He never saw the bus coming. It stopped and the door hissed open. The driver’s voice was soothing, like a gentle breeze through the leaves of an ancient tree. ‘Welcome, traveller,’ he smiled. ‘Relax and enjoy the ride.’
The bus was sparkling clean and he caught the perfume of springtime.
It was easy to find a vacant seat. It was deathly quiet as most of the passengers were travelling alone and wrapped up in their own thoughts. He settled down for the journey, struggling to remember where it was he was going. The windows were heavily tinted and he couldn’t see his surroundings.
Usually a stressed man, he’d never felt so relaxed. He dozed and in his emptiness fragments of his life came to him: laughter, sorrow, love, and longing.
He was brought back to life by the sound of a group of people chattering at the back of the bus. Someone had found an old guitar. It was like the one he’d bought at a jumble sale for ten shillings when he was a kid. A boy, maybe in his twenties, strummed a simple tune but it was music to make your spirits soar.
Suddenly without introduction one passenger began to sing. One by one, others joined in. It was infectious. He had never been much of a joiner; his life was one of solitude but even he was compelled to sing lustily with the rest of the passengers:
‘We’re on our way to Heaven; we are not afraid…’
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 