Hey there!
I found a trombone, minus the sliding tube thing, in a dilapidated hardshell case held together with duct tape, lying in the gravel on the shoulder of a dusty back country road. I whipped it out and held it up to the light, as I am often wont to do when I find shiny golden things in my path.
I didn't get any vibes from it, no DeadZone-style psychic epiphany as to who once owned it or whether or not it was used in some violent crime. I'm not one to collect strays. And I'm not a packrat. But I felt compelled to bring it home with me. Few things sadden me like discarded instruments.
I thought about what other uses it might have. Like, as a component in a still, perhaps. I've long fascinated about distilling my very own brand of moonshine. I think I would go the unconventional route and use fermented pomegranates. I'd call it "Soul Grind". I'm a rebel.
No... actually, I have a lot of time on my hands.
I also thought about building a massive bong out of it. But, sadly, there are few occasions when I'd need a bowl capable of burning a quarter pound all at once. All my friends are dead. Or rather, it seems that way these days. Maybe my friends think I'm the one who's dead. We never talk.
What do you say to a ghost?
For now, the mysterious trombone is strung up outside, like a lonely mobile, twirling over my front porch. It throws off sharp glints of gold in the rays of the setting sun. And when the wind hits it just so, it sighs softly. It twirls and it entertains me. A strange visitor to the coop. One man's treasure.
I found a trombone, minus the sliding tube thing, in a dilapidated hardshell case held together with duct tape, lying in the gravel on the shoulder of a dusty back country road. I whipped it out and held it up to the light, as I am often wont to do when I find shiny golden things in my path.
I didn't get any vibes from it, no DeadZone-style psychic epiphany as to who once owned it or whether or not it was used in some violent crime. I'm not one to collect strays. And I'm not a packrat. But I felt compelled to bring it home with me. Few things sadden me like discarded instruments.
I thought about what other uses it might have. Like, as a component in a still, perhaps. I've long fascinated about distilling my very own brand of moonshine. I think I would go the unconventional route and use fermented pomegranates. I'd call it "Soul Grind". I'm a rebel.
No... actually, I have a lot of time on my hands.
I also thought about building a massive bong out of it. But, sadly, there are few occasions when I'd need a bowl capable of burning a quarter pound all at once. All my friends are dead. Or rather, it seems that way these days. Maybe my friends think I'm the one who's dead. We never talk.
What do you say to a ghost?
For now, the mysterious trombone is strung up outside, like a lonely mobile, twirling over my front porch. It throws off sharp glints of gold in the rays of the setting sun. And when the wind hits it just so, it sighs softly. It twirls and it entertains me. A strange visitor to the coop. One man's treasure.
jonnytrrrash7:
oddly enough, i played trombone in high school, i wouldn't just toss it aside. even though i had terribel tone and couldn't reach 7th position.