Step in the ring and you’ll see a new world. As soon as my toe has passed over the edge, the light changes, and I can hear the music. Movement begins on the periphery of my vision. By the time my foot touches the grass within, the pulse of the beat has overtaken me; my second step happens without conscious effort on my part, I am no longer my own, I am part of the undulating mass of hedonistic joy that surrounds the ring. I could not see it before, but now I see nothing else. I dance. I am away with the fairies.

I’ve taken mushrooms before, but this time the mushrooms have taken me. The beat pounds in a way I’ve always found unbeatable, and I don’t fight at all. The faces around me are not kind, not my kind, not your kind, but they smile and flirt and whisper promises and offers as they whirl past. I cannot step beyond the circle now, I know this, not until the transaction is complete. Until then I must move my feet in circles.

The Lord of the dance looks down on me from his podium, reaches out to me across the vast expanse of revelry, and somehow the distance disappears, and he is in front of me. He appears to be amused by me.

What can I offer you, little man he asks and I am confused for a moment, insulted maybe, but I realise he doesn’t mean my gender he means my genus, from the eyes of another species I suppose there is hardly any difference between us. I do not correct him.

I cannot find my voice to speak and answer his question, and yet I find somehow I am telling him anyway. This is some other form of expression, I tell him of my depression, of my thwarted ambition, of my desire for more than the world that I live in. All of this without moving my lips as I realise now that he didn’t move his; his face remains fixed in a smile I could kiss.

And I do; no handshake for us, this is serious stuff, and a deal must be fixed with an expression of love.

With that we are done, and the music recedes, and I realise it is time that I leave. With my best foot forward I step out of the circle. Back into the harsh light of dawn – which is a surprise, as the sun had just set when I stepped into the circle a moment ago.

Times passes differently there, I suppose.

Metres away the traffic is already cacophonous, and the magical feeling is already fading. A bald young man in a tracksuit sits on a bench nearby, holding a can of cider in a pale hand adorned with faded blue tattoos. I head for the park exit.

The deal is done. All that’s left now is the waiting.

The following two tabs change content below.

• Bio
• Latest Posts

David Wynne

David Wynne is a cartoonist from south east London now living in Hove. He likes loud music and probably drinks more than he should. He tries to be nice. He really does try.

Latest posts by David Wynne (see all)

• Thank You and Goodbye - 30/07/16
• A Walk In The Park - 28/01/16
• 06/12/2015 Image – “Quiet Neighbours” by David Wynne - 06/12/15
• SMILE - 21/11/15
• In the Forest of the High Stones - 31/10/15