I waved my hand at the buildings around the small courtyard. “Ain’t much hope here. Just concrete, and rust.” I looked at the reporter. “And death. Ain’t much hope here.”
He didn’t move. Just sat on the bench, and looked around.
He’d never visited my part of town. There were no stores, no restaurants, but you could buy crack on every corner, and get shot for no damn reason. And if you died on the street, your body could be there for days.
I leaned back on my bench, held my trumpet up. “People need hope, and I do what I can to give them some.”
I played. A lonely voice. A ray of light. A thread of hope. In a concrete hell. The only sounds beside my trumpet were a mother’s cries at the loss of her son, and every now and then, shots fired from a gun.
Another story I pieced together for Angela Goff’s Visual Dare. I’m writing more, and that feels good. Please read the other entries in this week’s Visual Dare challenge.