The Magic Horn AU CC Mature ch 12 pg3 Jan 18, 2007

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ken_r
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The Magic Horn AU CC Mature ch 12 pg3 Jan 18, 2007

Post by ken_r » Sun Dec 03, 2006 5:24 pm

Image

The Magic Horn
M,L I,A M,M Kyle and Tess unpaired
AU without aliens
Mature I am not very racy anyhow.

I hope to show all due respect to characters not mine they belong to the commercial Roswell procucers. They are used in accordance to their character in different roles. I claim only the plot line and the joy of jazz.

In the year 2001 my younger son was killed in a car accident coming home from college. While spending most of my time staring at a blank wall I discovered Roswell everyday on the Sci fi channel. Roswell had some young actors portraying young characters much like I had in my classes through my many years of teaching. I listen to TIVO recordings over and over. I read all the Mentz books and the others that were written. I bought the first edition of the DVD that came out on Amazon. Finally my older son told me about fanfiction. I found an unlimited selection of Roswell stories. I read through hundreds of marriages and thousands of pregnancies. Finally I decided to try to write some myself.

This story comes from the lectures my young son gave me about what he saw in jazz. He was a Macintosh programmer, a mathematician and he played a jazz trumpet. After his death I spent a year studying jazz, taking trumpet lessons to regain what I had in high school. I learned Jazz the way his teacher taught him. Listen until you can memorize, practice until you can play by ear and then explore the freedom that jazz gives without being an anarchist.

There is a delightful movie with Reece Whitherspoon. I worked very hard not to make this in any way like that movie. Toward the end of my story I will tell the name of the movie. It is a good view.

I am not trying to sell anything and I do not mean this as a commercial but most of the artist and the pieces can be previewed on Itunes. They have a good search engine. The 30 second snippets are free and if you want the feel for what I am talking about it might help. I have tried to describe the feeling of playing a trumpet and the feeling I receive from playing jazz. I am sure I will fall short, sorry.

The Gypsy culture was studied many years ago so where I make mistakes forgive me. There is absolutely no logic in this story. It is magic. I Hope someone likes my story. I need to write this in memory of my son. John Keith Renouard.

The Magic Horn


Chapter 1


Max was a good student in his junior year. He had majored in business with forays into philosophy, humanities and music. His parents had been tolerant in most of his detours through his college career. His father, a Lawyer, felt that any knowledge would have use someday and his mother, a student of literature, felt that she wanted a son who had a broad education. The one thing he had stuck with was his interest in music. Max never intended to perform professionally. But, he used his trumpet as both an entertainment device for friends and a distraction for himself.

It is said that the junior year in both college and high school is a hard year for many students. They have suffered for so long in academics and the finish looks so far in the future. The excitement of being a freshman and the hope of finishing as a senior are both so distant that the limbo is emotionally difficult. When Max would tire of the repetitive pounding of his mental resources by his classes, he would sometimes find a secluded corner of the campus and just let his trumpet lead him where ever. Max had been trained in music by studying the classics. Now, he preferred the migration to Jazz. Jazz gave him a freedom that he didn’t have in his other disciplines. With Jazz, you could skirt convention and still embrace a song without following the rest of the world as they played the melody. It was natural for Max to sometimes jam with other players. Do they still call it jamming? Time sometimes leaves me with an archaic vocabulary that does not correctly convey my intent.

There was a small club that three or four of his acquaintances would play at on weekends. Max wasn’t there every weekend, but he was there enough that they always invited him to join them. As Max progressed through his college career, it seemed that his relationship to his music became stronger. Max had a good grade point average, but the more stress he faced maintaining this average made his music more of a necessity. He had a good trumpet that he had played in high school. It was like an old girl friend who he was comfortable with.

