The Silent Brass

Joshua "Ray" Branch-Howell

The night of the inauguration smelled like cold steel and distant fireworks. The sky was painted in artificial glows, reds, and blues clashing like enemies in a war with no victors. The air held its breath, thick with the tension of history repeating itself.  

I stood before an unspeakable power with a trumpet in hand. It was a black horn, shiny, but covered in rust, like a relic from a forgotten war. My fingers traced the rough patches, feeling the weight of its history. My lips pressed firm against the cold metal, and my breath poured deep into the mouthpiece.  

I lifted the battered instrument to my lips, the metal colder than truth. I inhaled, deep as the ocean, and blew—  

Pfft. 

Nothing. Not a whisper, not a note. Just dead air and a wheeze, like wind slipping through a crack in a coffin.  

I tried again.  

Pfft. 

The trumpet coughed, but no melody followed. My heart pounded against my ribs like a caged eagle desperate to escape. Across the room, the golden giant of a man sat unmoving, a statue sculpted from arrogance and hunger. His lips curled into a smirk, the kind that dripped

condescension, like he knew the sound was never coming. Like he had stolen it before I even arrived.  

I examined my trumpet—my old friend, my battle cry, my voice when words weren’t enough. But it was wounded. The bell was dented, its body scratched with the scars of struggle. It was a soldier who had fought too many wars and lost the will to fight.  

I clenched my jaw and blew again. Harder.  

PFFFFFFFFT. 

Silence.  

The room swallowed me whole. The chandelier lights flickered, the shadows on the walls stretching, shifting, whispering secrets I couldn’t hear. The crowd murmured—low, hushed, judgmental. Somewhere in the back, a fork clinked against a plate, sharp and final, like a gavel sealing my fate.  

And then, he leaned forward, slow and deliberate, like a buzzard watching a wounded lion take its last breath. His hands clasped together, fingers forming a steeple beneath his chin.  

"What’s the matter?" His voice slithered, smooth and sharp as a blade. "Lose your sound?" 

The words wrapped around my throat, tight as a noose. My hands curled around the cold brass of the trumpet, its silence pressing into my chest like a final note that never played.  

I wanted to shout. Wanted to scream. But my throat was a desert, cracked and barren. I could feel my pulse in my temples, and hear the blood rushing in my ears like a song I could no longer play. 

And that’s when it hit me.  

The silence wasn’t mine.  

It was his.  

I turned the trumpet over in my hands, watching the way the dim light played against its bruised surface. This wasn’t just an instrument anymore. It was a monument to silence, a relic of something stolen.  

He sat there, smug, expecting me to break. Expecting me to beg.  

But silence is louder than any sound when wielded with intention.  

I let the trumpet dangle from my fingers, and let the weight of the absence settle into the room like fog before a storm. The murmurs quieted. The air thickened.  

And then, I lifted my chin.  

I met his gaze.  

And I smiled.  

Because even in silence… he had to hear me.

About the Author

Joshua "Ray" Branch-Howell, Virginia State University

Joshua Branch-Howell, also known as Joshua Ray, is a visual artist, creative director, and self-proclaimed bohemian who channels his passion for art into powerful expressions of culture, identity, and social justice. A proud VSU student pursuing a B.F.A. in Visual Arts and a Virginia native, Ray has cultivated his talents across mediums such as printmaking, ceramics, painting, and mixed media. His work has been showcased in exhibitions like Reinvention: VSU A+D’s Hip Hop History Art Exhibition and the Thelonious Monk Tribute Exhibition in Millburn, NJ.