the shut in
fiction
edward w pritchard
By then I had mostly lost my hearing but I felt the big bass drum vibrating in the long bones of my forearms, across my shoulders and up through my jugular veins. It was definitely a band, the young people of this area must be celebrating something. After I carefully closed and locked all the doors and windows I couldn't help a peep from the second story bedroom, the window that faced the state road. I couldn't see the band but I distinctly heard the vibrations and hoped the marching band might just come this way one more time. I imagined the pretty girls with nice legs and the drummer throwing his sticks twenty feet in the air as he marched. Someone needs to stop all the vehicular traffic if the band is going to march through our hometown today.
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