Max had a twin sister. Their makeup couldn’t have been more different. Isabel was an ‘out there’ girl. She was a student of marketing. She already had summer mentorships with big corporations, first enjoying their philanthropic status of helping students and then of nurturing these same students as potential employees. She was close to Max, but she was also exasperated with him because, while she had hard and fast directions as to where her education was going, Max just seemed to be drifting. Isabel already had invitations of employment to consider and also offers of graduate schools to attend. Max had the grades, but no one knew what he wanted and thus there weren’t any avenues open for him to travel. He would have to make his own way. Max also had two friends, Maria and her on again off again boyfriend Michael. Maria always had Michael to fight with so she couldn’t help feeling that Max was missing something. Max was good looking enough, but he was a serious young man. The girls he met were either just after a good lay for the night or they were just looking for a husband to care for them. Max didn’t have the slightest idea what kind of girl he was looking for. Maybe, he wasn’t even looking for any girl. He felt alone sometimes even in a crowd. Maybe, this was his destiny.

Maria was a student of music and sometimes her path crossed with that of Max in his playing. She was serious in her study and intended to someday sing professionally. Michael was a civil engineer who hoped to build bridges. He felt that walking and driving across water was magical. It was clear to Max that both Michael and Maria enjoyed their volatile relationship. They enjoyed the mutual banter as they quarreled and loved. There was Tess, the little blonde sorority girl, who had intentions on Max, but these intentions were only to her structure and restrictions. Tess was available when her sorority was not having functions. At these times, she was insistent as to the attention she demanded from him. When her sisterhood was having activities she completely avoided him. Max just couldn’t live with this slavery to her schedule and needs, but never his.

Tess would sometimes trap him into being her consort but Max just wasn’t that able to selflessly serve her needs. He admired Isabel with her computer engineer boyfriend, who she would probably marry someday. They both were at the top of their studies and would become a professional couple someday as they wound their way through the world of business. To Max, even the business management he was studying just didn’t seem to be the sanctuary he was seeking.

This junior year, Max had become depressive. He just couldn’t shake the fact that his life was traveling directions that everyone else approved of, but to him, his life was just wheels spinning on the ice. On weekends, Max had taken to walking down some of the seedier streets near the university. These streets were lined with used bookstores and pawnshops. As students had need of quick money, they sold the Bibles and gadgets that Aunt Emm had given them for graduation. The pawnshops were always full of guitars and other instruments. Max liked to look in the windows and, sometimes, he would go in to get a closer look at one instrument or another. He was further from the “U” than usual today. Sometimes, he felt that if he were mugged, it would force his body and soul toward some direction that he could continue. Max, as so many, was looking for purpose.

The street was lined with ethnic bars. There was a Hispanic bar with Mariachi music blaring. Max liked this music and he slowed to listen for a minute. Max heard running foot steps and he tightened his shoulders expecting to feel a blow, but the runner at the last minute just brushed Max as he headed for where ever his destination was. Max knew he really did not have any business alone in this part of town. He turned down a side street and, again, was faced with Pawnshops. He browsed, looking in the windows.

At last, he saw it. In the window was a dusty, silver trumpet. Max looked closely, and sure enough, it had the double supports on the tuning slide that indicated a Bach. There were so many other new trumpets that now used these twin supports that Max wanted to get a better look. The bell over the door rang. The old man who came from the curtained back seemed right out of a fairy tale. He was bent and using a cane. He looked with rheumy eyes over small glasses at Max. “May I help you,” he inquired.

“May I look at that trumpet in the window,” Max asked.

The old man frowned, but he complied. He moved to the window as one in pain. Carefully, almost tenderly, he lifted the trumpet from its stand. He presented it to Max all the while watching his face. Max got the impression that he was being studied like a bug in biology.

Max looked carefully. It was a Bach Strad. It didn’t have any dints, but it was terribly tarnished. The valves were stuck. It had a mediocre mouthpiece and the slides did not move smoothly. Without asking, Max took the trumpet over to the water cooler and unscrewed the valves. He put a drop of water on each valve and worked each of them up and down. Their movement was sharp once he got them moving. He went back to the showcase and put the trumpet to his lips. The sound he made was so gut wrenching that even the old man looked like he would cry. Max ran up and down a few scales and then he started playing the blues. As he started to play, the trumpet seemed to take on a life of its own. He ranged from the highest notes to the low pedal tones. It was hard to stop. This trumpet in his hands felt truly magical. He put the trumpet down and asked the old man how much. On the tag, it said two thousand dollars. There was no way Max could come up with that much money, but the feeling as he was playing this instrument was almost dream like. Max wasn’t sure he could allow himself to pass on the instrument. The old man, wiping his eyes, wrote one thousand on a paper and slid it toward Max. Max hesitated; this would wipe out his account for the semester. The old man quickly withdrew the paper and wrote eight hundred, then slid it back to Max. He seemed almost eager for Max to have the horn. Max, with no rational thought, what-so-ever, took out his credit card and bought it. There would be hell to pay when his parents saw the bill. They would take every bit of the eight hundred out of his allotted money for the semester, but Max couldn’t leave without that horn. The old man found a beat up trumpet case that had the label of Olds or Conn or something on it and he put the trumpet in the case for Max to take. A very strange thing happened when he brought the cased trumpet out to give to Max. He hugged Max like he would a son and Max saw tears in the elder’s eyes. Later, Max was to wonder about this.

