Heartbeat. Military march. Machine guns. Swing dancing beneath candle light. Whiskey jazz in a smoky club. Punk and metal, pop and country, rockabilly and ska. All it took was solid rounded wood, smooth, sleek metal rounded into discs, plastic pulled taut over open mouths, hinges and screws galore, pedals and petals, a pair of nylon-head sticks and a pair of even better hands. He could play it all, was the backbone of a song, was the little row of pearls beneath blazing riffs and thumping bass, jumping from crash to ride to splash, from verse to chorus to bridge, and at the end of the day he could still hear himself play, the steady double thump-thump of a heart beating strong.
(123 words)
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