Contributor: Sean Crose
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After dropping Cory off at Logan airport for the long flight back to Europe, Ben, Lance and I began our trek back to Springfield. It was great taking a long drive through the summer night. The Mass Pike wasn't clogged up and we laughed and smoked cigarettes as we cruised through the state. By the time we stopped at a Burger King off the highway somewhere outside of Worcester I knew it would be a night I wouldn't soon forget.
Not that anything special had happened – at least not at that point. It was simply the rush of being young, the rush of being out on a minor adventure that seemed like a major adventure; laughing, smoking and swallowing life in large gulp-fulls. It's great being young like that, when life seems endless, cigarettes seem harmless and everything has a feeling of newness and mystery about it.
Of course, being who we were, we missed the exit outside of Springfield and ended up riding clear up to Pittsfield. Ben, who was driving, thought he knew a way to get us back by taking the back roads down through Westfield.
On and on we rode. On and on we talked. On and on we laughed. It was a great night. Life seemed endless. The cigarettes we smoked seemed harmless. Everything had a feeling of newness and mystery about it.
After a while, as we drove through what I assumed was Westfield, we became aware of how late it was. We had just gotten through talking about Ben's ex, Trish, who lived in town, when we realized the night would eventually come to a close, the journey would eventually come to an end and life would move on.
“Unless,” Lance suggested slyly, “we keep on driving.”
At first we thought he was crazy, but, as we continued to float through the neighborhoods and deserted roads of Western Massachusetts, Ben and I began to see the sense of his words. Life was endless. Cigarettes were harmless. Everything would always have a feeling of newness and mystery about it.
“Should we?” Ben eventually asked.
After a moment Lance and I agreed we should.
Ben took a turn, where, exactly, I don't know, and pressed hard on the gas. Off we rode; off, off, off into the night. It would be years before I finally returned.
The others are still out there somewhere.
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My name's Sean Crose. Besides Linguistic Erosion, my work has appeared in such publications as Breakwater, 6 Tales Magazine, Fiction 365, and Crack the Spine. I live in Connecticut with my wife Jen, and Cody, the world's greatest cat.
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After dropping Cory off at Logan airport for the long flight back to Europe, Ben, Lance and I began our trek back to Springfield. It was great taking a long drive through the summer night. The Mass Pike wasn't clogged up and we laughed and smoked cigarettes as we cruised through the state. By the time we stopped at a Burger King off the highway somewhere outside of Worcester I knew it would be a night I wouldn't soon forget.
Not that anything special had happened – at least not at that point. It was simply the rush of being young, the rush of being out on a minor adventure that seemed like a major adventure; laughing, smoking and swallowing life in large gulp-fulls. It's great being young like that, when life seems endless, cigarettes seem harmless and everything has a feeling of newness and mystery about it.
Of course, being who we were, we missed the exit outside of Springfield and ended up riding clear up to Pittsfield. Ben, who was driving, thought he knew a way to get us back by taking the back roads down through Westfield.
On and on we rode. On and on we talked. On and on we laughed. It was a great night. Life seemed endless. The cigarettes we smoked seemed harmless. Everything had a feeling of newness and mystery about it.
After a while, as we drove through what I assumed was Westfield, we became aware of how late it was. We had just gotten through talking about Ben's ex, Trish, who lived in town, when we realized the night would eventually come to a close, the journey would eventually come to an end and life would move on.
“Unless,” Lance suggested slyly, “we keep on driving.”
At first we thought he was crazy, but, as we continued to float through the neighborhoods and deserted roads of Western Massachusetts, Ben and I began to see the sense of his words. Life was endless. Cigarettes were harmless. Everything would always have a feeling of newness and mystery about it.
“Should we?” Ben eventually asked.
After a moment Lance and I agreed we should.
Ben took a turn, where, exactly, I don't know, and pressed hard on the gas. Off we rode; off, off, off into the night. It would be years before I finally returned.
The others are still out there somewhere.
- - -
My name's Sean Crose. Besides Linguistic Erosion, my work has appeared in such publications as Breakwater, 6 Tales Magazine, Fiction 365, and Crack the Spine. I live in Connecticut with my wife Jen, and Cody, the world's greatest cat.
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Author:
Sean Crose
