I stood in the wings, watching the band leave the stage. How am I supposed to make a good impression after that act? Why did the organizers have to stick me immediately after the best group of the evening?
If I turn around now, grab my instruments and leave, I won't embarrass myself. I feel like the kid alone on a cold stage playing an accordion right after everyone went wild over a fantastic jazz band.
I can't compete with Manic Fury. The crowd loved them! My stomach was tied up in knots so tight my gut cramped. I can't breathe. Christ, I must breathe or I won't be able to play the oboe! If my hands don't stop shaking I'll never be able to run my fingers over the calliope.
My heart beat so hard it hurt.
I can't do this.
I'm a loser. Who the hell did I think I was kidding? I'm no musician. I'm a dried up old hack whose time has long since past. Hell, my time never came.
Continue reading this tale in the the January issue of Voluted Tales Magazine
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