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"Stage Fright" (the eighty-first ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Stage Fright" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), May 15, 2008 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Stage Fright By glenlee10@sky.com (Entry #8) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| It only took me a short time to
learn why El Maestro insisted that his assistants wear scarlet. Not that I
minded being dressed like a tart. I wanted so desperately to be on stage that,
short of nudity, I’d have worn anything to get that first break into show
business. Ever since I was a little girl, I’d dreamed of being an actress and getting a part in one of the soaps; Coronation Street or Eastenders. Being a magician’s assistant was a long way from that goal, but I reasoned that even Dame Judi Dench must have started low and worked her way up. I decided not to be proud, to try anything and everything that came my way. As it happened, this was the only job my agent found for me. But maybe a talent scout would spot me? OK, so the job was only for the summer season in Skegness, which was a bit off the beaten track, but as I also told myself, even talent scouts have holidays, didn’t they? It seems I did a lot of talking to myself that year. That was probably because Mum wanted me to get a job on the tills at Waitrose and refused to see that I had the talent to be an actress. She’d never believed in me. But I had faith in myself. That was all that mattered. The job consisted of handing things to, and taking things from, El Maestro as he worked his magic tricks and in-between times, I had to strike poses and do a bit of strutting across the stage. I practiced both the posing and the strutting in my bedroom in the small B. & B. behind the railway station in Skeggy. I thought I was pretty good. I posed in front of the full-length mirror that hung on the wardrobe door. The glass was speckled with age around the edges and the bed got in the way so I had to stand on it to do the ‘leg work’ as I liked to call it. I had a programme of the show at the Moulin Rouge and copied the dancers’ poses. I was slim but curvaceous and the tight, red, satin costume fitted me perfectly. Later, cynically, I thought that might have been why I got the job; because of my size rather than my talent. The first time I was on stage, I was nervous but Maestro was very understanding and covered up the more glaring of my mistakes. I knew I looked good. Being a brunette, the red suited and I waved my arms theatrically, I thought, to good effect. Maestro told me after the show that none of his assistants had ever received such applause. “But,” he said, “you must practice walking in your stilettos. I should hate you to tumble into the orchestra pit a second time.” I sucked my thumb which I’d squashed on a tuba and nodded my head. Two weeks later, when I’d worked through the pain barrier and could ignore my pinched toes, I was doing much better on stage and it was Maestro’s turn to be clumsy. We were doing that old chestnut in which I had to lie down in a coffin shaped box while he thrust sharp swords through the sides. We had rehearsed it several times in the cold light of day, but this was the first time we’d done it on stage. All was going well. I was lithe and could writhe sufficiently to avoid the swords’ points. I was guiding them into the correct slots, missing my flesh by a tissue’s breadth when Maestro became overconfident and jabbed the next sword, the one he’d used to demonstrate to the audience how sharp the swords were, through the wrong slot. Of course, he realised his mistake as soon as he met resistance. It didn’t need my squeal to tell him of his error. I heard him say, “Oops!” to the audience. The rest of his patter I missed because it had stung and I was busy cussing him under by breath. The swords were withdrawn. The lid of the coffin was thrown to one side and Maestro dipped his hand inside, inviting me to leap out, demonstrating that I was still in one piece. And I did just that. I didn’t pose as rehearsed however. My right arm I was able to raise slowly and sinuously above my head. The left went straight to my hip, to stem the flow of blood! I noticed later, the blood didn’t show up on the fabric of my outfit! As soon as I could, I limped from the stage but before I went, as Maestro twirled me into my final pirouette, I was able to rake a stiletto heel down his leg. I heard him gasp. That’ll teach him to be clumsy, I thought. We brought the house down. Like an old trooper I kept a bright smile plastered on my face all the time Later, he charged into my changing room without knocking. “What the hell was that all about?” he shouted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jab you but it was only a little nick. You didn’t have to slash my shin, did you? I can hardly walk.” He rolled up his trouser leg. “Look! Look!” he pointed at a glorious bruise that ran from his knee to his ankle. It was purpling nicely already. “Look what you’ve done!” He stood over me, his chest heaving with indignation. “The last girl that happened to took it in good part. She understood that these things happen. She didn’t retaliate viciously. She was a professional!” I was furious. Me? Unprofessional? I held my camisole to my chest. “We will discuss this later.” I was as haughty as Dame Judy at her best. He might be my boss but he had no right to come screaming into my room when I was changing. We didn’t talk about it though. It seemed that this far into the season all the girls who had Equity cards also had jobs and I found that without experience I couldn’t get work elsewhere. So we were stuck with each other. The following week, Maestro handed me a bunch of paper flowers after he’d pulled them from a hat. Something sharp pricked my finger and I dropped the flowers. Maestro smiled at the audience and shrugged his shoulders as thought to say, “What can I do? You just can’t get the staff!” The audience appreciated the joke and roared with laughter, in conspiracy with him, against me. Meanwhile, I bought myself a new costume with my hard-earned cash. The new one was white and would show up any blood that might be spilt by Maestro’s clumsiness. He’d have to be more careful, I though. What happened though, was that he became more devious and inventive and our ‘tit-for-tat’ continued. Maestro continued to make me the butt of his jokes and bookings for the show went up. It seems we were considered to be a comedy duo. And as any good partnership should be, it was not all one sided. I admit it was unprofessional of me to drop the ‘coffin’ lid on his fingers when I sprang unharmed from it one night and I knew I was standing too close that time I was handing him the lit torches to juggle. That episode cost him a new hat and it took a couple of weeks for his eyebrows to grow back. Maestro reciprocated. Instead of handing me the rabbit that he’d just pulled from a hat, I found myself holding a twitchy, sharp-toothed, brown rat. I squealed and dropped it. Of course I did! The audience loved it. The manager of the theatre was not too pleased though when the creature turned up in the overcrowded room the artists used as a canteen. Maestro blamed me of course. So I got my own back. I stole all the aces from every pack of cards he used on stage and superglued all his trick boxes tight shut. Not one trick went right that night. He was seething with anger and frustration when we took our final bow for the evening. It was my turn to smile sweetly and his to fix a death’s head grin on his face until the curtains closed. He was too angry to speak; didn’t like being made to look foolish. Well, he deserved it. He started it! It was late August. The season only had another five weeks to run and I would be free of the Monster Magician. On Monday, he’d managed to nobble my shoes and one of the stiletto heels broke halfway through the act. I’d had to smile graciously, kick off the shoes and finish the act in stockinged feet. He must have waxed the floor where I usually pranced and posed behind him because as I lent forward to take a live chicken from him, my feet skidded from under me and I sat down, hard. The thud reverberated through the auditorium and the pain in my coccyx brought tears to my eyes. Sniffling and snuffling I scrambled to my feet. The audience clapped and cheered. My smile was wobbly to say the least. Getting my own back was difficult. Maestro had padlocked all his equipment away every night after the superglue episode so I resorted to using red-hot chillies. Before the Tuesday show, wearing thin latex gloves, I cut up four chillies. It was my job to adjust the microphones before Maestro was announced so it was easy to smear oil from the chillies onto them. Naturally, I washed my hands very, very thoroughly before I went back on stage. The show went smoothly until Maestro plucked a microphone from its stand to speak to his audience. His fingers must have felt tingly at once, for he changed the microphone to the other hand and sucked his fingers. He started to sweat. He rubbed his face. The oil went into his eyes. What delicious torture! That night’s show had to be abandoned of course because he couldn’t see a thing; least of all me, as I made my escape back to my B. & B. for an early night. It’s Wednesday. I’m wearing my red outfit and my new shoes. My hair is long and glossy and I have never looked so good. I’m prepared to stare Maestro down if he starts an argument. But he hasn’t said a word to me all evening. I think he’s planned something though. His smile is vindictive as though he knows already that his plan is foolproof. The lights have gone down. The auditorium is in darkness. I can hear a man coughing and someone shuffling their feet. Otherwise, the quietness is thick and oppressive. A small fear starts to nag at my mind. What is he going to do? I think it might be nasty. There is just enough light to see one of the props’ boys pushing a wheeled cart to the middle of the stage. I hold my breath. Whatever is on the table is covered with a black cloth. There is a low, drum roll. Slowly it builds. Maestro crosses to the table and whips off the cloth. He snatches up a … god forgive me! It looks like a chainsaw. He beckons me to him. I am so frightened I can’t move. He smiles at me and beckons again. My feet move without my leave. I go to him, the drumming vibrates through the stage, up my body where it becomes one with the thunderous beating of my heart. He starts the chainsaw. The machine’s roar deafens me. He offers it to me. My arms hang at my sides. “Come on, Jayne,” he commands, his words barely heard above the chainsaw. “Hold this while I start another.” I reach for it. I hold it. It is heavy. Too heavy for such a slender person as me. Maestro helps me. He tucks it underneath my armpit, while the business end whirs viciously within inches of my breast. “There,” he says. “Comfy?” I don’t reply. I don’t think he expects me to. He goes back to the table. The drumming is louder than ever. Maestro takes up a second chainsaw. He starts it. “We’re going to do a bit of juggling,” he shouts. “It’ll be fantastic. When I throw this to you, toss yours to me and then catch mine. I’ll count to three.” I stare at him. Is the man mad? I can’t even hold the damn thing up, let alone throw it. I’ll end up with two screaming chainsaws in my arms. “No,” I whispered. “No, you can’t! You can’t!” “One……!” “Two……!” The drumming stops. “THREE…………………..!” |
| Stage Fright By Taryl French mtfrench@netscape.com (Entry #2) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| “So, what do you do,
James?” Kim asked. She took a sip of her red wine and glanced around the
restaurant. Other elegantly dressed couples were quietly conversing at their
tables, their gold cuff links and diamond rings gleaming in the mellow light
cast from crystal chandeliers hanging above. It was a fancy place that Kim knew
she couldn’t afford. Even if she did work for a big name advertising
agency, she was just a lowly secretary and received only a meager salary.
