Wishing to Dance

Write the most random sentence you can. Then make a story from it.

The sentence: The sun likes to dance around the stars.


The sun likes to dance around the stars. He doesn’t, at least not often, but he likes to. Can you blame him? Who doesn’t like dancing? To be alive and free, let yourself go and move to the music. Yes, dancing is wonderful, and even the sun likes it. Problem is, the sun has responsibilities, he has a job to do. To sit still, center of the solar system, so the planets can dance around him. Spinning and twirling, having the time of their lives. And the sun just sits there. Last time the sun danced? The earth had an ice age. Time before that, a meteor killed the dinosaurs. Can you imagine, dancing only twice in 65 million years, and both times: disaster. And so the sun is subdued, subdued by responsibility, to the earth and the other planets, to the creatures who count on his energy, his light, his gravity. The energy is for them, not to waste on dancing, for without the sun, organisms die. They aren’t hindered, they die. So the sun controls himself, even in eclipses, when he is hidden and can do as he pleases, he still controls himself, bound by duty, by responsibility, to you, to me, to everyone and everything. Bound by those who count on him. But really, deep down, beneath it all and under everything, he really just wishes he could dance.