[This is a continuation of last weeks theme of writing small scenes/glimpses of a story inspired by a song. This little vignette is brought to you by Third Eye Blind's Motorcycle Drive-by. If there's a song you want to request I write about for next time, leave me the title and artist in the comments and we'll make it happen! :) ]
"The City" was the hardest thing Fred had done since he moved there. All he could think about in the days before the trip was how long it had been since he'd glimpsed the coast. Carolina would always be his home. He was sure his mother was still baking chicken on Sundays and doing little else.
What he missed the most was the smell. New York City also had a smell, and it was far from a pleasant one. Living on the ocean was different, and that is of course the reason he had left in the first place. Too laid back, too calm, and the sand gets everywhere.
When he was eighteen it was what he wanted most- to move to a place where the environment took over the minute you set foot outside your door. That was New York City at its most basic. Survival mode took over you. No matter how high up the ladder you climbed, you always felt like scraping for more.
But after scratching and clawing for ten years, Fred felt like it was enough. His twenty-eigth birthday was only two days behind him, but the lines on his forehead were starting to show. His teeth stained by tobacco; a habit he developed when he moved here. And although his hands showed no signs of arthritis, they ached for something different, something more alive and tangable.
So that day, after selling all of his posessions that couldn't stuff into his ruck sack, he pointed his Triumph towards the South with only one word on his mind, "Home".
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