Let Us Dance (Light Horror) By Paul H. Kogel
Monday, January 28, 2008
Rated "G" by the Author.
This story was entered into a contest. We were to write on a certain "subject" (I cannot state it here for the obvious reason that then you would know) but we were not allowed to include a whole list of given words that one would normally find in such a story. We were to do this and still get the point (the subject) across to the reader. It was a wonderful little exercise. "Let Us Dance" won first prize. So, what do you think? Did I make the subject clear in this story? Let me know what you think.
Let Us Dance
by Paul H. Kogel
I’ve been here before—in this very room. I somehow know it, and I know that you’re here with me. The darkness fills the room so completely that I cannot see you, but only hear and feel and…smell. I think that it is the acrid odor that calls my memory back to this place. It holds within its pungent grip, recollections of days when time crawled ever so slowly and space was an endless stretch of delightful and outrageous possibilities. Back to a time when I placed special importance on things that today seem meaningless and void of hope.
I remember the nights the most, for hollow and empty were the days. The uneasy slumbering in daylight hours holds no happy memories, but only deep and overwhelming regret for so much time wasted. But those things passed when the night’s shadowy blanket pulled up tightly to wrap itself around my blackened soul. It was then that my spirit would soar, then when my life had meaning and purpose. It was then when I played in the light of the moon and stars and danced with the fog on the moors just outside and beyond the yard. Yes, I have vivid memories of the nights and will always cherish them.
Come; let us see if the yard has changed, or if it remains as I remember it. I think the door is over here. Yes, here it is. I can feel the warmth of the iron in the bars on my soul. It was these self-same bars, and these chains, that protected me by day but could not hold me by night. Come; they can surely not hold us now.
Ah, yes. In the light of the moon I can see. I can see the lovely and unholy yard and—you. If only I could hold you again. Touch your flesh and kiss your lips. I would give anything to breathe in your sweet fragrance, feel your soft hair and with you, run and hunt. Oh…to slip the posts of the village by night and feel once more the exhilarating thrills of the hunt. Ah, yes—you are right. I mustn’t work myself up over such things. It is true . There are memories enough to satisfy the hunger of things that cannot be. Just here for example; look at this broken stone. See how it leans to one side as if its age has caused it to wane in time's endless grasp. It looks as if it would like to lie down and rest with he who sleeps below. And it shall one day—it shall. Do you see the name etched so shallow upon its face as if the mason had hoped for the wind and rain to make short work of his efforts. Clayton Page it says. He was one of my first; see there where it is written, 1846–83. He was young, but the poor soul did not listen to me, and the hunter caught him outside at dawn. Not much left of him here; bones are all. And what plans I had for him. I still remember the thunder that pierced the dawn and shook the very walls of my crypt. Fierce was the hunter and terrible was his blow. But he died well enough when I saw him in the night.
He died and lies just here beside my fallen apprentice. His stone is black; I saw to that. Any lightness would belie his nature, as I saw it. Even the town’s denizens felt that way. Their church denounced him in the end. Buried him here in unhallowed ground; befitting if you ask me. He desired my lovely…ah, excuse me my love. You are my last love—she was my first.
She lies over here by the wall. See there? Her stone is white and smooth. Susana DeFora, 1848–91. Hah! The fools never knew her true date of birth. She was nearly two centuries old. She lived a good life. Oh, how she loved to hunt. And dance—my, how she made the fog swirl.
Look there, my love; yonder in the moor. See the fog? See how thick it lies o’er the pools so low and full? I love the fog, love to make it dance. And you, oh how you can move—like no one could hope to match. Come with me now, down to the moor. Let us dance and sing under the moon and stars. Let us dance until dawn, slip the bonds of the ethereal and then once again, steal back into the comforting arms of darkness.
Come! Come, let us dance…
Kogel was born in Canton, Ohio where he grew up intrigued with the arts, reading and writing. Then, the fantasy genre was his point of interest, now it is his passion. He is the proud father of two boys and resides in Central Florida with is lovely wife Marlena. Drawing on influences such as J.R.R. Tolkien, Neil Hancock and John Marco, Kogel has completed the next chapter in The Dylarian Chronicles called "The Mage of Dylar". He is currently working on the first book, “The Child of Promise” in his next fantasy series called “The Crystal Serpent”.For a sample of Kogel’s writing style, visit his short works, which are available now in Amazon.com’s short story program or visit him on line at: www.paulkogel.com
Also read these other best selling short stories by Paul H. Kogel:
This Dreadful Deed The billowing low-lying fog hid the cold stone steps from my view, but I instinctively knew they were there, leading down into the bowels of the earth. This story will remind you of the old black and white horror films.
Werewolf Made The transformation is a messy one, wrought with agony. Froth drips from my fangs, coating my chin and chest like ocean foam. A man is changed into a werewolf by a machine called ‘Crane’s Bell’.
Creation of the Gad Fly Of all the creatures that have entered Kur, few have ever returned. But none of them return unchanged, and so it was with the two agents of the Lord of Wisdom. This story was inspired by the fascinating myth of Inanna.
The Ancients So it came to pass that the Sleeper awakened. He saw the handy-work of His dream and smiled, for He was greatly pleased. Though I am a Christian, I made up this Myth story of creation as it happened in my otherwise sick little mind so that it was in keeping with my other mythology “The Creation of the Gad Fly”.
Double Cross Richey was good, very good, but you could never be good enough to thwart the inevitable once the Don’s finger pointed your way. A man had signed an agreement with the Don of a New York syndicate crime family to fulfill his recently killed father’s obligation to the family of six more years of contract killings. Now, that obligation is fulfilled. He is released and moves to Miami to be with his fiancé. Unfortunately, things often do not go according to plan. He is tricked and pulled back in for one last job. He finishes that job in a most unusual way. The twist (the mystery) is not revealed until the very last line of the story. It has a very wild twist that most readers won’t see coming.