Festival

 A festival, a big social to-do, with Tim at the center, dragged up on stage, it seemed a failure. He seemed awkward and uncomfortable, nervous.

The sun shone bright, the wind blew hard. People, mostly women, milled about, crafts and food and romance novels abound. A band played on a small aluminum stage. A young woman with a mike struggled to be heard over the drums and bouts of feedback; booth an. balloon animals, more of a country fair than a literary festival.

Tim made a speech, pushed by the organizer. Once the stage time ended, he’d reconsidered.

“I love you!” some woman screamed and in that moment, Tim seemed to find himself, channeled his innner Rimaud, charming far beyond what I’d ever seen before. A light radiant in the milling mediocrity, a shooting star, illuminating the darkness. His voice rang out over the multitude and every young heart cleaved in twain.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
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