On the way home, Max stopped at a music store and purchased valve oil, slide grease, some cleaning brushes and several silver, instrument polishing cloths. The rest of the day, Max spent running hot water through the trumpet cleaning and greasing the slides and carefully oiling the valves. Then, he started to use the polishing cloth. It took a long time, but by night time, the trumpet shown like new. With all of the gunk cleaned out of the bore, the sound was truly heavenly. Max got a silk handkerchief out of his drawer, one that some relative had given him for Christmas and holding the trumpet in this cloth, he began to play. He was so happy with the tone that he couldn’t wait to try it at the little club where he and his friends played.

As stated before, Max wasn’t regular in his playing with the small combo. Tonight, they had a piano player who had written some music of his own. At first, the piano player was embarrassed because he hadn’t written a trumpet part, but the band members all just said Max would catch up. They started the first piece. Max waited until he had a feel for the melody and the chords. Then, so softly the audience could barely hear him, he started his journey about the piano players melody and the chords from the base. At the end of the piece, he had increased the volume to the point where he was now leading the song. The feeling he had before and every time after, that the trumpet played itself was there again. The piano player, the rest of the band members and the audience were mesmerized. When they stopped, there was silence and then the applause rose as the audience stood and the band stomped their feet, the musicians equivalent of clapping. Max lowered his trumpet and just looked blankly for several seconds. When he came to his senses, he started to look frantically around.

“Where is she?” he asked of the base player. The man looked at Max incredulously.

“Where is who?” he replied with a question.

“The dark haired woman, she was right in front of me. She had long dark hair and soft dark eyes. She stood right in front of me as I was playing.” Max was looking everywhere around the club.

The bass player shook his head. He had never known Max to touch chemicals, but he knew that Max was under a lot of stress. “Man, there was no one up on the stage with us!”

Max just shook his head.

The next set of songs that the combo leader, who was the base player, called out were old time jazz favorites from the great band era. The piano player started with an old blues song and, at his nod, Max came in. They played against each other, first one, then the other leading. The crowd loved every minute of it. For tonight, the little club was as popular as a Vegas casino as the audience was treated to song after song, played as well as they had ever heard before. Max wasn’t even aware of what was happening. His lips thinned out and they vibrated as the muscles in his face tightened. The trumpet itself seemed to be controlling his playing. He automatically followed the other musicians and then departed on his own to enhance their efforts.

Max was far from reality. Before him was a slender, bright-eyed girl or young woman, what ever. She was sad, but as he played she seemed to become stronger. As she became stronger, Max increased his intensity. When the set was over, Max almost passed out. It was only the string base player who caught him that prevented him from falling. For the first time any of the band could remember, during their break, Max asked for a drink. The bartender poured him a shot of scotch, neat, which he downed in one gulp. He coughed as the raw whisky went down his throat. Max was playing better than he had ever played, but he wasn’t himself, otherwise. During the last set, Maria and Michael stopped by. They intended to pick up Max and head back to the University. Michael enjoyed music, but it was Maria’s trained ear that picked up the difference in Max’s playing.

As the band was putting away their instruments, Maria came up to Max. She threw her arms around him. “Max, I have never heard music so moving. The whole audience had not a dry eye in the house. What did you do?”

Max was still looking around. He grabbed Maria and looked at her. “Did you see her?” He pleaded with his eyes.

“See who Maxwell?” this was Michael.

