John Lusk Babbott

Fictional ephemera.

The Thistle

I entered the comfortable numbness of distance driving. Hampton, right at the crossroads, across the interstate, through Henderson, east again, through Lushton, past the klieg lights flooding the night above the speedway outside McCool Junction, south until Fairmont, and then the home stretch through Exeter, the horizon thick with stars by the time I got to Friend.

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