creative writing bus ride

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Creative Writing : Bus Journey

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• Word Count 1184
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• Subject English

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Creative Writing

Ruth asawa san francisco school of the arts.

Jude’s Guide to Writing the Bus by Jude Wong

If a nearly naked man begins bathing himself in milk by the folding bus doors, try to stay dry. Or if a guy playing air guitar in a cascading cream ball gown offers you a lint-laden lollipop, gently say no. But if a dude enveloped in a Power Puff Girls bathrobe and bunny slippers starts describing his tumultuous love life, listen. My family never owned a car, so I grew up taking buses and have penned stories, poems, and even a play using scenes like these from San Francisco city buses. 

In earlier years my poetry tended to be dark, abstract, and related to experiences I had never had. I wrote about ferocious fires, glorious battles, and dying soldiers. I began a dystopian novel set in 3868 about the daring breakout of a slave named Zed. Stories enabled me to build and inhabit other worlds, no matter how removed they were from my life. I used writing to escape into a fantasy bubble, isolated from the people around me.

For my thesis I am writing about lives not often seen in poetry, especially those of the marginalized and disadvantaged people I ride with on the bus. People notice, think about, and help those around them in a healthy, caring society. I want to encourage this through my writing, suggesting that people “shout ‘Thank You!’ to the driver. This is non-negotiable.” Or that riders give up their seats as the “triple-sweatered old lady heaves herself onto the bus … freighted with torn pink plastic bags bearing broken bok choy and broccoli.’’ Or smile and make space for the “life-sapped mother … clinging to a stroller, a boiling tea kettle of sorts … inside a ceaseless screeching”. 

Many riders don’t observe the range of lives around them, often just looking at their phones. I also used to be oblivious to those shaping the city around me. Still, the bus brings other people’s lives so close that we all become “like a can of stewed tomatoes with riders mushed together practically becoming red sauce.”; and these days, I pay close attention. I save fleeting glimpses from our rides that would otherwise be lost, suspending them in time through meter and metaphor. While these moments are random, they are essential because they embody our shared experience of moving through the city together, our community. 

I recently published “How to Ride the Mission 14 Bus” in Parallax Literary Magazine and performed it to a large audience of 300 people in our school theater. I paced my words, leaving time for the listeners to respond, and used arm gestures to engage and draw laughter from them. One person even chased me down in the parking lot to share how much he liked my piece.

I used to write only for myself, but now I use my work to connect to audiences and encourage their participation in our community. I write to inspire people to put down their phones, pay attention, be kind and connect with the people around them. To be present and to observe the little things in life.

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The Bus Stop

Written at the literary estate workshop, by julie cutler.

I left the house, on that cool breezy Tuesday morning, made up for work, not too prim and proper, but just enough I hoped to catch someone’s eye that day at the bus stop.  The young man, whose name, I did not know, caught my eye for the last couple of weeks, and I was really hoping he would notice me, but alas he did not. What was his name I wondered, as I walked towards the bus stop near Carpenders Park Station. Would I have the courage to say hello, after seeing him quite a few times previously, but I was bought up to have manners, and was way too shy to say hello to him.  He had been at the bus stop every morning for the last few weeks,  We so happened to share a journey each day, I guessed he worked in Watford, as he got off at the same bus stop near the town centre each day, and I got off at the one before him, near Bushey Arches to travel to my work place, at Wickes.  I really wanted to say hello, he had caught my eye every morning, on his phone chatting away to his friends I believe.  Did he have a girlfriend I wondered? Was I being too forward? Oh how I did not want to give off the wrong impression.

He looked so smart in his suit, his long dark hair tied back away from his shoulders.  I always like the smart rugged look: cleanly shaven, but with an air of confidence.  How embarrassed would I be it I just went up to him?  I had to make up an excuse to talk to him. That particular Tuesday morning, I had slipped my watch in my handbag, so I could make up a conversation, and ask him what the time was.  I approached the bus stop that sunny Tuesday morning, feeling more apprehensive than normal.  I had to speak to him; he had been playing on my mind for so long.  I had been single for a while now, and so wanted to meet a nice man to settle down with.  I saw him, and yes the chemistry was there, he gave me butterflies just looking at him..  He stood there in his smart grey suit, as I approached the bus stop, his hair flowing in the gentle breeze,  I felt the breeze go through my hair.  Would I have the guts to talk to him today.  He wore a light blue shirt under his suit, his black shoes, smartly polished.  I knew I had to ask him the time, enough was enough, any reason to talk to him.  I casually, as I could walked up to the bus stop and asked him the time.  He answered with a broad smile on his face, had he noticed me, I did not try and stick out too much, I never did, but I just had to talk to him.. At last I had summoned up the courage to talk to him. He seemed so polite. Wednesday the next day would I have the courage to carry on the conversation….

