Morning Commute

Descriptive narrative....

 

Every morning, I mourn and moan and groan alone for man and his toils. I pull my restful bones from warm comfort and sleep to drag myself outwards into the early morning hours. The stars still twinkle lightly in the skies, as I feel as though I am in the land of midnight sun; too early for the day, to late for the night....

 

We small huddles masses find frozen comfort from the cold that snaps at my skin and freezes my nostrils, glancing at bold print proclaiming the previous days events, all for the price of one shining dollar, tendered from small red roadside boxes…

 

Our chariot we await for! Our slightest of anxiousness as the long, dark coach erupts from the passing glows of the early morning traffic, resoundly braking before us with a whine and a wheeze of gears, oil, metal, fuel....doors creaking open inwards to invite us in pale dim lights and the open old seats, just by the wave of a pass, a few coins and tokens, and we have entered…

 

Our ride crunches the gravelly snow beneath us, beyond the drab bus floor, where the distances crawl beneath us...various operations of braking, accelerating, moving, going, stopping, doors opening, people shuffling, seats being taken, and the bus is on again to continue its routine…

The same strange faces I see every morning, with their averted eyes, their lonely stares and smiles at familiar faces, the chatter of a few foreign speaking voices, quietly muffled beneath the sounds of our creaking churning chariot, drawing onward to our daily destinations of drudgery and toil....

Sand-skinned people with dark hair and darker eyes, quietly and resolutely feigning preoccupation....

 

Tall, cute girls too encompassed with iPods and books to notice me…

Groaning, half-asleep guys dressed glumly, still yawning, dreading the days labours in the early hours, waiting for coffees and cigarettes to awaken them…

All smashed together in vinyl gloomy seats that are a million years old so it seems…

Graffiti proclaiming I WAS HERE splashed here and there…

A discarded newspaper…

A coffee cup rolling beneath my seat…

The bus fills, the bus empties....

I pull the bright happy yellow cord, hearing the quaint ding above the din of the of grinding gears.....

It slows…

It stops…

Doors creak outward…

I step out, my short jaunt to work in brisk air…

I clock in......

 

 

Reviews

[Kris Tate]

This one needs to be entered too

[THE BLACK SEAL]

good job