Prompt – (The Bus Pulled Into The Terminal)

The bus pulled into the terminal and people began to gather around silver muddles and cry, surprised I didn’t do much but wondered and just looked on as I clung to a red pole. Mr worm hunched over the window sill of his old van, his nose pointing to the clouds, he set eyes on me. Why arent you crying his eyes seemed to say. Because there is absolutely no need, holding back the urge to click that nose down into its place. He wasnt anything his eyes seemed to say about him, his nose seemed to have a more honest reflection of his personality. Your nose belongs down on earth not in the sky, but this one seemed to just look on with eyes of passion to the sky, clouds, moon, maybe mars. So it looked. A time ago mice ran under his van and took a liking to the carburetor, made families, and settled. Mr worm never got with the locals, so he gave away his time and attention to his neighbours, except not in a neighbourly way.  He used them. He experimented on them, shed their skins, took their infants – locking them in a way they could see everything going on but couldnt move.  It scares me and i try to look away, to avoid it. Don’t make eye contact, don’t make eye contact. He calls it his petite balloon of joy, the goat. Two years ago he’d invited me to join him in breakfast at 5 in the morning prior to work ( we started our day early both of us,  me  a miner, he a rat snooper). Breakfast was cold cereal, now you might think well isnt ceral supposed to be cold, but not to me, i had mine warmed up on fire for me.  Yellow grass surrounded his van in mid winter, and arrogant ants paraded the area – that type; big and hungry. The tv was on 24 7 except for an hour on monday usually between 12 and 1 in the mroning. Was it a moment of silence, i never knew… But about to find out.
I got downn the bus, trying to take the red pole with me seeing the highheeled booted soldiers clip clopping the area and only their eyeballs turning at movements. Mr worm ducked his head at that, and didnt return for few minutes, maybe he had to feed his neighbours. He did feed them at least. But that was non of my business, i had to leave and that was all i intended. I didnt want to cry. I thought it was stupid, crying over spilt milk, the old ladies touching and trying to taste the silver colour of the water as if that would bring back time and change thing-gs. Down in the road, i slipped into a phone box and wiped off the water from my cat boots, some tar on my moustache, and wondered that get there. Men were out on the road, a lot of mes’, more than usual and how that must ‘ve made mr worm squirm.


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