Landslide was playing on mama’s old radio while Jimmy smashed two popsicle sticks with drawn on faces together. Smack, smack, smacked together like a little popsicle orgy. I watched from the back steps with my wad of gum between my lips and a soggy magazine strewn over my sweaty thigh.
“She has a creepy voice,” Jimmy crooned his neck back and scowled at the little wooden box.
“It’s Stevie Nicks,” as a matter of fact. He looked over with eyes asking if that was supposed to make him care, so he went back to his smacking.
Blurb from Spring 2015