The twenty-second day of September, in the year 20-hundred-and-4, by Band reckoning. Band End, Band Shot Row, Saxton, the West End, Illinois, United States, the umpteenth millennium of this world.
"Valve and Oil Again, A French Horn's Tale", by Bryce A. Bacon.
Bryce chewed a piece of gum thoughtfully. "Now...where to begin? Ah, yes." He opened Word and began to type.
"Concerning Horns"...French Horns have been playing and oiling their valve in the four ends of Saxton for many decades or so, quite content to ignore and be ignored by the rest of the Band. The Band being, after all, full of strange people and instruments beyond count, French Horns must seem of little importance, being neither renowned as great players, nor counted among the very loud.
Bryce chuckled to himself, then proceeded to choke on his gum as the chuckling got out of hand. The fact that there had just been an unexpected knock on the door didn't help much either.
"F-Franky! Someone at the door!"
After a quick recovery, Bryce began his typing once more.
In fact, it has been remarked by some that French Horns' only real passion is for girly emotional parts in movie scores, a rather unfair observation, as we have also gained a keen interest in intellectual-with-a- hint-of-magical background music and upbeat, Beatles-type band arrangements.
Bryce paused again, this time with a sigh, in a moment of reflection.
But where our hearts truly lie is in peace and quiet, and pieces that make you feel all tingly, for all French Horns share a love of things that move (the emotions, that is).
And yes, no doubt to others, our ways seem cool and aloof, but today, of all days, it is brought home to me that it is no bad thing to celebrate a reserved life.
Bryce discontinued his typing for a moment and slit open a birthday card addressed to him.
The knock came on the door again.
"God...Franky, the door! Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring! Where the hell is he?"
"Valve and Oil Again, A French Horn's Tale", by Bryce A. Bacon.
Bryce chewed a piece of gum thoughtfully. "Now...where to begin? Ah, yes." He opened Word and began to type.
"Concerning Horns"...French Horns have been playing and oiling their valve in the four ends of Saxton for many decades or so, quite content to ignore and be ignored by the rest of the Band. The Band being, after all, full of strange people and instruments beyond count, French Horns must seem of little importance, being neither renowned as great players, nor counted among the very loud.
Bryce chuckled to himself, then proceeded to choke on his gum as the chuckling got out of hand. The fact that there had just been an unexpected knock on the door didn't help much either.
"F-Franky! Someone at the door!"
After a quick recovery, Bryce began his typing once more.
In fact, it has been remarked by some that French Horns' only real passion is for girly emotional parts in movie scores, a rather unfair observation, as we have also gained a keen interest in intellectual-with-a- hint-of-magical background music and upbeat, Beatles-type band arrangements.
Bryce paused again, this time with a sigh, in a moment of reflection.
But where our hearts truly lie is in peace and quiet, and pieces that make you feel all tingly, for all French Horns share a love of things that move (the emotions, that is).
And yes, no doubt to others, our ways seem cool and aloof, but today, of all days, it is brought home to me that it is no bad thing to celebrate a reserved life.
Bryce discontinued his typing for a moment and slit open a birthday card addressed to him.
The knock came on the door again.
"God...Franky, the door! Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring! Where the hell is he?"