His sticks grew bored of Frank’s tunes and insisted to let loose.

My girl tapped me as the air drummed with charisma put her in a trance of sound waves.

OLE FRIENDS BY JARED BROWN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 121

Frankie boy sang every bit of his silhouette voice to the tip of his tongue. The world on a string felt like heaven in my ears as those around me whispered the words softly like cotton.

Cool breezes from the Dominica’s air glistened as Buddy pushed the slow tempo with a look into the spacious sky. His sticks grew bored of Frank’s tunes and insisted to let loose.

“Show off the old grandeur,” I said to myself.

“Ladies and Gents, Frank Sinatra isn’t the only great left, give it up for good ole Buddy Rich.”

Drum sticks slammed down on the head, sliding on the air. Frankie sat back soaking in every last shot his good ole pal laid to the poor drum set. For a man at his age, you’d never think Buddy’d be real.

I closed my eyes to deepen my focus on his patterns. My girl tapped me as the air drummed with charisma put her in a trance of sound waves.

Budd…