The last dance at the end of the world
by Kenny Wilson
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: Bleak.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Bleak.
The wind blows. The poisoned air had slowly, but inevitably reached us. There will be no nuclear winter, just a tomorrow without us. Our world gone.
It’s in the beat. When will it stop? I am Gail. I am 19 years old and I am dying. We all die tonight.
I come back out the bushes, not even looking where I step. The vomit is everywhere now. Have we reached the point of silence? Should there be silence? The music, the beat says no. The DJ consul is empty, the DJs are probably finished now, lying somewhere being sick, maybe already unconscious or dead, the last DJ leaving the music on a loop. A soundtrack for the end of the world. No one is dancing now. Some will still be here, in the darkness hugging, grasping each other for dear life, as that very life drains from them. How many children have been conceived tonight between bouts of sickness? No one will make the reckoning because no one will be left. I fall to my knees as another nausea wave crashes into me. I hold on. I will not be swept away like that! I stagger back onto my feet, staggering across what was the dance area. Then I see someone, a guy, a stranger. He is like me; the evidence is on his T shirt. We somehow meet in the middle. I turn to be sick as he asks, slurs, “Wanna dance?’’ Will it be the last dance? The last dance in the world. I nod and we grip each other just to stay standing. We sway but hardly move. I notice some fairy lights flickering in the breeze, they remind of childhood Christmases, when will they dim? When will the light finally fade? Then his weight gets too much, I let him go and he silently slithers to the ground. I am sick again and this time it splutters over him. I guess he won’t notice now. I look up to the stars, does some life, someone, somewhere up there see me? There is no one but me here now, then I re-consider, maybe all around there might be others thinking the same. However the art of dying has to be a lonely act regardless of the location or the stage. I sit down. I shall just wait my turn. I hope the last song I hear is a good one. What will be the final song, the final dedication to the world? I close my eyes as another tidal wave hits me. This one will probably sweep me away.
♫ Did I dream you dreamed about me?
Were you the hare when I was fox?
Now my foolish boat is leaning
Broken lovelorn on your rocks,
For you sing, “Touch me not, touch me not, come back tomorrow:
O my heart, O my heart shies from the sorrow” ♫
– Song to the Siren, Tim Buckley, Larry Beckett
It’s in the beat. When will it stop? I am Gail. I am 19 years old and I am dying. We all die tonight.
I come back out the bushes, not even looking where I step. The vomit is everywhere now. Have we reached the point of silence? Should there be silence? The music, the beat says no. The DJ consul is empty, the DJs are probably finished now, lying somewhere being sick, maybe already unconscious or dead, the last DJ leaving the music on a loop. A soundtrack for the end of the world. No one is dancing now. Some will still be here, in the darkness hugging, grasping each other for dear life, as that very life drains from them. How many children have been conceived tonight between bouts of sickness? No one will make the reckoning because no one will be left. I fall to my knees as another nausea wave crashes into me. I hold on. I will not be swept away like that! I stagger back onto my feet, staggering across what was the dance area. Then I see someone, a guy, a stranger. He is like me; the evidence is on his T shirt. We somehow meet in the middle. I turn to be sick as he asks, slurs, “Wanna dance?’’ Will it be the last dance? The last dance in the world. I nod and we grip each other just to stay standing. We sway but hardly move. I notice some fairy lights flickering in the breeze, they remind of childhood Christmases, when will they dim? When will the light finally fade? Then his weight gets too much, I let him go and he silently slithers to the ground. I am sick again and this time it splutters over him. I guess he won’t notice now. I look up to the stars, does some life, someone, somewhere up there see me? There is no one but me here now, then I re-consider, maybe all around there might be others thinking the same. However the art of dying has to be a lonely act regardless of the location or the stage. I sit down. I shall just wait my turn. I hope the last song I hear is a good one. What will be the final song, the final dedication to the world? I close my eyes as another tidal wave hits me. This one will probably sweep me away.
♫ Did I dream you dreamed about me?
Were you the hare when I was fox?
Now my foolish boat is leaning
Broken lovelorn on your rocks,
For you sing, “Touch me not, touch me not, come back tomorrow:
O my heart, O my heart shies from the sorrow” ♫
– Song to the Siren, Tim Buckley, Larry Beckett
About the Author
Kenny Wilson was born and raised in Edinburgh’s Southside. Now in his sixtieth year, he describes himself as a writer, a dreamer and lucky.