mikebarnes

My own Short Shorts

In my teens a wrote a few pieces, one of which somehow survived - and so, like it or not, here it is.

The Trumpeter

I have no idea where the inspiration for this very short piece came from, but re-reading it now I'm surprised by it. And really rather pleased with it.

As the last echoes of the long, lingering note faded away, the silence welling up in the cramped and untidy room, the trumpeter took the instrument from his lips. Once a thing of shining brass and silver, the years had taken their toll on the neat curves and the delicately sculpted horn. Once an object of great value, the battered trumpet bore testament to its years of faithful service.

The man held the trumpet like it was a baby, his eyes seeing not the worn brass but another, brighter thing. It was a cherished child, a faithful friend, not a possession but a part of him. Perhaps the most important part. Without it he was a silent, grim old man too old to be loved by strangers, too much of a stranger to be loved by family. He had made his choice. The music was his life, and his family, and he was not unhappy that he had grown old in the company of his oldest, dearest friend.

Raising the instrument to his lips once more, the room came alive again with the sounds of the laughter they created together. Not music. More than music. It was as if the magic of life was being set free from it's mortal shell and allowed to roam wild within the confines of the room. Only the walls were present for the performance, only the walls which had been the audience of many private performances in the previous months. Years. Was it decades? It seemed forever.

The wallpaper clung patchily to the walls, as if possessing the will to fight the years of neglect, and damp, and cold. A stained carpet, barely managing to hide the floor in the doorway and at the foot of the old man's chair, did its best to present the man it served with comfort; but failed. Through the open doorway, a tiny kitchen glared out at the sounds of life - furious that the music was forever just beyond its grasp, bouncing off the walls and returning to die at the feet of its master.

Man and trumpet seemed somehow younger when joined in the passion of their effort. No, not younger, but wiser, more peaceful. Less worn by time, worry, the effort of clinging to existence these past years. Clinging to life when life wanted to leave, to be free. But right now the life was flowing again, through man and trumpet and breathing its magic into the air itself. Charging the atmosphere to the point of bursting as the music reached a crescendo, splitting the peace of the relaxed rhythm with a piercing, strident note which created waves upon waves upon waves... Then falling, losing the life, the lustre. Deepening to a ruby red sheet of pain which made the walls wince in the agony of it.

And then it was all over. The music was lost forever. The room settled down to mourn the loss of a dear friend.