Moonlight Serenade

            John closed his eyes in sorrow and frustration. Despite his repetitive attempts, this time, he couldn't seem to get it right.

            When he entered junior high, he had decided to learn strong, sleek instrument known as trombone and join the band. He had learned the soft, sweet chorales, the fast, sharp marches, and the great, majestic pieces that seemed to make the listener weightless. But, despite all the grandness of concert band pieces, that wasn’t the area he was interested in.

           He loved jazz.

From the moment he had first heard the swing, he loved the feel of the scattered offbeats, the bright pops on the quarter notes, and the sound of the short glisses that define the unique style of the ageless music. He practiced every day, mastering a various amount of tunes, and polishing his improvation style.

            He had played even more when his parents split. With each of them bickering at each other and at their lawyers, not stopping for a second to care about anything other than what the other had supposedly wronged them of, the only thing that would pay attention to him was the jazz.

            But, for once, he couldn’t play it.

            He had been practicing Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade” for a few days now. At first it had seemed like it would be easy, but he couldn’t seem to get the music to sing with the beautiful emotion the way he usually could.

            He closed his eyes tightly, fighting back tears. Had the music abandoned him, too?

 He felt hands cup is own.They pulled the trombone towards him, placing the mouthpiece on his mouth. He blew in, and suddenly he could play it as if he’d played it a million times, that this was his song, that he was the one who wrote it. The music came out sweet and clear, singing of a love felt so strongly that music was the only way to express it.

            Once he was finished, he set the trombone down. What had just happened? He picked it up, and played once more. This time he didn’t feel the presence of the hands, but he knew exactly how to play it " soft and slow, a reflection of the future, an echo from the past.

Author's Note

Yes, it's short. Most of the stories in this book will probably be rediculously short.