Dance Me to the End of Time by Catherine Cavendish

I ran this beautiful story by Cat Cavendish one year ago, and present it for your bittersweet pleasure again.

Dance Me To The End Of Time

by

Catherine Cavendish

            I’ve always loved Christmas. The tree, tinsel and a roaring fire… Candles flickering and the sound of carollers striving to hit the top register in “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.”

This year’s no different. Of course, there’s no roaring fire anymore. That’s been replaced with one of those living flame gas affairs. Quite nice, but you never could beat the real thing.

“Penny for them.” My husband, Charles, interrupts my reverie.

Cat Cavendish

“Oh, nothing. I was just musing and remembering Christmases past.” I smile at him.

He adjusts his tie and smoothes his glossy black hair, all gestures I have seen him perform countless times. “Do you think it will snow this year?” he asks, studying his reflection in the mirror.

I turn to look out of the window. “It’s too dark to tell, but it looks damp out there. It must have been raining earlier.”

“I didn’t notice,” Charles says, “but then I suppose I wouldn’t, would I?” He smiles at me and takes my hand, brushing it against his lips. Then I catch him examining my dress.

“Something wrong?” I ask and instinctively look down at my white, floor-length gown. I see some creases in the silk which I attempt to smooth away.

“That’s better. It was just a little wrinkled.”

“Hardly surprising,” I say. “It only gets an outing once a year.”

We laugh, and Charles strokes away a long, dark brown lock of hair which has escaped my elaborate coiffure and has wandered across my cheek.

“Shall we dance, Emily?” he asks.

“Certainly, Charles, it will be my pleasure.”

We waltz to a phantom orchestra. In my head I can hear the strains of the Blue Danube, and I am transported back to another time and place. I can see a young girl and her young man, their eyes locked in an embrace as they swirl around a ballroom in Vienna while a conductor, violin in hand, steers the orchestra through his latest composition.

“I miss the scent of roasting chestnuts,” I tell Charles.

His mouth widens in a grin. “But can’t you smell them, Emily?  Concentrate really hard.”

I close my eyes and let him lead me round and round as the music grows louder, and now I can smell them. Chestnuts, little fried potatoes and the warming aroma of cinnamon from the Glühwein.  I can hear the bells of St Stephen’s Cathedral and feel the chill of the night air on my cheek. Little flecks of snow are falling onto my face, and my feet crunch on the icy ground.

Charles is waltzing me faster and faster. And now I can hear the voices.  The orchestra has faded and a choir is singing in German: “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht…”

“Oh Charles–”

“No, Emily, don’t open your eyes.”

I obey. “Don’t let it stop, Charles, please don’t let it stop,” I cry, “Not this time. Not this year.”

“Dance with me, Emily. Dance with me.”

The choir has faded, and the orchestra builds to a crescendo. I know if I open my eyes, I will see the wild black hair of the conductor, falling over his eyes as his violin bow slashes through the air.

But I mustn’t open my eyes.  Charles told me not to.

“Oh Emily, Emily,” Charles says, “Let us never lose this moment.  Never.”

“Never, Charles.”

And then I open my eyes.

“No, Emily, no!” Charles’ agonized face is before me. But the moment has passed.

The orchestra is silent. There are no roasting chestnuts, no carol singers, no hot spiced wine.

Vienna has gone.

“Oh Emily, you did it again. Just like last year. Just like every year.”

I am crestfallen. He takes my face in his hands. He kisses my lips, and I close my eyes again, trying to recapture the dream. But it’s too late.

“Never mind, my love, there’s always next year.”

“As long as we’re still here,” I say, my old fears returning.

“I expect we will be. They seem to like us well enough.”

From the hallway, I hear the unmistakable sound of a key in the lock. It’s time.

“Come, my love. We must return.” Charles once again takes my hand and together we gaze at the empty picture above the mantelpiece.

“Until next year and the magic returns,” he whispers.

“Until next year. Happy Christmas, Charles.”

“Happy Christmas, Emily.”

The door opens and a young couple wanders in, each holding a glass of red wine. They are both dressed smartly, she in a navy suit, he in dark grey. She has short blond hair, and his is dark. They look very modern to me.

The woman’s gaze is drawn to the painting. “I’ve always loved that picture.” She sighs, raising her glass to her lips and taking a sip.

“That’s why I bought it for you,” the man says and nuzzles her neck.

“Dance Me to the End of Time,” she murmurs. “Such an evocative title. And it really looks as if that’s what they’re doing, doesn’t it? You feel they could just step out of that frame and glide around the room.”

Her husband laughs. “You and your imagination.”

The woman moves toward the fireplace and is peering closer. “There it is again.  The damnedest thing!”

“What?” he asks.

“I noticed it last year, but only on Christmas Eve, and it’s happened again this year. Look at her eyes.”

The man does as he is bid.

