There is a strange, shadowy figure next to the first violin that you are afraid to look at. As far as you know, no one has ever looked at him. You think heâs called âthe conductorâ.
You are sure that there werenât that many third violins yesterday. You look again: thereâs another eight. They are multiplying too quickly to be stopped.
There is a musician behind that tuba. At least, youâre pretty sure heâs there somewhere. It canât just be playing itselfâŚ
The french horns have defected from the rest of the brass. Theyâre whispering among themselves in a language you donât understand.
You have only ever heard the first clarinet, the oboe, the first flute, and the bassoon. You donât know why the rest of the woodwind are here. Their eyes are dead, their faces lifeless. They donât move or make a sound.
The trumpets are chanting rhythmically, and you think they might be trying to summon some tune. 1, 2, 3, 4, 2, 2, 3, 4, 3, 2, 3, 4⌠Occasionally, you hear them cursing the violins.
The strings are tuning. Always tuning⌠You donât remember the last time the string section wasnât tuning up.
You glance behind you: no percussionists. You look again, mere seconds later: thirty seven percussionists all clutching triangles.
Something is draining away at the trombonistsâs souls. Probably the high notes.
Between the third violins and the percussion is an instrument that no one knows the purpose of. It is beautiful, but you donât trust it. A⌠harp?
You fear that if the double bassists ever stop bowing in perfect time, the fabric of the universe will unravel.
There is a rumour around town that someone escaped from the insane asylum, and the new cellist arrived in a straight jacket.
The woodwind keep inventing new instruments to try and bring some attention to themselves. It isnât working, and there are piles of twisted bits of wood and metals piling up next to the timps.
You have spontaneously gained the ability to speak mediocre Italian.
amandla
izzy806
origamiaround
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germansingergirl
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