I think the driver of the 26 is an alien, because it's definitely not human. I don't like riding that bus line but it's the cheapest way, and also the only way. Plus, this man goes where the coke flows. By which I mean Dave, he lives way out, another 25 minutes walk after I … Continue reading Driver, By Michael Murdoch
The Journey: a means of travelling from one place to another: a life: metaphoric; physical; psychological…. Where will it end? “Tickets please.” When was it that you learnt to blame your parents for everything? In your weaker moments? When was it that you learnt that you could wipe out your memory with alcohol, or that … Continue reading The Journey, by Hermione Laake
They are all standing around the bus stop – and are like children. There is the waitress, early fifties, cute in her lipsticks, and the black pinny spoiled only by long black trousers. She ignores me, she understands how I am a top predator of the top deck. She couldn’t trust herself upstairs with me in the eye-line.
We’re different from the boisterous crowds of the weekends. The loud drunks commuting between parties, or the twitching addicts rocking and scratching at their skin, the entangled limbs of one night lovers clawing at each and wrapping around one another in the back. No, we’re the night bus sleepers, a different breed entirely.
To the passed covered in dust, those on the curb soaking wet, and those in the fast lane driving through puddles. Cheers to the passengers aboard The Number 26
“Don’t be concerned madam” I tell her while shoveling the coins mixed with tiny fragments of glass off the stairs and into my coat pockets. An honest days work for an honest days pay.
Huckleberry Finn floated by St. Louis on his little wooden raft, and nothing bad, or good, or anything in particular happened to him there, besides him just floating by. I hope I just float by and nothing happens to me too, because anytime anything does happen to me it’s almost always the wrong thing.