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• Sustainability

Audio: Seniors read creative writing — a bizarre bus ride, bomb-littered Hawaiian island and beloved poet

By Jay Burns . Published on April 2, 2013

Spring being an elusive season in Maine, we tend to seek bellwethers that don’t depend on the weather.

Senior Lecturer in English Robert Farnsworth congratulates Ashley Lepre ’13 after the annual creative writing thesis reading at Mount David Summit on March 29, 2013. Photographs by Jay Burns.

For Rob Farnsworth, who advises Bates’ creative writing students along with English department colleague and novelist Jessica Anthony ’96, spring arrives on Mount David Summit day, the annual academic festival of, in Farnsworth’s words, “student research, scholarship, analysis, composition, performance — you name it.”

“It’s my favorite event,” he added.

“Serious and deeply attentive discipline.”

Spring being all about rebirth writ large, the interplay of spring, the Summit and the creative work produced by student writers was also on Farnsworth’s mind.

A creative writing thesis “involves serious and deeply attentive discipline,” he said. “The experience offers those who undertake such projects a first experience in the practical and emotional challenges that the work of writing presents to anyone who seriously commits to it.”

Please note that some readings contain strong language.

Ashley Brunk ’13

In the reading, the protagonist is Sheila, who in high school received a heart transplant and is now a senior in college.

Sheila helped to organize a buddy program called Big One, LIttle One, and her buddy in the program is Jessica, who has the congenital spinal cord condition spina bifada.

Other characters are Mark and Robbie, a buddy pair that Sheila and Jessica recently met; Coop, Sheila’s doctor; and Professor Doerer, faculty adviser for the buddy program; and Caitlin, one of Sheila’s friends.

Eryn Gilchrist ’13

Gilchrist of West Simsbury, Conn., reads from her fiction thesis, “The Sharpening of Carlton Beavers.” https://www.bates.edu/news/files/2013/04/130329_01393-Gilchrist.mp3

In the reading, the protagonist is Carlton Beavers, who is on a bus that’s traveling from New Oreans to El Paso. He’s sitting next to “the worst person you can get stuck next to on a bus,” says Gilchrist.

That man is named Marvin Deckler, and he’s “very large, very opinionated, and the only carry-on he has is a megaphone. And, he speaks almost exclusively in very bad puns.”

Joanna Harran ’13

Harran, of Pukalani, Hawaii, reads three poems, two of which explore places in her native state.

https://www.bates.edu/news/files/2013/04/130329_0139-Harran1.mp3 “Plumeria Graves” is about Keawala’i Church, a small stone building on the island of Maui, represents the blending of traditional Hawaiian polytheism with monotheism brought by Christian missionaries, explains Harran. Today, the church conducts services in Hawaiian, and is famed for its beautiful flowers, grounds and ocean views, and its distinctive, traditional Hawaiian stone graves.

https://www.bates.edu/news/files/2013/04/130329_0139-Harran2.mp3 “New Woman” is about a woman trying to find a place in a family as she navigates a relationships with a man whose wife has recently died.

https://www.bates.edu/news/files/2013/04/130329_0139-Harran3.mp3 “Paths” is set on the small Hawaiian island of Kaho’olawe. Used as a U.S. bombing range during World War II, the island today is littered with debris and unexploded ordnance.

During ancient times, Kaho’olawe was sacred land, used only for religious ceremonies and to train seafaring Polynesians how to use the stars for navigation. Still uninhabited today, Kaho’olawe is the focus of strategies to control erosion and re-establish vegetation.

Mollie Kervick ’13

Kervick, of Windsor Locks, Conn., reads five poems.

