It started as a ball of anticipation settling into my stomach.
Rolling and roiling, loud grumbles began to escape.
“I don’t feel good.”
My bandmates, bless them, pat my back and instructed me in deep breathing.
It wasn’t enough.
I walked reluctantly on stage, head down and anxiety churning in my throat.
Don’t look up.
The packed house stared back, each pair of eyes boring holes straight into me.
I couldn’t even start playing before the churning in my throat spilled over.
That’s why we have to move, preferably tonight when no one can see me run away.
Word Count: 100
For Friday Fictioneers (late, late, I’m late …)
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson