The Bus Ride By David Frederick the Second

The Bus Ride
    David Frederick II
I’m a big fan of Halloween. I like to think it’s because of the masks and the costumes. It’s less that people run around in silly costumes (And some of them are outright ridiculous), but it’s more that people feel free to cut loose. It’s the Night that Daemons come out to play, after all, why shouldn’t we play a little? The thing that’s interesting is that, the better the costume, the more a person cuts loose. I like to call it the “Ring of Gyges effect”, after that magical invisibility ring that Plato mentioned. The tricky part is that, inevitably, the masks come off, and then the ring turns and people become visible. And, if your mask stays on, you can learn a lot about the person.
What’s really a kick is if you knew the person you ended up observing. Quite a number of my relationships have started in early November. More have ended, though. I have no patience of a woman who lies to me about what she does – on that night or any other. Call it a pet peeve, if you must.
On a semi-related note, I’m also a fan of Death. No, it’s not like that. I don’t wear guyliner and moan about the unfairness of the cosmos – especially towards me - as I sip a latte and remain blissfully ignorant of the poor sods in Africa starving. I like to blame my parents for this one. There are only so many ways school children can pronounce the initials “D.A.F.”, and only two of them sound like actual words.  Three guesses which one the children I went to elementary school with settled on. It’s a silly place to put the blame, but there we go, and there it is.
And so, every year the two big things I’m a fan of collaborate and we get Halloween. Nowadays, I have this cheap little store-bought, but well-hidden and well-maintained Grim Reaper costume.  Just a black robe with one-way mesh covering the face, and those gloves and shows that you usually see attached to skeleton costumes. And then I go to the costume party my friends always throw. And, for the first few years, I brandished an excuse why I couldn’t go before the actual day of the event. I had to watch one of my nephews, or my grandmother was sick, or something. They weren’t the most inventive, elaborate of excuses; they just needed to think I wasn’t going to be there. For all I cared, all my friends thought I sacrificed Goats to the Dark Gods of Pain and Torment or whatever. And, lo and behold, the “Death Kid” was always let into the party. He had been there since our Freshmen year of college when the whole tradition began, and he’d been there every year thereafter.
Occasionally, some kids who are still in college hear about us, and dress up as the Grim Reaper themselves to get in – and they’re usually let in. They like the free food and the booze, usually. And I like it because, well, it’s hard to keep track of one Death wandering around when there’s actually seven.
To help preserve my precious anonymity every year, I leave the care at home and take the bus. Two-fifty is, to me, a reasonable price for a night of complete invisibility. People tend to recognize their friend’s cars. Mine, for example is a pretty non-descript red four-door I don’t take pride in it or show it off. But when we hang out or go play pool or go to the bar, my friends recognize it as “mine”, despite the two or three similar ones that, without fail, populate the lot.
And so, this year, like every other, I donned my costume, took my ID out of my wallet, and caught the bus to the central terminal. It was a short, uneventful walk to the bus stop I used, but it was for a route that didn’t go near my house at all. Maybe I’m paranoid that one day a partygoer would be drunk enough to want to follow “Death Kid” home and discover he was me, but I didn’t want to leave any clues as to who I was. As always, to facilitate keeping an eye on the bus, I sat in the back. When I first got on the bus, there were three other people.  Persons one and two were a young couple, probably late high school age. She was most definitely under eighteen, but I wasn’t sure about him. Probably over, and hey, far be it for me to condone any relationships. Love is Love and whether it’s between a man and a woman, a man and a man or a man and some teenage girl who ought to know better, I don’t interfere. Those things work themselves out. Anyway. She, like most young women took the Halloween opportunity to “Slut it up” wearing one of those awful “Naughty whatever” costumes. I think this one  was supposed to be “Naughty Nurse.” A perennial favourite amongst those of little imagination. He did one worse, just wearing jeans and a black hoodie emblazoned with the words “Halloween costume” in that dark, pumpkin orange people tended to favour alongside black.
Critiquing other people’s costumes may sound strange coming from somebody who was wearing a cheap, store-bought Grim Reaper get-up, but I was wearing it as a disguise. They were obviously doing normal Halloweeney things. Probably going to a party, like myself. They might even be going to the same party. This is why I take alternate routes.
The third passenger was an older woman, bundled up in a brown and pink sweater, loudly and rather angrily tut-tutting at what I can only assume to be the other female’s mode of dress. I dropped the dollar twenty-five in the slot and snatched up my transfer ticket, giving the bus driver – an elderly black man in uniform – a quick nod and a smile that would have been difficult to perceive in normal circumstances. He probably didn’t notice.
Young Couple and Old Lady were sitting near the front, which left my favourite seat in the back corner empty – and I dropped into it without hesitation, pulling a scrap of paper from a my jeans pocket and through the costume robes as I did so. I had left my phone off at home, to help further cement my anonymity. It wouldn’t do to have a buddy recognize me because I really wanted to run something by a search engine. I did have an old, worn-down pencil and a pad of paper, though, in case I wanted to take notes of something or jot down an idea. It’s a habit I picked up from work, and not a particularly identity-revealing one, so I didn’t drill it out of my routine for the day.
Written on the paper, in my non-descript handwriting was the address. I just wanted to fix it in my head, and, doing so, immediately pocketed the paper afterward.
The bus only made two more stops on the way to the central terminal, which were the only pauses on an otherwise uninspiring trip. The disgusted old lady got off at the first stop, about five minutes into the ride, apparently fed-up enough with the schmoozing couple, because she stood at the station even after the bus left – apparently waiting for the next one.
The couple, on the other hand, made their egress only a block later. Which left me alone and feeling very exposed the rest of the trip.
After being disgorged on to the central terminal, I made a bee-line to the little map they had inside the building which sat on the island where the buses docked. Presumably, it was in place to allow people to sit and wait inside, where it would be warm against the chill of winter and during any thunder storms. The rain it kept out well enough, I knew from experience; but as for warmth – the place was barely adequate now. In October. It was quick and unexciting business to find out which bus route I wanted to take, and it was long, even more dull business waiting for it to arrive.
Most of the people at the station may have well been carbon copies of the people on the bus on the way over. Occasionally a mother or teenager would be leading a pack of costumed children around so they could trick-or-treat in relative safety. It wasn’t very dark, yet, but quite a few of these packs had glow sticks strung about their necks, to announce their presence.
When the bus I was waiting for (The number seven line, for those curious), I immediately boarded, alongside my only companion – an small Asian girl not more than seven years old, with a pillowcase full of what I assumed to be candy and the wide girl only a child wears. I fought the instinct to introduce myself and make sure she got back home safely. Line seven went though some pretty bad parts of town, if I remembered correctly. The last thing I needed was a strict, protective father assuming I’m of the criminal element and commence chasing me down the street with a sword or a shotgun. Our driver – when he boarded nearly before departure was an elderly man of the kind I often cursed when driving my own vehicle, bent over and shuffling slowly. I can’t be sure because of the distance between myself and hi, but I thought I spotted a small, flesh-coloured hearing aide tucked inside one ear.
The first stop our transportation made was to pick up a small gaggle of loud college-age kids, each and every one of them smelling so heavily of alcohol that I could smell it from the back of the bus as they boarded. About four hundred yards later, we picked up another traveler. He (or she) melted out of the darkness surrounding a streetlight’s gaze nearly too late to flag the bus down. He (or she) stepped aboard and paid by swiping a card frequent rider’s card and I was instantly amazed.
Our newest passenger was also a death – therefore the gender confusion. Except this costume was infinitely more elaborate. With large, life-like wings curled protectively over black robes which seemed to drink in the surrounding light hungrily. The costumed individual elected to go with an almost terrifyingly skull-mask instead of the one-way black mesh I had on, and the skeleton loves and shoes almost fooled me. Flosting in his/her hand, seemingly unattached to the bony fingers – but I knew really just held tough the black part of those gloves was a tall, magnificent scythe. Blade painted so that it glinted murderously in the streetlights, giving the illusion of real metal.
The smiling little girl visibly paled – even from my far-off perch. She got off the bus a block later, shaken to the core.
I decided to forgo the party this year. This was the person I’d follow.
My quarry almost immediately joined in with the college crowd’s conversation, standing serenely as the bus bumped along,  politely declining to take any one of the multitude of empty sets. Some of the college students sounded un-nerved when my Death joined in, and a few got off the bus – obviously well before their stops.
The bus stopped an almost unsettlingly high number of times, but I had given up on taking detailed observations, instead letting my eyes track my target. He (or she) glided with smooth, practiced ease between passenger and passenger, engaging a few in conversation. He or she must have been a particularly bad conversationalist – or intentionally driving them away, as quite a few elected to make their exit from the bus shortly after.
The large amount of people embarking –and disembarking – made the ride slow-going and sluggish. The machine was quite obviously running behind schedule, as the slow-driving elderly man began to accelerate, attempting to catch up to where he was supposed to be in the schedule, and his driving became slowly – but notably – more reckless. It must have had an effect ton me, somehow, because I felt myself growing suddenly light-headed. I had those moments sometimes, though, and chalked it up to needing a quick shot of some energy drinks if there was a chance during tonight’s stalking. The hour was growing late and the darkness steadily increasing, and by this time, there were six people on the bus – not counting the driver. A bleary-eyed mother with her two children, both of whom were dressed like super heroes, a shabbily-dressed man, who appeared to be homeless, but, this being Halloween, I assumed he was just a guy in a well-crafted costume, my quarry and myself.
The other Death glided softly towards the back of the bus – those skull-mask eyes set upon me. I felt both excited and nervous. My cover was all-but blown. Maybe I’d be heading to the party anyway if I couldn’t discreetly follow him or her. Then the Death sat down, albeit a little stiffly, for the first time in the past fifteen minutes.
“Y’know,” he said – for the voice was most definitely masculine – and tinged with a familiar quality I couldn’t quite put my finger on. “I’ve seen you watching everyone. Is that why the cheap costume?” I blushed, facial expression hidden safely behind the black mesh. Most definitely busted. I guess I’d be going to the party after all, tonight. In the interest of conversation, however, I nodded numbly. As I did so, out of the corner of my eye, I saw an encroaching light, and felt a suddenly rush of light-headedness again. I felt sick.
“Knew it.” The familiar-voiced Death said, a hint of smug satisfaction creeping into his tone.
“Oh, and by the way – you’re not going to make it to that party tonight.”
“How’d you know I-“ I started, before four things happened near simultaneously.