Her poetry, she says, asks explores the weaving of myth and family heritage. In the process, it asks and answers the question “How do I ground myself?” The act of writing, she concludes, “gives me a cultural context — something for me to grab on to.”

https://www.bates.edu/news/files/2013/04/130329_0139-Kervick1.mp3 “Rose Anne Helferty” is based on a story that Kervick once heard about a relative named Rose Anne Helferty.

https://www.bates.edu/news/files/2013/04/130329_0139-Kervick3.mp3 “On the Way to the Franciscan Well” is set in Ireland, where Kervick studied last year. Her father was visiting her, and “on the way to the pub, we heard a splash, and saw this beautiful object in the river.”

https://www.bates.edu/news/files/2013/04/130329_0139-Kervick4.mp3 “A Boy Who Died in Cork” is about “someone I felt connected to, but never met,” she says.

https://www.bates.edu/news/files/2013/04/130329_0139-Kervick5.mp3 “Winter at 30 Elm Street” is about her home in Windsor Locks, the town where she, her father, and her grandfather grew up in. “It’s the hub of many childhood memories,” she says. “What I’ve learned about writing is how strange and scary memories can be, and what sticks out.

Ashley Lepre ’13

Lepre, of Fairfield, Conn., delivered a selection of poems chock full of smart wit.

https://www.bates.edu/news/files/2013/04/130329_0139-Lepre1.mp3 “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” is from a series of ‘Where Are They Now?” poems about the fates of well-known fictional characters, this one muses about Orphan Annie’s potential career choices.

https://www.bates.edu/news/files/2013/04/130329_0139-Lepre2.mp3 “This Be Worse” is a parody of a Phllip Larkin poem about parenting, “This Be the Verse.” Lepre reads Larkin’s original, then her parody, “This Be Worse.”

https://www.bates.edu/news/files/2013/04/130329_0139-Lepre3.mp3 “The Bachelor: A Villanelle,” written in the 19-line villanelle format, is about the TV show The Bachelor . (Catch Lepre’s theme? So far, poems about orphans, bad parenting and dicey relationships.)

https://www.bates.edu/news/files/2013/04/130329_0139-Lepre4.mp3 “The Brat” is a meditation on how a woman grow up to be a pitiable character on a reality show like The Bachelor or The Bachelorette ? Maybe it happens like this.

https://www.bates.edu/news/files/2013/04/130329_0139-Lepre5.mp3 Haiku featuring boiling pots, a dyslexic groomsman, poor mistletoe placement and wishing upon a star.

In this video clip, Lepre reads two haiku:

https://www.bates.edu/news/files/2013/04/130329_0139-Lepre6.mp3 “The Way They Please” captures “a lot of how I feel about people and a lot of things in the world and a lot of parts of myself.”

Matt Williams ’13

Williams, of Clarksville, Md., reads a selection of creative nonfiction about his encounters with writers, including the poet Eileen Myles, titled “Eileen Myles, This Is Why I Love You.” https://www.bates.edu/news/files/2013/04/130329_0139-Williams.mp3

Williams is an American cultural studies major who is, in a sense, on loan from his major program.

He’s pursuing a creative writing thesis because he wants to confront and investigate his own subjectivity in his writing.

“The goal is to explicitly place myself as the author as well as a participant in my stories, confronting my own subjectivity through the use of ‘I.'”

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Prose Poem: The Urban Cyclist

It’s a sweltering summer day in the city. You’ve decided to embrace cycling, make it part of your exercise regimen. So you’re attired in a blue helmet, dark sunglasses, yellow jersey, black shorts, light-weight cycling shoes, ready to ride for the first time.

Sitting on the hard seat, gripping the handle bars, pressing the peddles, balancing the mountain bike, as if a man on a high-wire, you begin three hours of cycling.

One hour into the ride, your body’s heated up like a furnace. You begin perspiring like you’re sitting in a sauna. You take a few sips of bottled water, peddle onward.

For a couple of miles, you cycle quickly on a flat stretch of street, close to the curb, past rows of parked cars, past condos sprouting like dandelions, past house of all shapes and sizes, past the occasional park with a playground, past a few bus stops, a gas station.

Like someone navigating a minefield, you peer in all directions, looking for potential hazards— discarded pop cans, sewer grates, jay walking pedestrians, pot holes, a motorist drifting too close, as if distracted, perhaps texting on a smartphone.

You cycle past a row of parked cars. Someone who’s not paying attention, opens their car door, blocking your path. You quickly look back, detect empty space, steer the handle bars left, veering your bike away from danger.

As you cycle, you observe an endless number of trucks, buses, cars, occasional motorcycle whizzing past, like they’re in a rush to some place important. Sometimes you pass another cyclist peddling slowly, like someone on a leisurely stroll.