“I do a little of this and that. I guess you could say that I fancy myself an actor. I’ve performed in some small productions at a local theater, but nothing too big. I’m still working on my presentation. I tend to get a little nervous when I’m in front of people.” James replied with a self depreciating laugh. “I’m sure you’re wonderful.” Kim said smiling, “with your great smile and good looks I’m sure you’ll go places. In the meantime, what do you do for work?” “Trying to make sure I can afford this place?” James arched a blonde eyebrow at her. “Well…..” Kim hedged. She didn’t want to get started off on the wrong foot. She hadn’t been on a date since her divorce. The ex told Kim she nagged too much, and then ran off with the statuesque bottle blonde who buffed the balls at the bowling alley. At the age of thirty-seven, she was already feeling old and somewhat self-conscious about the grey strands creeping into her auburn hair. She desperately wanted this night to go well. She met James on one of those speed-dating events that were sometimes held at the mall. Her mother had convinced her to go and meet herself “a nice fellah”. Kim had rolled her eyes, and inwardly cringed, but had gone anyway. James was handsome, charming, and funny. Three minutes later, he proposed a dinner date for late that same evening. “Don’t worry,” James’s voice pulled her back from her reverie, “I‘m rich. Luckily, I didn’t piss my father off before he died and now I have a nice trust fund that allows me the freedom to do what I want. Like take beautiful ladies out to dinner.” He winked. Kim smiled back, mentally wringing her hands. Please, please, don’t let me screw this up, she thought. Their dinner arrived and everything was wonderful. Lobster tails, crab puffs, baby potatoes in a lemony sauce. Dessert was some scrumptious chocolate thing in orange sauce that Kim couldn’t even begin to guess the name of. The waiter came with the bill and James handed over his credit card. Kim couldn’t help but notice that his wallet was fat with several different credit cards and a nice stack of cash. She allowed herself the small daydream of being with a man who could afford his (and her) every whim. “Well, that was delicious. Should we call it a night, or would you like to find something else to do?” James asked. “What did you have in mind?” Kim asked. “It’s a warm evening, how about a walk?” James suggested. “The theater isn’t far from here. Would you like to see where I perform?” “Sure.” Kim agreed. James retrieved his credit card and moments later, they were strolling down the street hand-in-hand watching the sun set. They chatted as they walked and Kim noticed how easy the conversation flowed. This guy was a definite keeper, she thought. They had been walking for some time and Kim noticed that the up-scale establishments had given way to the seedier business district. Shifty eyed teens and soiled, genderless vagrants populated the street corners. “Is it much further?” Kim asked. “I’m starting to get cold. Maybe we should catch a cab…” “It’s actually just around the corner. Here, take this.” James shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Thanks. That’s much better.” Kim eyed a particularly threatening bunch of hoodlums that were loitering across the street. “Are we safe in this neighborhood?” “They won’t bother us,” James replied. “I’m armed and they know it.” Kim glanced over at him and saw the obvious glint of a handgun sticking out of the waistband of his pants. She knew the teens could see the weapon as well, and was slightly reassured. However, she was a little alarmed at the idea of wandering around with an armed, and for all she knew, dangerous man. James led her up to the next corner then turned down a dimly lit, abandoned street, stopping under a crumbling awning. The old marquee above was advertising “T e G dfat er”. The double doors beneath, once had been glass fronted, but were now adorned with sturdy pieces of plywood and a shiny padlock. “You perform here?” Kim asked. She was starting to get a bad feeling. “Don’t be put off by the rough exterior. There is a beautiful stage inside,” James said as he pulled a key ring from his pocket. He fitted the correct key in the padlock and opened the door. “I actually own this place. I bought it for next to nothing. Of course it needs a little fixing up, but …” He shrugged and walked in, holding the door open for Kim. “You know, maybe we should just go back to my place,” she suggested. “It’s late and this neighborhood isn’t so great. We could come back tomorrow in the daylight.” Kim was still standing in the doorway, hesitant to enter the building. There was just something very creepy about an abandoned theater in the middle of the night. “Oh, just come in,” James said sounding a little annoyed. “I don’t know.” “Really, I promise we won’t stay long. Just come and critique this monologue I‘ve been working on. I‘m going to be auditioning for Puck in ‘A Midsummer Night Dream’ next week, and I need the practice. Please?” James said softening his tone. He took hold of her wrist and tugged her through the doors. Against her better judgment, Kim allowed herself to be led past the ticket booth and the concession area. James opened the main doors to the theater, and ushered her inside. It was very dark. There was a soft click as the door closed behind them. “Okay, I’m going to go up to the stage and you can find a seat in the auditorium,” James said. “Wait a minute! Don’t leave me! I can’t see. Aren’t there any lights?” James fumbled for a moment at the wall beside them, and suddenly small recessed lights in the floor sprang to life. The illumination was dim, but she managed to stumble down the center isle to a seat near the front of the room. James climbed up on the stage, fiddled with some controls on the wall. Suddenly, bright light shone down from the spots mounted above. He walked to center stage, stood in front of the moth-eaten velvet curtain, and then froze. Kim watched as he clenched his fists at his sides and his eyes got bigger and bigger. He started to tremble, then shake. His mouth opened, then closed, and opened once more. He let out a frustrated shriek. His eyes were positively bugging out of his head. “James? Are you okay?” Kim asked. “ALL OF YOU, JUST STOP STARING AT ME!!” James suddenly roared. “I CAN DO THIS!! DON‘T YOU DARE LAUGH!!” All of you? Kim thought as she glanced around the room. In the backwash of light provided from the spotlights on the stage, Kim could see the outline of other people sitting in various seats. There must be at least twenty other people in the room. Where had they come from? Had they just been sitting there in the dark? Kim stared at the person closest to her. By the hairstyle and blousy type shirt, thought it was probably a woman. Though she stared for several moments, there was no movement from the person. They must be mannequins, she thought. Okay, this was just way too weird. She stood up and bolted for the door. James saw her and his insane rant abruptly stopped. He leaped off of the stage and ran after her. “Kim! Where are you going?” He called. “I’m getting out of here. I can’t do this with you,” Kim said. She reached out and wrenched the door handle. It didn’t move. “Please don’t leave!” James pleaded. “I just get a little case of stage fright when I’m up in front of an audience. It’s no big deal. Really!” “Unlock this door.” “Please, just come back to your seat.” “No, James.” Kim said firmly. “You’ve got a room full of mannequins in here and you’re flipping out on the stage. I really want to go now.” “You ARE going to stay and watch me perform,” Jim said, frowning as she kept tugging at the door. He shrugged, then pulled out his gun, and shot her in the leg. Her shin exploded in a spray of blood and bone. Kim shrieked. Collapsing onto the floor, she clutched her leg. James grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back down the isle. He forced her into the seat next to the woman she had just been staring at. Through a red haze of pain, she could see that up close, the woman looked nothing at all like a mannequin. She noticed a tiny mole on the woman’s cheek and how the skin had began to pull away from the skull and settle around her neck. Crusted blood rimmed the empty eye sockets that were staring at the stage. The woman’s hands had been handcuffed to the chair. Kim’s self-preservation instinct kicked in. She yelled, pleaded, and flailed her arms, beating James about the head and face, but he remained unfazed. “You really must stay,” he said, wrestling her hands down to the armrests of the chair. “Stop it! Let me GO!” Kim screamed. James quickly locked her hands down with a pair of plastic police zip ties. He knelt into her lap, knocking the wind out of her, and pulled a surgical scalpel from his back pocket. “I know that if I can just find the right audience, my stage fright will go away,” he murmured. As the scalpel pierced her right eye, Kim somehow found her breath, and howled. Moments later, James ascended to the stage once more. He surveyed the crowd. This was much better. They were all staring at him raptly; his ideal audience. James smiled. Without the slightest tremble or tremor, he recited: “If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: if you pardon, we will mend: And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck, Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call; So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends.” |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #8 Second place: #2 Third place: #9 Fourth place: #5 Fifth place: #4 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Stage Fright Deborah Steinberg debbysteinberg@aol.com |
#1 of 9 |
| 460 words | |
| It was unlike Lindsay to become a victim of Reality TV.
