Cobbling stones cobble up and cobble down and make the bicycles go bump bump bump bump bump and make our bodies go cobble cobble uh. These are rented bicycles these are yellow bicycles these are Hi Ho Rolly bicycles fast as lightening bicycles. Pencil wrapped with string round the handlebar. Notebook scrolled round the hand grip getting warm from my hand grip, getting scrolled so even when I put it down it stays all scrolled up. We are writers we are professionals, us on our bicycles us on the cobblestones. We are Authoritative. We are yellow shorts with white piping tennis shoes tee shirts. We are girls who want to be boys. We know who we are. We know about pencils. Quickdash letting the bicycles down in the dirt careening down the dunes to the water sand a flying. We are sunburnt and our pencils are the kind with erasers you can take out and maybe lose in the sand. We have a club she and I a writing club. We are Searching. We are Ten and Serious. We are frustrated by writers who are so good who get it right because we want to be that good. We like those writers and canít stand them sometimes in the jealousy coming out right before sleep with our stomachs wanting it so bad. Our bodies wanting it so bad. The sand between crinkled college ruled half dollar notebooks dull graphite wanting it so bad. It was not funny. It made me cry sometimes kicking silent barefoot on the back of the porch wind picking up. I break a pencil in my pocket. I want to carry a tablet to chisel in how much I think, to count it all up because really I know it is tremendous. She knows about the feeling in my belly. She is a boy too. She is a Writer. We get so mad we peddle so fast. We put a word or two together every once and a while and we get so happy we peddle so fast.