Instinct, Written in 1973 by Max Hartshorne
I was clearing out old piles of stuff and found a story that I wrote when I was in ninth grade. I liked it then and I like it now. I'd love to know what you think about it.
Instinct
The tires of his Franklin spun along the hot, shimmering road that stretched out straight and beyond the reach of his wind-whipped eyes. The road was pleasantly monotonous as he cruised lazily along at 40.
He reached over the cracked, smooth seat beside him and felt for the bottle of beer which he brought to his lips, and then left crashing on the faded white line of the road behind him. He took a pack of Camels out of his weathered shirt pocket and then smoked beneath hot sun and wind. While the sun was dying, he thought about everything he had seen, heard and smelled at the World's Fair.
He thought about Chicago and the bars, the buildings and the women and the future as the fair had shown it. He felt as if he was a part of the totally different world of Chicago that he had seen. Perfumed dresses, silk stockings, and spiked heels were etched in his mind as he drove on, remembering the huge crowded bars.
He had been afraid of the monorail but he had not been able to resist it, and he chuckled, i
magining Fighting Hawk riding in that great shining snake. The sweet taste of the smoke on sticks, the big green white man's cigars, the lights brighter than the noon sun, the endless rows of shiny autos....
A huge jackrabbit suddenly bounded out into the road and instinctively he swerved at the running prey. He felt a slight thump and pulled over to the side, looking back at the big jack lying in the middle of the road. He climbed out of the old touring car and smiled. It was a beautiful jack. His wife would be happy. It would make two meals.
The weatherbeaten sign along the road told him that he was now back in his own country. When he drove into his rutted driveway, the sun had left the sky. Chicago was 1000 miles behind him.
Instinct
The tires of his Franklin spun along the hot, shimmering road that stretched out straight and beyond the reach of his wind-whipped eyes. The road was pleasantly monotonous as he cruised lazily along at 40.
He reached over the cracked, smooth seat beside him and felt for the bottle of beer which he brought to his lips, and then left crashing on the faded white line of the road behind him. He took a pack of Camels out of his weathered shirt pocket and then smoked beneath hot sun and wind. While the sun was dying, he thought about everything he had seen, heard and smelled at the World's Fair.
He thought about Chicago and the bars, the buildings and the women and the future as the fair had shown it. He felt as if he was a part of the totally different world of Chicago that he had seen. Perfumed dresses, silk stockings, and spiked heels were etched in his mind as he drove on, remembering the huge crowded bars.
He had been afraid of the monorail but he had not been able to resist it, and he chuckled, i
magining Fighting Hawk riding in that great shining snake. The sweet taste of the smoke on sticks, the big green white man's cigars, the lights brighter than the noon sun, the endless rows of shiny autos....A huge jackrabbit suddenly bounded out into the road and instinctively he swerved at the running prey. He felt a slight thump and pulled over to the side, looking back at the big jack lying in the middle of the road. He climbed out of the old touring car and smiled. It was a beautiful jack. His wife would be happy. It would make two meals.
The weatherbeaten sign along the road told him that he was now back in his own country. When he drove into his rutted driveway, the sun had left the sky. Chicago was 1000 miles behind him.
posted by Max Hartshorne at 2:58 PM
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