Revised Trumpet's Secret

Yes, I am re-writing Trumpet's Secret! Not completely of course, but going back, it IS kinda choppy sounding. But since I REALLY like the story, I am not going to et it go as one of my first big stories, I am going to make it better. Soooooo much better. Here's the revised first chapter. You can also go back to the old one and read up until this part.

Chapter 1

The sky was just beginning to lighten as Mrs. Ochono crossed the bridge into South Portland, Maine. It was October now, and the days steadily grew shorter as winter approached. Not many cars were out at 7 o'clock in the morning, and the ones that were on the street crawled sleepily along. She pulled into the parking lot of Mahoney Middle School, where she worked as a band director. As Mrs. Ochono climbed out of her car she had the most peculiar sensation that something extraordinary would happen on this day. It was a dark time. Something extraordinary just might help. There was war, pollution, an economic crisis, and global warming threatening the country. Mrs. Ochono longed for the world to be at peace and for it to be a place where people weren't shot, tortured and murdered every day. But she just shook her head and walked inside the building. Only a miracle could make that happen, and a miracle would never take place here.

Inside the auditorium, Kasta Shepsheir anxiously awaited the arrival of her band director. Kasta was the 2nd trumpet (though she actually played cornet), the soloist, in the jazz band. She had an important, musical question to ask. As she stared out the window she noticed Mrs. Ochono's large silver car drive into the lot. Finally. Why did Mrs. Ochono always have to be late on the important days?

When Mrs. Ochono entered the hallway the first thing she saw was the smiling face of Kasta Shepsheir. Kasta was always smiling when she saw her band director. "Hi Mrs. Ochono!" she called out cheerfully. "Hey... do you think you could get me that Harmon mute for my All Blues solo please? It'd really help me really figure out the solo and make it sound right." Suddenly, her smile shifted. There was something wrong with Mrs. Ochono. Her eyes didn't meet Kasta's when she finally spoke.


"All Blues? You need a Harmon mute? I don't recall........but I'll look."


Kasta only stared as her band director passed by her. She'd never seen her like this before. Mrs. Ochono didn't even seem to recognize her! Didn't know her place in the jazz band! What was wrong with her?

Mrs. Ochono was in a fog all rehearsal. She never did give Kasta her mute and conducted all the wrong songs and patterns. Kasta was ready to scream. Something bad had happened to put her teacher like this. Right now, Mrs. Ochono was not the teacher she knew and loved. Right now, Kasta was feeling a little scared.

"Something is really wrong." was the first sentence out of Felicia Donber's mouth when she sat down at the lunch table.

Kasta remembered how strange Mrs. Ochono had been acting in jazz band. "Mrs. Ochono?" she ventured tentatively.

"Ah. So you've noticed too?" Kristy Nobberham inquired as she sat down. "We just came from sectional and she was being really un-Mrs. Ochono-ish. She didn't laugh, joke or smile once! And... she tried to give us the 8th grade music. She didn't even realize until someone pointed it out. She's NEVER like this. I'm more than a little worried."


"She was worse in jazz this morning. Remember, Sara? When I asked her a question, she didn't even realize I was there!" Kasta was almost in tears. They all loved their teacher, but Kasta most of all. She admired Mrs. Ochono so much and she had inspired Kasta to become a band director herself when she grew up.

"That is really odd," Sara Kallaca chimed in. "Let's wait and see what happens. But I have to admit... I'm worried, and quite shocked too. She's an interesting person, and can be a little odd sometimes, but never like this!" The friends fell silent except for Kasta's quiet crying, completely lost in their thoughts.

After 6th period everyone grew silent as the afternoon announcements came on. Kasta never really listened to all the sports scores, the reminders and REACH announcements. But a few words caught her attention: afternoon honors band audition practice had been canceled! What was going on in their teacher's head? they had to audition in 2 weeks! Kasta put her head in her hands and wished that the whole day had just been a dream. Then Kristy slapped her arm. "Ouch!" Kasta yelped.


"Uh, hello Kasta?" Kristy's sarcastically smiling face stared down at her. "We have band to go to, or have you forgotten? You're not one to forget about a band practice! Come on!"


Kasta sighed. "OK."

7th grade full band was a nightmare. Mrs. Ochono barely said anything at all and never pointed out mistakes or even cared when several kids walked in late without passes. She was not being herself. The real Mrs. Ochono would kindly remind the clarinets not to play B flats and give the late kids detention. Kasta's head swam with anger. Why did her teacher act like this? Why did she cancel practice? Why hasn't she smiled, joked or laughed once all day? Somebody had to take action. To Kasta, it didn't appear that Mrs. Ochono thought she was doing anything wrong. This had to be resolved.

