Newspapers / Mars Hill University Student … / April 1, 1960, edition 1 / Page 18
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EconoJ>^J .„.U 4^ Newman, Martha Teague, and Larry Reed will present V ^l IdKtStEST rcc FAME I pull out my hand- W the hundredth time iffipe the perspiration from J*‘'ead. After putting the ban*’ back into my pocket bag rny trumpet case to hand, I continue walking. , that’s all I’ve done •ast two hours, just walk- ^ looking. The street sud- ctowded with people, each other. It must be sup- 5’ I continue walking b never-ending boulevard. ras myself monsf’ iiij It e sinc*_||j r such :quest 'T- vtr nna' icoopd ad the :olate, ' -d UH' , :ed cre4’ aJ* on top' :erpiecei' ed the 1 to c«' ;d to ; t apf: O;, :kled, ' joven’l’.|!' for«J( 1 o heigP^(^f used V tah^ ra"' is P )St flovve*^ It la lets lay "!dll sh^, j V taut. / [1 taia^ sires. ,(, names tr great dignity I walk :^t if w"^nndering how me trumpet,” I say »nd i3ti hiirns his head. O HI) O D 0 thing I hear is a voice nhat are you doing here? ,you come?” Here I am, ^, and scared musi- ^ hig city — the biggest .’’tld for that matter — a job. 1 have left my y loved ones, and my [^.*''e forsaken even Chris- I’ve done all this just fortune and satisfy my * desi: (b'^n forces me to look up. I bg red, yellow, and blue tne in the face. The !iqI active lettering, “The fl, ,bb,” is no different from but my appe- )e suggests that I try I shift my trumpet other hand, straighten cloud of smoke. a yeast-like odor, per- its ^ atmosphere. I stop as W^'^nw accustomed to the -• ' ^ness, Aly attention is ® small combo in the s '. Each of its five mem- li,,'''ng through his indi- licij'^biup. Unnoticed I walk Presence. The tanned V ((Pdaying the tenor sax Can I help you?” he which tells me that '’ocalist of the group. you f seat and join us,” he ;»r be the leader. I ’U. trumpet man. He turns away from '^k to mvself. I set mv NELSON TUNSTALL ^3 Beauty fell Delicate, Transient . Neglected. II The death Of the child Affected . . Eternity. HI case on the chair, snap it open, and lift my trumpet from its vel vet bed. Taking the mouthpiece and inserting it into the horn, I blow a few tones as a warmup. Seeing the other musicians taking their places, I grab a chair and a stand and place it beside the trum pet player. “We’ve got only a few minutes, fellows,” the leader barks. “Let’s warmup with ‘One O’Clock Jump.’ Joe, give, the new boy the first trumpet part.” Joe stares at me and hands me the music. His lip twitches, and as the saxes start off with an in troductory theme, his eyes narrow. A sudden burst of anger passes over me. I see that Joe is not used to competition. Noticing that it is about time for the trum pet entry, I prepare for the on coming duel for fame. I take a deep breath — more for courage than anything else — and begin to play. My first notes are crystal, and as my tone improves, I relax. I kiss each note as though I loved it. As the last measures approach, I make sure I stand out over Joe. Four pairs of eyes are focused on Joe and me. The sax man scratches his head. He walks to wards my stand. “This is it; this is my opportunity',” I think. “Buddy, how would” — he swallows and looks at Joe — “how would you like to join us?” A job, a chance for success. jVIy' answer forms on my lips. I look around. I see my former competition. Joe Life is an exquisite shell Which is too easily broken. Isn’t the end the beginning? IV Life is . . . Just nother book In the library . . . Of God. V Hey Beth! Doff y'our hat! Be you! Life’s like that! ROSA LYNN GRUITS Taste of the world, young river; Know all its ugliness. Moan and twist in exorcism Through the land where a skeleton sobs On the breast of a dream that’s dead Taste of the world, young river; Devour all its beauty'. Bubble and dance in ecstasy Where earth is wrapped in mystic white veils. Laced with ribbons of rose-gold light. Live, young river; Taste of the world. Growing into the sea. CARLENE CRISP is a lanky, muscular man. There is the drummer, a sleepy-looking man. There is no question as to his habit. I look at the boss, a tall man whose face is seemingly scarred w'ith emotional pain. “Well, son, how about it?” the boss asks. It is cool now. The moisture- filled air kisses my face. The distant sounds of music still ring in my ears. I start to walk. HILLTOP—PAGE SEVENTEEN iox )ly. am tils iet' a1 e e ^ I C; tso ‘g lill pi; m lia t I 2V£ b .1 ith ivi n ira Jp Y ;ii 'al un im er ne ol b) 2rs L 1 i na in irt 1C( )n. idi Si iS t t Itl , I ed ICS a ioi !ai ne Ytv nt tne irrauuaLc "r^^mr»7-ratir Mnmi- sl 1, ea > 1 F. T d Tf- WQC ciir
Mars Hill University Student Newspaper
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April 1, 1960, edition 1
18
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