“The girl with the long brown hair and the soft brown eyes, about in her early twenties and very small.” Max looked from Maria to Michael.

“Max, we didn’t see anyone like that,” Maria said. She was beginning to become alarmed.

When Max arrived home, the one drink and the stress of the evening caused him to fall asleep as soon as he was in bed.

In front of him was the face again. “Hello,” she said.

“Ah, hey,” Max replied. “Who are you?”

“I don’t know. I only know something called me tonight,” she said in a very weak voice.

“”My name is Max. What is yours?” Max was determined to keep the conversation going.

“Hey Max, did I say it right? I don’t think I have a name,” she said.

“What do I call you?” Max asked.

“What do you want to call me?” was her reply.

“What about Elizabeth? Max suggested.

“Why Elizabeth? she asked.

It was the name of the first girl I ever kissed, in the fifth grade. Of course, I then showed her my pet spider and she ran off screaming,” Max told her.

“Well, I promise not to run off if you promise not to scare me,” she was smiling.

“Where did you come from?” Max inquired.

“I don’t know that either, but I am feeling weak. I think I am going away, again.” She began to disappear.
Last edited by ken_r on Fri Jan 19, 2007 6:16 pm, edited 8 times in total.
Good teachers are born that way, not made. No! Good human beings, are born that way. Some of them become teachers.

Of course, life is not fair. You shouldn't expect it to be fair, but you should expect it to be ironic.
JKR 1981-2001
History is made of wars, recovering from wars and preparing for the next war.
JJR 1975-

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martine
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Post by martine » Sun Dec 03, 2006 5:37 pm

your speech is as moving than your fic. that first part is really great and I can't wait to read the next parts. is Liz a ghost or an angel or something like that? to tell the truth I prefer her real rather than just a spirit.
great part!
the way he looks into her eyes.....

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Behrsgirl77
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Post by Behrsgirl77 » Sun Dec 03, 2006 5:44 pm

I'm usually terrible with feedback, but not this time. I wanted to say first of all thank you for sharing your story. I can pretty much figure out the movie with which this is from, but I like your twist to it completely.

Liz appears lost, which is on the obvious side, but Max there is obviously a reason she is coming to him of all people.

I'd love to see where you take this.

Thanks!

Tanya

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candycane14
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Post by candycane14 » Sun Dec 03, 2006 7:14 pm

Max helping Liz come to reality helps him find his purpose. Or so it sounds. This sounds like a great story! I love jazz! Jamming sessions are still in existance. Some of the best music I've ever heard comes out of jamming sessions. Update soon!
Max: Michael, what you're about to do is not a plan. It's not an idea. It's something you think about in your mind and then you come up with something better.

Michael: Yeah, I don't have anything better.

http://dreamoutloud.s4.bizhat.com/index.php <-- Help this new forum grow.

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begonia9508
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Post by begonia9508 » Mon Dec 04, 2006 4:47 am

I should have know your're a teacher!... the writing is so perfect! :lol:

Loved the story even if I'm not to keen about ghost!!! :lol: :lol:
Is she really just a ghost?

Life has been hard to you and it positive that you found a way of dealing with your son's death writing fantastic stories! :?

EVE :wink: :roll:
- Les jouissances de l'esprit sont faites pour calmer les orages du coeur!
- On reconnaît le bonheur au bruit qu'il fait quand il s'en va!
- L'amour vous rend aveugle et le mariage vous redonne la vue!

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Post by katydid » Mon Dec 04, 2006 9:40 am

I think I know which movie! But, I'll keep it to myself until you reveal it at the end! Mr. Ren, your writing style is ever changing and evolving!

It takes guts to let all of us in to different aspects of your life!

Great job!

Kate

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chapter 2

Post by ken_r » Fri Dec 08, 2006 9:07 pm

Stories by ken_r

Chapter 2

Max woke up. He was sweating. He looked around, but of course, he was alone. He wondered about that drink. He was not used to strong alcohol. He had never had hallucinations like these before. He wondered what had caused them. Max, finally, went back to sleep.

It was Sunday. Max always felt blue on Sundays. At home, his family, dad, mom and Isabel, all sat down to some kind of dinner. Sometimes they would go out, but it was a tradition for all of them to celebrate, getting through another week. Max was glad he was on his own, or at least as far as a college student can be, when he still has to depend on home to help him, but those dinners meant a lot to Max.

