“My parents started it,” he said, sliding onto a vinyl stool. “I finished it. Added the ‘mc’ for luck and the ‘io’ for music.”
mcpelandio left before sunrise, as he always did. But he left something behind—not a souvenir, but a feeling. A crack in the ordinary. A permission slip for strangeness. mcpelandio
mcpelandio didn’t believe in borders. Not the ones on maps, anyway. The ones in people’s minds? He tried to redraw those daily with a crooked smile and a cup of coffee that was never quite warm enough. “My parents started it,” he said, sliding onto
The Ballad of mcpelandio