backhand stories the creative writing blog

The bus stop is her stage.

Her school associates, the audience.

Any passers-by get a free showing.

7.55 a.m.

It’s her time.

Standing on the lip of the gutter, she pouts, she spouts, gibberish, about herself, what else is there, but she knows it doesn’t matter what she says, as long as they look.

And they do.

Her friends divided. The Green-Eyed Camp.

And the Wannabe like her Popular Camp.

But it’s the boys who bestow her with the most power. While the geeks don’t have the courage to peek, and those with no chance give her no glance, the majority stare at her perfect legs and the way in which she swivels, as she helps her skirt to rise and fall, like Marilyn Monroe, once before.

7.57 a.m.

Seems to be more and more adults going to work at this time.

Funny how they’re mostly male.

She bends forward; allowing her somewhat propped up cleavage to shine.

She’s outrageous, but wants them to think, ‘she’s mine’.

7.58 a.m.

It’s her time.

And she loves it.

So does the bus driver.

Ogling, he pulls in too quickly and the side mirror smacks her in the head.
Gunk sprays the audience.

She goes down like lead.

Silence, for once.

Today, there’ll be no Curtain Call.

7.58 a.m.

It was her time after all.