Ficlets

We kick our feet with an abandon only reachable through mild uppers and the drive of a pumping bass riff. This is where we want to live forever, in the pit covered with a sheen of sweat both our own and our comrades. Our bodies lashing about frantically in search of physical contact.

The connection of body on body, the power of the music pushing us to injury and loving it. A little blood on the floor, some punk kids spikes ripping a gash in a skankers arm. The crimson standing out on the cement between them, their eyes connect and twin smiles form. Brothers in the pit connected by some undefinable love, they continue the dance.

The pressure builds with the music, the release comes as the band wails out a final note and everything subsides softly. The warm afterglow, comparable to that of lovers, comes over everyone as the cheering starts to rise. Guttural and primal it comes from all our throats. We offer ourselves to the band and they accept, fingers return to strings and feet return to dancing.