Writing Prompt

Drive a bus they say, it’ll be fun and easy they say. They weren’t completely wrong it can be fun and it can be easy but what about the hard and rough days? The days that those who have never driven a bus a day in their lives know nothing about. Those are the days that need to be thrown up there before anyone suggest being a bus driver. Let me tell you about my personal experience of being a city ...

I drive a bus. Every weekday I drive the same bus down the same route. Ive done this for three years and everyday it suprises me that he’s still there. The young man never aged a day as he sat on that bench. I saw him there every day for three years. Everyone else on that metal bench under the blue awning got on the bus, the one bus each day to go to that stop. Rain, sleet, or sun, the man with th...

I see you. Even when you think I don’t. I hear your jokes and conspiracy’s about the world. Sometimes I even let out a chuckle at the sarcastic things you say. I see when you lean down to fix your hair in the mirror, you always missed that one curl. I seen when you got your first boyfriend and when you had your first breakup. Ive seen your highest of highs and lowest of lows. I see you. Even if yo...

There must be someone at the wheel, because that's the way it has to be, with a bus. The bus knows where it's going, though, so as long as I keep my hands on the wheel, I'm free to watch. We get people from all kinds of places, here. Men with wide, transparent wings and gossamer gowns I need to warn to watch their step as they come aboard. Women with horns, fangs, and eyes that flash red when the...

It was a rainy Sunday afternoon, and I would have blown right past that stop if the girl’s navy blue umbrella didn’t swing around in the wind just before I pulled up. I took notice and brought the bus to a slippery halt by the gutter. The girl was wearing a dreary gray jacket, blue corduroy pants, and black rubber boots, dripping in rainwater as she stepped onto the bus. I nodded at her in an alm...

Twelve years I've been driving buses, like my pa, and his pa before him. When all that new-fangled technology took over the skies and the rich started driving round in blimps just cos they didn't want to mingle with the masses, I knew my job was more important than ever. For all those old ladies, stooped like wilting flowers, shuffling onboard with their handbags clutched to their chests. For thos...

The last stop was always the dark stop.

And I’m telling the truth when I say I saw the Brierwood marsh change in an unnatural way.

Seems I’m the only one to eyeball it day in and day out, but I promise it used to be an unchecked mess of Darwin evolution near a week ago. How can I be the only one to know that? I’m not crazy! Check the maps!

4 days ago, I was on my usual route, taking a turn ne...

The number 42 bus was driven by a portly man - named Gregor Miller - whose eyes glinted with kindness and whose lips failed to utter a single foul word.

On weekdays, at 7:52am, he would wait five extra minutes at Linton Street until the mother of four (and one on the way), would race down the hill, panting heavily with relief. Gregor would not move the bus until every child was safely seated an...

I take people around the world, to wherever they want to be.

Day by day, people kiss in the back of my seats. Day by day, I hear people speak; of good days and of bad, of happy days and of sad, of solemn days and of glad.

Day by day I stare at the road, as people talk of times of old, as people speak and laugh and cheer, and all the sounds come to my ear.

Day by day I wish I hope, ...

The bus careened madly down streets and made such sharp turns that soon the hopeful tourists of Los Angelas were not even sure where it was they were going. Behind the wheel of the dark blue double decker monstrosity was a man named Herman. Good old Herman had on a dark purple suit with a purple top hat covering his dark gray matted hair. He wore shades at night and was chain smoking while steeri...