Hilary Hutcheson. Photos: Jeremy Koreski. The Flyfish Journal
EVERY METAL BICYCLE, too big for its headlong dismounting rider, makes a specific sound when it falls to the ground without a kickstand. The clang is the clue that a child has reached their destination; perhaps grandma’s house where a plate of cookies awaits, a baseball game where foul balls can be turned in for a gumball, or a swimming hole where the next cannonball will rule them all. It’s a reminder that the last one there is a rotten egg—un huevo podrido. Rockwellian, but make it Mexican.