Gemotions

The band’s practice space felt cavernous. Mark, the lead guitarist, strummed a chord, the sound thin and reedy in the sudden emptiness. Usually, at this time, their manager, Tony, would be leaning against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips, offering critiques and encouragement.

Tony was gone. A text message, that was all. He wouldn't be able to make any future practices. That was it. No explanation. No goodbye.

Mark ran a hand through his hair, the gesture tight. He looked at the other band members, their faces mirroring his own confusion. The beat of the drums seemed to echo hollowly in his ears. The feeling within him was a strange hollowness.

He picked up his guitar and started to play a simple riff. The notes felt detached, a pale echo of the music they used to make. He stopped. He felt like his anchor had been cut.