After band was over Kasta carefully picked her way through all the stands and chairs until she was standing in front of her teacher. "Mrs. Ochono?" she asked cautiously.


"What?!" she snapped back.


"Uhhhhh......." Kasta was frozen after her teacher's strange reply.


"Yes?!" Mrs. Ochono was getting impatient.


"WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?!?" screamed Kasta, who then proceeded to burst into tears.


Normally, Mrs. Ochono would have inquired about this and comforted the student. But alas, it was not the case here. After a long pause, Mrs. Ochono finally spoke. "I could give you detention for speaking to me like that, Kasta Shepsheir. I'll let you go though.....this time. Now take your trumpet and leave my sight!"

Kasta just glared at Mrs. Ochono. The she spoke in a low growl."It's a cornet." And then Kasta Shepsheir, eyes flaming, turned around and stalked out of the auditorium.

Home Show

Home Show


Part 1

They say that this can be the best, or the worst. If you mess up badly at another one, it's bad, but there aren't as many people you know in the stands. But teachers encourage kids to go to the home shows. The 7th and 8th grade bands even play the national anthem before the show. Everybody's there. If only I hadn't been sick this week. Then I could have gone to practice. If only this wasn't just the second show of the season. Then I would have had more practice. But there's no backing out. The Star-Spangled Banner has been played. The first few bands have gone. It's time to get ready for the home show.

Black bib pants? Check. Marching shoes? Check. Black Gloves? Check. Hat? Check. Plume in place? Check. Red and white performance jacket? Check. Trumpet? Check. Everything's in order. We've warmed up and all the other bands have gone. We're home, so we're last. Left, right, left, right. Marching towards the field. Home show.

Part 2

As I walk onto the field, I feel as if I'm in a dream. It is so unreal............


What happened next I cannot begin to describe. It was too amazing.

Why the Bad?

Why the Bad?


Yesterday,
I was fine.
Now,
I'm not.

Sickness,
Has claimed me,
Sickness,
Engulfs us all.

And as I lay,
Sickness racking my body,
I think about life.
About my illness.

Why does life,
Not just have the good?
Why do we get the packaged deal,
When we only ordered one?

Why is there sickness and death,
War and hunger,
When we asked,
For the opposite?

But maybe,
You just have to go with life.
Roll with the punches.
Live the good and the bad.

Bad times build character.
Help to discover your true self.
Good times are better,
But sometimes you gotta be sick.

•The Cornet Crazie•

You stole the words right out of my mouth!

Cornet Crazie, you are absolutely PSYCHIC. I was JUST about to post a poem about the SAME THING! OMG. Anyway... 

Read it aloud and feel the beat... it has a sort of Southern feel to it. Like a rap, sorta. Even though I don't really like rap... just read it aloud. It's cool.

Copycat, Copycat

Every time I turn around

Something's taken.

Every time I look around

I ain't given my permission

Every time there's something new

50/50 it's been stolen.

Every time there's someone new

My look, disgust is frozen

Change your name

But keep the game

Change the rules

But it's just the same

Copycat, copycat, 

meow meow meow...

I ain't feeding no strays

So get your fluff-butt outta this town.

You take ideas

Like poor little mice

Don't ask, just steal

Well, that ain't nice

Set a cat-trap

While you're checkin' out the rat-traps

Rehome you, kitty,

Well the shelter ain't pretty

You gonna get your

Just desserts

Takin' what ain't yours

That really hurts

Copycat, copycat,

meow meow meow...

Well I love cats

But you gotta go now

Sorry gotta ban ya

It's been comin' for a while

There's this thing I like to call 'respect'

Copyright, don't get me riled

Learn wrong from right!

It's a simple skill

Check out the rights on that birdy there

Before you kill

If there's one thing I loathe

It's someone who takes

Without givin' back

Sure stirs up hate

Copycat, copycat,

meow meow meow...

Just one little phrase...

Listen up real close now...

Don't take what ain't yours

You gonna get into trouble.

Copyright, try some RESPECT

If you're freezing cold don't join the huddle

Chillax, okay?

Originality

Is something I praise

But if you don't got the ability...

Just don't. Okay?

It gets on my nerves

Cornet don't appreciate it either

Sooner or later you'll get whatcha deserve.

Copycat, copycat,

meow meow meow...

You know who you are.

Don't make me say your name now.

Follower

Here's another free-verse poem. Kinda feeling mad at the moment because a certain blogger totally copied this blog and another of mine, that's what inspired this.

Follower

I LIKE different.

Never want to be the same.

I am original.

Unique.

I am a leader.

I do not follow.

I do not want to be followed.

Why then,

Do they follow me?

