourself. Best get going though. The song is short. And my teeth are...sharp."
"When God is gone and the Devil takes hold
who'll have mercy on your soul?"
The voices reverberated. The song was nearly finished.
I look ahead at this long road before me.
Trials and tribulations that wait to be conquered.
Moments of glory and mirth that lie just out of reach.
A future, wild and untamed.
The road is foggy; my sight only goes so far.
(more) My hands ache for solidity, certainty.
Sounds of familiar winds and wakes, once close, are now faint and distant.
But four eyes are better than two.
Our fingers intertwine.
Your heartbeat becomes mine.
This road is not as treacherous as it seems.
A spark. A motion. An idea. Tender moments and extreme circumstances. A push, a pull, don't let go now.
The flame rises like a snake along the line of gunpowder. A desire. A passion. No time to waste, just act, just sing, just write, just play. Letting the(more) motion of the dance lead you. The train of thought should not stop at a mere glass wall, but shatter it and keep plowing through.
A glance, and a smile. Another line, and another note on the black and white keys. Another word, another place, another world. Don't stop now. Don't stop now.
This passion. This momentum. This burning need to keep moving on has been what keeps us going all our lives. Uneasy, stumbling starts, but now ready to blow like a cannon.
The wick on the candle is ablaze. Best not to control it, for the flame doesn't last long.
A kiss, the movements between us that keep us within each others arms. Hand in hand. Face to face. Instincts, so blind, but ones that keep us together.
Graceful sweeps across a dance floor. A glide across the room to put my arms around you. Another smile, and a laugh. This burning need...
Keep pushing forward. The future holds nothing that we can't handle.