Jimmi Campkin’s writing always transports me somewhere gritty and dark with its own profane beauty.
We’d swum upstream, arching through the reeds and the little currents swirling around the sharp rocks just below us, grazing our elbows and knees. The river meandered under the watch of hills crumpled and confused like an unmade bed. Nothing moved except the wind and the water; and two undernourished, hopelessly drunk, hopelessly pale little tadpoles in the dark green of a midnight dip.
She’d hotwired the car in a dark corner of the drive-thru. Under the artificial glare of neon bulbs, we’d seen the young couple fingering each other damp before sucking away their respective juices and hitting the fries. All she needed was a cigarette lighter and a hairclip and we had a car. A good car. A V6 apparently, whatever that means, with two belts of cheap vodka and an automatic transmission. I didn’t mind. It meant she could grip my cock and still keep one hand…
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