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The Gilded TRUMPet

Once upon a time, there was a Gilded TRUMPet, carefully polished to an artificial shine. A shine that was a bit too bright to be real. His whole life he had longed for a pedestal. As a wind instrument, he had always been taken by the hand, but now he wanted to stand on his feet. People tend to look up to you just a bit easier when you’re on top.

He watched the real Golden Trumpet parade, and its beautiful, authentic luster racked his eyes. He wanted to be like him! He blew and blew, his TRUMPet mouth much larger than the others. The noise rose, swelled and drowned out the collective melody completely. Soon other instruments were impressed, tone deaf as they were. They did not know it was not real gold that glittered.

Finally the Gilded TRUMPet was allowed to perform solo. With firm and hard bellows to the front, backwards kicks and some additional false oxygen from further afield, he blew himself smack into the spotlight. There he was, finally in the middle of the stage. He loved the attention and was very pleased with himself. He huffed and puffed until he seemed taller, his TRUMPet voice rising higher and higher. He did not hear the music of the other instruments. Collaborate? Harmony? It was an alien concept to him.

His deafening performance earned him a new TRUMPet case, which he shared with his TrumPET. He pimped up his new White House with a gold-colored rug, golden drapes and basked in the warm light. The energy of the true Golden Trumpet lingered on for a bit longer, and he sucked it up, he sucked it all dry. He felt euphoric, powerful, and played the TRUMPet lustily and with all his might.

Until he gasped for breath and felt all eyes on him. No more hiding in fake air, he had to perform. The music, where was the music? He had lost the tune. His Gilded TRUMPet play faltered, but quickly he recovered. Oh yes, a way out! He waved the score at the audience, wanting to share a bit of fake power with the people. The spotlight burned relentlessly though, and in the bright light cracks appeared. The thin layer of gilding faded slowly.

The gold-plated TRUMPet could not do it, he could not cope with the pressure. His big-headed jaws twitched, they were too swollen to speak properly. His mouth overflowed, water gushed from his head and steam escaped his ears. He blustered and shouted, the notes becoming shriller, music deteriorating into cacophony. The Gilded TRUMPet quickly became uglier, shriller, false, and eventually…

… eventually he blew himself to smithereens.



Caretaker of lads and cats. No lady, but all woman. RPGamer. Avid reader. Writing my first book, squeezing in time during busy days. And nights if needed. Because I'd love to introduce you to the wonderful people who are living in my mind.

11 thoughts on “The Gilded TRUMPet

  1. I really, really, really wish that he had blown himself to smithereens!! It would, quite probably have been the highlight of the century.
    I’m sure if he is reelected my brain might explode.
    Brilliant post!!!

    Liked by 1 person

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