“Can you see it? There at the corner of her eye. A tear. It looks as if it’s just about to spill down her cheek, but I bet you it won’t be there in the morning.”

The man laughs. “You’re imagining it. Too much wine at dinner.”

“Say what you like. I know what I saw.” She steps back.

She’s right, of course.  It’s the tear I cannot cry every Christmas when the magic ends.

            And we are frozen here in time and space.

Catherine Cavendish writes Paranormal Fiction. Her Paranormal/Horror novella, ‘Cold Revenge’ is out now, published by Etopia Press and is available from:

Amazon.co.uk Amazon.com

OmniLit

Barnes and Noble

You can find out more about Catherine on her website: www.CatherineCavendish.com

Or by following her on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/CatherineCavendish

Goodreads www.goodreads.com as Catherine Cavendish

Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/cat_cavendish

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Sue Swift/Suz deMello

Best-selling, award-winning author Suz deMello, a.k.a Sue Swift, has written over sixteen romance novels in several subgenres, including erotica, comedy, historical, paranormal, mystery and suspense, plus a number of short stories and non-fiction articles on writing. A freelance editor, she’s worked for Total-E-Bound, Ai Press, and Liquid Silver Books. She also takes private clients.

Her books have been favorably reviewed in Publishers Weekly, Kirkus and Booklist, won a contest or two, attained the finals of the RITA and hit several bestseller lists.

A former trial attorney, her passion is world travel. She’s left the US over a dozen times, including lengthy stints working overseas. She’s now writing a vampire tale and planning her next trip.
Find her books at http://www.suzdemello.com

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Check out Master Nick’s blog: Flesh-Hungry Fiction for Ravenous Readers

Flesh-Hungry Fiction for Ravenous Readers.

There’s a shout-out from my friend Master Nick for me. Thanks, Nick!

Reblogged: Succubus in Trouble – Zombies on the Rise

Succubus in Trouble – Zombies on the Rise.

Things That Matter: Introducing novelist Jeff Gephart

I met the very talented and witty Jeff at the meetings of a local book group, where he keeps us in stitches every month with his clever, funny comments. He published his first novel, The Second Life, in 2006, and was writer/actor in a comedy sketch show that ran for three seasons on cable markets in the eastern and midwestern USA. He’s also worked as a graphic designer and a teacher.

His latest book is Out of Dark Places. Here’s what it’s about:

Writer Jeff Gephart

For Lukas Willow, the only fate worse than death… is life.

Lukas was once a musical prodigy, but his life took a vastly different turn when he discovered that he possessed unexplainable clairvoyant powers.  Haunted by troubling visions, he has become an alcoholic recluse, his life suspended in a stagnant state of paranoia and self pity.  When the mysterious Katie Reiker, a beautiful but emotionally scarred young woman, shows up on his doorstep, an unconventional relationship begins to develop that might just save them both.  Time is running out, however.  An impending natural disaster that only Lukas knows about forces him to make a difficult decision that will affect the lives and futures of everyone in his town.

This poignant and captivating novel about the importance of making connections explores the paradoxes of finding hope, forgiveness, and redemption, even when faced with the fatal condition of being human.

And here’s an excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

It’s 4:56 in the rain.

Any other day, any other kind of weather, and it’s just a few minutes before five.  Almost happy hour.  But 4:56 in the rain is different.  Nothing good happens in the rain.

Perhaps she’s not coming, Lukas thinks to himself.  Staring through the thick windowpane as the rain cascades over it in billowy sheets is like watching the world from behind a waterfall.  Not as magical, but just as isolating.

Lukas’s eyes drift toward a particular patch of soggy grass close to the house in the backyard.  The waterfall effect makes it difficult to judge distance, but Lukas knows the spot well.  He wonders if archaeologists a few generations from now will dig up that spot and unearth tiny pieces of antiquated stereo components, put them on display in a museum somewhere, and marvel at the primitive way in which twentieth century humans lived their trifling lives.

Lukas Willow’s footsteps, ordinarily loud against the ancient oak hardwood floor, have trouble competing against the nearby sound of water raging through the tin gutters as he makes his way across the unlit parlor.  The furnishings are sparse.  A coffee table with a deep brown finish centers the symmetrical layout of the room, and it matches the end tables on either side of a dilapidated maroon sofa.  All three surfaces are barren, covered only by faint stains which have alternately darkened and lightened scores of small circles and half-circles onto the wooden surfaces.  The room smells as quiet as it looks.  Cold, like the rest of the house.  Lukas sets a wet glass down on the left end table and creates another dark circle.  He grabs the Glenfiddich and drains the last drops of liquid from the bottle into his glass.  Placing the empty bottle gingerly into a wastebasket near his feet, he stoops to look for ice cubes in the adjacent mini freezer.  This freezer should sit higher, on top of something, he thinks.  Knees don’t bend like they used to.

