Liverpool-Hope street. Photo by Harshil Shah
The terminal was a collage of strange invisibility. Rogue escape artists with detached faces peered at discolored tile, shoelaces and Gate 13, a glass portal to freedom.
I wanted to ask random people who or what they were running from. Was love brewing out west? A renewal of spirit? Or maybe they were similar to me, a man who flees when hope dissolves and the only remaining option is acceptance.
“Half Moon Bay now boarding,” the driver announced. It was a stampede of restless bones to have our tickets punched.
It was dusk on the bus, a human darkness of obscured intentions. She lounged in the fourth row. Luminous. A white rose floating atop engine oil. I intentionally grazed her leg as I headed to an available seat.
There was dejection in her eyes, a sapphire sadness that throttled me. I wanted to climb inside and vacuum the shadows. But the back of her head was all I saw the rest of the trip, her indifferent ponytail a mute witness to my longing.
When we exited the bus she strolled into oblivion as I stood directionless under an insurgent moon, its radiance like a shroud of solitude on my vagabond skin.
She was wrong. I wasn’t fine.
My entry in Flash! Friday Volume 3-11. Your story had to use the photo above as a prompt and the moon as some kind of setting for your tale. The total word range was 190-210.