First it was people changing style,

Clothing,

Instrument,

Classes,

You name it.

So I changed mine,

And they followed again.

But it was the ideas,

That really got to me.

Same essay topics,

Same project layout,

Blog about the same stuff,

Taking the same pictures,

Following me.

Why do the follow?

Why do they copy?

I’ve copied before,

And I know,

It isn’t a good path.

Sometimes it’s good,

To be your own self,

Laugh your own laugh,

Have your own style,

Live your own life.

Roadkill

(Um Sally, this was sort of your turn. Where are you?)

I wrote this poem a few months ago in school. Once you get past the "ew" factor, it actually is very philosophical. It's symbolic of how humanity wrecks nature, then ignores the carnage, if you know what I mean.

Roadkill

The raccoon hit yesterday

   was dampened by the downpour last night.

It is now barely imaginable

   that this moldering lump of fur and flesh

was once a living breathing thing.

   How could it be?

The eyes are gone

   the liver exposed.

Its untimely death caused

   by the roaring monsters we call cars.

The green, hulking SUV

   speeds by

and a four-year-old boy

   presses his nose to the glass

then wrinkles it

   in disgust.

"Eeew, Mommy," he says in delight

   as the car speeds past the broken raccoon.

"What is THAT?"

   His mother glances

in her rearview mirror and answers him,

   "Nothing, dear."

Such is the fate

   of the roadkill raccoon.

Bareback

Here's the requested horse story... No, this is not based on personal experience, and no, I don't ride Western (I prefer English or Saddleseat, I'm working towards sidesaddle). But it's pretty easy for me to become a different character when writing, so I hope you like it!

***

Bareback

A Story About Courage

By Olive Tree

I looked up at the big horse standing above me. Even with his head drooping and his weight resting on one side he was intimidating.

   "Kirsten, this is Mojo," the instructor told me. "He's a Quarter Horse. He'll be your lesson horse for the month."

   Stupid riding lessons. Just because we moved to Montana doesn't mean I need to learn how to ride a horse! But try telling that to my mom. Sometimes I think her ultimate goal in life is to find an interesting way to kill me. So far, lacrosse and SCUBA diving have failed to do that... now this. Thanks, mom.

   My instructor, Kelly, gave me a little background info as she put on Mojo's saddle- a big, tan, fancy one with a big horn in front. It looked about a hundred years old. "You're going to be riding Western," Kelly said as she tightened the strap around Mojo's belly. "We'll start off at a walk while I'm leading you, but eventually you should be able to lope bareback. Trail rides are lots of fun, we do tons of those..."

   Mojo snorted a big gust of hot, smelly air at me. I waved my hands around my face and he gave a little jump. I screamed.

   "What's wrong?" Kelly asked me, hurrying around Mojo to where I was cowering against the wall.

   "He reared!" My eyes were wide.

   Kelly laughed. "He just started a little, that's all. Mojo is a rescue horse- his old owners whipped him, so he's head-shy. You just startled him, waving your hands around like that."

   "Will he do that while I'm riding him?"

   "Probably not." Kelly turned around again and put on Mojo's bridle.

Out in the ring, Kelly gave me a step up into the saddle. I clung to the pommel of the saddle, terrified by the long drop. Kelly clicked her tongue and Mojo started off at a slow, easy walk. After about ten minutes, Kelly handed me the reins.

   "Your turn," she said. "Mojo will keep to the rail, but try and guide him like I was doing, OK?"

   I clutched the reins for dear life. Mojo's head bobbed and I was jolted back and forth.

   "Let the reins go a little slack," Kelly said from beside me. I complied.

   By the end of the lesson, my legs were like jelly. I skinned my elbow when I got out of the saddle, and by the time Mom picked me up I was practically in tears.

   "How'd it go, honey?" she asked, fiddling with the radio dial.

   "Terrible," I said sourly. "I'm quitting."

   "No, you're not," my mother replied. "You're coming back next Saturday, and the one after that. You're coming back until you know how to ride like a real Montana girl."

   I groaned and slumped in my seat.

I came back, again and again, every Saturday for two months. I learned how to jog, which made my backside feel like it had a million bruises, and eventually, how to lope and jump. Brushing and tacking Mojo was my responsibility, and I always scurried away from him when I didn't need to be close. Getting into the saddle and looking down still gave me a sick sort of feeling, but with time it receded until it was barely there at all. One day, Kelly was already brushing Mojo when I got there.

   "Um, hi Kelly," I said uncertainly.

   "Hello, Kirsten," she chirped, currying a spot of mud on Mojo's flank until it became dust and blew away.

   I noticed that only the bridle and saddle pad were out. "Do you want me to get the saddle?"

   "Nope," she replied. "You're riding bareback today."

