Flash Prompt:
“You receive a package with no return address. Inside is an object you recognize from your childhood — but it’s impossible for it to exist anymore.”

A package lies on the doorstep, getting damp from the rain.
Reaching out to save the box from its soggy doom, a thought echoes in my head — I wasn’t expecting anything.

Nervously, expecting a scam or worse, I cut the tape.
My hands shake as a familiar black shape comes into view.

Is that… my saxophone case?

But I hadn’t seen it in years. I gave it away — pawn shop bound, I assumed.
The smell of wet cardboard rises as I search for a return address.
There is none.

Driven by curiosity, I unlatch the case.

SNAP. SNAP.

The sound of the locks sends memories rushing in — marching band, musicianship, friendship.

I place a reed in my mouth — the dry wood invading every taste bud.
The mouthpiece twists on familiarly.
As my fingers slip—

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

I freeze.
The sax has grown a mouth.

Aghast, I fumble at the neck strap.
It honks, “Don’t drop me, you idiot!” — sharp teeth gnashing.
Which, of course, makes me drop it — horrified.

“You… you fucking talk!? What the hell!?” I shout, jumping back.
“I don’t talk — I SIIINNNNGGG!”

A deafening toot explodes through the room.

The sonic wave brings me to my knees.
“Why me!?” I plead.

“Don’t you wanna play me!?” it growls, a blistered tongue protruding from the bell.

“Not like that!” I retch, grabbing a T-shirt from the floor.

“You were never good at playing anyway…” it wails.
Wild honking cuts short as I stuff the shirt into the horn.

“Maybe you’re right,” I mutter, slamming the case shut.

I toss the case into the trunk, drowning out the muffled toots with the radio.

Driving away from the Goodwill, my eyes never leave the rearview.
I press the gas harder as the case shudders upright, giving one last toot.