Indigo skies darken on the empty pavement streets and swaths of lawn that decorate the lines of quiet homes. Michael sits on the curb sucking at his cigarette stick. Poofs of spirit smoke disappear in the air as he strums the occasional chord on his dusty guitar strings. Michael is 17 and looks like a malnourished bird mixed with Steve Urkel.

The local 14 year old weirdo, Ophelia, speeds down the street on her Razor Scooter, hair flapping in the wind. She grinds to a holt and whips off her shades.

“Sup Mike. How’s it hangin’?”

Michael looks up from his guitar, “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

Then sighs, “Hey Ophelia.”

“Lemme bum one of those Spirits, brudda.”

“You’re 14.”

“You a narc?”

“Don’t you have school to go to or something?”

“Don’t you have some bitches to get? I guess we’re both flaking on our responsibilities.”

Michael exhales, defeated. He lights up a cig and hands it to her.

“You know what, Mike? You’re not too bad.”

A squirrel pops it’s head up from a drainage ditch then scurries up into a tree.

Michael strums at his guitar.

“I found a jug nutmeg behind the 7/11. You like nutmeg, Mike? I think it taste like Santa Clause vomit.”

“Please don’t tell me you drank it.”

Ophelia rolls her eyes, “Answer me this Michael. Is it cold down in Antarctica?”

“Obviously.”

“Yeah, no shit. So let’s not ask questions we already know the answers to. I’m not a fucking freak, you know?”

“Sorry.”

A dog woofs in some distant backyard.

Michael looks down at his guitar and back up at Ophelia a few times. She just stares, unflinching, no sign of leaving.

Michael finally speaks up, “Is there something I can help you with, Ophelia?”

“Nah.”

“Why are you staring at me?”

“Bored.”

A little breeze rustles at tree leaves. Ophelia takes a drag from her cigarette. She points her cigarette at his guitar.

“Whatcha workin on there?”

“Writing a song, I guess.”

“Well, let’s hear it then, Bob Dylan.”

“The song?”

“Michael, your questions make me want to strangle a puppy. Yes, the song. Pretty please.”

“Alright. But don’t expect anything good.”

A streetlight flickers on as the night finally sets.

Michael sets his fingers. He strums at his guitar and quietly sings.

“I’m goin’ down to the Railway Station, gonna get a ticket to ride. Find a big fat lady with two or three kids and sit down by her side. Ride ‘til the sun comes up and down around me ‘bout two or three times. Smokin cigarettes in the last seat. Tryin’ to hide my sorrow from the people I meet.”

Michael fiddles at a couple aimless notes, then stops.

“That’s all I have for now.”

“Wow. Not bad, buddy.”

“Thanks.”

“Reminds me of being depressed, but in a good way.”

“That’s pretty much what I was going for.”

Ophelia flicks out her cigarette and stomps on it.

“What’s it called?”

Michael ruminates, “I don’t have a set title yet, but I was thinking… maybe, Clay Birds.”

Ophelia throws up a shacka-lacka hand sign, “Tight.”

She does a kick-flip. And just like that, speeds off.

Michael watches as Ophelia and her scooter slowly become a little blip at the end of the street.