The first was me recognizing the voice, finally. It was exactly what I sounded like when I played back the notes to myself which sat on the old tape-recorder I had.
The second was a shudden, sharp, piercing note.
The third was another note, definitely the sound of a truck’s horn honking, the driver leaning on it in frustration.
The fourth was the ambulance crashing into the rear of the bus – right where I was sitting.
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The Semester Has Come To An End

Hello everybody, this will be the last post from the Creative Writing Club until the next semester. We want to thank everybody who had submitted something to be on the Blog, or the Literary Journal we put out, congratulations on everybody who made it in. Until next time, have a safe and fun summer, see you in the fall.

Darkness by Laura Mcvey

Darkness
The darkness which has threatened us is here upon this horrid day.
It overthrows the married and happy.
It takes one's life as if it were nothing.
The children do not laugh and play; they only sit and weep.
The old have but to fear, for darkness has come here.
They take their gladness and wrap it up.
They place it where sorrow once stood.
Deep within their hearts they hide the glad for which they knew.
No one speaks a compliment or good morrow to the day.
They've all forgotten what it's like to smile, or even how to play.
No one wears bright colors that always match the sun.
The sun does not, but show his face; he hides behind the clouds.
Darkness is but one's great fear, for it has come upon us.
We sit and watch and taste and hear the people change like wolves.
But I am destined to save the ones who have been swallowed whole.
I'll take my life in my hands and save the people here.
I will not give up until my heart is satisfied that I have done all I could.
And when I am done, I'll pray to the gods that they have understood.

The Sunken City by Bethany Roberts

The Sunken City

Sing me a song

Of a world long gone

The city that sank ‘neath the sea.

Sing me a song

Of the place I belong

The city you fled with me.

Tell me the tale

Of that wild gale

That stirred up the city in fright

Tell me the tale

Of the wind-swept sail

That carried us off in the night.

Speak now that story

Of the city of glory

How our little boat rocked in the foam

Speak now the story

How it soared o’re the furious

Waves that carried us home.

