The Dancing Made Him Sad

Pancakes was making his usual rounds of the parks, watching summer turn to fall. His mother had given him his name not believing that he would survive. He was eight weeks premature and she thought his eyes looked "just as big as pancakes" when she first laid eyes on him. He paused to watch some boys playing football (the kind you actually play with your feet). He allowed himself a lugubrious moment, imagining the childhood he never had.

He sipped his coffee and listened to his head pound. Too many ales the previous evening. The opening band had been a bit odd. The White Russians -- two Belgian guys, one on drums and the other on guitar, wearing red leather trousers and wife-beaters. They seemed to be missing the point. Or were they? It may not have been art, but it certainly wasn't literature.

Music helped him survive; his body drew power from its energy. Listening to wild, angry boys playing guitar was like weight-lifting to him. He could feel the sinews of his muscles tingle with each power chord. But the dancing made him sad; he could only move that way in his head. Staying motivated was important. By keeping active he could almost will the blood to travel through his veins.

Seed words: pancakes, summer, fall, football, coffee, ale, White Russians, art & literature, wild angry boys, weight-lifting, dancing, staying motivated, keeping active