Horror Trip
It was horrible. Downright horrible. Really. The marching band knew that the night would be terrible as soon as the sight of the rusted, junky bus came down towards the school. And it literally came down. We were surprised that the bus didn't collapse. The tires were flat and paint and even metal were chipped off. When the bus came to a halt, a loud clank echoed through the air and the gray bumper jumped off the rear as if it was committing suicide.
The trumpet section backed in fear and clutched their cases to their chests. "No way I'm going on that," trumpet player, Dave, replied with his usual ego. But the director thought otherwise. He argued that this was the most important game and the band needed to be there to support the football team more than any other day.
Snobby flute player, Joyce, shivered with fear. "And risk ruining my hair? You're out of your mind, Mr. Lorayzo!"
"Aw, put a sock in it, Jo! Your hair's going into your hat, anyway!" trombone player, Steve, spat.
"Well, it's still perfect! Like me!" She giggled with delight. Steve rolled his eyes and threw his snake at her, laughing when she released a high-pitched "eek!" and ran away.
Slowly, cautiously, and hesitantly, the band climbed onto the bus. They sat in the grotesque, tough seats that reeked an aroma of dust. Joyce stared, disapprovingly, at the multi-colored icicles of gum that held sharpened pencils that were of the same sharpness of knives.
The engine roared and sax player, Kevin, wondered how long it hand been since it was oiled. Smoke escaped through the hood like water from a sink and the bus driver, who was obese and unshaven, replied, "Uh, kiddos.you may want to close those windows of yours." He thought of the last time he had driven a band to a game. And how the smoke had filled the clarinet and poisoned the owner, keeping her hostage in the emergency room for weeks.
The bus was unbelievingly quiet. Thank goodness the ride was short. The bus pulled into a small area because the school was full of criminals. Dana, who happened to be a mellophone player, glanced at the two-inch-deep puddle that spread throughout the lot. The driver wiped his nose and snorted. He silently laughed at the marching band's luck.
After the band had reached the gates to the football field, they spilled out the water from their shoes. The band scrambled into their stand order and the drumline began to play. Suddenly, Jake struck the drum and it caved in. The plastic scattered around the floor. He tried to ignore it and the band marched in.
Smith High School's band as small, only holding thirty band members and five auxiliary members. They were booed as they marched into the bleachers. Jose, a tuba player, felt the weight of the stairs shift beneath his feet. Without warning, it gave out, sending Jose on a trip to the muddy grass below. "Darn the school colors!" he shouted from the puddle. His white and yellow marching clothes were now brown and black. He picked up his sousaphone from the dirt pile next to him and stumbled to his seat. Mud leaked all over the bleachers.
The crowd for the visiting side was microscopic. Two people clapped, the sound fading in the cry of the cannon that went off fifty-seven times in the first quarter alone. The score was horrible.
Fifteen minutes into the game, the band stood to play. The tubas had a solo in the beginning. When Jose blew his tuba, however, ants came crawling out. He dropped the instrument and watched as it dented and as the ants crawled away. His tuba was unusable now.
Halftime approached. The band walked to the filed to practice. Unfortunately, the mud on the bleachers was still wet. The low brass slipped, knocking over everyone in the band, who landed on their backs and sides.
Halftime was also lousy. The band was nothing with a missing tuba. They were drowned out in the sound of a wailing baby. And they were pelted with sandwiches. It became a game. Hit as many band members as possible before they stopped playing. The band walked off the field to view their opponents. Their band, alone, was 200 people and the auxiliary was thirty- five. The songs were well-known rock songs and pop music. The flags were so beautiful that they were indescribable and the rifles were painted purple and blue. Nothing was white. Smith High School's band, however, was covered in food and a soda can had been jammed into a trombone. The band was unable to pull it out.
When the band found their seats, they realized that their lyres and flip folders had been stolen. The criminals were halfway across the street. The drum major hopped into a convertible with keys left in it and chased them down. Half an hour later, he came back with the folders and a torn shirt.