Why Snow Is White By Christopher Anderson

This is our story. Our story of intertwined destiny. I was once a great wandering swordsman, moving from place to place, searching for the next great challenge, seeking what my heart truly desired for I did not know myself. 

It seems I have made quite a reputation for myself. Warriors from around the world seek me out, trying to prove their might by defeating me. I have faced many types. Some seek me out in the open with weapons larger than their bodies, some that hide in the shadows and attack when my back is turned. Once I was almost killed by a skilled fighter that I could not fight back against; she was formidable and I don’t harm women. Yes, there still is some chivalry left in the world. However, I have grown tired of this life, fighting meaninless battles. All I want to do is find what my heart's desires, but what could they be? 

I hid my identity and started to travel, enjoying the distant lands I visited. In my travels, I met the one who would change my life. It was through the forest country where I heard a voice, a serenade of angels, but who did such a beautiful voice belong to? I followed it for what seemed for miles, and the closer I became the more beautiful the song became. That’s when I found her…a white-haired maiden in a silver dress. Truly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. However, there was something different about this song…I have traveled the world, learning many languages, but this was different. Not foreign, but ancient, from a people long forgotten by time. That’s when we met face to face. She was suprised when she first saw me and slowly approached, asking in a gentle voice “oh, umm…did you like my song?" I was in awe of the way her snow-white hair glistened in the sunlight. I almost forgot what I was going to say. “Your song was as beautiful as you are.” She blushed, bringing color to her pale cheeks. “It would be so rude of me not to ask your name.” “I don’t know.” I was puzzled. Not knowing your own name? What a heavy burden to bear. “Then who was that song for?” "I’m not sure." No memory again? This was truly a tragedy. “I sing to people I have never met, in a language I have never spoken, in a voice I never had.” Truly a mystery. Maybe this is what I have been searching for, to truly help this silver-dressed singer to find her memories. 

So, we traveled together, on and on, looking for a lost name. We finally reached the snow country when she asked me a most interesting question. “Why do you think snow is white? I think it’s because it lost its name.” “Then lets call you Snowflake for now.” It seemed appropriate for a snow angel. Snow angel? Am I falling in love? No, that's preposterous. “I think its time we move on.” 

Now was the time our destiny would come full circle. It’s as we were entering mountain country, on an old highway. We were being watched. I kept my sword at hand. However, these were not ordinary bandits. They were cutthroats, insane men that would kill for entertainment and sport. We were surrounded on all sides. Not the best situation, but I’ve been in worse. But I don’t see the leader. “Hey, hey, hey, you know there’s a toll here. If you don’t have any money, we could just get a kiss from the lady!” They laughed and Snowflake clung to my arm. “Don’t worry, I’m going to protect you.” Three charged from the front, two from the sides and one from the back. I dispatched them as fast as they came. Then a whisper came. “How can you protect her when you can’t protect yourself!” This is the leader! How did he get behind me? I have never faced an opponent as fast and quiet. I was too busy watching Snowflake and not guarding myself. Everything seemed to slow down. Snowflake was shouting, but there was no sound. I felt a cold sharp pain from my back to my chest. Crimson tears flowed down my body. I fell to the ground. The last thing I heard was “Don’t worry, I'm gonna take good care of your girlfriend” and laughed as he dragged her away. Was this the end…to die and never see the one person I care about again…no! Get up! I won’t let the one I love be taken like this! Love? This is what I have been searching for all along. Time to save my love. 

I tracked them back to their hideout. It was an enormous, like a castle built into the mountain. There was no way to sneak in. That left only one option…the front door. I walked in, sword in hand with only the thought of getting her back. It seemed there were hundreds of enemies before me. It didn’t matter. I would strike them all down. They charged, and one by one, they fell at my blade. Nothing would stand in my way. I couldn’t leave her, the one who brought me so much joy. I couldn’t keep her waiting. I ran for what seemed like miles down a hall. Just another obstacle. The hall brought me to a winding staircase. It didn’t matter, I ran as fast as I could and persevered through another obstacle. There was only one left, a giant door. Beyond lay my final enemy and the one he took from me. He may have been a coward who lunged from the shadows, but he was no ordinary man. This may be my greatest battle yet. I threw open the door with all my might. There was my Snowflake, in a brides gown, on an alter, with tears and despair in her eyes. What kind of monster would do this? 

