Freddie in the Airwaves

He pulled a bent antenna up through the open zipper of a stained, navy JanSport. The bag was overstuffed, even before the radio, with a few slices of bread, some beef jerky, and an open box of cheez-its. We had told his father we’d be back in a few hours, but we never really thought that far ahead. “We’re meeting up with friends.” For now, that meant riding bikes out back behind his neighborhood, in the spaces between the trees and where the sugarcane grows. It was the first time I'd ever heard Fat Bottomed Girls, you know? But it came in pieces. The antenna was only strong enough to find Freddie in the airwaves between the pockets of sky that peeked through the leaves. And it felt good. Pedaling against sun-dried dirt that had once been squished down like guts on the earth beneath the weight of men in tractors. There was no way of knowing when the music might cut out and leave us exposed, naked in our labored breathing. But we never felt betrayed by it; silence didn’t sting so much back then. Not to a few kids with broken songs and bicycle chains. Isn’t it funny the way you can feel a moment right as it bores down inside of you for good? The way it fingers around the folds of your brain, before finally settling in place. But to call it a memory feels too dismissive. No, you have to understand… I’ve been living stuffed inside of that stained backpack ever since. Trying to find Freddie in the airwaves over and over again. Wondering if I was too careless to keep him close, or too young to ever really know how. Maybe he was meant to stay behind, in the spaces between the trees and where the sugarcane grows. Because I’ve never heard Fat Bottomed Girls again, you know? Not like I did when it came in pieces.

Half-Read Recommendation

I may never finish another book ever again so long as I live, but I sure know how to start ‘em.

ALL FOURS by Miranda July
Dog-eared at page: 152/351

You can google the synopsis yourself to find something about sex and hormones. But it’s the brutal honesty in her writing that I’ve enjoyed. She paints desire in the mundane… Yada yada.

But truth be told, maybe it is just a story about a “45-year-old female artist who, on a cross-country road trip, impulsively checks into a motel near her home to pursue an affair with a younger man, leading to a sexual and emotional awakening during perimenopause.” What do I know.

A Letter From The Editor

These last few years, I’ve come to only share my stories with you, as I hide behind this computer screen. But this time around, I thought I might share something with the people living inside the stories for once. So I sent them a song - one that reminded me of our time between the trees and where the sugarcane grows. What came next was an impromptu playlist built inside the group chat of 30-something-year-old kids who miss broken songs and bicycle chains. If you’re into that sort of thing:

Miffed It. mangetout. Cobra. White Fang Safari. Watermelon. Coast. No Rain.

Share something with the people living inside your stories.
until next time. - cd