Late Bus

The page is blank. I start to fill it, letting my pen drift over white space, needing to cover it.

The drunk man on the bus is staring at me. He burps and peers closer; I avoid his gaze. He gets off at the next stop and I am relieved. It's quiet now, we've passed restaurants and bars, and the revellers have left. These people are going home.

The bus stops and I still have a while to travel. My feet are cold. I am tired but alert. I want to slip into warm slippers and a dressing gown, cradle a steaming mug of something comforting. Spicy and sweet. I want to curl up with a book in a room that dances in the lively flames of a fireplace.

Instead, I look around and see I am one of three on a cold and lonely bus. The traffic lights are tediously long. My toes are icicles now, and my shoulder is sore. There are things wafting around my mind that I must remember. I should write them down but I don't. I can't or won't.

The bus driver gets back on the bus. He left to buy a coffee, I hadn't even noticed. It wasn't the traffic light that had been taking so long, it was him.

Now I am weary. My writing is strange and unfamiliar, if I think hard, I do recognise the untidy scrawl - but is it mine?

Empty pages give way to spidery black ones.

EK 2009


  1. Love your description of seeing writing you don't quite recognize as your normal kind.

  2. what a brilliant piece of writing about the sticky business of writing
    Very good to meet you Emma :)

  3. How kind!

    Thank you very much for popping in Megan, I'm a big fan of your blog :)