Those who dare to dance the dance of dreams/ and sing a song about moonbeams...
Who knows where they well end up now?/ Alone against the rushing sounds...

October '10. The night is dark, but the spirits are high. A talent show has been performed, and hot chocolate drunk in peace.


"The only thing left to do," Mr. Smith said with a smile, “is dance."

Of course, that introduction warranted some confused looks. And only I knew what he was planning; when I had come to fetch my shoes from the room the previous evening, my RS teacher had asked me help him set up some music. Thus, I obliged, and proceeded to write down, onto post-it notes, the names of numbers of the tracks of folk-music he was playing. The post-it notes were then stuck onto the CDs. When I asked him what it was all for, he replied:

"I'm going to make you all dance. It's going to be a laugh watching you."

I shook my head and wandered off, but it was only then, the next evening, that I realised the full extent of what we were going to do.


The End

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