A sudden tapping rattles the glass part of the front door.  Lukas is undeterred by the interruption; his ice cubes are frozen together into one misshapen conglomeration.  Scanning his dusty surroundings, he retrieves a brass letter opener from a nearby countertop and chips off a few chunks of ice.

Again the knocking, louder this time, almost urgent.  He scoops the ice gently into his glass, making sure not to spill, and uses the letter opener to stir.  Wearily, he straightens his legs and ambles toward the front door.

Katherine Reiker looks older than twenty-one.  Her hair, when not soaked and matted to her head, is probably the same dark brown color as her upturned eyebrows.  Her narrow, wiry shoulders are shivering.  “Mr. Willow?” she asks, but Lukas has already turned and started walking back inside.  She follows.  “I’m Katie,” she says, pausing just inside the door to shake off some of the excess wetness.  “I’m sorry I’m so late.”

Even drenched, she’s pretty.  It’s so easy for twenty-one-year-old girls to be pretty.  Late Katie.  “I have a doorbell,” Lukas says.

Out of Dark Places

“I’m sorry,” she says.  And it sounds like she really is.  Lukas feels a stab of uneasiness.  That didn’t come out right.

“I have somewhere to be, but you can take a quick look to get an idea of the place if you’d like,” Lukas says, still listening to the rain.  This isn’t the sort of rain that just happens to fall; it is hurtling toward the earth, determined, as if each drop has its own vital mission to accomplish upon landing.  If nothing else, he likes the sound of serious rain; it goes well with Scotch.

“That’d be great,” Katie says, and a lopsided smile stretches across her face that almost mutes the rain.

Lukas turns and crosses the stone floor of the alcove toward the staircase, passing by a two-level bookshelf built into the wall that displays only two identical layers of dust.  Although the uneven wooden stairs look like relics, they register barely an audible creak as Katie follows him up.  The clacking of her clogs against the rigid wood, however, is deafening.  At the top of the stairs, Lukas pauses outside the door, motioning for Katie to go inside.  The walk up the stairs has left him lightheaded.  Too many drinks, possibly.  Too few trips to this part of the house, probably.  Not enough drinks…definitely.

The girl steps lightly into the old apartment-style room and looks around, as if silently assessing its livability.  The doorframe is low, and Lukas would have to slouch his lanky frame to pass under it, but he stays just outside, on the landing.  He has no interest in the old room; he knows it well.  It hasn’t changed much since he’d rented it as a student, long before he bought the house.  Not much has been added.  A few items have been removed.  But everything has changed.

“I was excited to see your ad,” Katie says, her slender fingers delicately examining a discolored pine desk in the corner.  The room is a humble space, with a slanted ceiling and a lone window shrouded by a dusty film that suggests it hasn’t been disturbed in years.  A twin-sized bed, lumpy and thin, sits on cinderblock supports across from the desk, and has been covered by boxes and warped stacks of papers, bundled with roughly tied twine.  Lukas had mentioned over the phone that he had been using the room primarily for storage, and had promised to clean it out, but he hadn’t yet gotten around to it.  Standing in the doorway, Katie shrugs awkwardly, and Lukas has no idea how to interpret the gesture.  She scans the room again, smiles, and says, “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find a place this close to the start of the semester.”

“You got good and soaked out there,” Lukas notes.  He feels old.  Particularly in a college town, particularly beside Katie.  So young, soaked and she doesn’t even care; she’ll bounce back.  “Umbrellas aren’t as popular as they used to be, I s’pose.”

“Actually, I have one, but I was running late and forgot it.”  Katie turns to meet his gaze, then quickly turns away.  She stares pointedly at the old piano bench, inconspicuous upon first glance from its neglected spot beneath three boxes of yellowed paperback books.  “Then I forgot to bring the address with me and went to the wrong house at first.”  Forgetful Katie.  Free-spirited maybe.  Still young enough to get away with it.  She runs her fingers through the wet, shoulder-length strands of her hair, and paces around the room, scanning each direction as if looking for something in particular.  “God, I must look ridiculous,” she says with a sheepish grin.  Lukas catches himself on the verge of smiling.  Somehow, her remark didn’t sound as phony as it should have.  Funny how a pretty girl’s self-consciousness somehow makes her even prettier.  She stops and faces him.  “Aren’t there any mirrors in this place?”

The question catches Lukas off guard.  He gulps down the last watered-down sip of Scotch and shakes his head.  He doesn’t need to run a mental inventory of the house’s supplies.  “No,” is all he replies.

Catch up with Jeff and find his books at:

http://www.jeffgephartwriting.com/

https://twitter.com/#!/@Jeff_Gephart

http://www.amazon.com/Jeff-Gephart/e/B004WH7CSA/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/out-of-dark-places-jeff-gephart/1100178590?ean=9780984639205&itm=1&usri=out+of+dark+places