A mile up the street, you zigzag between two rows of cars stopped at a red light. When the light turns green, the cars accelerate as if beginning a race. You smell the stench of exhaust, cough a few times, then balance the bike, sit on the seat, begin to peddle for another mile, when you’re greeted by a steep hill.

Rather than dismount, walk your bike to the top, like you’ve given up, you gear down into low, peddle slowly, climbing the hill without stopping. Yet, you still feel as if you’re carrying a backpack of fifty pounds.

At the top of the hill, you stop to catch your breath, look back, tell yourself “I’ve climbed to the tip of a mountain.” Then you re-balance your bike, sit on the seat, press on the peddles, descend the steep hill, feeling a cool breeze blowing in your face, as if sitting on a swift-flying sailboat, catching the wind.

Returning to a flat stretch of street, where the traffic’s sparse, you cycle at a leisurely pace, gaze at the strangers on the sidewalk, past a handicapped man in a wheel chair, past a elderly woman walking her poodle, past a crowd waiting like their bored at a bus stop, past the shopkeeper selling fresh fruit and vegetables.

You’re feeling relaxed, beginning to enjoy the exercise, when a motorist cuts in front of your bike, without signalling, breaks to make a right turn on a green light—you quickly squeeze the hand breaks.

You’re upper body’s propelled forward, out of the seat, over the top of the handle bars, like someone shot out of a cannon. Yet, somehow you maintain your grip, prevent yourself from falling onto the pavement. Another motorist behind, honks his horn, then passes, yelling “Get off the busy street!”

You cycle for several more miles, your body perspiring, your energy depleting, like a gas tank on empty. You drink the remaining bottle of water, cycle back to your neighborhood, where it’s a friendly, quiet,peaceful place, where there’s no moving automobiles, no trucks, no buses, no noise.

In front of your apartment, you dismount from the mountain bike, your legs feeling stiff, your mouth parched, your face, jersey, shorts soaked with perspiration. You’re feeling somewhat stressed, yet euphoric, high on endorphins, like you’ve just run a marathon.

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I sit alone in the white hall. For a moment it felt like my head. Vines hang over the switchboard connecting their bottled roots to blue lamp like vessels. A fan rotated ceaselessly, repeating every bit of its motion over and over, making an unwelcome noise with its desired blows of strong winds. The TV is turned on, spitting out the news amidst the cacophony of debates. It rains outside. It reminds me of the rainy bus ride yesterday. I had seen a seat, fifth from the last, and claimed it to be mine. But soon, I had to share it with a stout lady. She kept talking over her phone and seemed lost in this exercise. In front of me sat a middle aged man. He was either drunk or, worse, overly polite and was busy offering his seat to whoever willing. A weird thought dawned on me, that we were all strangers united by some chances and choices, and while passing through this same road, every inch of it had a different meaning for each of us. In fact, the same road is never seen by even a single person. It's a static stage for the dynamic lives of the passers by. My thoughts ran wild this way. Soon, I had to get out, eager for another day's ride. Tomorrow.

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• Prose - Fiction and Nonfiction
• Fiction Showcase

The Bus Ride (1 Viewer)