So how could it be that, before her, stood the blinding gleam of a singing competition, again? How could it be, for the past six Wednesdays, that Lindsay had fallen for the pleading voices of potential stars with hearts set on a sole million-dollar contract, their efforts soon to become sad possessions of Hollywood slavery? Not to mention that, within such a star-studded prison, these hopeful, youthful faces could likely add to the already gruesome population of divas. A well-established fact it was that Prima Donnas weren't limited to the female sex, anymore. Not when Lindsay knew of rich and famous male artists who'd demanded things like wheatgrass and black nail polish only minutes prior to a performance. Yuck. It was a show similar to Star Search that caught her eye. Again. Maybe because, as a singer, herself, Lindsay imagined a total surrender of her soul in exchange for a moment of fame. The chance to make a total fool of herself on national television through rebellious wit was appealing. And her devotion to ancient, wise musicians who, in holey denim and unwashed hair, knocked the socks off of unfashionable audiences was required in the war against a nonsensical conceit. But just as Lindsay imagined a world where singing was a declaration of the heart and soul, she was astonished by an on-stage nightmare. There they were, ten toes strangled by the noose of too-tight, too-pointy, designer stilettos. As an artistically-held, filming camera slowly inched upward from the shoes of a celebrity who'd served as a theme and mentor to the show's contestants, Lindsay only felt pity for ankles and calves that would need medical attention way before their time. Up, up, up went the camera, far above knees and miles of uncovered, shapely thighs enhanced by countless surgical procedures before reaching a sample of black, stretchy fabric. It clothed a mere half of the celebrity's cleavage, but Lindsay forced herself to deem it a mini-dress. Less was more, she supposed, considering the cooling effect on a face layered with lotions, toners, foundation, concealer, powder, bronzer, eye liner, eye shadow, mascara, blush, lip-enhancer, lip color and lip gloss. Why, in the heat of the moment, a face that beautiful could melt! Lindsay cringed. When a voice finally emanated from that image of a perfect fright, Lindsay could hardly notice its strength. All she could make out from this musical horror were whispers, a total failure at denoting a sense of empowerment. If Lindsay could only have looked beyond that manmade facade, perhaps she would have bore witness to the art of a creative genius. But she just couldn't. And so, with a final bow, Lindsay changed the channel. |
|
| Stage Fright Taryl French mtfrench@netscape.com |
#2 of 9 Runner-up |
| 2100 words | |
| “So, what do you do, James?” Kim asked. She
took a sip of her red wine and glanced around the restaurant. Other elegantly
dressed couples were quietly conversing at their tables, their gold cuff links
and diamond rings gleaming in the mellow light cast from crystal chandeliers
hanging above. It was a fancy place that Kim knew she couldn’t afford.
Even if she did work for a big name advertising agency, she was just a lowly
secretary and received only a meager salary. “I do a little of this and that. I guess you could say that I fancy myself an actor. I’ve performed in some small productions at a local theater, but nothing too big. I’m still working on my presentation. I tend to get a little nervous when I’m in front of people.” James replied with a self depreciating laugh. “I’m sure you’re wonderful.” Kim said smiling, “with your great smile and good looks I’m sure you’ll go places. In the meantime, what do you do for work?” “Trying to make sure I can afford this place?” James arched a blonde eyebrow at her. “Well…..” Kim hedged. She didn’t want to get started off on the wrong foot. She hadn’t been on a date since her divorce. The ex told Kim she nagged too much, and then ran off with the statuesque bottle blonde who buffed the balls at the bowling alley. At the age of thirty-seven, she was already feeling old and somewhat self-conscious about the grey strands creeping into her auburn hair. She desperately wanted this night to go well. She met James on one of those speed-dating events that were sometimes held at the mall. Her mother had convinced her to go and meet herself “a nice fellah”. Kim had rolled her eyes, and inwardly cringed, but had gone anyway. James was handsome, charming, and funny. Three minutes later, he proposed a dinner date for late that same evening. “Don’t worry,” James’s voice pulled her back from her reverie, “I‘m rich. Luckily, I didn’t piss my father off before he died and now I have a nice trust fund that allows me the freedom to do what I want. Like take beautiful ladies out to dinner.” He winked. Kim smiled back, mentally wringing her hands. Please, please, don’t let me screw this up, she thought. Their dinner arrived and everything was wonderful. Lobster tails, crab puffs, baby potatoes in a lemony sauce. Dessert was some scrumptious chocolate thing in orange sauce that Kim couldn’t even begin to guess the name of. The waiter came with the bill and James handed over his credit card. Kim couldn’t help but notice that his wallet was fat with several different credit cards and a nice stack of cash. She allowed herself the small daydream of being with a man who could afford his (and her) every whim. “Well, that was delicious. Should we call it a night, or would you like to find something else to do?” James asked. “What did you have in mind?” Kim asked. “It’s a warm evening, how about a walk?” James suggested. “The theater isn’t far from here. Would you like to see where I perform?” “Sure.” Kim agreed. James retrieved his credit card and moments later, they were strolling down the street hand-in-hand watching the sun set. They chatted as they walked and Kim noticed how easy the conversation flowed. This guy was a definite keeper, she thought. They had been walking for some time and Kim noticed that the up-scale establishments had given way to the seedier business district. Shifty eyed teens and soiled, genderless vagrants populated the street corners. “Is it much further?” Kim asked. “I’m starting to get cold. Maybe we should catch a cab…” “It’s actually just around the corner. Here, take this.” James shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Thanks. That’s much better.” Kim eyed a particularly threatening bunch of hoodlums that were loitering across the street. “Are we safe in this neighborhood?” “They won’t bother us,” James replied. “I’m armed and they know it.” Kim glanced over at him and saw the obvious glint of a handgun sticking out of the waistband of his pants. She knew the teens could see the weapon as well, and was slightly reassured. However, she was a little alarmed at the idea of wandering around with an armed, and for all she knew, dangerous man. James led her up to the next corner then turned down a dimly lit, abandoned street, stopping under a crumbling awning. The old marquee above was advertising “T e G dfat er”. The double doors beneath, once had been glass fronted, but were now adorned with sturdy pieces of plywood and a shiny padlock. “You perform here?” Kim asked. She was starting to get a bad feeling. “Don’t be put off by the rough exterior. There is a beautiful stage inside,” James said as he pulled a key ring from his pocket. He fitted the correct key in the padlock and opened the door. “I actually own this place. I bought it for next to nothing. Of course it needs a little fixing up, but …” He shrugged and walked in, holding the door open for Kim. “You know, maybe we should just go back to my place,” she suggested. “It’s late and this neighborhood isn’t so great. We could come back tomorrow in the daylight.” Kim was still standing in the doorway, hesitant to enter the building. There was just something very creepy about an abandoned theater in the middle of the night. “Oh, just come in,” James said sounding a little annoyed. “I don’t know.” “Really, I promise we won’t stay long. Just come and critique this monologue I‘ve been working on. I‘m going to be auditioning for Puck in ‘A Midsummer Night Dream’ next week, and I need the practice. Please?” James said softening his tone. He took hold of her wrist and tugged her through the doors. Against her better judgment, Kim allowed herself to be led past the ticket booth and the concession area. James opened the main doors to the theater, and ushered her inside. It was very dark. There was a soft click as the door closed behind them. “Okay, I’m going to go up to the stage and you can find a seat in the auditorium,” James said. “Wait a minute! Don’t leave me! I can’t see. Aren’t there any lights?” James fumbled for a moment at the wall beside them, and suddenly small recessed lights in the floor sprang to life. The illumination was dim, but she managed to stumble down the center isle to a seat near the front of the room. James climbed up on the stage, fiddled with some controls on the wall. Suddenly, bright light shone down from the spots mounted above. He walked to center stage, stood in front of the moth-eaten velvet curtain, and then froze. Kim watched as he clenched his fists at his sides and his eyes got bigger and bigger. He started to tremble, then shake. His mouth opened, then closed, and opened once more. He let out a frustrated shriek. His eyes were positively bugging out of his head. “James? Are you okay?” Kim asked. “ALL OF YOU, JUST STOP STARING AT ME!!” James suddenly roared. “I CAN DO THIS!! DON‘T YOU DARE LAUGH!!” All of you? Kim thought as she glanced around the room. In the backwash of light provided from the spotlights on the stage, Kim could see the outline of other people sitting in various seats. There must be at least twenty other people in the room. Where had they come from? Had they just been sitting there in the dark? Kim stared at the person closest to her. By the hairstyle and blousy type shirt, thought it was probably a woman. Though she stared for several moments, there was no movement from the person. They must be mannequins, she thought. Okay, this was just way too weird. She stood up and bolted for the door. James saw her and his insane rant abruptly stopped. He leaped off of the stage and ran after her. “Kim! Where are you going?” He called. “I’m getting out of here. I can’t do this with you,” Kim said. She reached out and wrenched the door handle. It didn’t move. “Please don’t leave!” James pleaded. “I just get a little case of stage fright when I’m up in front of an audience. It’s no big deal. Really!” “Unlock this door.” “Please, just come back to your seat.” “No, James.” Kim said firmly. “You’ve got a room full of mannequins in here and you’re flipping out on the stage. I really want to go now.” “You ARE going to stay and watch me perform,” Jim said, frowning as she kept tugging at the door. He shrugged, then pulled out his gun, and shot her in the leg. Her shin exploded in a spray of blood and bone. Kim shrieked. Collapsing onto the floor, she clutched her leg. James grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back down the isle. He forced her into the seat next to the woman she had just been staring at. Through a red haze of pain, she could see that up close, the woman looked nothing at all like a mannequin. She noticed a tiny mole on the woman’s cheek and how the skin had began to pull away from the skull and settle around her neck. Crusted blood rimmed the empty eye sockets that were staring at the stage. The woman’s hands had been handcuffed to the chair. Kim’s self-preservation instinct kicked in. She yelled, pleaded, and flailed her arms, beating James about the head and face, but he remained unfazed. “You really must stay,” he said, wrestling her hands down to the armrests of the chair. “Stop it! Let me GO!” Kim screamed. James quickly locked her hands down with a pair of plastic police zip ties. He knelt into her lap, knocking the wind out of her, and pulled a surgical scalpel from his back pocket. “I know that if I can just find the right audience, my stage fright will go away,” he murmured. As the scalpel pierced her right eye, Kim somehow found her breath, and howled. Moments later, James ascended to the stage once more. He surveyed the crowd. This was much better. They were all staring at him raptly; his ideal audience. James smiled. Without the slightest tremble or tremor, he recited: “If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: if you pardon, we will mend: And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck, Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call; So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends.” |
