Low Brass In The Wild

Bubba threw another clarinet on the campfire. This year, he promised himself that he’d take marching season seriously this year. The bitter, cold Fall wind swept over his make-shift camp. He felt the rush of blood into his lungs with the intoxicatingly sweet aroma. Today would be the day he would bag the largest of the B flat range creature. A sousaphone. By dinner, he would have a large shiny silver carcass roasting on a bonfire to match. It would be a celebration. It would make up for the meager bounty the day before. A guirro, a triangle and a few castanets.

Bubba grabbed the latest copy of Low Brass In The Wild to see what the recipe of the month was. As the pages flipped towards his destination, the traditional cascade of mailers fell from the magazine. Advertisements for the latest tuba-scented cologne. How annoying. Another article on how someone stranded in the wilderness survived 18 days on nothing but trombones and valve oil. Hmmm. Yes, he thought. Today is going to be a good day.
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