The Odd Years
The Pre-Story
A deep fog rolls in. A cold chill sweeps over the land. The clouds over-head move slowly as the gentle winds blow. The clanging of a rope hitting metal fills the air. It echoes loudly as nothing else makes a sound. The rays of the sun begin to arise. The bright light bounces off of everything in sight. The gleam of the metal can be seen from far away. The grass is covered with a thin patch of frost, but the dew still remains on the thin, little blades of grass. The sound of an early morning train booms across the little town. The whistle blows and reverberates all over, and can be heard from miles away. Nothing moving. The sound of the train subsides and silence returns. Nothing moving. No sound. Just silence. There is a quiet, low hum. Very faint at first. It turns into a low rumble. It gets louder…louder…louder! The sound is now recognizable. The sound is us. We are the rumble…the boom…the echoes…We are the pulse of everything. The drums play loud, as if a train was going by again. The horns and woodwinds making the melodies and harmonies. The tubas themselves providing the low rumble in the pit of everyones soul. We trample the grass until there is nothing left but dirt and dust remain. The mud on our shoes do not affect us. The sound continues to boom and echo. We get louder…faster…We move across the open field as if we are being chased by something out of our very worst nightmares. Then in an instant we stop. The sound stops. There is silence again. We stand still. No life seeming to exscape from us. We stand like soldiers. Toy soldiers. No movement. No sound. Everything still and calm. We are…the band. We will not tolerate failure. And we wait…and wait…we wait for out command. Until that command is given, we stand still. No movement. No sound. Just silence and stillness. Until our command is given, we wait…