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| Stage Fright chevalier_campbell@yahoo.co.uk |
#3 of 9 |
| 931 words | |
| George reached for the folded paper in his tuxedo. It
was still there just like all the other times. He read it through again, adding
a few more drops of sweat to its well worn pages. He also had a spare copy,
just in case. He found himself thinking, so it's not Hamlet, just the Best Man's Speech at the kid brother's wedding but what an audience. Though his brother had picked a nice girl, nothing had ever seemed good enough for her family. George knew for a fact that the ladies had spent ages and way too much money on their outfits. Don't they know simple is best? Well actually no they don't, he thought as he watched mature and overdressed women catching glimpses of themselves in the wall mirrors as they looked for their place names at the long tables. So many tables, so many guests and they'll all be looking at me in a few minutes time. Most folks were already seated when 'The Celebrity' made her late and dramatic entrance. Distantly related on the bride's side they had been saying for weeks how they hoped 'she' might be able to come. "She seems strangely familiar," said George turning to his kid brother sitting at his elbow on the now almost-full top table. "Of course she looks familiar she's on television all the time," said the kid brother. "She looks older." "She would look older they've been repeating the series again." "Well, there's something about her and she's coming right over here," said George. "Of course she's coming over here. They wanted her beside the best man on the top table where everyone can see her and take photos." "I know," said George. "Looks like she's here without a partner. I could be her partner." "Bet you don't," said kid brother. Sweetly almost graciously, like one of the characters she had played over the years, the 'Celebrity' went along the top table for introductions and after greeting everyone ever so warmly, took her seat beside George. "Nice feet," said George watching her slip off her high heels under cover of the crisp floor-length table cloth. "Been rehearsing on a hard wooden stage all day," she said and they exchanged smiles. The bride's oldest aunt saw the smiles but not the feet. She smiled and gave George a little wave of encouragement from across the tables. Turning to the sister beside her she said quietly, "I do hope he doesn't embarrass us all with you-know-who. I hear he can be a bit of a rough diamond and there's no telling what he might say or do." "Well George, have you got your speech ready?" said the 'Celebrity.' "Oh, it's been ready for weeks," said George now rather preoccupied with getting ready. "You don't remember do you?" she said under her breath as he got to his feet and tapped the microphone. Surprising himself with a strong clear voice, George grabbed the undivided attention of his audience with his opening line. "Hello my name's George and I'm an alcoholic." Attention may have been undivided but reactions were not. A ragged cheer went round from the good-old-guys who had already put away a few glasses and a couple of bread rolls were thrown. Meanwhile, the ladies on the bride's side were far from amused. Heads were lowered behind the large and ostentatious menu cards. Their fears were reinforced when the widely grinning groom said just loud enough to be caught on his brother's microphone, "Oh shit he's done it again." "And now, it is my very pleasant duty to introduce the top table," said George warming to his center-stage role. "The top-table guests come to you with a combined weight of 1,820 pounds, are 407 years old, and if laid end to end would make a very interesting photograph." Amidst a polarized mix of raucous hoots and stony stares, George went on to read out a series of mostly-tasteless messages of matrimonial support and advice. Strangely, these purported to be from an eclectic cross-section of the world's best known political and religious leaders. George felt quite pleased with himself as he finished off with a well-rehearsed impersonation of a Disney character that had unexpectedly become pregnant. He relaxed as he handed the microphone over to his kid brother who said with a wicked grin and blatant thoughts of self preservation, "I should really like to thank you for all that but I can't find it in my heart to do so." Soon the speeches were finished and the meal was over and it was time for the bride and groom to lead off the dancing. George's duty-dances with the bridesmaids followed. In amongst the small talk, these young ladies seemed to be straining to catch the smell of alcohol on George's breath. No chance of that, thought George who had been dry for ten years. In response he noted that each of these over-plump young girls smelled of sweat and one also of tobacco, something else he had long left behind. Then it was George's chance for a dance with the 'Celebrity.' Smiling she said, "Just loved your speech. It was a real breath of fresh air. I guess we'll be seeing more of each other now we're family." Then drawing closer as the music slowed, she added a few words so discretely he could feel her breath warm and moist in his ear. "By the way, my real name is Helen and I'm an alcoholic. Oh, and I'm in room 108. You really must come up and see the view." |
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| Stage Fright Martha Schram sixtyup.blogspot.com |
#4 of 9 |
| 1779 words | |
| "Mama, I look just like a princess, maybe better." Even
looking in the old mirror it was true. The curls in my hair were behaving for a
change, though I did have to poke some stray pieces behind my ear to hold the
raggedy ends back. Mama finished ironing her skirt and looked at me. "That is pretty much the best cut I’ve ever done," she said. "With all the wisps and tangles you have Barbara Ann," here there was a sigh, "well, I do what I can. Get your sweater and quit admirin' yourself. Preacher says pride is sinful and you’re just makin' do with what the good Lord gave you." She smoothed a wrinkle from her blouse and pulled the skirt over her head. With a slight frown at the mirror she picked up her pocketbook and left our bedroom. I put on my sweater and shoved back the wish that it was some color besides gray, blue maybe to match my eyes or red to make them sparkle. At least it was warm. The walk to school after dark would be chilly. Mama looked me up and down. "Wish I could of got that brown coat at that yard sale last week. This gray makes you look like a ghost what with your eye color. Let’s get goin' so we won’t be late. I’m not much for listenin' to all them speeches, but least ways we’ll be there early so I can say a proper hello to your teacher." She took my hand as we left the porch, stepping carefully over the sagging threshold that I hopped over for luck. We really were going! It was so hard to believe that Mama had actually agreed to let me take part in the annual school program. The preacher told us the Bible forbids playacting and Mama thought it was not dignified to show off in front of other folks, but when Miss Tucker chose to present a program of student readings Mama had decided that verses and memorized proverbs were right and proper. She'd signed my permission paper without more than telling me to learn my piece really good. And unbelievably, Mama who never went anywhere, was going with me to school! I skipped beside Mama as we walked, until she pulled my hand. "Be a lady, Barb Ann. Don’t go bouncin' all over like a heathen." Her voice was disapproving but my spirits still bubbled inside though my feet now shuffled obediently along the dirt road. "You remember all the words you're supposed to say?" "Yes, Mama. I learned them all perfectly, right off. Miss Tucker handed out the pages last month. I knew mine ages ago." "Don't be too full of yourself, Barbara Ann," Mama chided, "You got as good a memory as anybody but the good Lord don’t countenance braggin'." "Yes, Ma'am." It was hard sometimes to remember all the Lord said was evil. Dancing for instance. My feet sometimes just wanted to fly around for joy of the sunshine and being alive. I couldn't see how singing on Sunday except in church, or betting Ginny Harper a nickel I could do a somersault, was sinning. As we got nearer to the school the grip on my hand tightened. It reminded me not to run to greet Lily Marshall who was getting out of the car with her parents, or to wave at Davy, climbing the front steps with his father, Dr. Burns. Not that I would wave at that stuck up old thing. He was a torment. Mama paused beside the building, waiting until Dr. Burns was out of sight. She reached up to smooth her hair. "I hope I look presentable," she whispered, as she clutched my hand and we turned toward the door. Inside there was a hubbub of conversation as folks said hello to each other. Mama didn't know anyone to speak to. "Which is your teacher?" she asked, then marched resolutely across the hall to hold out her hand to Miss Tucker when I pointed. "How do, Ma'am," she said. "I'm Mrs. Jenkins, Barb Ann’s mama." Her face was pale in the hall light. "I'm so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Jenkins. Barbara Ann is such good student. She works very hard in class." I glowed with the praise but Mama just ducked her head and backed away as the Marshalls and Lily walked up to greet our teacher. Mama glanced around uncertainly. "You show me where to sit, Barb Ann. Then you can go get with your class." "I won't be able to see you way back here," I protested when she insisted on a seat at the rear of the room, She wouldn't change her mind though, so I sprinted away and left her. Inside my head the memorized lines of my poem, "The Children's Hour," lined up ready for recitation. I liked the swinging of the words in my head. It was a long poem, way longer than "Windy Nights" or that dumb "Time to Rise" that Davy Burns was reciting. In our classroom the other kids were giggling and fooling around. "Hey, Barbara Ann," Davy Burns came up beside me. "I saw your Mama and you walking. How come your daddy didn't drive you?" I clenched my teeth so as not to say something the Lord would punish me for. Davy knew my daddy was gone away. He knew we didn't have a car, not even an old Ford like Lily Marshall's. But he wasn’t going to make me cry. Not tonight. Miss Tucker walked into the noise and rapped her hand on the desk to get our attention. "I think just about everybody important in town has come to see this class's program tonight," she announced, "I’m sure you will all perform perfectly and not be a disappointment to me, to your families, and to everyone." I blinked. It hadn't been in my mind that we'd be in front of all those people. Not once! I'd thought of Mama, and