Short story writing and creative fiction, essays and non-fiction stories.

With the sound of a gust of wind, the door to the bus opened. Agatha Spoon fished in her pocket; past the tissue and the 74 pence change from the sandwich she bought at lunchtime, to finally close her fingers around the crumpled bus ticket. She held it up to the driver for inspection. But he was looking at something else, as usual. He noticed her questioning gaze under the thick-rimmed glasses and, with an embarrassed flush of the cheeks, nodded her onto the bus.
Her boots clomped up the aisle, with a thousand pairs of eyes fixed on her fluffy orange back. In one swift movement, Agatha Spoon sat down in the middle of the bus, on the left hand side, as always. She
wouldn’t have it any other way.

The bus was overly packed, and many were forced to stand, grasping the canary iron poles, but no one filled the empty seat next to her. She was not particularly concerned, and instead gazed at her reflection in the very nearly opaque dusty glass of the window. She smiled to herself, her hair looked especially large today. There it sat, in a mass of coal-black curls and twists and waves upon her head, crashing onto her shoulders.

Heavy, dark clouds covered the sky like a moth-eaten blanket that aged Grandparents keep in absurd quantities in large wooden cupboards. The air was damp and there was a distinct chill in the air. The general mood of the germ-ridden vehicle was gloomy, anoraks were wet, umbrellas dripped, faces moaned in disgust. But this was no time for Agatha Spoon to be sad, no day was designed for that purpose. She had chosen, on this particular day, to wear a large, orange fluffy jumper, which she thought, and laughed aloud, made her look like a yeti with a spray tan. After all, that was the look she was going for. She glanced down, from under the short denim skirt protruded her legs, donned in purple tights, and further down were encased in the biggest, heaviest black boots Agatha Spoon owned. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

With a rattle of rusted machinery, the Number 3 began its journey; she glanced out of the window, and engaged herself in conversation. Who else would have the same views as her? She could understand life far better that way, and it led to far less arguments too. The familiar prickling sensation began, and she looked to the people sat in the bus, some burying their heads in books, or their electronic gizmos, but a small selection all had that tell-tale red in their cheeks, their eyes fluttered about in all directions except in hers.

But Agatha Spoon did not mind, in fact she smiled to herself. The bus squealed to a halt outside her stop, and the eyes followed her as she clomped back down the muddy floor. Agatha Spoon breathed in the fresh, moist air and began her walk home. If she were any different, she told herself, the world would implode into nothing. But, glancing back as the bus sped past her, momentarily meeting the gaze at the staring faces, she told them not to worry. She loved her orange jumper, her thick rimmed glasses, her big hair, the eyes that followed her everywhere and she wouldn’t have it any other way.