True to his Word

The distinct sound of a trumpet lamenting jazz wafted through the sultry night air. Carl plodded up the long winding path. He could swear it came from the shack he called home. Then again he was probably mistaken since they heard it often from the nightclub just three blocks up the hill. Carl hated it. God forsaken noise.

As he stepped on his creaky front porch a startled pigeon took flight and noisily escaped. A feather twirled in front of Carl’s nose and he shooed it away. The music stopped. He took two steps forward as the boards groaned in protest. Suspicious, Carl pushed open the door.

His wife scurried to the kitchen, straightening her apron and kept her eyes glued to the floor. His boys glanced his way, as they turned on the TV.

“Wha’ the hell was that?” Carl roared.

His wife timidly looked up, “What was what dear?” A meek smile followed.

“I thought I heard it again.” He glared around the room. “That damned trumpet. He ain’t a playin’ agin is he? You know I ain’t no fan a that crap!”

“No, Carl. You told him to stop. He’s not playing it any more.”

“Better not be.” Carl noticed the door to the closet was ajar. He started toward it.

“Carl. Umm… I need some help with this heavy…” Carl squinted. His eyes stopped her mid-sentence.

“It’s in there iddn it?” Carl’s leathery hand gestured. He crossed the room and began throwing everything out. Then pried up the floorboards. Underneath lay an old trumpet.

He held it up like a prize at a fair.

“Carl, please,” His wife begged.

“I told ya. If I ever catch him playin’ this devil’s tool, I’d mash it right in fron 'a him.”


Carl was true to his word.


300 Words
Flash Story Contest -- Trumpet, Feather, Fan