   My stomach sank. Bareback?

   When I first got on, I was sure I would slip off. After the close confines of the saddle, I felt vulnerable and weak. I could feel Mojo's powerful muscles moving beneath me as we set off at a walk. It was frightening.

   Kelly was yelling something, but the roaring of blood in my ears was too loud to hear her. I shook my head. "What?"

   "Now jog," she called.

   Terrified, I clucked to Mojo and he picked up speed. We reached the jog. I was sure I was going to fall off! But my legs had grown strong, and I was able to grip with my upper legs. On Kelly's command, I pulled him back to a walk.

   "Good job!" she told me. "I think you're ready for a trail ride now."

   "I thought I needed to be able to lope bareback for that?"

   "You do," Kelly said, eyes sparkling. "This is your last test. You need to keep up with the group by loping. But you can't use your saddle; you'll be riding bareback. Come back at four o'clock today, all right?"

   "But..." It was no use. Kelly had already strode out of the ring.

4 O'CLOCK THAT AFTERNOON

I brushed Mojo with a sunken heart. Slipping on the saddle pad, I took off my shoes and socks- luckily it was warm- and rode him out to where the other people had assembled. I noticed that most of them were also bareback.

   The group set off at a quick walk. Kelly was leading, and I was at the back. Soon, we had quickened our pace to a jog. We went on for a while, then I noticed that the girl in front of me was getting farther and farther away. The group was loping.

   Maybe I can just turn back, I thought desperately. No one will notice until it's too late. But that was not an option. I couldn't see where we had come through.

   Mojo jogged on beneath me, whinnying for the rest of the group. I could just see the blonde ponytail of the girl in front of me in the distance, disappearing between some rows of corn. I ad no choice. I clicked my tongue, and Mojo sprung into a lope.

   I slid around at first, then remembered to grip with my legs. I was doing it! This was easy! This was like flying!

   From that day forward, I loped bareback whenever I could. I had found my rider's legs, and I had found my courage. I was a real Montana girl.

The End

New Look!

What do you think of the new look? =)

One horse story coming up... come back tomorrow, I won't be here for the rest today (I think). I had started one, but it quickly turned into a tale of an abusive mother and her runaway daughter. Funny how it works, innit? Anyway, I promise to have a satisfactory tale soon.

Passion

Emma- you asked for a story about me and band. Well, here it is. Sorry it's so essay-like. Just how things turned out. :) I'd also like to enter this story in your contest.

Everybody- Sorry that all of my pieces are so short. I guess I just don't have the patience to right long stories!

Passion

It was like that when I first held it with the intention of playing it. Dad had brought it out sometimes when Xander and I were little, but then I was lucky to get even a sound out. Never thought I would play it. Dad could play, of course, and I'd always wanted to be in band starting when I was in 5th grade. Thought about flute first, then french horn, but cornet? The thought never crossed my mind. In fact, I'd forgotten we even had it. And then one day, when I was stressing about instruments, he brought it out and asked me to try and play. Maybe I would like it, maybe I wouldn't, but it was worth a try. And when Dad handed me that old Conn cornet, I instantly fell in love. So I turned to my father, and said, "Teach me a scale."

"And the winner of the 2007 James E. Minott Music Award goes to-" Please let the name he say start with an 's' sound. Please. "Sally K*****." And I stood up and accepted the trophy. The musical attempts this past year had truly paid off. I had been dreaming about this award all year. I had done it. Band had been so much fun, and I had loved every moment of it. But then, it had been more of a hobby then a passion. I couldn't wait for middle school, and the amazing band director there. I just couldn't.

6th grade I let myself really sink into the music. Diving into the challenges of honors band, exploring jazz, really getting into everything. My band director was slowing awakening the power of music that rested within me. I loved it. It was heaven. Another boy and I were easily the best in the section, probably in the band. We were evenly matched, playing and playing and playing. True love had found me, but I still didn't know the depth of it that I would get to next year.

The year that changed my life. 7th grade. By now I felt a deep connection to music. My life force depended upon it. My soul would be a circle containing a treble clef. I loved it and did as much band as I could. Regular concert band, performance and training jazz, honors band. It was swell, and then my band director made it even better by saying "How'd you like to move up and also do 8th grade band?" And in the middle of the year I realized how far I'd come. My thoughts were written in music and I realized that this was my true passion. My calling in life. With all my heart I wanted to be a band director. I really must thank my band director for this one though. She awakened my dream. She showed me my destiny. She's the best teacher I've ever had. And I can't wait for tomorrow. Tomorrow I start 8th grade. Another musical year in my musical life. And I'll leave you with this-I hope you find your passion, because when you do, you are truly complete.

September 1st 2009