A/N
Hey everybody, this isn't the evil drum major fic I promised the last time I posted, but it was an assignment for class (I'll explain this more at the end), and it was supposed to only be a paragraph, but it ended up getting longer and longer, and then I actually liked it, so here it is! If you R&R I'll be happy! If you don't, I'll burn effigies of you. ;)
My long hair is pulled back, twisted into a convenient knot, just to keep the wind form pulling my hair in front of my eyes and blinding me. According to our director, we have enough trouble watching without hair in our eyes.
I'm carrying this six-pound, uneven, not to mention ungodly (even though I think it's God), chunk of twisted metal piping at should-be-illegal angles. It's at least 98 degrees in the shade, there's sweat pouring down my back and soaking my wool uniform. My feet are traveling in a direction that is 90 degrees different from where my shoulders are pointing. I'm roll- stepping my way across the field, toes constantly pointing towards the sky – ludicrous toes, David, my drum corps marching instructor calls them – and I'm playing music previously only achieved by Flea of The Red Hot Chili Peppers. The success of our band depends on the low brass playing fast triplet runs in perfect 12/8 time while 4-to-5ing backwards and trying not to crash into the bass drum line.
All of my muscles ache horribly – my obliques from sliding, my calves and hamstrings from marching backwards on my toes, my shoulders and upper arms burn from carrying my instrument. After we flash our horns for the last bar, we snap them down to attention, and you can hear us all gasping for breath like fish out of water. But we're not done yet. We have to get off the field and look good doing it. Only after we are on the track can we relax, drop our shoulders forward, and walk with whichever foot first that we please, at whatever tempo we feel like walking in.
Our performance is done, we can relax, we can talk to our friends – "Can you believe the trombone solo?! It was a bar late!" "The trumpets dragged soo much in part three – argh!" But we can never fully relax – we must always have "one ear turned on," no matter what we are doing, listening for the command, Band, Ten-Hut!
It's a vicious dictatorship, a delicate balance of empowered teenagers and mutual respect. Push-ups are distributed like lollipops during rehearsals. We have to work together as a unit, if one person messes up, chances are we fall apart.
My Friday nights are no longer mine, neither are my Wednesdays. Most Saturdays are taken, too, for rehearsals or competitions. My life is no longer my own. But I love it. This is my happy place. Forget streams or oceans or meadows. My happy place is band. Call my masochistic, but when I finally arrive at home for the first time all day and sink into my bed at ten thirty on a Friday night, muscles aching, knowing damn well I have to be at school at eight the next morning, I'm happy.
A/N So, at school we're starting to study China and Japan, and we were brushing the topic of feng shui, so our teacher asked us to write a paragraph about our happy place. Everyone else wrote about a hammock on the beach – another sign of a true band nerd! I hope you like it, so again, please R/R, and general editing is much appreciated also. Anything that strikes you as odd or if you really liked something, please feel free to mention it. Please do!
Hey everybody, this isn't the evil drum major fic I promised the last time I posted, but it was an assignment for class (I'll explain this more at the end), and it was supposed to only be a paragraph, but it ended up getting longer and longer, and then I actually liked it, so here it is! If you R&R I'll be happy! If you don't, I'll burn effigies of you. ;)
My long hair is pulled back, twisted into a convenient knot, just to keep the wind form pulling my hair in front of my eyes and blinding me. According to our director, we have enough trouble watching without hair in our eyes.
I'm carrying this six-pound, uneven, not to mention ungodly (even though I think it's God), chunk of twisted metal piping at should-be-illegal angles. It's at least 98 degrees in the shade, there's sweat pouring down my back and soaking my wool uniform. My feet are traveling in a direction that is 90 degrees different from where my shoulders are pointing. I'm roll- stepping my way across the field, toes constantly pointing towards the sky – ludicrous toes, David, my drum corps marching instructor calls them – and I'm playing music previously only achieved by Flea of The Red Hot Chili Peppers. The success of our band depends on the low brass playing fast triplet runs in perfect 12/8 time while 4-to-5ing backwards and trying not to crash into the bass drum line.
All of my muscles ache horribly – my obliques from sliding, my calves and hamstrings from marching backwards on my toes, my shoulders and upper arms burn from carrying my instrument. After we flash our horns for the last bar, we snap them down to attention, and you can hear us all gasping for breath like fish out of water. But we're not done yet. We have to get off the field and look good doing it. Only after we are on the track can we relax, drop our shoulders forward, and walk with whichever foot first that we please, at whatever tempo we feel like walking in.
Our performance is done, we can relax, we can talk to our friends – "Can you believe the trombone solo?! It was a bar late!" "The trumpets dragged soo much in part three – argh!" But we can never fully relax – we must always have "one ear turned on," no matter what we are doing, listening for the command, Band, Ten-Hut!
It's a vicious dictatorship, a delicate balance of empowered teenagers and mutual respect. Push-ups are distributed like lollipops during rehearsals. We have to work together as a unit, if one person messes up, chances are we fall apart.
My Friday nights are no longer mine, neither are my Wednesdays. Most Saturdays are taken, too, for rehearsals or competitions. My life is no longer my own. But I love it. This is my happy place. Forget streams or oceans or meadows. My happy place is band. Call my masochistic, but when I finally arrive at home for the first time all day and sink into my bed at ten thirty on a Friday night, muscles aching, knowing damn well I have to be at school at eight the next morning, I'm happy.
A/N So, at school we're starting to study China and Japan, and we were brushing the topic of feng shui, so our teacher asked us to write a paragraph about our happy place. Everyone else wrote about a hammock on the beach – another sign of a true band nerd! I hope you like it, so again, please R/R, and general editing is much appreciated also. Anything that strikes you as odd or if you really liked something, please feel free to mention it. Please do!