She had a fictitious kid. We were sitting on her porch, drinking Ballantine Ale out of a grubby Styrofoam cooler with missing pieces. A slow moat surrounded the leaking cooler, expanding with the gradual melt. In front of us was a narrow strip of dirt and crabgrass scattered with worn out toys. Her fictitious kidContinue reading “The Fictitious Kid”
Crumbling Asphalt 