When some members of the other band came to greet the visitors, they looked perfect. Joyce hopped to greet them immediately. They had a lot in common.
"Well," boasted their drum major, "We've gotten straight superiors at every FBA even since we opened ten years ago." She went on for ten minutes before the trombone player, in a desperate effort, finally blew a B flat into his instrument and knocked the soda can out of his bell and into the nose of the drum major, who ran away crying with a soda can on her hat.
Joyce sighed in relief. "It's about time. Who can stand someone boasting away like that for that long? I mean, her hair wasn't even perfect like she thought it was. I spend." She didn't stop talking until Steve held up his snake.
The game finally ended. The score was so high that the scoreboard's numbers couldn't reach any higher numbers. The band walked out and then it started to rain hard. The woodwind players' fingers became wet and slippery. The clarinets fell to the gigantic puddle on the floor. The flutes dented their keys. But nothing happened to the saxes. Soon, a cry was heard from Joyce.
"What happened?" Kevin asked, concerned.
"Oh, my gosh! Oh, my gosh!" she wailed in pain.
"What? WHAT?"
"I.I.I broke my NAIL!!!"
The band yelled, "Aw.come on!" in unison and threw water at her hair.
The bus came back. The band got on, talking about their odd "luck." Halfway home, the bus broke down. They were stranded on the highway. The traffic was backed all the way up the turnpike. The truck took an hour to reach the bus and then another was called into to help tow the bus to the shop. But they decided to take it to the junkyard since the driver needed to, anyway, after all the lawsuits that had been filed against it.
The parents picked up the band members. They drove to their school to put everything away. The trip was over. The marching band was relieved. What else could go wrong?
Well, let's just say that the school wasn't as sturdy as it used to be, especially the lockers for the instruments that were raided by some of the opposing team's fans who stole the folders. And the music was drawn on. And the copier was left making thousands of copies of the D flat scale. And, not to mention, the stands that were unscrewed. And the demerit board was colored in. And names were added to the list of band members. And don't forget.
It was horrible. Downright horrible. Really. The marching band knew that the night would be terrible as soon as the sight of the rusted, junky bus came down towards the school. And it literally came down. We were surprised that the bus didn't collapse. The tires were flat and paint and even metal were chipped off. When the bus came to a halt, a loud clank echoed through the air and the gray bumper jumped off the rear as if it was committing suicide.
The trumpet section backed in fear and clutched their cases to their chests. "No way I'm going on that," trumpet player, Dave, replied with his usual ego. But the director thought otherwise. He argued that this was the most important game and the band needed to be there to support the football team more than any other day.
Snobby flute player, Joyce, shivered with fear. "And risk ruining my hair? You're out of your mind, Mr. Lorayzo!"
"Aw, put a sock in it, Jo! Your hair's going into your hat, anyway!" trombone player, Steve, spat.
"Well, it's still perfect! Like me!" She giggled with delight. Steve rolled his eyes and threw his snake at her, laughing when she released a high-pitched "eek!" and ran away.
Slowly, cautiously, and hesitantly, the band climbed onto the bus. They sat in the grotesque, tough seats that reeked an aroma of dust. Joyce stared, disapprovingly, at the multi-colored icicles of gum that held sharpened pencils that were of the same sharpness of knives.
The engine roared and sax player, Kevin, wondered how long it hand been since it was oiled. Smoke escaped through the hood like water from a sink and the bus driver, who was obese and unshaven, replied, "Uh, kiddos.you may want to close those windows of yours." He thought of the last time he had driven a band to a game. And how the smoke had filled the clarinet and poisoned the owner, keeping her hostage in the emergency room for weeks.
The bus was unbelievingly quiet. Thank goodness the ride was short. The bus pulled into a small area because the school was full of criminals. Dana, who happened to be a mellophone player, glanced at the two-inch-deep puddle that spread throughout the lot. The driver wiped his nose and snorted. He silently laughed at the marching band's luck.
