My library of short stories

ShortStory7

**Title: "Wait, Who Am I?"**

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**Scene 1: The Wrong Backstage Door**

~Dim backstage lighting, soft jazz hums from a distant band, blending with the clatter of performers rushing by. Props shift hands, figures flit in and out of shadow. Clark Grinmore, a frazzled office worker, stumbles awkwardly through the chaos, briefcase clenched tight, tie askew, stapler barely hanging from his pocket. His eyes dart from one side to the other, bewildered, and his footsteps resonate against the walls. The sound of distant laughter leaks through a nearby door.~

**Clark (muttering under his breath, rhythmically):**
“I was meant for the fifth floor’s corporate grind,
Now curtains are attacking, doors I can’t find.
This isn’t my conference room, I’m in a bind…”

~Suddenly, Maggie Showman—pure whirlwind of stress, clipboard in hand—barrels into Clark, nearly knocking him off balance. She’s a force of motion, speaking rapid-fire, too rushed to truly see him.~

**Maggie (her words tumbling out like a flurry of jazz notes):**
“Finally! Where’ve you been hiding? We’re about to begin!
The house is packed, no time to lose—get ready to win!”

**Clark (stammering, adjusting his glasses, fumbling over words):**
“Set? Me? No, you’ve got it wrong, I’m just—”

**Maggie (already moving away, tossing a microphone at him):**
“Dry humor? Perfect! Just keep that deadpan delivery.
No time for explanations—now go, make history!”

~Jazz crescendos in the background, mocking his panic as Clark stares down at the microphone, utterly lost. The band plays a quirky, rising tune, underscoring his bewilderment.~

**Clark (panicking, grasping the mic like a lifeline):**
“Wait, wait… I’m not a performer, I don’t know any jokes!
I’m just an office worker—what’s happening, folks?”

~He struggles with the microphone cord, wrapping it around his feet in a slapstick series of missteps. A trumpet echoes his blunders, the comedic tone rising as Clark trips and stumbles forward, barely regaining balance.~

**Clark (awkwardly singing, trying to calm himself, piano softly playing behind him):**
“I file reports, I handle claims,
This stage isn’t mine; it’s all just games.
Where did I go wrong, why am I here?
I should be filing papers, not battling fear…”

~He makes a break for the exit, but every door opens into more absurdity—costume designers, makeup artists, jugglers. Finally, a spotlight catches him, freezing him mid-motion. The band shifts into a playful tune as Clark stands, trapped in the light.~

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**Scene 2: The Green Room Chaos**

~Clark stumbles into the green room, his briefcase pops open, sending papers flying everywhere. A trombone slide adds a comic layer as he scrambles to gather them, clumsily bumping into everything in his path. Jimmy “The Bomb” Reynolds, a slapstick comic practicing his exaggerated moves, barely notices the chaos.~

**Jimmy (singing with grand flair, twirling through the room):**
“I’m Jimmy ‘The Bomb,’ here to drop the laughs,
The crowd will split, lose control of their halves!”

~Clark’s foot slips on an oversized prop banana peel, sending him skidding across the room. A drum roll follows his flailing motions as he crashes into a pile of props. Jimmy, eyes wide with delight, claps.~

**Jimmy (laughing, singing in rhythm):**
“That’s it, kid! You’ve got timing, I swear!
Sliding like that? You’re a comic with flair!”

**Clark (groaning, half-singing as he picks himself up):**
“This is insane, I don’t belong,
I’m just an accountant—this is all wrong.”