Ghosts of the Good Times

Goddard stood in the middle of the dance-floor, arms aloft, eyes closed. He let the music and lights wash over him, abstract concepts like time completely alien to him.

Slowly opening his eyes, he stared at the ceiling, the lights dead, the room dark. No music lifted him on waves of euphoria, and glancing over at the DJ booth revealed nothing but cobwebs and dust.

Lowering his arms, Goddard sighed as he remembered those late 1980s nights, now nothing but a memory. He traced his steps back to the board he'd prised off the window, and slowly climbed out.