After the band had reached the gates to the football field, they spilled out the water from their shoes. The band scrambled into their stand order and the drumline began to play. Suddenly, Jake struck the drum and it caved in. The plastic scattered around the floor. He tried to ignore it and the band marched in.
Smith High School's band as small, only holding thirty band members and five auxiliary members. They were booed as they marched into the bleachers. Jose, a tuba player, felt the weight of the stairs shift beneath his feet. Without warning, it gave out, sending Jose on a trip to the muddy grass below. "Darn the school colors!" he shouted from the puddle. His white and yellow marching clothes were now brown and black. He picked up his sousaphone from the dirt pile next to him and stumbled to his seat. Mud leaked all over the bleachers.
The crowd for the visiting side was microscopic. Two people clapped, the sound fading in the cry of the cannon that went off fifty-seven times in the first quarter alone. The score was horrible.
Fifteen minutes into the game, the band stood to play. The tubas had a solo in the beginning. When Jose blew his tuba, however, ants came crawling out. He dropped the instrument and watched as it dented and as the ants crawled away. His tuba was unusable now.
Halftime approached. The band walked to the filed to practice. Unfortunately, the mud on the bleachers was still wet. The low brass slipped, knocking over everyone in the band, who landed on their backs and sides.
Halftime was also lousy. The band was nothing with a missing tuba. They were drowned out in the sound of a wailing baby. And they were pelted with sandwiches. It became a game. Hit as many band members as possible before they stopped playing. The band walked off the field to view their opponents. Their band, alone, was 200 people and the auxiliary was thirty- five. The songs were well-known rock songs and pop music. The flags were so beautiful that they were indescribable and the rifles were painted purple and blue. Nothing was white. Smith High School's band, however, was covered in food and a soda can had been jammed into a trombone. The band was unable to pull it out.
When the band found their seats, they realized that their lyres and flip folders had been stolen. The criminals were halfway across the street. The drum major hopped into a convertible with keys left in it and chased them down. Half an hour later, he came back with the folders and a torn shirt.
When some members of the other band came to greet the visitors, they looked perfect. Joyce hopped to greet them immediately. They had a lot in common.
"Well," boasted their drum major, "We've gotten straight superiors at every FBA even since we opened ten years ago." She went on for ten minutes before the trombone player, in a desperate effort, finally blew a B flat into his instrument and knocked the soda can out of his bell and into the nose of the drum major, who ran away crying with a soda can on her hat.
Joyce sighed in relief. "It's about time. Who can stand someone boasting away like that for that long? I mean, her hair wasn't even perfect like she thought it was. I spend." She didn't stop talking until Steve held up his snake.
The game finally ended. The score was so high that the scoreboard's numbers couldn't reach any higher numbers. The band walked out and then it started to rain hard. The woodwind players' fingers became wet and slippery. The clarinets fell to the gigantic puddle on the floor. The flutes dented their keys. But nothing happened to the saxes. Soon, a cry was heard from Joyce.
"What happened?" Kevin asked, concerned.
"Oh, my gosh! Oh, my gosh!" she wailed in pain.
"What? WHAT?"
"I.I.I broke my NAIL!!!"
The band yelled, "Aw.come on!" in unison and threw water at her hair.
The bus came back. The band got on, talking about their odd "luck." Halfway home, the bus broke down. They were stranded on the highway. The traffic was backed all the way up the turnpike. The truck took an hour to reach the bus and then another was called into to help tow the bus to the shop. But they decided to take it to the junkyard since the driver needed to, anyway, after all the lawsuits that had been filed against it.
The parents picked up the band members. They drove to their school to put everything away. The trip was over. The marching band was relieved. What else could go wrong?
Well, let's just say that the school wasn't as sturdy as it used to be, especially the lockers for the instruments that were raided by some of the opposing team's fans who stole the folders. And the music was drawn on. And the copier was left making thousands of copies of the D flat scale. And, not to mention, the stands that were unscrewed. And the demerit board was colored in. And names were added to the list of band members. And don't forget.