His neighbors would be sleeping in and they wouldn’t be happy hearing early morning jazz even if it was good. Max walked to a bleacher on a old practice ball field and took out his horn. He performed the ritual of oiling the valves, cleaning out the spit valves and blowing air through the horn until the metal was no longer cold. Max played a few scales and then, he leaned back and split the heavens with his music. As he was playing, he noticed that the brown-eyed girl was sitting beside him. She shook out her hair and smiled at him. “Hey, Max, did I get that right?” she asked.

“Hey, Elizabeth, where did you come from?” Max asked.

“I heard you call me. Please play more.” She leaned back and her sweater tightened to show her figure.

Max decided to play some Arturo Sandoval salsa music. Sandoval was known for playing notes well beyond the range of a trumpet and Max could not hope to accomplish that, but with the Bach Strad Max was able to get the full tone for which Arturo is also known. La Virgen de la Macarena was a Spanish piece. If it wasn’t written for the trumpet, it should have been. The combination of the classical Spanish music mixed with the jazz had made the Cuban musician famous. As he played, Elizabeth snuggled against him almost as if she was trying to protect herself from the cold. The strange thing was that Max couldn’t feel her there. It was cool that Sunday morning, but Max didn’t think it was that cold. He offered her his sweater, but she shook her head sadly. “Not yet, Max, I need to be stronger,” her voice was becoming addictive to Max.

He went on to play some old Count Basie songs. Count Basie was of the big band era, but some of his pieces allowed Max to improvise. Playing alone, Max could range anywhere he chose. He wasn’t just imprisoned by the trumpet part. No matter what he did, Elizabeth seemed to be thrilled with it. Max reached out to touch her, but she stopped him with a motion. “Not yet, Max, I am not strong enough yet,” she repeated.

Max had no idea what she was talking about. She sat with him through out the morning until Max started to tire. Trumpet playing was a hobby with him, and since he had had a hard night before, his lip was beginning to cramp and he knew that if he continued, he would loose it for several days. He cleaned out the spit valves and started to put it away. Elizabeth had continued to sit just out of his reach. Her answer the night before ran through his mind when she said, “Just don’t scare me.”

They talked for a time. Then she gave a sad smile and said, “Max, it is time for me to go.” She seemed to just fade away.

Max called his sister, “Iz, are you and Alex going to be free this afternoon. I need to see both of you.”

Later, at Isabel’s, “Isabel, I think I am going insane,” If Max hadn’t been so serious, Isabel might have been inclined to laugh. Alex was behind her and he also saw how serious Max was.

They both frowned and Isabel confronted Max, “Max, what is this all about?”

“Have you heard about the club last night?” Max inquired.

Isabel and Alex usually went to higher class places than the little club where Max played. “No, Max, what happened?” Isabel asked.

Well, I bought a trumpet at a pawnshop. It is a Bach Stradivarius. It was tarnished and the valves and such needed cleaning. It plays better than any other instrument I have ever held.” Max explained.

Isabel frowned, “How much did it cost, Max?”

“I paid eight hundred dollars for it. It was marked two thousand dollars, but the dealer let me have it for eight hundred,” Max was trying to convince himself more than Isabel.

“Max, you don’t have that kind of money. Take it back now or I will call daddy and tell him how you are wasting your semester allowance.” Isabel was adamant.

“No, Isabel, that is not what I wanted to talk to you about. When I play, I see things,” Max cried.

“See things! Max, you are wasting your time with that stupid band. You sound like you are, now, into drugs. Can’t you see that you have to decide where you want to go and straighten out your life?” Isabel was a twin, but she always tried to pretend she was the big sister.

“Isabel, I wanted to talk to you about what I was seeing.” Max pleaded.

“No, Max, I am not going to talk to you about some drug induced hallucination,” Isabel was refusing to hear him at all.

That night in his dream, she came to him. “Hey, Max, I guess I am getting this down pretty well. You can’t expect Isabel to understand. She is too practical. I am so glad you found me,” Elizabeth said.

“You still haven’t told me where you come from?” Max repeated from the day before.

