So i wrote this the other day after seeing a picture and wondering what has happening in it. It might be able to go under romance, but at the same time I don't think it fits there. Hahaha, anyway have at it. Oh and the song is, "Fever." Ella Fitzgerald is one of the many people who have sung it.
The Lonely Dancer
The old man slowly shambled into the room. His wooden cane made a dull clicking sound as he shuffled along. His gnarled hands gripped the wood tightly, and he gave a little grunt with every step. As he entered the room, he did his best not to notice the dozens of eyes that were looking his way. They all stared at him, dull, unblinking, as if they knew what he was here for. Maybe they did, but he did his best to push such thoughts from his mind.
He moved purposefully forward and stepped up to an old record player. His wooden cane thumped against the ground as he slowly picked up an old record. He eyed the black disk and with painstaking care raised it to his lips. With a soft breath he blew the dust off of its surface before setting it into place. Raising the arm of the machine, he gently placed it down. The machine clicked and whirred, and in seconds the disk was spinning merrily along. A soft voice began to echo from the speaker, its rich qualities far from perfect as the song began to fill the room.
Never know how much I love you; never know how much I care
A wistful smile passed over the old man’s face. “Oh Ella,” he sighed, “You could always sing it the best.”
For a moment he was lost in the sultry voice, and then he began to feel all the eyes on him. He gently laid his cane against the wall and turned to face the crowd. They didn’t blink or move. Dozens of faces watched, most frozen in an expression that indicated joy or pleasure. Some of the faces were blank, and others indicated no emotion at all. A few of the people didn’t have faces at all, and others were missing limbs. They were intimidating, and the old man had to fight down his rising nerves as he met each pair of eyes.
And there she was. Frozen like the others. Her face was a mask, but her eyes were warm. Long waves of blond hair cascaded down her back, and her gaze was welcoming, even inviting. With careful steps he approached her. He felt shy and tentative, but when she didn’t pull back he moved in. “My lady,” he whispered, “May I have this dance?”
She didn’t answer, nor did she pull away. Taking that as a good sign, he reached down and lifted her off the chair. For a moment it was awkward. It was like two new lovers first engaging in passion, and not sure of what to do. The old man began to regret his decision and even question his choice. Maybe she didn’t want to do this. Had he been too forward?
You give me fever – when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight
The words of the song were like an invitation, and he rose to the occasion. He pulled her in closer, and their hands locked together. She began to follow him, and their movements slowly synched together. This was it. What he had been looking for! A dance to make everything else fade away. He felt his passion begin to stir, and for a moment there was bliss.
Romeo loved Juliet, Juliet she felt the same
Did she love him? As the old man gazed into those unblinking eyes, he couldn’t help but feel some sort of passion. Her gaze never left him, and as they flowed across the floor she moved in closer. The hard contours of her body pressed against him, and a longing he had not felt in ages began to stir. She could be his Juliet, and he would be her Romeo. A love forbidden and not accepted by the world, but a love stronger then the ties that held them to this earth.
Give me fever – with his kisses, fever when he holds me tight
Ella’s smooth voice echoed through the room, and the old man imagined she was singing just for them. All eyes watched, and no one made a sound. They couldn’t, but even if they could he knew they wouldn’t have. This was pure. Untainted passion. With a smile he twirled his partner around, and as she spun back he caught her with ease and held her closer. It had been so long since he had been with a woman, and even though this one’s gaze was hard and unyielding, it still stirred within him the fire of his youth. The two of them began to waltz around the room. Each step was smooth and sure as she followed him without hesitation, and he began to burn for her.
It still wasn’t enough. He wanted to experience that feeling once again. He yearned for the high you get when true passion takes over. His breath would come out short and shallow, and she would give him a teasing smile before leading him off. He wanted to experience an embrace that melted the two of them together, or a kiss which lasted the whole night.
They give you fever – when you kiss them, fever if you live and learn
He wanted to kiss her. Damn to all those watching, it wasn’t like they could stop him. What would they say, and who would they tell? They could whisper to each other, but their frozen words would go unheard. He wanted to feel that passion, and he wanted her to feel it too. He slowly leaned forward and his hand slid down her back, pulling her into him. Her head tilted back, and for a moment he thought she was inviting him to partake. He allowed her to bend down, and as he moved in he paused to look at her face one more time.
She wasn’t smiling, and no joy sparkled in those eyes. They were dead to the world, and he knew she wouldn’t care. With a tired sigh he slowly took the mannequin back to her chair and set her gently down. His hand moved up to readjust the blonde wig that had begun to slip. The other dolls and mannequins in the room didn’t move. Maybe they didn’t care. Maybe they didn’t burn like he did.
He grabbed his cane from the wall and moved to shut off the record player, but paused as Ella’s last words drifted through the air.
What a lovely way to burn
What a lovely way to burn
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The picture I wrote this off of was an old man standing in a room of mannequins. I was like, "I wonder what is going on here..." and thus the story! :p
From the middle to the end, I feel like you were trying to hard to get your point across that he wanted to feel "passion." It almost seemed like you were saying the same thing repeatedly, just in slightly different ways. Look at what you have, and decide what you're really trying to say. Then think about how you could convey that to the reader through emotions and actions rather than narration.