• Thread starter MadMickyG
• Start date May 3, 2017

• May 3, 2017

Not sure why I wrote this so long ago. But I had the idea, so committed it to electronic paper. I feel like I should test myself by adding a story in to each genre. It is mostly undedited from original. I did fix some errors I found while reading it before posting, but structure is mostly unchanged. Please enjoy. Any comments and critiques welcome. The Bus Ride Angela was always late for the bus. It didn’t matter how much extra time she allowed, she always arrived late. It was as though the universe wouldn’t function normally if shew as on time. It was a good thing the driver, Derek, seem to be in tune with this fact. Despite her being at least five minutes late every morning, the bus would be waiting for her. As she boarded the bus, Angela knew that Eric would make Derek wait anyway. She flashed her travel pass at Derek, who waved her on with a smile. She looked down the aisle to her usual seat. Sitting in his seat, was Eric. He was dressed in another suit, clearly meant to look expensive. “Morning sunshine,” Eric said smiling as Angela moved down the aisle to her seat. “Morning,” she smiled back, “it’s going to be a wonderful day today.” “Let’s hope so,” Eric said softly, adjusting himself nervously. Angela could feel his nervousness. “You okay” she asked, turning around so she her whole body faced him. “I’m great for the moment,” he said smiling, but Angela could see tension in the way he sat, “but this afternoon is another matter.” “What’d you mean?” Angela asked curiously. There was definitely something amiss. “I can tell you this afternoon,” Eric said, turning to stare out the bus window. His silence on the remainder of the bus ride was discomforting, almost hurtful. Angela was wondering if she’d said or done something to upset him. Although he didn’t say anything, Eric’s body language spoke volumes, even to Angela. “Angela,” Derek called out as the bus slowed down to a standstill, “your stop.” Angela looked out the window, seeing the same street corner she rode the bus to for the past six months. She hadn’t realised how much time had passed. She stood, walking slowly to the front of the bus. She stopped at the stairs, looking at Derek. “Do you know if there’s anything wrong with Eric today? “ she asked, almost pleading. “Has he said anything to you?” “Hasn’t said anything about anything to me, why?” “He just isn’t himself today,” Angela sighed. “Something’s wrong.” Derek looked over his shoulder at Eric. “If he says anything, I’ll let Peter know.” “I don’t think I can wait till the bus ride home,” Angela said, patting Derek on the shoulder in thanks. She got off the bus, turning to watch Eric through the window as the bus pulled away from the curb. He was looking at her, a nervous smile on his face as the bus continued down the street. He waved to her until he was out of sight. The next eight hours dragged on slowly for Angela. People and conversations blurred in to one long, excruciating day. How she managed to do any work was a miracle. When the clocks throughout the office displayed four-thirty, Angela felt like a swarm of butterflies had gathered in her stomach to host a dance party. Despite her queasiness, one way or the other, she was going to find out what was wrong with Eric this morning. With the feeling of butterflies dancing to ‘Gangnam Style’ inside her, Angela shutdown her computer, nodding and saying goodbye to people around her. As she approached the elevator, her feet grew heavier. Her mind raced through countless reasons for Eric’s behaviour that morning. A female voice asked her about drinks later. Angela replied, but had no idea what she'd just said, her brain running on automatic. Her thoughts were focused elsewhere. The elevator stopped, a tide of people dragged Angela out as the doors opened. She was now standing out on the street, wondering exactly when she had walked through the front doors. She looked down the street, to the bus stop. A car horn interrupted her thoughts. “Hey Ange’,” a familiar voice called out. Angela looked towards the car. It was Trevor, flashing his charming smile from inside his Porsche. “Need a lift?” As he asked, he lent over and opened the car door for her. Angela walked over to the curb slowly, smiling. As she approached the car, Trevor’s smile widened. “Sorry,” she said, closing the door softly, his smile changing to a frown, “I need to catch the bus today.” “Are you sure?” Trevor asked, almost pleadingly. “Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.” She waved half-heartedly as she headed toward the bus stop. Trevor waited for a moment before driving off, just in case she changed her mind. But to his disappointment, she didn’t. Angela liked Trevor. He was smart, funny and very good looking. He was also in management, so he was wealthy too. But he wasn’t Eric. Eric was all those things and more. Well, maybe not wealthy. But when Angela was around Eric, money didn’t seem important. Thinking of Eric set the butterflies in Angela’s stomach again, her insides felt like they were doing the Macarena. What was he going to say? Whatever it was, it was big. It had to be. She'd never seen Eric like that before. But how big was it? Had he found a girlfriend? Maybe he was already married? Angela doubted either could be true. She certainly hoped the second one wasn’t. Eric had taken her to lunch not long ago and, despite the high prices in the restaurant, they had an amazing time together. Angela believed Eric would’ve saved for ages to afford the restaurant they went to, considering how low unemployment benefits were. She offered to pay half, but he had