The sun blast burped from his lips. The trombonist chicken-danced with the hot of the brass in his hands.

Taking a long stroke outwards, the slide touched the edge of his square universe, and plucked it there in tease. He brought the slide back, and sound! it shined. It reflected the sun. He reveled in its brightness. The long flags of his marching band whipped in the wind. Summer was a spike in his coffee which made the most fine taste in his mouth. That is, it was not a long, boring vacation, but an early-morning pick-me-up that lasted for three days in the daylight, and 2 nights in the shade. Band trip codename: exceptional.

The kokopellis behind him, and sturdy Sieg Heil in front was how he marched for the fourth of July. Could he survive the torrential starburst which lighted above him? The suit was especially warm. He roll-stepped forward with the drum line, anyway.

When the sun-blast came out of his trombone, it caught in his throat. The slide was stuck. Panicking, he eyed his nearest bandmate, and motioned to help with the long metal tube. His friend bent under the horn and carried the slide all the way down, to the edge of the universe. It detached, and from the exposed pipes burst a flat noise. He spat on the pipes, and continued gaily.

But it happened again. The sun wore out. That evening, he re-oiled the slide, but thought, how can I play at night? It was the spirit of the sun which played through him, from the edge of the universe and back. Under light of the moon, he would have to stay silent.

He spat the sun on the pipes. They melted long-wise with the oil.

A trip in the morning to Burgess' courtyard reinvigorated the brass horn with new energy. He lipped the sun into the mouthpiece, and carried it all the way down the pipes, to the bell, where it burst out into the ears of the high-standing Burgess.

Chickendancing, the Burgess himself ordered the procession to stop. He launched his feathered cane to the cement, and paved his way to the trombonist.

"I must see, I must see the horn by itself," he cuckolded. The trombonist remained in position.

Ordering the nearest feathers to give him the horn, the Burgess got his way. The weight of the horn sunk through the projection of the universe at the touch of the Burgess', and made the entire scene dim.

"Only I may order the sun to burst!" His head and eyes encompassed them all.