Miss Tucker, and the kids in my class. But not other grown-ups. Dr. Burns. The Harpers and the Marshalls. And all those folks I didn't know, peering at me and deciding on me. Miss Tucker kept talking, but straight off my head was stuffed with cotton and a lump was in my chest making my stomach feel strange. "Barbara Ann? Did you hear? You are going alphabetical, and your turn is right after Ginny. Line up now. We'll walk in and you will sit in chairs on the stage in the order you will speak." Somebody gave me a shove and I stumbled into line. I thought about the start of my poem and began muttering it to myself. "Between the Dark and the daylight, when the night is..." When the night is what? "beginning to lower," Okay, I'm okay. I've said this over to myself a zillion times. I KNOW this. We started the walk from our room to the auditorium. My feet, heavier than usual, dragged against the linoleum. Ginny Harper's back got further and further away. Behind me, Lily Marshall poked me with her finger. "Get a move on, Barbara Ann!" She added, "My grandma and grandpa are here, and my Aunt Nancy too. Everybody is here!" She sounded a lot more excited than I was feeling, but I hurried to catch up. At the stage door Miss Tucker paused the line. "Are you ready? I will introduce the class and call each of you up to the front to recite your piece. Remember to say the name of it and speak loudly. There must be a hundred people in our audience, the most for any class program this year!" With that she opened the door and we filed up the steps, onto the stage, and to our chairs. I was in the front of the two rows, all the way to one side. The curtain was closed but the sounds of talk, coughs, and laughter came through. I squeezed my eyes shut and put my hands over my ears. When the curtain opened, I dropped my hands into my lap and stared out into all those faces. Miss Tucker introduced the class and Davy Burns was first up to speak. I didn't hear a word or even the clapping afterwards for the buzzing in my head. It seemed to get louder with each classmate who stepped up to recite. I didn’t hear "Time to Rise" or "I Wandered Lonely." My ears still weren't working when Ginny got up to recite "Land of Counterpane" but then, as she returned to her seat after the clapping for her poem, I heard Miss Tucker say my name. It echoed in my head and I knew I was supposed to do something but I was frozen, sitting, staring out at the room. "Barbara Ann Jenkins," my name was repeated. I found my body standing and walking to the microphone. There I froze again. The faces began to murmur and I heard "stage fright" whispered in the dark. I cleared my throat and started. "Between the dark and the daylight, when..." I stopped. "Between the dark and... and... the daylight, when..." my voice ran down and tears pushed up inside. I stood staring into the audience. Then I saw Mama. She had abandoned her seat at the back of the room and was in the front row looking up at me. I could see her hands gripping her purse and the unflinching set of her shoulders. Small embarrassed coughs and snickers were skittling around the room. Mama's eyes met mine and I knew she knew all about being scared in front of people, all about worrying what they thought. Her eyes sparkled and I caught my own defiance in her. I cleared my throat and commenced again: "Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower. Comes a pause in the day's occupation That is known as the children’s hour." I recited the piece to Mama alone and my voice was strong and brave like her. The poem tumbled out perfect and sure like all the times I'd said it to myself as I memorized it. "I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round tower of my heart. And there I will keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day. Till the walls shall crumble to ruin. And moulder to dust away!" I hardly noticed the applause or the face Davy Burns made at me as I walked back to my chair. I knew I was in the tower of Mama's heart forever. Her face had beamed with pride. Pride! No matter what the preacher said, pride was a good feeling. I was proud of Mama and proud of myself. |
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| Stage Fright Ken Staley kstaley@gmail.com |
#5 of 9 |
| 2405 words | |
| Of course it’s all J. J. Jackson’s fault.
Well, most of it is anyway. See, Ms Jean Rae Zilensky finally decided on the Grade 6 Spring Play. For her it was a real treat to make us all wait until the very day she was ready to deliver, like some new baby. Of course the girls all wanted to know in September. The boys didn’t care if we ever knew, or if there ever was a play. Then, one day, Ms Z pounced on the lot of us. “OK, I want you all to line up! Girls on THIS side, guys on THAT side.” “Right,” Tommy Turner said, “must be cookies and nap time!” Tommy was my best friend next to Dinky. Little Dinky Daves was the runt of the class and got away with lots of stuff simply because he was still so small he could hide behind bigger people. “OK,” Ms Z shouted over the din. “I want you all to face THAT way, towards the black board.” We shuffled, giggled, and did so. “Now, if you’re taller than the person in front of you, change places.” This took some time and Ms Z dashed from one - “Am not! Are TOO!” – hot spot to the other. “Ok, now…,” she loved those long, dramatic pauses. “Our play this year is going to celebrate the birth of a very special person!” “Leaves me out,” Dinky Daves whispered. “My birthday was last October.” “This April, on the very day of our Spring Play, would have been Mr. William Shakespeare’s 360th birthday! So, in honor of that, our spring play is going to be ….” “Drum roll please,” Tommy whispered and we giggled. “Romeo and Juliet!” Groan!!!! Right away, three guys raised their hands and begged out, pleading soccer practice, leaving just a dozen guys. Three of the girls were so scared that they sat down in place, one even started crying! Crying! I mean, really! And she never, ever got over her stage fright. So there we were, 12 guys and 14 girls, all standing in line, ready to take on the Capulets and Montagues. “And our star….our Romeo,” Ms Z continued breathlessly, “is J.J.!” Here she stopped to applaud a blushing JJ Jackson. JJ was the tallest kid in grade 6, almost five feet tall! You’d have thought he was just crowned king of the universe. He stuck out what little chest he had, cocked his head back and swept the hair from his forehead. Regal was the only way to describe J. James Jackson, except he looked like a playing card. From the front he looked really wide. But when he turned sideways, he all but disappeared. I was instantly jealous. If JJ was going to be Romeo, there could only be one reason, Mary Alice Withers, the tallest person in our class, even taller than JJ, would be Juliet. She was a big girl for grade six, with this wild shock of short red hair that made her look like a copper crayon gone through the shredder. She wore glasses and hardly ever smiled at anyone. She saved her greatest sneer for any guy that got close, but mostly that was Scooter Magee’s fault. See, Mary Alice had something that no other grade 6 girl had. Big Boobs. Oh, some of the girls had bumps – mosquito bites next to Mary Alice though. “Knockers. Tits.” Yeah, my gang of friends was really original. “Bet they ain’t real,” Dinky Daves said. “Oh yeah? How much?” Scooter was always broke. They settled on the chocolate cup cake in Dinky’s lunch and a Snicker bar from Bob’s In and Out on the way home. Little Dinky Daves didn’t wait. He slipped from his seat, on the excuse of having to sharpen his pencil, and walked behind Mary. He did sharpen something, but I don’t know what. On the way back to his seat we heard a loud snap! as Dinky reached out and pulled her bra strap back…and let go. Mary Alice jumped from her chair, fire glaring from her eyes, and gave chase. Dinky almost had to run from the room! “You puny little shit!” She yelled, hard on his heels. We gasped! Mary Alice swore! She cussed!!! Out Loud! In class! When the dust settled, Mary Alice had to write an apology to the class and Dinky got a free trip to the principal’s office and two days of detention. Frankly, I don’t know what that proved except Mary Alice was faster than Dinky, but Scooter and Dink seemed satisfied. Rehearsals started that very afternoon. Ms Z already sent a letter home to parents explaining rehearsal times: Monday and Wednesday afternoon for an hour. She also explained what the play was – her twenty minute version of Romeo and Juliet. Little Dinky Daves was Tybalt and got to die. So he was happy. I was Mercrutio – and got to die BIG. Tommy Turner was a priest on one page and Juliet’s father on the next. Most of the other boys had two or three different roles to play, only one or two with any real lines to memorize. Scooter Magee was on my side, a Montague. His worst enemy in the world, Earl Koffman was a Capulet. As the play opened, Earl and Scooter would have to fight - in rehearsal some very life like blows landed that got applause from Ms Z. She was a bit thick sometimes. “I’m really going to clonk him on the head,” Scooter said one day after Earl gave him a small shiner. “See if I don’t. If it’s a real sword, I’ll just cut his head off.” We kept on reading. I got applause when I died because I stood up and died…wonderfully. Then we got to the fourth page of the script and everyone stopped reading…there were even some gasps! They had to kiss! Romeo and Juliet! A real kiss on the lips and everything! In front of real people! Mary Alice looked defiant. JJ blushed and hid his face. From that moment on, JJ Jackson and I were enemies. See, I had a real crush on Mary Alice. Yes she had hair that looked like she never took her finger from the wall socket. Yes, her glasses were ugly. But there was something about Mary Alice. She was smart, smarter than me in some things. She was my heart’s throb! “Yes, yes, read on,” Ms Z said. “We’ll deal with that soon enough!” From then on, rehearsals lasted anywhere from half an hour to an hour every day after school, leading up to our ‘special Spring Break’ of half day projects. Monday we cut out cardboard set pieces from old refrigerator boxes, from dryer boxes, from any other larger crate Mr Z – Jeff to Ms Z – could scrape together. The whole room smelled like tempera paint. That first afternoon, as we headed home, Ms Z gave us notes for our parents. One page was costume requirements. Of course, none of us bothered to read the list, we were too busy escaping. I handed mine to my mother in passing. “Don’t worry,” she said, smiling. “I’ll take care of this.” “Ok, thanks!” I wasn’t worried at all - until Thursday, our first ‘dress rehearsal’. They guys met in the cafatorium….the girls met in the music room because of the private practice rooms to change in. Ms Z and Mary Alice’s mother helped the girls. Mr. Z was stuck with 12 boys. Most of us hadn’t opened or looked at our costumes yet. My bag felt a little weird and a little heavy. On top of the bag was my tunic…an old tee shirt of my fathers dyed magically burgundy, with a bright felt copper cross on the front and cut up the side almost to the neck. Next a pair of old slippers, sort of cloth things that matched my tunic. Neat! I decided. Next, a package…an unopened package…flat…with dark red material inside. As I brought it out….oh My GOD!! TIGHTS! I shoved it back in the bag before anyone could see. I was certain it was a mistake and Mom had forgotten to take my sister’s shopping out of the bag. I looked around to see if I’d been spotted. Most other guys were too involved in their own discoveries to worry about mine. Some held up old panty hose. Others had tights, too. After a minute, I decided that, if