Writing Prompt No. 17
The man walks down the street carrying three black bags and a trumpet.
The largest bag is a rucksack, full to capacity strapped to his back. He carries two black holdalls, one in each hand. The bag in his left hand has the brass trumpet balanced on top between the handles. This looks precarious. Don’t musical instruments usually have a case? It’s wet and rainy. The man wears an outfit of white. White jeans, white jacket. His shoes though are black. With a white sole. As he walks purposefully down the road, he walks along the black paving that’s pressed into the pavement along with spat out pieces of flattened chewing gum that are stuck hard to the ground. Just in front, to his left, stands a sandwich board of choices from the nearby cafe. All he can see through his dark sunglasses is the word VANILLA printed in capitals right along the bottom, surrounded by the colour yellow. Black. White. Brass. Yellow. Grey. A tiny flash of red on the back of the man’s shoes. What sort of music does he play? Jazz. It’s a trumpet after all. Or Big Band. Or maybe it isn’t his at all. Maybe he’s bringing home the trumpet for his son who’s decided to take lessons. Someone at work gave it to him. His son didn’t want to play it anymore.
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