The young son of the middle-aged woman sits obediently on the elder woman’s knee. He peers through the foggy window into the darkening dusk. The leafless trees and their long, scraggly shadows scare him. He imagines them scratching the window til they can reach in and grab him and put him in an ambulance, too. He whimpers and cries for his ma, frightened momentarily by the old lady’s hands that match the branches encroaching about his chest. She shushes him and sings quietly, soothing his troubled heart. He looks up the bus to the mirror and stares unashamedly at the young bus-driver. He won’t let this one fall over and shake and scream. No way, he thinks. I’m going to watch him all the way home. The driver glances into the mirror and seems shaken by the young boys stare. The boy offers a small smile; his little face is set alight by the gesture. The driver can’t help the upward pull at the corner of his mouth as his heart soars over something he cannot fathom nor control.
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i use my vocal chords in a morally corrupt manner because most things don't make sense; therefore i'm a glaze-eyed dreamer incessantly imagining the life of my next door neighbour. i live a big life in a small town. i sh... Read Bio