refused, informing her politely that he’d asked her out so it was his job to pay. She smiled as she sat down on the bus stop seat, remembering all the things the pair had talked about. Angela had copped a serve from her supervisor for taking a two-hour lunch break. It was worth it. A door hissed open in front of Angela, snapping her out of her reminiscing. She looked up at Peter, sitting in the driver seat of the afternoon bus. "Hey gorgeous,” he said smiling. “Hi Peter,” Angela replied, returning the smile as she climbed the steps. “Did Derek talk to you?” “He did, but I can’t help you. Eric’s not on the bus.” Angela looked down the aisle. Eric was not in his seat. She checked the other seats as well, but there was no Eric on this bus. Angela was concerned. He was always in his seat, smiling as she climbed on to the bus. Where was he? Angela walked slowly up the aisle. She looked at Eric’s favourite spot as she sat down in hers. Something must be very wrong. In the eight months they had traveled on the bus together, he had never missed a single day, until today. “Where are you Eric?” she asked under her breath. Her thoughts were interrupted by a couple two seats in front of her, arguing about the death of some real estate billionaire. Angela recognised the name, as he owned the building she worked in, along with most of the surrounding buildings. The couple were arguing about the man’s family, his real estate empire and which of his children would inherit most of it. Angela blocked out the rest of their conversation, returning to worrying about Eric. Who cared about some rich kids squabbling over their father’s fortune, when the most amazing man she’d ever met wasn’t where he was meant to be. For the next few weeks, life dragged slowly for Angela. Each day, she would climb the stairs on the bus hoping to see Eric in his seat, those bright blue eyes, his dark messy hair and that big, beautiful smile. But she was disappointed. Each day grew worse when he wasn’t there. A sense of sadness started creeping in to her as each day without Eric passed. Before she realised it, two months had gone by. Despite her feelings for Eric, she felt she needed to go out, to clear the cobwebs that clouded her mind. As she left for work Friday afternoon, there was an offer for drinks. She'd accepted. It was time. A place was named, as well as other people that would be present, which included Trevor. Angela nodded then headed home. Of course, there was no Eric on the bus. Despite her attitude, she was still a little disappointed. She sat in her seat, quietly staring out at the buildings and people passing by the windows. She recognised most of the store signs, especially those close to her stop. The bus stopped suddenly, everybody sliding forward in their seats. A few swore at Peter as they shifted back, rubbing body parts that collided with the seats in front. “Ah, Angela,” Peter said, sounding confused. “This isn’t my stop,” Angela said, standing up and walking to the front of the bus. She saw the reason Peter had stopped the bus. A tall, bald man in a dark suit, standing in front of a large black limousine that was parked across the road. In his hands was a sign, the word “Angela” painted on it in a bright aqua green. Her favourite colour. Peter opened the door, letting Angela off the bus. She looked over at the man holding the sign. “Angela?” he asked. She nodded, lost for words. He motioned to the limousine, smiling. Angela walked slowly, unsure of who this man was, or why he wanted her. She walked around to the side, the man followed behind. He reached over and opened the door. She looked inside, but the brightness outside made it too dark to see in. “Angela,” a familiar voice said, making her heart leap. She climbed in, sitting down on the leather seat. On the other side sat Eric, dressed in a very expensive suit. His hair was combed, but somehow still looked messy. He was clearly uncomfortable with the situation. The door closed beside her. She heard a door open and close. The car started, then she could feel the car moving, as it pulled out on to the main road. “Where have you been?” Angela blurted out, before he could say anything. She started telling him how she felt that day on the bus and continued, without stopping for breath, in to the following days and weeks. She was midway through a sentence when Eric said her name. She stopped talking, her train of thought interrupted by his voice. “Angela,” he started again, “I’m sorry. I had big plans for that day. I had everything ready to go, ready to ask you something important.” Angela gasped. “But my dad died that day. You probably saw it on the news.” “Porter Rickson was your dad? The real estate billionaire was your dad?” “Yes.” “But……you rode the bus. For eight months, you rode the bus, with me.” “I know, I know. I was on the bus for a reason. My dad asked me to investigate the public transport system. He wanted to see if there was anything that could be improved, to invest in. That was also the first day we met.” “I remember that day,” she said smiling. The first day they met had been one of the best she could ever remember. “I’ll never forget it,” Eric said, taking a deep breath. “I met the most amazing woman on that bus.” “Why didn’t you ask me out? I would have said yes.” “Of course you would, I was the son of a billionaire. Most women do say yes. But I never know if it’s me or the money.” “But you should know better than that,” Angela said a little hurt. “I would never go for someone just because they had money!” “I know that. But back, then I didn’t. You’re such an amazing woman, I wanted to get to know you before you found out who I