Square Dance

This is what happens when nouns and verbs move to pulsing hum of a Hammond organ

Square Dance

He draws a square on the blank page of his journal.
A boundary, a dance floor.
With a leap, he’s in — awkward steps scribbled across the page.
His partner, Ms. Pen, graceful and fluid, glides beside him, compensating for his stumbles.

Soon, verbs, nouns, and all their unruly friends jump in.
They move to the pulsing hum of a Hammond organ,
verbs belting out melodies, nouns anchoring the rhythm.
The caller’s voice rings out — “Doe-si-doe! Promenade!”
Verbs swing their partners with reckless glee, punctuation spinning like spurred boots on polished wood.

But the square breaks,
the rhythm shifts.
A foxtrot now — smooth, sly, slinking into the margins.
The night stretches thin,
the organ’s pulse relentless.

As dawn edges near, the dancers grow wild —
no steps, no rules. Just raw movement.
Dirty dancing with ink and intention.
Until —
a sudden hush.
A final, breathless spin.

Something new lingers in the stillness,
hot and heavy.
Steam rises from the page.

—

Square Dance appears in a forthcoming book, Freeze Dried Flash Fiction, in March. Ken West’s first book of fiction is Fresh Squeezed Flash Fiction.