“You made it! I was just thinking someone needs to give this beautiful bride away!” he said with a grim smile and a despicable laugh. My heart burned with inner fire. It could be seen in my eyes from miles away. There was no need to talk. We could sense each other's lust for battle. We drew our swords, hearts racing and sweat of anticipation dripping down our faces. And the snow hair maiden watched on in awe. It was finally time…we charged and clashed, deadlocked. The sight of grinding sparks and the sound of screeching steel, a battle to be remembered. It seemed to last for days, neither of us giving in, giving and receiving blows. Blood stained on our blades. I think can hear his thoughts “I’m the one cutting him, he is the one bleeding, why won't he give up, why won't he die!” The truth was, I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. My heart was wrapped in an iron resolve. Even if I lost my arm, my life, my very soul, I couldn’t stop. A clash of titans raged on. Until…finally! My blade found home in his heart. His sword fell to the ground and shattered like glass. My nemesis fell to his knees, with a shocked look on his face. I let go of my sword and ran up the alter, to my Snowflake. We embraced each other. We survived this terrible ordeal and found love in each other. 

“I finally remembered my name” she said with tears of joy in her eyes. “My name is…Faith”…

L’ infatigable by Joanne Maignan

Remind me what you are made of again?

I thought it was only from one rib

You are stronger than metal and more sensitive than an egg

You bend so many times but never touch dirt

Do you ever take time for yourself?

Do you even know what a warm bubble bath feels like?

House chores, dependents, and billions of other things are your

Priorities

Does anyone ever compliment you for your hard work?

Every second and every minute matter to you

Why don’t you rest and have a glass of wine

L’infatigable, L’infatigable

Words can’t even define you

The one and only “L’infatigable”

The Blue Door by Erica Ocasio

The color of my life was a washed out gray. It wasn’t anything spectacular, merely a life to mutter under your breath and shrug. That’s what I’d usually do to people who only pretended to listen. Their gazes often drifted away from me anyway.

I would have liked to tell them about my love for art. Art was poetry to me. The crimson red and golden yellow stood out in my grayness. It was my haven. I got lost within each stroke, within the way I could paint the fields of grass so that they looked like ocean currents undulating within a wind that I could choose to make visible. But, my father often crushed my dreams. I’d find my paintings crumbled and my art tools frantically put away as if they all were a curse.  

***

I placed my brush down and examined my work. I painted the same picture over and over again, never getting it right. The same blue door stood out alone within a golden wheat field. Tall trees surrounded the perimeter of the field, not foreboding, but waiting patiently. Nevertheless, it wasn’t the field or the tall trees stretching their limbs skyward, it was the door. Despite my efforts, I couldn’t seem to paint it. Within a picture-perfect painting stood a blur of sky-blue, soft and gentle upon the golden crisps of wheat and acute leaves of reddish browns and burnt orange.

I wonder if that often happens when someone tries to paint their dreams. My blue door was a reoccurring one, often times a lucid dream. I spread my fingers apart to feel the all too real grains of wheat. I stood there within the silence, but this silence was like music to me. The sweet breeze flirted with my skin, making the tree branches dance. I smiled; my gray eyes searching for what I already knew would be there. The fading sky-blue stood in the middle, waiting for me to approach. My heart fluttered eagerly as I began stepping closer to it. I raised my hand slowly, watching how the sunlight illuminated my pale skin, and soon tried to push it open. I could almost feel the rough wood underneath my fingers, until the dream melted away and my eyes opened to darkness. Every time I drifted off into a welcomed slumber, it was the same. I dreamt of my door only wake back into the night.

“I can’t stay here, Clare; I’m selling it and moving to Chicago.”

The abruption of my father’s voice snapped me out of my familiar disappointment with my art. I silently stood up from my small desk cramped beside my bed and tip-toed to my own chipping, bedroom door. I knew if I tried to open it, it would groan in protest, alerting my dad that I was there trying to listen in. Therefore, I settled for the classic ear to door, focusing my attention on his voice.