“Max, I do not know. I do not remember anything before you played that trumpet in the store. You couldn’t see me then, because I didn’t have enough form yet.” Elizabeth stated. “When you were playing for all of those people, I could see you. This morning when you were playing at the ball field, I felt stronger. I even thought I might be able to touch you. They sat near each other until Elizabeth shrugged. It is time, Max, I have to go, but each time I am stronger. Max woke up. It was some time before he could get back to sleep.

Max’s first class was at ten in the morning. He was up dressed and breakfasted by eight and out on the old bleachers. His trumpet was cold to his touch. He had put the mouthpiece in his mouth to warm it. When he felt it was ready, Max went through his ritual of scales long tones and low pedal tones. When he had finished, Max started on some Doc Severinsen arrangements. Severinsen, the musician for Johnny Carson, was also renowned for his range. Severinsen couldn’t squeak the high notes like Sandoval, but he did have a strong, high range. True, the trumpet did extend Max’s range, but not that much. He had reviewed several Severinsen CDs. If he didn’t have the same range as Doc with the new trumpet, as before, he could, again, have the tone. As he went from one song to the next, he remembered to look to his side to see the beautiful brown haired woman. She sat and absorbed everything he played. When he finished, she turned to him, “You look tired. Remember if something happens to you, I will die. Please try to take care of yourself. Max put up his horn and barely made it to class on time.

At noon, Max ran into Alex, Isabel’s boyfriend. “Hey, Max, what was all that about last Sunday?” Alex asked.

“You heard it, Alex, Iz is going to dis me to our parents for buying the trumpet. I am not giving it up, Alex,” Max told him.

“I do not mean that. What was all that about seeing things?” inquired Alex.

“You heard Iz. She says it is some drug-induced hallucination,” Max retorted.

“Max, your sister is prone to fly off the handle. I have never known you to do drugs.” Alex sat down beside Max.

“Alex, do you believe in magic?” Max was looking at him for a reaction.

“No, but if you do, I am willing to listen,” Alex leaned back and took a deep breath.

“Alex, when I play the trumpet I see her.” Max whispered.

‘Who?” he had Alex’s full attention now.

“A beautiful brown-haired woman with large bright brown eyes. She appears in my dreams after I have played a while.” Max was serious.

“You have never seen her before?” Alex inquired.

“No, until I bought the trumpet, I had never seen anyone like her.” Max declared. “She is bright, but very naive. She didn’t have a name before we started talking. I call her Elizabeth.”

“Can anyone else see her?” Alex was, at least, giving Max the benefit of a doubt.

“I don’t know. I will ask her if I see her when I practice this afternoon,” Max responded. Maybe, Alex could be convinced, if Elizabeth would agree.

That afternoon, Max was playing tunes he found on a Miles Davis CD. Instead of a muted sound heard on many of the CDs, Max played with just subdued tones. He just hated to spoil the beautiful tone of the Bach with a mute. Elizabeth was leaning against the bleacher above them. She was all smiles when she appeared. “Hey, Max, can you play for me?” she asked.

The more Max was around her, the more he believed he loved her. He just had to know if she was real. So he asked, “Elizabeth, are you real or are you just in my imagination.”

“I am what you want me to be, Max.” she was looking down at her small hands.

“Can anyone else see you?” Max inquired.

Elizabeth looked at him, “Not yet, Max, maybe soon.”

“Can I touch you?” Max asked.

“Soon Max, you just have to be patient and keep playing,” she said softly.

When Max got home, his answering machine had a dozen messages on it. Most were from Tess and the others were from Isabel about Tess.

Max decided to call Tess first.

“Max, I need you to be my date to the sorority ball next week.” Tess said as if it was a fact accomplished.

“No, Tess, I can’t go. I am playing at the club next weekend and, anyway, I am starting to see someone else,” Max said as carefully as he could. Tess could display a terrible temper and she did it now. Rather than listen to her berating him, Max just hung up.

It was thirty minutes before Isabel called. “Max, what is this about you seeing a new girl?” she demanded.

Max just shrugged and then realizing she couldn’t see him, he said, “I maybe found someone.”

“Who is she? When do we meet her? Where did you meet her?” Isabel had nothing but questions.

