A Slice of Time

A Slice of Time

Written by Prem Mehta Illustrated by Harriet Smithson

The bus rocks you awake. Your face has plastered itself to the window; Pull away and your cheek unsticks, moist, as if its been smooched.

The smell of burnt grass weighs in against your lungs. Marijuana. Honey coloured sunlight enters the bus, split by gnarly beech trees side lining the empty carriageway, the bus chugs along.

Watch the shadows glide over the passengers; as the trees become sparse pylons, slice up the sunlight.

You have your hand wrapped around the bar extending across the lower seat in front, but as the bus launches to a stop, you louse your grip because the handle is slathered in sweat.

Look Down at it; over lapping fingerprints are impressed on it.

And a line of blood.

Look down. Your hands are resting on your lap and there’er lacerations on your left hand, knuckles protruding at oblique angles. Your index finger is swollen tight- the skin barely hold the flesh together, like its over cooked. At risk of splitting.

Your wearing baggy cargo trousers the hem of which is tucked behind the tongues of your trainers.

Your chest stutter as you breath.

Unzip your hoodie: your polo shirt is soaked in blood.

Gingerly press the area. Two of your Fingers slip in a wound;

Suppress a Scream.

The bus pulls in and collected a few strays. They all glance around, eye scanning for empty seats. Feet thump across the floor. Everyone overlooks you, necks stretched and heads tilted. Just as the final passenger take a seat, the bus doors close with a pneumatic hiss and pulls out. Everyone is pulled into their seat, sucked in by the dramatic acceleration.

Look out the surrounding land. Trees are shedding leaves; pylons are sinking into the ground.

Don’t try to recall how or why you ended up here, in this seat, with a stab wound smiling across your abdomen.

The bus races down a long stretch of road; close your eyes.

The bus frame rattles as it passes over potholes and grinds macadam to dust.

You hear a few words in between the rise and fall of the guzzling engine. You realise that the words come from you.

Listen hard -

'... my life .. alw .. on the out ...’

A buzz in your pocket.

You reach in and unpocket a cracked Nokia 3330.

ANONYMOUS is calling...

Written by Prem Mehra Illustrated by Harriet Smithson

Designed by H S Art