I had to wear tights, and the rest of the guys did, too, mine weren’t so bad after all. I took the package out but hid it beneath my sack. Poor Jeff – Mr Z – was having the world’s worst time getting guys to change into their tights. The tunics were great. Deep blue for the Capulets, burgundy for the Montagues. Capulets looked great in their Navy and gold crosses. Us Montagues weren’t so bad; red with copper crosses. Finally, Scooter decided he’d be first. To really lame cheers, Scooter walked behind the curtain and, five minutes later, came out wearing a pair of his mother’s old black panty hose. Every sound stopped for at least a minute as Scooter slid his way down stairs in panty hose several times too big. He’d done his best, pulled them up under his arm pits…but there was still far more leg than there was Scooter. Heck, he could have fit his entire body in one leg! And you could see his Spiderman underwear! We laughed. We fell down it was so funny. Mr. Z threatened us, praised Scooter for his bravery … did his very best to hide his own smile. Scooter turned beet red. We giggled and tried to stop that too. Nothing helped. It all fell to pieces again when Ms Z, hearing our loud noises, came in, saw Scooter, and couldn’t hold her own laughter, but had to dash out of the room, tears streaming down her face. We tried, really. A few moved towards the back of the stage, but with Scooter standing there in those black panty hose, we didn’t get very far. I finally stumbled back stage and worked mine out of the package. How do girls do this? I tried lots of things, but these were worse than baseball socks. I tried sitting, lying down on the floor, hopping on one leg. Nothing seemed to work until I rolled the mess up - put one foot in - then I tried to put the other in. It was like trying to squeeze both feet into a small shoe box. I finally managed to get my feet in…then I tried to stand. I ended up on my butt, up stage, in front of everyone, with my holey underwear for all to see! I jumped and pulled at the same time and, as if by magic, I had red tights on! All the guys clapped and I bowed! Back to her regular self, Ms Z she dashed on stage and sang my praise! “Well done Joey Martinitti! Well done indeed! You look just great!” I wish I could say all went well after that, but that would be lying. We finally lined up in what we had for tights. Scooter’s weren’t the only panty hose in the lot, but his were the worst fitting of any. Some guy’s Moms got them light weight, girl type tights that didn’t hide underwear very well at all. Me and JJ were the only guys who had the real stage-type heavy duty tights. Ok, so mine were like way too big. At least they were the right type and color. Mary Alice’s mother had them rolled up and pinned in less than a minute. Tommy Tucker stood there with both hands trying to hide his thingy except that made his butt stick out. The panty hose his Mom stuffed into the bag had this sort of panty already built into them. He decided he didn’t need underwear with them. Boy was he wrong! Jeff told him to go put his underwear back on. JJ “Jack” the playing card … stood next to me except now, standing sideways and facing front like we were….well…not all of him disappeared. I mean…we didn’t look….except we did look…I mean…not to stare…but we did stare. What Mary Alice was to the girls, JJ Jackson was to the guys! “I bet he brought a potato in the bottom of his sack from home and stuffed that down there!” Tommy whispered. And don’t you know, from that moment on, JJ Jackson was Spud. Ms Z put us in positions so we could go through the play for the first time in our costumes using our real props - swords mostly, consisting of lath-covered with foil – bright side out. Almost everyone there worked with memorized lines. I bet Mary Ellen was like me and had the whole thing memorized. Then the moment of truth….the kiss. Of course, they’d practiced it, under close supervision of Ms Z, but without a crowd of giggling grade 6 know-it-alls watching. And when JJ reached in for the moment of truth…something else happened. “Hey, look!” Harry said in is best stage whisper. “Damned if old JJ don’t have a big stem on that spud!” The girls all giggled. All of them…even those who had stage fright so bad they were Ms Z’s ‘student directors’. Very few of them blushed. I think most of the guys blushed. I bet there wasn’t one of them who didn’t look, who wasn’t secretly envious. It wasn’t so much a stem as it was like a big plant, pushing and twitching in a wind storm. JJ finished kissing Mary Alice – for the last time – sighed, opened his eyes, and looked down. I don’t think he stopped running until he got home. I know it took a personal visit from Ms Z to have him come back to class the following Wednesday. He insisted he wanted to change classes, but it was far too late in the school year for that. Besides, the whole school knew already… and they knew his brand new nick name, too. So, that’s the story. That’s the first time I kissed your grandmother. Yep, I was her Romeo, and only by a matter of a few inches, her second Romeo. I guess I was lucky I didn’t have a stem yet. You just remember, when your Uncle JJ comes to visit, don’t you dare call him Spud! Let me. |
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| Stage Fright C.C. Ramirez twiggy797wasme@yahoo.com |
#6 of 9 |
| 885 words | |
| Little Wil was 8 years old and scared. He had to act in
the school play today. He had tried everything, but he still could not rid
himself of his stage fright. Everybody had advice for him, some told him to
picture the audience in their underwear, which was just gross. Some had told
him to pretend there WAS no audience. Everybody told him he would out grow it
someday. Seemed ok, but he tried it and it didn’t work. Little Wil was
determined to be in show business somehow. So predictably enough, opening night of the play, Wil froze. He couldn’t do it. All his lines, all his practicing gone to waste. He just stood there looking like a right dork. Sitting later watching the play progress without him, his stand-in doing his job, Wil noticed the dancers. They had no lines; they barely had to look at the audience. Hell the audience probably didn’t even notice them. So will decided he would like to try out dancing as a new career. A whole year went by. Many, many, dance lessons later, Wil tried out as a dancer in the new play. He got the part! He was so happy. Then opening night came. Wil ran out on stage in that short shirt and stockings combo they gave him. He started to dance, and he was doing well…at first. Then he noticed the audience, he realized that the stockings they gave him were very small. He got nervous thinking about all those people looking at him. He tripped over his own feet. Stage fright won again. He looked down and saw the orchestra. Without music there could be no play! Nobody ever saw the orchestra, they were just heard. Hardly anybody thought about them until the music stopped!! So he learned to play the violin, took him 2 years to get a chair amongst the others in the orchestra, but he did. A new play was to open soon. He took his music pages home, practiced every night. So much so that his family tired of it. But it paid off. He knew that music, he could play it with his eyes shut. Less than an hour into the first night, you guessed it, stage fright. Wil froze up. He couldn’t remember how to play! All he could think about was those people in the audience listening to him. How if he messed up again everyone would know who it was. And they did. He then tried his hand at conducting the orchestra, what a catastrophe that was. We wont even go into that story, poor guy. 13 years old and still couldn’t get into show business. Then he noticed the director of the play. He was sitting just off stage, nobody could see him. All the actors and dancers had to listen to him. He was “in control.” so Wil decided to try directing. Two years later, Wil is finally getting his chance to direct a play. The play was interesting enough; the actors were as good as 15 year olds can be expected. He had them rehearse; he had them go over every line of every scene almost a thousand times. He worked with them individually. He worked with them as a group. He couldn’t act himself, but he had enough experience in the play department that he knew what the audience expected. He was able to give tips and pointers to each and every actor and dancer on stage. His directing debut went, as I am sure you can predict now. Not as horrible for him, however. You see the audience does indeed not see the director. Wil had given them such good directions, made them rehearse so much, and given out such sound advice, that the play went on without him. Wil sat back stage, sweating, hyperventilating, and experiencing slight nausea. His stage fright was so severe; he couldn’t even stand seeing his friends go through it. He still got the credit for directing that play, which was one of the most successful plays in that theater. But inside, Wil knew he had failed, again. Why was this so hard for him? He just wanted to be a part of it all. He knew that he was stressed by the stage. But he could not figure out why? Almost 17 and still afraid of the stage. Everybody was wrong. He had NOT out grown his stage fright. If only the play had more humor to it, maybe he could relax. THAT’S IT!!!!!! If he wrote the plays, he could be a part of it all! Besides there could be no play without a playwright. He could have fame and glory. He could experience first hand what is like to succeed at something. He could be a part of that world, without having to be a part of the show. His name of course would be on every single copy of the program. On top of all of that, he could sit in the audience and enjoy the play, knowing that he had been a major part in bringing this story, his story, to life. How wonderful that would be. So (not so little anymore) 17 year old, Wil Shakespeare sat down and began writing his first play. |
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| Stage Fright ecdericd@comcast.net |
#7 of 9 |
| 438 words | |
| I froze as I went up to the stage everyone was starring as I tried to say my line the words just wouldn’t come out of my mouth all had to say hi and I froze embarrassed and scared a ran off. This all started when I tried out for the play I was fine then but know I was filled with fear the small part I had was the announcer and I couldn’t say a word. As my face turned red from embarrassment I tried again a small voce came out saying hi nobody could here me as I said it louder still no one could here me. I woke up sweating thank goodness it was just a dream I said to my self. Oh no im late for getting up I shouted, I ran to the buss my hair tangle and wet every one laphed at me as I passed they all called me messy hair merryah. I yelled saying not to call me that but the continued their game. They took my work and threw it out the window I sighed as I knew this day would be horrible my homework was gone and I had to go on stage as we pulled up to the school I frowned. I just realized I forgot my lunch I said to a friend she told me just to tell the teacher and she would let me call my mom as I walked into the room I noticed it subsatute I asked her if I could call my mom she said no I could just get food from the cafeteria yuk I said to myself I hate school lunch. As the day came to an end I knew I would soon have to go on stage I began to think why did I even try out for the play I forget I said to myself. It was a long ride home because every one was still making fun of me. When I got home my mom was waiting in the car she said hurry up or yull miss your part I sighed and put my stuff in the house as we approached the school I began to sweat I hate play a said under my breath. As the play started a began to say to my self not to freeze and embarrass my self as I walked out on to the stage people cheered I smiled with delight when I got to center stage I said hi every one here is our play a ran off stage and said to myself that I got over my STAGE FRIGHT. | |
