Data Bases • Custom Term Papers • Free Term Papers • Free Research Papers • Free Essays • Free Book Reports • Plagiarism? Links • Top 100 Term Paper Sites • Top 25 Essay Sites • Top 50 Essay Sites • Search 97,000 Papers @ DirectEssays.com • Search 101,000 Papers @ ExampleEssays.com • Search 90,000 Papers @ MegaEssays.com Free Essays • Term Paper Sites • Chuck III's Free Essays • Free College Essays • TermPaperSites.com • My Term Papers • Get Free Essays • Essay World • Planet Papers	Search Lots of Essays Back to Subjects - Creative Writing highway bound highway bound Highway 40, is it a battleground or an interstate? It is a large mass of asphalt, dark rubber tire marks burnt into pavement, tons of fast moving steel, confusion, boiling anger, mental anguish and lost souls. I view the nations first federally funded interstate as a large mass of asphalt that stretches from North Carolina to California. I have personally spent many infuriating, intense and mentally draining hours on this highway, traveling in route between Durham and Raleigh. The memories of a thousand trips all seem to fuse into one long memory of roadwork, delays, chaos and horror. It takes strenuous efforts to confess and alleviate this burden from my shoulders. The nightmare begins as I navigate my pearl white Toyota Supra onto the Highway 147 onramp, denoted by an ever so familiar reflective green sign. My music blares a blissful tune as I sink the accelerator to the floor. Gaining speed, taking flight so that I can successfully merge into the never-ending column of vehicles racing towards their separate destinations. As I merge off of the onramp and into chaos I look cautiously over my shoulder, checking to make sure I am clear to get in. A minivan the color of the darkest midnight is the only obstacle in view. I merge successfully deciding the slow moving vehicle is well out of danger. No sooner do I slide securely into my lane upon the black asphalt than I notice that this family transport of safety is not really that, but a marauding mother hauling her troops into combat. The dark figure of the van grows larger and larger until it appears I am merely an obstacle meant to be trampled. I look down and realize that we are reaching speeds of eighty miles per hour, yet this minivan has virtually become a part of my bumper. I flash questioning glances behind me trying to predict the mad woman’s intentions. Unable to bring solace to the growing war behind me, I face forward concentrating on simply keeping my car between the bright, pure white line running broken down the highway. I keep my car within a few feet of the one in front of me, trying not to infringe upon danger but at the same time trying to keep mother murder behind me from laying on her horn. I look to my immediate left and see a bright red seemingly luxurious sedan inlaid with chrome and leather. The driver, a businessman in a fine suit, glances back at me with a look of impatience and anger. I can almost see the blood vessels exploding and rupturing in his eyes. The sweat beads upon his brow and he frantically reaches for his cellular phone, obviously late to some engagement of unknown importance. I awaken from my observance to the toot of a desperate horn. To my right a black sport utility vehicle has darted down from an onramp and is attempting to merge between my appendage, the blue marauder, and me. I can see the resentment in the mother’s eyes and I know that it is up to me to aid this fellow traveler in merging. I tap the brakes to slow down but before I can bleed five miles per hour off of our airspeed, the impatient mother behind me is laying on her horn, sounding her battle cry. At this moment she visualizes opportunity and seizes it. An opening has occurred in the left lane, she darts in and whizzes by me. I glance over just in time to catch her laying on the horn and reaching over carseats and influential children to give me the finger. The shrill shriek of her horn pierces my eardrums and elevates my growing headache to unknown celestial levels. I slide deeper into my seat attempting to hide from the terrors of the highway. Resting peacefully now that my minivan driving friend is gone, I quickly make the realization that my tranquillity will be short-lived. The next tyrant accelerates from behind me, pulling their ton of rusted, faded scrapmetal to within inches of my rear end, apparently not realizing that there is nowhere to go. I wipe the sweat off of my hands and push myself deep into my seat, bent on separating myself from the war outside. The short trip ahead of only a few miles could quite possibly stretch into the dark of night. I reach forward and pump the volume on my CD player, making my headache burn and tear at my skull but elevating me off of the streets of hell and soaring me through the skies of my own tranquil world. Bibliography: Word Count: 783
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