Brooke’s feet pounded the pavement as she raced under the shadowy sea of dark clouds.
Behind her, the people danced, a whirling storm of limbs around the death-like figure who grew larger with each passing instant. The sway of the dance was like a storm.
Brooke drew a silver shard from her pocket.
Holding it high, she reflected the light of the Moon into the heart of the dance. The figure hissed, the light shining straight through it.
The dance ended.
The dancers drifted away as if in a haze, unaware of the shadow that had passed over them.
Word Count: 99
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Dale Rogerson for providing the prompt photo!