Heatwave and Dance
by Myra King
Heatwave, many called him by other things, none of them complimentary, was dragging his heels, threatening to take the week-day-forecast into the centuries.
Dance yearned to kick up her heels, but her art was tied. Her other name was Cancan and she certainly Couldcould, if some body would, but she had been wandering lost, Out Of Vogue, since the twenties.
Moulin Rouge still danced pale facsimiles of her, a dozen mirrored versions, thin on passion but full on breasts. Rond de Jambe and Battement.
She was rhythm and rhyme. Steps echoing on wooden dusted floors. Loved and lovers watching. Faces and hearts warmed and warming.
He was uneven depressions, thunderstorms, flashes of lightning bothering up the fires from embers, into the cast of Destruction.
Heatwave and Dance. Born of energy, spent and spending. One driven by wind and sun, the other by dreams and passion.
Vibrations mixed and mingled until Dance took the feet of a young girl, sent her swirled and swirling like the gathering of storm clouds. This girl and Dance. Together they joined forces with something stronger than weather. Then the rain came, soft as angels' wings and babies' breath and Heatwave was no more.
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Myra King lives in Australia with her husband, David, and rescue greyhound, Sparky.
Among many other literary journals, her work has been published in San Pedro River Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Every Day Fiction and Eclectic Flash.
She has won the UK Global, the US Moon Prize and come second in the UK Cambridge short story competition. Myra has also been shortlisted for the US Glass Woman Prize and the Scarlet Stiletto Award.