Short Stories

Bus Stop

  The bench creaked in complaint as he sat down, the heavily pouring rain outside of his temporary shelter drowning out most other sounds. A sigh escaped his lips and an unusual fatege washed over him. Ears rung, senses straining to pick up something other than the white noise surrounding him.

  He watched as a cyclist struggled to compete with the wind, only her weak head light and the poorly lit street to guide her. The once sky blue uniform that she wore now clung to her body, darkened from the rain.

  Under his pinstripe sleeve, the man's cracked watch ticked away, unnoticed, barely holding on to it's worn leather strap. His eyes edge closed, back collapsed against the glass, and he enters a world unfamiliar to him, dark and blurry, but warm. He gives in to it.

  In a moment, the bus will creep into view. It's two dull lights like a preditor's eyes, searching in the darkness. The man will sit, undisturbed. And he will, until they find him.