Shadow Dancer

A short story by Kenny Isibor

Age recommended to read 13+ (strong language)

The fucking lights are out, obviously by no fault of my own. Bill, the manager of this shit hole, doesn’t care enough to buy a backup generator. It doesn’t help that this old arcade is stuck right behind the train tracks. When the train decides to be an asshole, it shakes the place and takes the lights with it.

Every time I perform here, the power goes out. The manager, God bless him, decides to supply me with two forest-grade torch lights. He tells me, “Isn’t your whole act done in the dark anyway?” I laugh and say, “You’re right, Bill.”, making sure to clench my jaw.

I still need to set up the pull-down projector screen with the hole at the top, while Bill tries to find the torch lights in his pick-up. He says he can’t trust me with something as valuable as thirty-five-dollar lights bought at a yard sale. He’s never paid me for any of my performances, but at least I get to perform.

As a shadow dancer, or shadow artist, or whatever my 1040A tax form says, I like to believe in what’s not there; creating something out of nothing; the impossible. The shadows are comfortable.

All I need is a little light to be seen.

So, I pull two old chairs with the foam sticking out of the seat from the old arcade’s supply closet, the smell stale and absolute. It’s still dark, and Bill’s torchlight batteries need to be replaced. Why can’t he just buy the batteries himself? I rummage around my pockets for the cool slickness of the batteries, shaking them into place beneath the torch’s flap. I drag the chairs across the stomped-in carpet and place them on either side of the projector, one torchlight resting unsteadily on each chair.

I test my shadow, first raising my arms into an “O”, then straightening them. Good. Next, I raise my thumb and release my smallest finger from my ring finger, forming a dog. My personal favorite. I move the lights further from the projector with the hole at the top to expand my stage. Yet, as I move the light source, I notice a large circular mass blocking the torchlight’s rays. The mass sat resolutely on the screen.

I walk in front of the projector screen and slowly raise my arms. Though my movements mirror my shadow, the mass remains. I step deeper into the mass, only my arms visible from its sides. I wave my arms faster, trying to swat away the unfamiliar shape.

Like the petals of a lotus, my arms gradually fall out of sync with my shadow; creating a cascade of individual appendages like the dance of a thousand hands. The shadow of my arms collides with the mass and morph back into my silhouette. I force my eyes shut and rapidly open them again. My silhouette steps to the right and points a gun made from its fingers at my head.

I fall to my knees; hands up in surrender.