| Stage Fright glenlee10@sky.com |
#8 of 9 Winner |
| 2102 words | |
| It only took me a short time to learn why El Maestro
insisted that his assistants wear scarlet. Not that I minded being dressed like
a tart. I wanted so desperately to be on stage that, short of nudity, I’d
have worn anything to get that first break into show business. Ever since I was a little girl, I’d dreamed of being an actress and getting a part in one of the soaps; Coronation Street or Eastenders. Being a magician’s assistant was a long way from that goal, but I reasoned that even Dame Judi Dench must have started low and worked her way up. I decided not to be proud, to try anything and everything that came my way. As it happened, this was the only job my agent found for me. But maybe a talent scout would spot me? OK, so the job was only for the summer season in Skegness, which was a bit off the beaten track, but as I also told myself, even talent scouts have holidays, didn’t they? It seems I did a lot of talking to myself that year. That was probably because Mum wanted me to get a job on the tills at Waitrose and refused to see that I had the talent to be an actress. She’d never believed in me. But I had faith in myself. That was all that mattered. The job consisted of handing things to, and taking things from, El Maestro as he worked his magic tricks and in-between times, I had to strike poses and do a bit of strutting across the stage. I practiced both the posing and the strutting in my bedroom in the small B. & B. behind the railway station in Skeggy. I thought I was pretty good. I posed in front of the full-length mirror that hung on the wardrobe door. The glass was speckled with age around the edges and the bed got in the way so I had to stand on it to do the ‘leg work’ as I liked to call it. I had a programme of the show at the Moulin Rouge and copied the dancers’ poses. I was slim but curvaceous and the tight, red, satin costume fitted me perfectly. Later, cynically, I thought that might have been why I got the job; because of my size rather than my talent. The first time I was on stage, I was nervous but Maestro was very understanding and covered up the more glaring of my mistakes. I knew I looked good. Being a brunette, the red suited and I waved my arms theatrically, I thought, to good effect. Maestro told me after the show that none of his assistants had ever received such applause. “But,” he said, “you must practice walking in your stilettos. I should hate you to tumble into the orchestra pit a second time.” I sucked my thumb which I’d squashed on a tuba and nodded my head. Two weeks later, when I’d worked through the pain barrier and could ignore my pinched toes, I was doing much better on stage and it was Maestro’s turn to be clumsy. We were doing that old chestnut in which I had to lie down in a coffin shaped box while he thrust sharp swords through the sides. We had rehearsed it several times in the cold light of day, but this was the first time we’d done it on stage. All was going well. I was lithe and could writhe sufficiently to avoid the swords’ points. I was guiding them into the correct slots, missing my flesh by a tissue’s breadth when Maestro became overconfident and jabbed the next sword, the one he’d used to demonstrate to the audience how sharp the swords were, through the wrong slot. Of course, he realised his mistake as soon as he met resistance. It didn’t need my squeal to tell him of his error. I heard him say, “Oops!” to the audience. The rest of his patter I missed because it had stung and I was busy cussing him under by breath. The swords were withdrawn. The lid of the coffin was thrown to one side and Maestro dipped his hand inside, inviting me to leap out, demonstrating that I was still in one piece. And I did just that. I didn’t pose as rehearsed however. My right arm I was able to raise slowly and sinuously above my head. The left went straight to my hip, to stem the flow of blood! I noticed later, the blood didn’t show up on the fabric of my outfit! As soon as I could, I limped from the stage but before I went, as Maestro twirled me into my final pirouette, I was able to rake a stiletto heel down his leg. I heard him gasp. That’ll teach him to be clumsy, I thought. We brought the house down. Like an old trooper I kept a bright smile plastered on my face all the time Later, he charged into my changing room without knocking. “What the hell was that all about?” he shouted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jab you but it was only a little nick. You didn’t have to slash my shin, did you? I can hardly walk.” He rolled up his trouser leg. “Look! Look!” he pointed at a glorious bruise that ran from his knee to his ankle. It was purpling nicely already. “Look what you’ve done!” He stood over me, his chest heaving with indignation. “The last girl that happened to took it in good part. She understood that these things happen. She didn’t retaliate viciously. She was a professional!” I was furious. Me? Unprofessional? I held my camisole to my chest. “We will discuss this later.” I was as haughty as Dame Judy at her best. He might be my boss but he had no right to come screaming into my room when I was changing. We didn’t talk about it though. It seemed that this far into the season all the girls who had Equity cards also had jobs and I found that without experience I couldn’t get work elsewhere. So we were stuck with each other. The following week, Maestro handed me a bunch of paper flowers after he’d pulled them from a hat. Something sharp pricked my finger and I dropped the flowers. Maestro smiled at the audience and shrugged his shoulders as thought to say, “What can I do? You just can’t get the staff!” The audience appreciated the joke and roared with laughter, in conspiracy with him, against me. Meanwhile, I bought myself a new costume with my hard-earned cash. The new one was white and would show up any blood that might be spilt by Maestro’s clumsiness. He’d have to be more careful, I though. What happened though, was that he became more devious and inventive and our ‘tit-for-tat’ continued. Maestro continued to make me the butt of his jokes and bookings for the show went up. It seems we were considered to be a comedy duo. And as any good partnership should be, it was not all one sided. I admit it was unprofessional of me to drop the ‘coffin’ lid on his fingers when I sprang unharmed from it one night and I knew I was standing too close that time I was handing him the lit torches to juggle. That episode cost him a new hat and it took a couple of weeks for his eyebrows to grow back. Maestro reciprocated. Instead of handing me the rabbit that he’d just pulled from a hat, I found myself holding a twitchy, sharp-toothed, brown rat. I squealed and dropped it. Of course I did! The audience loved it. The manager of the theatre was not too pleased though when the creature turned up in the overcrowded room the artists used as a canteen. Maestro blamed me of course. So I got my own back. I stole all the aces from every pack of cards he used on stage and superglued all his trick boxes tight shut. Not one trick went right that night. He was seething with anger and frustration when we took our final bow for the evening. It was my turn to smile sweetly and his to fix a death’s head grin on his face until the curtains closed. He was too angry to speak; didn’t like being made to look foolish. Well, he deserved it. He started it! It was late August. The season only had another five weeks to run and I would be free of the Monster Magician. On Monday, he’d managed to nobble my shoes and one of the stiletto heels broke halfway through the act. I’d had to smile graciously, kick off the shoes and finish the act in stockinged feet. He must have waxed the floor where I usually pranced and posed behind him because as I lent forward to take a live chicken from him, my feet skidded from under me and I sat down, hard. The thud reverberated through the auditorium and the pain in my coccyx brought tears to my eyes. Sniffling and snuffling I scrambled to my feet. The audience clapped and cheered. My smile was wobbly to say the least. Getting my own back was difficult. Maestro had padlocked all his equipment away every night after the superglue episode so I resorted to using red-hot chillies. Before the Tuesday show, wearing thin latex gloves, I cut up four chillies. It was my job to adjust the microphones before Maestro was announced so it was easy to smear oil from the chillies onto them. Naturally, I washed my hands very, very thoroughly before I went back on stage. The show went smoothly until Maestro plucked a microphone from its stand to speak to his audience. His fingers must have felt tingly at once, for he changed the microphone to the other hand and sucked his fingers. He started to sweat. He rubbed his face. The oil went into his eyes. What delicious torture! That night’s show had to be abandoned of course because he couldn’t see a thing; least of all me, as I made my escape back to my B. & B. for an early night. It’s Wednesday. I’m wearing my red outfit and my new shoes. My hair is long and glossy and I have never looked so good. I’m prepared to stare Maestro down if he starts an argument. But he hasn’t said a word to me all evening. I think he’s planned something though. His smile is vindictive as though he knows already that his plan is foolproof. The lights have gone down. The auditorium is in darkness. I can hear a man coughing and someone shuffling their feet. Otherwise, the quietness is thick and oppressive. A small fear starts to nag at my mind. What is he going to do? I think it might be nasty. There is just enough light to see one of the props’ boys pushing a wheeled cart to the middle of the stage. I hold my breath. Whatever is on the table is covered with a black cloth. There is a low, drum roll. Slowly it builds. Maestro crosses to the table and whips off the cloth. He snatches up a … god forgive me! It looks like a chainsaw. He beckons me to him. I am so frightened I can’t move. He smiles at me and beckons again. My feet move without my leave. I go to him, the drumming vibrates through the stage, up my body where it becomes one with the thunderous beating of my heart. He starts the chainsaw. The machine’s roar deafens me. He offers it to me. My arms hang at my sides. “Come on, Jayne,” he commands, his words barely heard above the chainsaw. “Hold this while I start another.” I reach for it. I hold it. It is heavy. Too heavy for such a slender person as me. Maestro helps me. He tucks it underneath my armpit, while the business end whirs viciously within inches of my breast. “There,” he says. “Comfy?” I don’t reply. I don’t think he expects me to. He goes back to the table. The drumming is louder than ever. Maestro takes up a second chainsaw. He starts it. “We’re going to do a bit of juggling,” he shouts. “It’ll be fantastic. When I throw this to you, toss yours to me and then catch mine. I’ll count to three.” I stare at him. Is the man mad? I can’t even hold the damn thing up, let alone throw it. I’ll end up with two screaming chainsaws in my arms. “No,” I whispered. “No, you can’t! You can’t!” “One……!” “Two……!” The drumming stops. “THREE…………………..!” |
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| Stage Fright Nancy Schneider njswritingnook@yahoo.com |
#9 of 9 |
| 1767 words | |
| Jean softly hummed as she peeled carrots for the soup.
