Fiction: The last drumbeat

He pelted out a last frentic medley of clanging cymbals and reverberating drums, mesmerising the screaming fans like a tribal drummer. The glow of the polished cymbals reflect into his twinkling eyes.

He didn't want this to end. The last moment as the band, the last time their instruments would ever harmonise as one. He just had to hammer on. No stopping. Drumbeat after drumbeat, cymbal clash after cymbal clash.

But exhaustion always rules. He ran out of ideas, he ran out of concentration, and had no choice but to end his extended outro with a loud and dramatic flourish.

He clutched his drum sticks in one hand wiped the sweat off this forehead with his other. Will he ever play these sticks again? Will he find his way again? He doesn't know. It's all doubt and uncertainty ahead. He doesn't want to think about it.

Unlike other concerts, he left the drumsticks neatly on the skin of the snare drum, then staggered away behind the curtains, never to return as the current band anymore.