My fourth entry into Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine's Mysterious Photograph contest. Yes, it won nothing.
The
Walls of Jerry Coe
He came a-tumbling down. It took three, but they did
it. Smashed, left bleeding, gasping, the alley walls closing in. A forehead cut
dripped down into his eyes. Jerry Coe was paying for his sins in the cruelest
way possible.
What sins? Introversion? Dressing differently? Pushing
back at Tommy Tuba, making the big bully look weak at practice? Breaking into
his locker, spray-painting two words – TOMMY TUTU?
Jerry realized the alley shortcut was a mistake. Yes, he'd
get him home quicker, but he didn't factor in how isolated he would be. And that
Tommy Tuba would bring friends who'd make easy work of Jerry.
Jerry tried to scream, but no sound came out, frightened
into silence. Looking at the right alley wall, he saw his trumpet. They had
thrown it there, miraculously undamaged. He stretched to reach it. No good. Too
much pain.
He wouldn't
give in. Jerry Coe tooted to the sound of a different trumpet. Two tumbling
rolls, and Jerry grabbed his horn. He put it to his lips. If Jerry couldn't
speak, how could he play? He closed his eyes, concentrated, mustering as much
breath as he could.
And he played. A beautiful reveille. A clarion call echoed
down the walls and into the nearby street.
Someone heard it. Help was coming.
But not for Tommy Tuba and his bully buddies. This was
not over. Jerry Coe wouldn't let this go unavenged.
Soon, the walls would tumble in on Tommy Tuba.