“It’s been three years, I can’t keep doing this. I…” he paused, sighing, “You’re right, but…” I could tell he was on the phone, his pauses becoming more frequent as Clare, I guess, kept interrupting. His voice sounded pained. I could imagine his salt and peppered hair tousled and dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep.

“Clare, I can’t stay here. Things aren’t right. Being here just reminds me of them.”

I heard rustling of paper. Ever since my mom left, my father always kept the kitchen table cluttered with miscellaneous items, the majority being past-due bill reminders. I yearned to reach out to my dad, but he never acknowledged my comfort. My fingers might as well have been made of ice. Every time I tried to reach out to him, he stepped back, as if my touch were poison ivy. I didn’t understand, but it only hurt trying to make sense of it.

I soon heard a quick click and a tap, suggesting that the conversation turned sour and my dad hung up the phone, placing it on the counter. I couldn’t stand here listening to him suffer anymore. Even if I knew he would pretend I didn’t exist, I had to try.

I opened the door wide, stepping into the musky sunlight that filtered through our kitchen window. I glanced around, eyes finding my dad leaning against the table. He looked just how I imagined him. His eyes were laden with a burden I couldn’t comprehend. The bright blue swirling around his pupils was set with worry. His thick hair was still ruffled against his face. The wrinkles on his forehead were etched into his skin, deepening with each passing moment. I slowly stepped closer to him, one foot in front of the other, waiting for him to glance up.

“Dad?” I whispered his name softly, hoping it would be enough to grab his attention.

He looked up, his expression clearly startled.

“Dad…I just…”

“This needs to stop.” He stated, slicing through my words like a knife.

“What?” I was confused, perplexed by what he meant.

He moved past me, goose-bumps rising on his skin as he did, slamming my bedroom door shut with sharp movements, making it seem like something deeply unnerved him.

“I can’t do this anymore Nessa. It’s time to move on,” he replied, his voice quivering ever so slightly yet bitter. He just left me to stand there in the kitchen as he briskly walked past me again, shivering into the darkness of his own bedroom.

***

When the moving day came, my dad began packing up the house. Boxes unmarked and marked, sealed and left open were scattered or piled all around our home. I silently slid in the backseat of his car without a word. That was the first time I waited for him. I waited for him to open the ebony door to his car and watched how he slowly slumped into the driver’s seat. His eyes quickly flickered to the review mirror while he started the engine. I looked away from him and out the window. My dad blasted the heat as we drove away. The sun blazed against the car without a cloud in the sky. No matter, he made us suffer in the heat, even though it was early June. I pleaded for him to turn the heat down, but next came music. The classical music drifted through the car, louder than it ever needed to be. All my dad had to say was that he hated me, that it was my fault that mom left. All it took were words.

I dreamed of the door again as we rode away from everything I knew. I got closer this time, my hand flat against the harsh wood. I was almost ready to push it open until I heard the car door slam shut. I drifted slowly out of my golden field, away from my blue door, and back to the purgatory that some cruel God placed me in.

 I didn’t understand where we were. We weren’t remotely near the highway. I took a look around and studied the stone angels, eyes casted down in sorrow. Flowers covered their feet to decorate the grounds. Trees aligned by more white stones etched with names of mothers and daughters, beginnings and ends.

“Dad, why are we here?” I inquired, clearly confused as I followed him. He remained silent, as usual, leaving my question unanswered.

“You need to move on Nessa. You can’t stay here anymore, and I can’t live hoping you two will come back. Go with your mother now,” he whispered as faintly as the wind blew.

I followed his eyes down to the round stone that read me and my mother’s name. I read two beginnings with the same ending.

***

The color of my life was a washed out gray. But, in my dream, all colors existed. The door stood, waiting for me to be ready. I was finally able to push it open when I heard her. My mother stood behind my door in a world where colors melted into one. I didn’t have to wake up anymore because I realized that I had never slept.

Welcome to The Creative Writing Club's Literary Blog!

Hello everybody! Welcome to the brand new literary blog, The Writer's Block, run by Massasoit Community College's Creative Writing Club! We will be posting one or two selections a week, and all the submissions will be viewed and selected by the club itself. We accept all kinds of works from poetry to memoirs to short fiction. Wondering how to submit? It's easy! Just send any and all submissions to Writing@massasoit.edu

We look forward to reading and posting new student writing!