In a little yellow room that could be anywhere at all, a woman dances.

The yellow paint gave up clinging to the wall long ago and fragile flakes litter the cracked linoleum floor like sawdust or dandruff. What furniture there was is now on some lonely scrapyard, leaving nothing but dirty shadows on the peeling walls – sad reminders of a former life. The small heater which squats in one corner obstinately refuses to give out any heat, while the broken window spitefully welcomes in the cold. It is a miserable forgotten place, draped with cobwebs and carpeted with dust; a dark dank hole in the heart of the city.

But still she dances.

No one goes there anymore, and that makes it a refuge for her. It is the last bastion of stillness and silence, a final defence against the brash and brutal world that continually tries to drag her into its madness. It is the one place that belongs to her alone; the one place that is free from disapproving eyes and reprimanding tongues.

And so she dances.

Her feet smack against the cold hard floor, pounding out a rhythm – slow and unsteady at first, then quicker and more certain. Her usually clumsy body is endowed with a new grace and her weary limbs slice through the cold dry air, spelling out her secret shames and desires in a strange romantic tongue, reaching for that something that always escapes her grasp. She starts to spin now, arms raised high and head thrown back, laughing with relief.

Tomorrow she will cry, but for now she dances.

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**MY BOOK**

~ proud to be a shieldmaiden for christ ~</center>

Wow! Thats nice Eowyn! Very enchanting! Nice detail!

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(}--{)Imagination Inspires Ideas -Zandain(}--{)
Married Cloud Strife 9/17/08