Flash fiction, 300 words.
Prompt: dance contest, something glowing bright green, wrinkles, a particularly forlorn statement
It was Saturday night at Das Clüb.
The DJ had been spinning hot tracks all night, lighting the seizure-inducing room on fire with absolutely filthy dubstep. A mix of wannabe euro-trash and kids with extremely baggy black pants crowded the dance floor, moving awkwardly with the music. Two teens with tangerine-colored duct tape on their chests started swinging bright green and purple glow-sticks. Every agonizing pulse of bass ripped through their eardrums, shaking their eyeballs like guppies bouncing around a too-small tank.
Suddenly, a circle cleared in the center of the room. Oshi Dayumsun knew it was time to impress the respectable, nubile darlings that had been watching.
He hit the floor.
The DJ knew what was about to go down.
Walking out to the center, Oshi slowly began moving, his head bobbing to the atmospheric intro.
Suddenly, the drop.
Dayumsun began to work his magic, pumping his arms out to the side with vigor. His feet shuffled back and forth, quickly flinging him around with little effort.
Oohs and aahs filled the crowd. Arms were waved in the air. Someone seemed to yell his name. Twice. It was incredible. Dayumsun’s heart was pounding. He spun, dropping to the floor. His hand hit first, his body twisted before he was launched back up. He jumped back. As the song slowed down again, so did his motions. He was swaying to the rhythm.
A man wearing a black suit pushed his way through the crowd, making his way to the circle that had cleared for the king of the club. The mysterious man had sharp, roughly accented features – his brow wrinkling as he approached Oshi.
When he spoke, his voice was cold and forlorn, filled with sorrow and disappointment.
“Stop listening to terrible brostep.”
He turned around and walked away.
The DJ yelled down to Oshi, “Dayumsun, you just got served.”