The Musician

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must contain the words: beard, silk, trumpet

The Musician

The musician swayed to the imagined background orchestra as he stood on the steps of the long empty government building. At the appropriate time, he raised his trumpet and began to play.

The skillfully fingered instrument soliloquized to an audience of abandoned cars and cracked pavement. The tune was a sad, wavering and drawn-out affair; appropriate for the welcoming of a dawn colored red by the paintbrush of Armageddon.

He paused, allowing the instrument to hang down at his side. The rising sun struggled against an atmosphere of ash to push back the night. Slowly, the darkness receded down the walls of the building to be replaced by an appropriate bloodish hue.

The musician stroked his tangled beard thoughtfully. It felt gritty from the dust that was everywhere.

Looking down at his arms, he saw the inevitable blisters. Radiation poisoning was not a pretty sight.

He knew it wouldn’t be long. All that remained was to plan his exit.

Should he sit and cry? Maybe he should take his life and be done with it.

He turned to the building behind him as if there might be answers inside. Many wise people had passed through those doors. Right up to the end, we’d looked to them for the answers. Right up to the end of all endings.

He chuckled to himself. Alas, there was no one to share the irony of looking for wisdom amongst those whose best ideas had brought about such a complete demise.

His chuckle grew to a laugh.

It was decided. With a flourish, the musician pulled a silk scarf out of his pocket. He wrapped it gypsy-like around his head. Then, with a jump and clicking of his heels, he happily marched down the center of Pennsylvania Avenue playing When the Saints Come Marching In.