“Her name is Elizabeth. I just met her and I don’t know much about her, yet. She doesn’t want to meet any of you, yet. She is very shy.” Max felt he had covered all of the questions.

“Max, these answers are very unsatisfactory. Did you get rid of that horn?” Isabel was still trying to be the big sister.

No, Iz, and I am not going to,” and with that Max hung up.

Max was spending any time, when not playing his trumpet, trying to keep up his schoolwork. Several of his friends would call him to come over to jam a while or just to hang out, but it was always the same answer, Max was trying to catch up in his work. The story was spreading about the concerts at the bleachers in the early morning and the evenings. A few students were showing up, but if they got too close, Max would just leave. When the students kept their distance, Max would play and then Elizabeth would appear by his side. They would talk and when he put his horn back up, she would fade away. The students were talking about Max’s music. Some of them were talking about seeing someone with Max. They were not clear in their descriptions, but several were sure that they had seen Max with a girl. This got back to Tess. She ranted to Isabel and Isabel told Alex. Isabel was surprised that Alex took this so well. He asked her what the girl looked like.

After playing one night, Max came home to see Alex and Isabel waiting for him. Isabel invited herself in along with Alex. First she asked to see the trumpet. Even she thought that when polished, it was a beauty. Max picked it up and started to play. Alex had some musical training and he was amazed at the tone the instrument had. Isabel just looked at it. She looked at the beat up case, “Max, you carry the instrument of your dreams in this old beat up case. Look at the lining. It is coming apart. Isabel pulled at the lining and the old glue holding it just let go. Max was a bit miffed but he didn’t say anything yet. Isabel was poking around under the lining and she came up with a picture. “What is this Max?”

She handed it to Max. It was an old picture of a dark-haired girl with big dark eyes. It was a picture of Elizabeth.

Stories by ken_r
Good teachers are born that way, not made. No! Good human beings, are born that way. Some of them become teachers.

Of course, life is not fair. You shouldn't expect it to be fair, but you should expect it to be ironic.
JKR 1981-2001
History is made of wars, recovering from wars and preparing for the next war.
JJR 1975-

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ken_r
Obsessed Roswellian
Posts: 860
Joined: Wed Oct 04, 2006 11:34 pm
Location: New Mexico

Post by ken_r » Fri Dec 08, 2006 9:10 pm

Coming soon a return to "Good by Mr. Evans, Hey Max"

Image
Good teachers are born that way, not made. No! Good human beings, are born that way. Some of them become teachers.

Of course, life is not fair. You shouldn't expect it to be fair, but you should expect it to be ironic.
JKR 1981-2001
History is made of wars, recovering from wars and preparing for the next war.
JJR 1975-

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candycane14
Enthusiastic Roswellian
Posts: 33
Joined: Thu Feb 09, 2006 4:25 pm

Post by candycane14 » Fri Dec 08, 2006 11:22 pm

Fantastic part! I never know how to describe your work. Someone put it really well as having an understated force to it but that doesn't cover it. I love the mysticism to this story. Who was Elizabeth? Maybe she was the pawnshop owners girlfriend before she died? I love this story! I'm so glad you are writing it.

Is that a sequel I hear? For "...Hey Max"? I hope so!

Update soon!
Max: Michael, what you're about to do is not a plan. It's not an idea. It's something you think about in your mind and then you come up with something better.

Michael: Yeah, I don't have anything better.

http://dreamoutloud.s4.bizhat.com/index.php <-- Help this new forum grow.

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begonia9508
Roswell Fanatic
Posts: 1126
Joined: Sat Nov 17, 2001 2:37 am
Location: Somewhere lost in chocolat Land

Post by begonia9508 » Sat Dec 09, 2006 3:57 am

Fantastic part! you're blowing me!!
I always trie to know what's behind the story and its really a goshty one bc I think this trompette used to belong Liz and when she died, her ghost did not want to leave her instrument.... will be a shock for Max once!

EVE :wink: :roll:
- Les jouissances de l'esprit sont faites pour calmer les orages du coeur!
- On reconnaît le bonheur au bruit qu'il fait quand il s'en va!
- L'amour vous rend aveugle et le mariage vous redonne la vue!

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