Waiting at the Bus Stop

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Waiting at the Bus Stop

The 161 was always late. As I waited, I reminisced back to the many journeys I had made on that bus, glancing around to the familiar surroundings that I almost considered my second home. I looked fondly at the grey pavement with cracks the council had promised to fix many a time but, unsurprisingly, had never done so. I surveyed the black chewing gum dotted around everywhere that looked slightly like a piece of life-size abstract art that belonged in the Tate Modern; I wondered what it would symbolize. I felt the cold, hard plastic seats beneath me; saw the deteriorating council and their unkempt gardens; heard the heavy drone of cars on the nearby dual carriageway; smelt the pungent scent of urine left as debris of an over-indulgent night out. The gentle autumn breeze lifted the leaves-all shaded different hues of red and gold-into a gentle seasonal dance. Droplets of rain began to fall heavy and fast, before long water was streaming down the edge of the road. Thunder rumbled deep overhead, a flash of lightning lit up the slate grey sky. As the wind began to pick up, people struggled to keep on their feet, forced wherever the wind decided to take them. As the day turned to night, my mind began to wander…

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I remembered the time about fourteen years ago, when I heard something that fuelled my reason for existence ever since. I was eight at the time but the memory has never faded, it feels as if it was yesterday. It was 10pm and I should have been asleep. However too much sugar and excitement left me in high spirits. My cousins and their families had come down to visit, which in itself was a rare event. It was also my birthday, though, so an exception had been made, the day had been one of celebration: the children probably had ...

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