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     The Non-stop Dancer

       Scott Andrews / Humor
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The Non-stop Dancer
Copyright © 2016 by Scott Andrews
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the writer except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
However you are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form.

In the beginning...

The light fantastic swayed before him, pulling him closer, like a semi-drunk date at a high school dance. He raised his arms to the ceiling and closed his eyes. The rhythm held him, and shook him to the core, a tsunami of life, a margarita of triumph, riding a wave of consciousness to the steady shores of understanding.
The colours danced before his very eyes, twisting and spinning, and turning and groaning, like a kaleidoscopic yogi dead set on impressing a much younger student. His legs, legs that resembled chicken drumsticks upon closer inspection, moved on their own, an entity separate from the motors that drove him. The arms that flailed before him, drew celestial shapes in front of him.
The dancer was no longer mortal, no long human, he had transposed, he had reached a new level, he was electric. He plucked items from the imagination of the carbon dioxide that surrounded him as his heart pumped a heady rhythm. There were big fish, there were little fish, there were cardboard boxes. It was the sermon on the mount, and he was Jesus, he was hope, the light and our salvation.
And the Lord said ‘let there be light’ and there was.

0 Hour

At what moment do we humans begin to exist? At the moment we are set forth, freed from the testes of our fathers on our suicide mission to the giant eggs of doom, precisely what runs through our minds? As our tails beat out in desperation through the canals of our mother’s interior are we conscious of the consequences of not coming first?
It has been said by significantly wiser men than me, that we are from the moment our consciousness is awoken. It has not been said by anyone even stupider than I, that what if our consciousness is inborn but our memories are defective? What if babies, who spend nine months with little else to do than pontificate upon
the nature of the universe have gotten it all figured out? What if after nine months in the prison of the womb, babies have figured our life, death, the universe and everything, and the sole reason why they cry and then do not speak in any comprehensible manner for a number of years is a direct consequence of knowing that life itself is at heart fucking awful. If the consciousness of self does not exist in the tiniest members of our society then there would be no learning in this god awful universe.
The building that gave birth to the Non-stop Dancer was housed in a rundown town centre in Little England. It was the kind of town that was built with all the ideals of a post-war socialistic paradise. The local facilities, most of which had long closed down, had originally been calculated per head of the population. It was meant to have been a green paradise. A place where the displaced from war could start afresh, like the pioneers heading out to an extremely drab, wet and not particularly wild west. In reality, most of these families had moved onwards to better places. It had become an overspill zone for the big cities, bringing with it big city problems to a small town with a short memory. Practically the only resource that had survived the extremities of modernisation were the roundabouts. They were like gremlins, they should never be fed after midnight, never gotten wet, and most importantly of all, on no account ever should a local business be allowed to sponsor them or they breed like fleas on a wild dog.
When the Non-stop Dancer stepped out into the light the first thing he did was squint. It was not a particularly bright day, as in England it never is. It was the drab morning grey of misery with a teaspoon of regret. And yet the pull, the magnetic attraction of compulsion, the indescribable agent of so much doom and disaster was omnipresent. The reason he knew that everything was about to change was due to the most conclusive of scientific evidence known to man, he could feel it in his loins.

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