Flash Fiction

On the number 73 bus I always sit downstairs, at the back, centre seat. Upstairs a group, no, a gang, is arguing. I can’t hear anything in particular. Just words. Lots and lots of words, aggressive words. At the front the bus driver whistles an out of tune tune. It is very annoying. The person sitting the seat in front of me has overloud headphones. Rap or drum and bass. He needs a slap.

Breaks squeal. Bags fall. Voices change. Voices squeal.

I don’t squeal. I grip the seat and wait. I wait in slow motion. Slow motion becomes forward motion. Then everything stops. Then nothing. Just nothing.