A Trumpet Mourns By Elizabeth H.
So I wrote this up during AP Lit. I asked Sarah P. to give me a topic and she said someone getting run over by a marching band. Apparently she was picturing a field judge or something but that didn't get communicated to my imagination. So this is the very short story that grew. It's not as detailed or expansive as my Bermuda Triangle Story but it's fun and I think you'll all enjoy it.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Oh, crap.
That was my last thought before the ill-aimed rifle connected solidly with my head. Stars exploded into my vision and I lost track of my trumpet. Vaguely is occurred to me that my next note was a high C, but the relevance of that fact didn't register as my face connected with the turf.
There are several accounts of what happened next, but beyond the muffled, out-of-tune squeaks of the collapsing clarinet line, I wasn't conscious enough to say for sure which is true.
What I do know for sure is that my leg was trampled and broken in two places. My elbow is fractures, as are several ribs. I'm missing a few teeth and my face now matches our school colors.
That much I learned form the emergency room doctor. I'm too full of morphine to really recognize the physical pain though, so my awareness of these facts isn't really up to par.
I am far more acutely aware of the face that we lost championships. At a cost of thousands of dollars in instrument repair.
Clarinets snapped in half, flutes stuffed through saxophones, drum sticks bashed through their drums' heads. I weep for my beloved trumpet. It is so battered and destroyed it has been suggested I donate it as a cymbal to replace the set that snapped my leg in half.
Our band director cried.
My mom thinks he should be more concerned with the fact that half the band almost died than our lack of medals but she doesn't understand. I dread returning to school.
But at least I am not the colourguard who caused this whole disaster.
She, of course, came out unscathed. If we weren't all crippled she would fear for her life.
Next year she will run a mile every day.
My trumpet demands justice.
She will pay.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Oh, crap.
That was my last thought before the ill-aimed rifle connected solidly with my head. Stars exploded into my vision and I lost track of my trumpet. Vaguely is occurred to me that my next note was a high C, but the relevance of that fact didn't register as my face connected with the turf.
There are several accounts of what happened next, but beyond the muffled, out-of-tune squeaks of the collapsing clarinet line, I wasn't conscious enough to say for sure which is true.
What I do know for sure is that my leg was trampled and broken in two places. My elbow is fractures, as are several ribs. I'm missing a few teeth and my face now matches our school colors.
That much I learned form the emergency room doctor. I'm too full of morphine to really recognize the physical pain though, so my awareness of these facts isn't really up to par.
I am far more acutely aware of the face that we lost championships. At a cost of thousands of dollars in instrument repair.
Clarinets snapped in half, flutes stuffed through saxophones, drum sticks bashed through their drums' heads. I weep for my beloved trumpet. It is so battered and destroyed it has been suggested I donate it as a cymbal to replace the set that snapped my leg in half.
Our band director cried.
My mom thinks he should be more concerned with the fact that half the band almost died than our lack of medals but she doesn't understand. I dread returning to school.
But at least I am not the colourguard who caused this whole disaster.
She, of course, came out unscathed. If we weren't all crippled she would fear for her life.
Next year she will run a mile every day.
My trumpet demands justice.
She will pay.