I, Band Nerd...
A collection (if I get review, that is. If I don't, I won't write any more of these things) of my musings from being in the marching band.
ATTENTION: I OWN ALL PATHETIC ATTEMPTS AT HUMOR IN THIS STORY. SPEECH. WHATEVER.
I DO NOT OWN THE MELLOPHONE. IT'S THE SCHOOL'S.
I WOULDN'T PAY FOR IT GIVEN THE CHANCE. IT'S NOT WORTH THE BRASS IT'S MADE OF.
Can you tell that I hate it?
~~~
Click. Snap. Click. "Damned case." I pried the unlocked, yet sticking, clasp off of my case and yanked the thing open. The smell of valve oil wafted up to my nostrils. I gagged and stepped back from the case, but the horrible smell didn't dissipate. I glared down at the battered instrument inside. "I hate you, you know that?" It, of course, said nothing. "What is wrong with you? No amount of oil will make your valves move, I can't open them to fix them, the slides are fused shut and the mouthpiece won't clean, no matter what I do. What did I do to deserve you?"
The mellophone, of course, said nothing. It never said anything, which I suppose was good, for my sake and its. If it could talk, and its personality were reflected by its appearance, it...
"Stop rambling," said the mellophone.
I blinked. "Did you just talk?"
"Of course I did. How stupid are you?"
"I'm not stupid."
"That, my friend, is highly debatable." the nonexistent lacquer winked at me.
"I never said you could be my friend."
"You know what I mean."
"I don't feel like fighting with you, mellophone."
"Can't you call me something a bit more respectful?"
"Like what? What's your name?"
"That's none of your business."
"Then what am I supposed to call you?"
"Good point."
"HEY!" Drum Major A yelled at the band suddenly. "We're out on the field! Go!"
Drum Major B was already gone, so she couldn't yell at us.
I blinked and picked up the mellophone, who'd stopped talking by now, grabbed my lyre, show music and flip-folder and sprinted out of the room, swearing under my breath. I looked down at the mellophone, and I swear that if it had eyes it would have winked.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Well, whatcha think? My first Marching Band story... and yes, this did happen to me once. I did hallucinate that my mellophone, who I hate with a passion, talked to me. I'll write more of these if you guys give me reviews, and like this. I'll try to stick with things like this that actually happened.
A collection (if I get review, that is. If I don't, I won't write any more of these things) of my musings from being in the marching band.
ATTENTION: I OWN ALL PATHETIC ATTEMPTS AT HUMOR IN THIS STORY. SPEECH. WHATEVER.
I DO NOT OWN THE MELLOPHONE. IT'S THE SCHOOL'S.
I WOULDN'T PAY FOR IT GIVEN THE CHANCE. IT'S NOT WORTH THE BRASS IT'S MADE OF.
Can you tell that I hate it?
~~~
Click. Snap. Click. "Damned case." I pried the unlocked, yet sticking, clasp off of my case and yanked the thing open. The smell of valve oil wafted up to my nostrils. I gagged and stepped back from the case, but the horrible smell didn't dissipate. I glared down at the battered instrument inside. "I hate you, you know that?" It, of course, said nothing. "What is wrong with you? No amount of oil will make your valves move, I can't open them to fix them, the slides are fused shut and the mouthpiece won't clean, no matter what I do. What did I do to deserve you?"
The mellophone, of course, said nothing. It never said anything, which I suppose was good, for my sake and its. If it could talk, and its personality were reflected by its appearance, it...
"Stop rambling," said the mellophone.
I blinked. "Did you just talk?"
"Of course I did. How stupid are you?"
"I'm not stupid."
"That, my friend, is highly debatable." the nonexistent lacquer winked at me.
"I never said you could be my friend."
"You know what I mean."
"I don't feel like fighting with you, mellophone."
"Can't you call me something a bit more respectful?"
"Like what? What's your name?"
"That's none of your business."
"Then what am I supposed to call you?"
"Good point."
"HEY!" Drum Major A yelled at the band suddenly. "We're out on the field! Go!"
Drum Major B was already gone, so she couldn't yell at us.
I blinked and picked up the mellophone, who'd stopped talking by now, grabbed my lyre, show music and flip-folder and sprinted out of the room, swearing under my breath. I looked down at the mellophone, and I swear that if it had eyes it would have winked.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Well, whatcha think? My first Marching Band story... and yes, this did happen to me once. I did hallucinate that my mellophone, who I hate with a passion, talked to me. I'll write more of these if you guys give me reviews, and like this. I'll try to stick with things like this that actually happened.