The kids loved her chicken soup, and she loved having her grandchildren visit.
She couldn’t understand why mothers today preferred opening a can to
making it from scratch. It was probably because of the time element rather than
lack of soup making knowledge. With both parents working, there wasn’t
much time for slow cooking. Things today were in such a hurry she wondered if
folks now days ever got a chance to enjoy the simple things of life - like
homemade chicken soup and watching children play. Glancing out the window she saw two of her grandchildren playing on the swing set. Yes, there was eight year old Robert with his red hair and freckles going head first down the slide. Five year old Kyle was hanging upside down on one of the bars and she could see that his mouth was in motion. Kyle never quit talking, even when no one was listening. She leaned closer to the window but couldn’t see Megan. Where in the heck was Megan? Then she spotted her purple shirt just barely visible inside the fort at the top of the swing set. Her little Megan, always off by herself. She should be running and jumping and playing like her cousins. But they were boys after all, and Megan was all grown up and wiser. At least she thought she was. She often reminded Jean that she was in the sixth grade and shouldn’t be treated like a baby. Yup, all grown up! Jean rinsed the carrots then added them to the soup. There, that’s done except for the noodles. Now it simply had to sit on the stove and simmer till suppertime. Wiping her hands on a paper towel, she got out four glasses and poured some lemonade. It was a warm day for May and the drink would be welcome. She picked up a box of crackers and put it all on a tray. Pushing open the screen door with her hip, she called out to the kids. “Who wants some lemonade and crackers?” Two smiling faces turned in her direction and Megan’s head peeked out of the fort. The boys came scrambling over to the porch and Megan climbed out, too. The boys plopped down on the steps and Megan sat in the swing. “Thanks Gram, I was really getting thirsty,” Kyle said. Jean sat down in the rocker. “I kinda figured you might be getting a bit dry with all the romping you’ve been doing. I sure enjoy watching you kids play and have fun.” Jean took a sip from her glass, then turned to Megan. “I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t seem to be having much fun out there. Is something bothering you?” Kyle jumped in with an explanation. “She’s all grumpy and nervous cause she has to memorize a part for some dumb play at school.” “Kyle!” Megan wailed. “It’s not a dumb play - and I’m not grumpy. Just a little bit scared is all.” Jean gave a knowing bob of her head. “Ahhh, stage fright. That can be a scary thing. But you’re very smart and I’m sure you can learn the part. You’ve said recitations for the Sunday School Christmas program in front of the whole church and you did a fine job. This can‘t be all that different.” “It’s a whole lot different Gram. The Christmas program is just standing up and saying your piece, then you sit back down. All the kids stand together and you don’t have to DO anything.” “So it’s more about the acting than the memorization of a part?” Jean asked cautiously. “It’s the whole thing. Everyone will be looking at me. What if I make a big mistake? What if I trip, or forget the words, or faint or something?” “Yea, what if she pukes?” Kyle said. Robert snickered. “That would be some show if you puke Megan. I’d even come if I thought you’d do that. Everyone would sure remember that.” “Robert, you’re not helping the situation,” Jean said. “She’s not going to puke. She’s going to be just fine and do a good job. A little stage fright never hurt anyone. So what‘s the play about anyway and what part do you have?” “It’s just the end of the year play they always put on. This year we’re doing some of the Fairy Tale stories. I got the part of the Princess in the Princess and the Pea. I really want to do it, but I’m so scared I’ll make a mistake or something.” “I think you should be proud you were given that part. The teacher must think you can do it and I know you can. Just do your best. Learn your lines, watch and pay attention to the teacher so you’re prepared, then relax and enjoy it. If you get all up-tight about it, it won’t be any fun. It’s important to do your best, but I hope you find a way to enjoy it. Then some day you can tell your children all about how you were the Princess and how much fun it was. Yet I know stage fright can be a scary thing. Why, I remember … oh never mind.” “Tell us Gram. Tell us a story from the good old days,” said Kyle. Jean folded her hands in her lap and chuckled. “Well there was a time when a young girl got stage fright. This was a long time ago, mind you, and she was a little younger than you, Megan. She was in the fifth grade and her school was going to participate in a special trivia type contest. There were six schools involved and each school was to send three of their students to compete. This girl wasn’t a total brain by any means, but she could hold her own and was one of the three chosen from her school. “Now mind you, this was a long time ago, and the show was going to be broadcast on the local television station. Back then not every home had a television, in fact few regular people did. Only rich people had a TV in their homes, so this was relatively new and impressive to a fifth grader. It was going to be a special, really special, competition. The winning school was going to get a big prize. The girl was excited but also a lot scared. Just like you Megan, she worried about all that could go wrong.” Jean had their complete attention by this time, so she settled more firmly in the chair and continued. “When they got to the studio, there was a lot of explaining on how things would work, and they got to stare at all the unfamiliar equipment. It was wonderful, but also mysterious. So much equipment, so many people. It was explained that they would be given questions, and if they answered incorrectly, they would be eliminated. The school that ended up with the most correct answers would be declared the winner. “The people at the studio knew these kids were young, nervous and had never been on television before, so they consoled them by saying the first questions would be very simple, nothing to worry about. But then the questions would get harder as time progressed and as their confidence grew. The studio lady said just relax and do your best. “As they started working one school at a time, the girl felt somewhat better because so far she mentally knew all the answers. The closer they got to her school, the clammier her hands got. She was the last one from her school to be questioned. And it was a simple question. ‘What year did Columbus discover America?’ Her mouth opened and she loudly said, ‘1942.’ “ Megan’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh Gram, no! What did she do?” “Well, the bottom line is she knew the answer, the judges knew she knew, but she said the wrong thing, so she was disqualified. On the very first question - the easy question! The game had just begun and because of stage fright she was left listening to a lot of chortling, soft coughing, some mixed grins and some awful murderous stares from her classmates. She really felt bad.” “It’s not as bad as puking, but I bet her friends teased her after that,” said Robert. “They did tease her a bit, but most of them were just as scared as she was, so they understood.” “Did they win?” asked Kyle. “Actually no. Funny thing is, they might have won if she hadn’t been disqualified right away because some of the questions her teammates missed, she knew but couldn’t say. They missed them because they were scared, too. Afterwards they all went out for ice cream Sundaes and talked the subject to death. They all agreed it was a good learning experience.” “Was the girl my Mom?” asked Robert. “Nope, it wasn’t your Mom.” “Was it mine?” asked Megan. “No honey, it wasn’t your Mom either.” “Well who was it? Do we know her?” asked Kyle. Jean nodded her head. “Oh yes, you know her. It’s - well - it was me.” “So I guess you do know how I feel,” said Megan. “You’re not just saying you understand.” “You got that right. I know what stage fright feels like. But I also know there’s really nothing to be afraid of. Butterflies in the belly don’t hurt you. Sometimes they make us work harder so we do it right. Afterwards my Mom, your great-gramma, said I should be proud I was included in the first place. And you should be proud you got the role of Princess in the school play. I’m proud of you and I’ll be there cheering you on.” “I still think you should puke,” said Robert. “That way no one will know if you forget your lines or trip on your way to the top mattress. I’ll make sure Mom gets tickets cause I want to be there in case.” “Me, too,” said Kyle. “I’ll show you guys. I’ll be in the play and I won’t puke, either. Maybe it will be fun after all.” “That’s my girl,” said Jean. “I’m glad we had this little talk. It’s good to know you’re not alone and that others went through what you’re going through. Some day you’ll be able to tell a story to your grandkids about stage fright. You can say, ‘Been there, done that,’ and mean it.” |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club