#elemental!cleo

You tip your imaginary hat, and laugh. It sounds like the world is laughing with you, you think, and you laugh louder. The sun is rising, sparkling rays over the far-beyond-but-still-near hills, and you rise with it. Stand taller, offer a hand, get ready to spin and twirl one last time.

The dance floor is smooth crystal, the sky above is a glimmering ocean, and you are ready to dance with the world if asked. “Play it, Joe!” She laughs. Her smile’s like an old friend, and you laugh with her. “Hey, let me ask you a Very Secret Question.” She puts emphasis on odd places, but it’s so funny you can’t stop laughing. Choking out a “What”, you stumble over to the jukebox.

“...Do you think, if we killed Doc, we would get a music disc? I mean, obviously that’d be a massive social faux pas, no?” She’s nearly in tears now, struggling to get words out.

You’re much in the same state. “I think it’d be a little more than a SOCIAL faux pas, Cleo. Just maybe.”

Howling. “I mean, I mean. Of COURSE, but don’t tell me you’re not at least a little curious. Just a little. Now, doesn’t mean I’m going to do it, I’d be killed like a little twig. But, skeletons are technically undead right?” She’s almost manically excited about this idea, and you find yourself getting swept up.

“Where’s this going, Cleo,” you say. You know exactly where it’s going.

“Okay, so, let’s say a skeleton just happens to wander into Doc’s base. And it just happens to have diamond armor. And it just happens to shoot him. What do you think happens then, Joe,” she says. “THE PEOPLE DESERVE TO KNOW!”

You’re giggling, almost, imagining the situation. “Okay, so first of all—” Cleo’s barely holding it in. “First of all, have you listened to Disc 13? Just a preliminary question.”

She’s confused for a split second, before deciding to just roll with it. “Yeah, what of it?”

“I’ve heard theories that it’s the hidden creature in minecraft, coming for us, or that it’s a harbinger of what’s to come. You’ve heard those too, right?” you say in a creepy whisper.

“...Joe, darlin’, I’m not 11 years old.” Her voice is exasperated, but you both know that she’s just waiting for the ball to drop.

“And neither am I. Point is, the person on the disc? That’s about to—Stop laughing, you’ll make me laugh—THAT’S ABOUT TO BE US! THAT’S GOING TO BE US, CLEO, SHOULD OUR GOOD FRIEND DOCTOR MONSTER SEVENTY SEVEN FINDS OUT WE KILLED HIM TO FIGURE OUT IF HE DROPS A MUSIC DISC.” You’re propped up against the jukebox, music disc in hand, desperately trying to keep it together long enough to put the disc in and figure out how to play it.

She’s almost crying from laughter. “DOCTOR MONSTER—You think he’s actually a doctor? What’d he major in, electrical engineering?” It sets the both of you two off into hysterics, and you turn away to try to gather yourself.

“Cleo, we’ve got to—we’ve got to get this music in,” you choke out. “Weren’t we gonna dance to celebrate our successful prank?”

With a hand wave, she says, “Yeah, yeah, hit it Joe!”

You fumble with the disc a bit, run your fingers over the grooves to feel their smoothidity (smoothidity? Smoothy-ness?) and slip it into the jukebox. The crackly intro sounds, and you both get into your pre-agreed upon positions—a weird sort of jitterbug for Cleo, and a traditional waltz posture for you. “This will be a disaster, Joe. And I’m excited.” You completely agree.

The opening cello strokes hit the crisp morning air, and you start moving your feet in time. 1-2-3 1-2-3, you chant, and keep a tight grip on her hand so you both don’t end up in a messy tangle of limbs. She’s in some sort of weird 7/4 time, jitterbugging to a beat neither of you can hit. It’s a disaster, you think, and it’s lovely.

You move around the narrow clearing you’ve created, at times spinning her and at times getting spun yourself. Faces blur together, the strings ring in your ears and the clarinet sings to the sky a song of god knows what. Cleo starts humming with the tune, you start harmonizing with her in a completely different key, and both of you desperately try to avoid breaking out in laughter again.

“1-2-3 1-2—Cleo, you’ve done it again. You’ve created a miracle and managed to make the one and only Joe Hills lose count of time,” you say, and she’s two seconds away from bursting out into full-on laughter. You’re still dancing, you think, but it’s starting to approach something a little closer to a worm wriggling than actual dancing. “I’ve got the power of order and even I can’t fix this,” you gesture helplessly.

“Well, why don’t we just use mine?” With a wave, zombies creep out of the woods nearby and take up all sorts of different dancing positions. Some of them are in something akin to his waltz, some are in traditional asian dances, some are about to do folk dances, and one particularly flamboyant fella is apparently, about to do the samba. “We’ve got a whole dance floor!”

“Alright, if you say so, Cleo. Dance time, part two!” You tap your foot, and the two of you start up the music.

Smooth saxophone sails through the air, and you two dance to the sun’s steady trek into its shining peak. You think you see the music in the air, you know you see your friend and her many minions dancing something that simultaneously doesn’t fit and works perfectly, and you see the joy and beauty of friendship. You pump your first in the air, yell “TO OUR VICTORY!”, and she follows suit.

It makes you want to dance more, dance and dance until the sun leaves again and you’re left with only the beauty of the moon to guide your hurried steps. But all good things must come to an end, you think, as you withdraw your hand and start to clean up the jukebox. Although…you’ve still got another hour, so it might have to not come to an end so soon.