When The Lights Go Out

By M'Lady Sarah

Do you know what happens when the lights go out?

When the last dance is over, when the music and the glamour have fled? When the floors have been swept, the glasses put away? When the key turns finally in the door and the place is left to silence and ghosts?

Do you know what happens then, my sweet?

When the lights are out, and the children gone home, in the darkness and the quiet, then, perhaps, they come. Creeping from the shadows in ones and twos, peeling themselves from the walls. From the dust under the tables, from the hidden spaces beyond the bars. From the sweat and dreams of dancers, from paint and pain and ecstasy. They come and they gather, there, in the middle of the floor.

And what do they do then? What do they do then, my dear?

Ah, perhaps they talk. Perhaps they tell tall tales, perhaps they plan terrible deeds, there in the darkness. Perhaps they take council, a council of war, to seek revenge from those who made and abandoned them. Perhaps they plot murder, or torture, or other terrors. Perhaps they merely exchange news.

Maybe the girl with the painted face is there; there to tell of her beginnings in the pain of rejection and the cold of wasted tears spilt on the dirty toilet floor Perhaps the boy with the scarred face, to boast of the fights he caused, the blood he spilled. Perhaps the china doll, to whisper of her flesh and blood cousins, imperfect reflections of her unchanging beauty. Perhaps the child in the giant's clothes, crying loudly, yet always ignored.

Perhaps others are also there, other shadows of dancers, other alcoholic dreams. Perhaps they too speak, or perhaps they just listen. And perhaps, just perhaps, one begins to gather up the faint traces of music still lingering faintly in the bones and skin and walls of the place. And perhaps others take these traces and spin them, weave them into melodies new and old, forgotten and never remembered.

And perhaps they dance to these recovered melodies, whirling and spinning, harvesting and sowing, faster and faster and faster.

Let us imagine them there, the shadow dancers, the alcohol dreams, the wasted tears and childish blood. Let us imagine them, the china masks and giants clothes, let us imagine them all, dancing, slowly building up in passion and power. Running and leaping and waving their bodies, flames in the wind. Whirling and prancing, bowing and exulting, all movement.

And perhaps there was a mortal boy there to see their dance. Would he see them, those children of Terpsichore? Would he see them in their dance, whipped to a final frenzy, then to fall and fade away? Would his face, already marred by sweat, bear the marks of tears at their movements?

Or would he see nothing, just dust motes dancing in the gloom?

What would you see, my darling?

Would you see them, the shadows, the remnants of human emotions, the shapings of human memories? Would you hear the strains of their music, the whispers of their songs? Would you join in as part of their rituals, to dance, though to any observers you would appear crazy, dancing in silence with invisible partners?

Or would you not hear them, just the soft murmuring of the heating pipes, the gentle creaking of the wooden floor?

Tell me now child, what happens when the lights are out and the room is silent and empty? Do the shadows dance? Do the memories sing? Do the forgotten emotions linger on, spinning and weaving, sowing and harvesting? Do ghosts return? All to dance and dance and fall, 'til the silence and the emptiness return?

Or does the room stay empty, with dust motes the only dancers?

Tell me now child, what you believe.

Tell me what happens when the lights go out.