was. I even had my face taken off some of the commercials my dad made. I told him I wanted to investigate the public transport system as a normal person. So I dressed down.” “You lied to me,” Angela said. “I would never lie to you. As a matter of fact……” Eric leaned forward, kneeling down on one knee, pulling a small box out of his pocket. “Angela Matilda Stilks,” Eric said calmly, opening the box as he lifted it up, “will you marry me?” Angela was stunned. The man of her dreams before her, proposing marriage. But he had been lying to her, kind of. He had not told her who he was. He had kept that from her all this time. Surely he would have seen that money didn’t matter to her in a relationship. Trevor’s smile flashed before her eyes. Angela remembered the stories of how Trevor would target girls in the office. Even though only a few ever went out with him, there were stories. Most were about how his charm quickly wore off, once he got what he wanted. After that, his wallet closed up. And money only took you so far. She looked at the ring in the box. It wasn’t a huge ring like something a billionaire, or billionaire’s son, would buy. It was small and delicate, with beautiful crafting around the diamond. It was something Angela would’ve selected herself. She couldn’t argue that he didn’t know her. They had spent most of the eight months on the bus talking, mostly about her she realised. He had been getting to know her without her even knowing what he was doing. “Is this what you were going to ask me the day your dad…umm…” She could not complete the question. “Yes,” Eric replied grabbing her hand, squeezing it gently in reassurance. “Why?” she asked, “why that day?” Eric took a deep breath. “That morning, I talked to my dad on the phone. He was still in the hospital after some tests. Apparently they found some serious problems. When I spoke to him, he told me I'd been chasing the girl for long enough. Life was too short to….” Eric’s eyes teared up a little as he spoke of his father. “...too short to waste on waiting,” he continued. It was all Angela could do to not burst in to tears herself, listening to him talk about his father with so much affection. Could she marry him? Despite everything else between them, everything else that had happened, that was the real question. “Can I think about it?” she asked. Eric looked a little surprised, but nodded his head and smiled. “Of course you can. This is a big decision.” Angela realised the car had stopped. The door beside her opened. They were parked outside her apartment building. As she climbed out of the limousine, Eric grabbed her hand again. “Take this,” Eric said, handing her the box with the ring. “Even if you say no, keep it.” Angela stood up outside, the big bald man smiling at her as she walked over to the curb. Eric leaned in to view, that beautiful smile on his face. “Whatever you decide Angela, I love you.” Her lip started to quiver at those words. He gave her a half-hearted wave before closing the door. The bald man walked around, getting in behind the wheel. He loved her. He actually said he loved her. That was the first time he'd said it. As the limousine started up the road, she knew she loved him too. The limousine got further away. Suddenly she knew she'd made a huge mistake. She took off after the limousine, running up the street after it, screaming for it to stop. But it didn’t stop. They didn’t see her, or hear her, so far behind it. It got further and further away. She kept running. She was puffing, her pulse racing. The limousine waited a moment at an intersection then turned left. It took her a minute to get there, but when she finally reached the intersection, the limousine was gone. He was gone. Just like that. She’d just made the biggest mistake of her life. The perfect man had asked her to marry him and she wanted to think about it. “I love you,” she gasped, leaning heavily against the street sign, exhausted. “It’s about time,” a voice said behind her. She turned around. Eric was leaning against the side of the limousine, grinning. “I rode eight months on a bus with you, waiting for you to say that.” "You!" she said as she ran over to him. First she hugged and kissed him. Then she punched him in the arm. Then she kissed him again. Angela pulled away for a second, looking at him. “What happened to letting me decide?” she asked. “I did. When you chased after us, I knew you’d decided.” “But you didn’t stop. I thought you didn’t see me.” “Carver was going to stop,” Eric said, pointing to the bald driver, “but I made him keep going.” “Why?” Angela asked, punching him in the arm again. “I wanted to make sure you were sure!” “And?” “I saw you running like an athlete to catch up, in heels even. I’m convinced.” “Oh, the answer to your question is yes.” “Which question,” Eric grinned, “that you want to marry me, or that we honeymoon in Hawaii?” She punched him, then kissed him, again. “All of the above,” Angela grinned, "all of the above."  

Harper J. Cole

Creative area specialist (speculative fiction).

• Jun 3, 2017
• At the end of the first day, Angela seems not to notice that Eric isn't on the bus until the driver tells her. Wouldn't she be looking for him from the moment she got on?
• The driver stops the bus when he sees a sign with "Angela" on it, but this is quite a common name and it's a bit of a leap to assume it refers to this Angela.
• Eric says that Angela would have said 'yes' if he asked her out, because of his wealth, but she didn't know about it at that point.
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Creative writing about a bus ride

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