Stage Fright
Everyone performs. Some just don’t know their part yet
Welcome to Day #13. Earlier episodes are listed below.
This little series intersects with other tales based in the world of Nevicata devised by Maryellen Brady 💗📚 for her 24-Day ADVENT-ture 2025. She’s invited us all into her world.
PROMPT (#13): How will your character meet the Light of Celebration?
Day 1: Welcome to Nevicata
Day 2: A Light Snack
Day 3: Breakfast of Impolite Champions
Day 4: Case of the Nightmare Scarf Lady
Day 5: Ferrel versus the Princess Posse
Day 6: Life Takes Practice
Day 7: Hide-and-shriek
Day 8: Happiness is a Warm Bath
Day 9: Open Mic, Open Heart
Day 10: Disasterpieces
Day 11: Disastermath
Day 12: A Matter of Temperment
Check out GrousyGirl’s Day #13 companion piece:
The band rehearsed like the world depended on it.
Which, according to Angelo, it did.
“Again from the top,” Angelo the Ice Frog barked, leaping onto a crate and brandishing his baton like a general addressing doomed troops. “With feeling. With passion. With the knowledge that tonight, history is watching.”
History, Ferrell thought, was a very judgmental audience.
He sat near the edge of the square, doing his best impression of fine—a desperate attempt to keep his impending emotional collapse contained.
Snow crunched beneath boots, hooves and paws as people drifted past, already buzzing about the Founders Day Parade, the lighting of the ceremonial ring, the music, the spectacle—and afterwards, the masquerade festival.
Ferrell nodded along to the rhythm, even wagged his tail once for good measure.
Inside, his thoughts sprinted in circles.
Mr. Shade was in Nevicata. It was only a matter of time before he was snatched up and dragged back to the Underworld.
Ferrell’s stomach tightened at the thought.
A whimper escaped before he could stop it.
Angelo noticed immediately.
“Hold,” Angelo said.
The rehearsal ended in a clatter of mismatched notes and exhausted sighs. The Pine-Sprites collapsed into the snow. Marsha sat on her triangle like it had personally betrayed her.
Angelo hopped down from the crate and padded over, eyes narrowed.
“Ferrell,” he said carefully. “Why are you making that sound?”
“What sound? I didn’t make a sound,” Ferrell said quickly.
His tail betrayed him by curling tight against his leg.
Angelo squinted. “You’re doing the thing.”
Ferrell forced a weak laugh. “What thing?”
“The thing where your body gives up on lying before your mouth does.”
Ferrell opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“He’s here,” Ferrell said.
Angelo blinked. “Who’s here?”
Ferrell glanced around the square, then leaned in. “Mr. Shade.”
Angelo paused.
Then, slowly, his expression shifted—not to alarm or fear, but to thoughtful concern, like a director realizing a prop was missing.
“Ah,” Angelo said.
Ferrell waited for questions.
For panic.
For anything sensible.
Instead, Angelo nodded. “I see what’s happening here.”
Ferrell blinked. “What?”
“Stage fright.”
Ferrell shook his head. “No.”
“Yes,” Angelo said confidently. “Big night. Big crowd. Big pressure. Classic pre-performance spiral.”
“I’m not performing,” Ferrell said.
Angelo waved a webbed hand. “Everyone performs. Some just don’t know their role yet.”
Ferrell dug his paws into the snow. “Angelo, I just came by to wish you luck. Now I want to go hide somewhere very small and very dark.”
Angelo gasped. “Hide?”
“Yes.”
Angelo looked genuinely wounded. “Ferrell. It’s our big night. We’ve all worked so hard.”
Ferrell nodded. “I know. And you guys sound great.”
“Thank you—your support has been instrumental,” Angelo said with a sly grin.
Ferrell groaned.
Angelo’s expression turned serious. “Tonight is about being seen.”
Ferrell met his eyes.
“That’s the opposite of what I want.”
Angelo tilted his head, studying Ferrell the way a conductor studies a soloist trying to blend into the background.
“No,” he said gently. “That’s just what you’re used to.”
Ferrell sighed. “It’s kind of my thing.”
“I can tell,” Angelo said. “You hide like a professional—efficient, quiet, minimal collateral damage. Very considerate, really.”
Ferrell wasn’t sure that was a compliment.
Angelo hopped closer and lowered his voice as the band quietly packed up instruments behind them.
“Ferrell, you can’t just disappear every time life gets loud,” he said. “That’s not living. That’s stalling.”
Ferrell swallowed. “Sometimes hiding feels safer.”
“Of course it does,” Angelo said. “So does playing the same note forever. Predictable. Comfortable. Completely dead.”
Ferrell winced.
Angelo gestured broadly at the square—the lanterns being strung, the snow-dusted vendors setting up stalls, the creatures laughing and arguing and tripping over cables.
“Look at this,” he said. “It’s a mess. It’s noisy. It’s cold. Someone is absolutely going to set something on fire by accident.” He paused. “And tonight? It’s beautiful.”
Ferrell followed his gaze despite himself.
“Life isn’t something you hide from until it goes away,” Angelo continued. “It’s something you show up for—even when you’re scared. Especially when you’re scared.”
Ferrell’s ears drooped. “What if scared is just… my setting?”
Angelo didn’t dodge that.
“Then you work through it,” he said simply. “With friends. With music. With a little drama if necessary. No one does it alone.”
He smiled, the edge softening.
“You don’t have to be brave all the time. Life’s a show. Sometimes you’re in the crowd. Sometimes you’re backstage holding the set together.”
A beat.
“And sometimes,” Angelo added gently, “you get handed the lead whether you asked for it or not.”
Ferrell stared at the snow between his paws.
“I don’t know how,” he admitted.
Angelo’s grin returned in full force.
“Oh, that’s easy,” he said.
Ferrell waited.
“Just don’t be you.”
Ferrell blinked.
Then blinked again.
“…How does that work?”
Angelo spread his hands.
“Well, that depends. But tonight is masquerade night. Costumes. Glamours. Everyone pretending to be something else—”
He leaned in slightly, conspiratorial.
“—while secretly being more themselves than they’ve ever been.”
Ferrell hesitated. “You mean I could wear a costume—be someone else?”
Angelo snapped his fingers. “Exactly! You’re not hiding from life. You’re hiding in it.”
Ferrell considered this slowly, carefully.
“I don’t like how much sense that makes.”
Angelo clapped him on the shoulder. “Then it’s settled.”
“Wait—what’s settled?”
Angelo was already hopping away. “Come on. Fairy God-Tailor. Before you think yourself back into a hole.”
Ferrell stared after him, heart racing.
Then, reluctantly, he followed.
"Someone is absolutely going to set something on fire by accident.” so true.