Gemotions

"I'm sorry, Mr. Davis, but your role in the band has been restructured. We're moving you to the tuba." He felt his ears begin to ring. The tuba? After years of playing the trumpet, of perfecting his high notes, they wanted him to play the *tuba*? He took a shaky breath.

His hands clenched. The music room, usually a source of joy, suddenly felt like a prison. He pictured the heavy instrument, the cumbersome form. He felt a wave of disgust wash over him. He forced a smile, though it felt strained and unnatural. He looked at his trumpet. He wanted to weep.