I know what your thinking…

If you go back about a hundred years, back to the time when my story had roman numerals instead of titles, you’ll find a little clause that reads the following: “The other day I really got into short stories. As you might know, I’m writing a book, but whenever I have writers block I always have other ideas in storage. I’ve decided all my short storys will be written in the first person, and be based on actual experiences. Or maybe based on dreams. It really all depends on my mood. So, I have officially declared that every non-vowel post (R,W,G, and L) will contain a smidgen of short story. I may not always stay true to a story…this means I might skip around

                When I was three, my mother and I took a day-long bus ride to the coast to go to the beach. I had never seen a bus before, especially something this big. When it approached, it hissed and the door opened, seemingly by magic. The driver was on top of a tall staircase, and I tottered nervously up the large steps. The bus driver asked my mother for tickets, and mother gave him two white pieces of paper, which he took, and smiled at me. I knew then that I wanted to drive that big bus sometime

                I didn’t remember this story until my mom began to describe it to me later

                Happily, when I was six, our class went to the Job Fair, which was in the gymnasium. Our teacher said we would get to look at all the different jobs, and learn about the people

                There were many people there, some old and some young, and some with long titles that were hard to pronounce. The “important” people were in front, but the “less important” were in the back, and less people milled around these stalls.

                I had broken away from the class, who were looking at magnets and other items, and approached a stall with nobody around it. An old man, perhaps 60 or older, was behind the table, surrounded by pamphlets with the title Bus Driver written in large letters. A banner above the man bore the same title.

                I approached the stall, and the old man smiled at me.

                “What’s your name?” He asked in a throaty voice.

                “My name is Martin Matthias Monrow” Responded I, with a touch of pride

                The old man leaned closer, and asked me, “Would you like to see my bus?”

                My eyes opened up wide, and I said, “Yes!”

                The man smiled once more, and got out of his seat and began to walk toward the back of the gym. I followed, looking back to see if anybody was going to protest me going to see this man’s bus. No one did, and I darted over to the man’s side, just as he opened the door, and with a flourish, showed me the bus, which was parked on the street outside.

                The bus was small, about 20 feet long, and had a flat front. It wasn’t yellow, but a periwinkle blue. The bus number was 41, which was written in gold font. The hubcaps were covered with something shiny, that didn’t seem to reflect normally. A satellite dish, about 2 feet in diameter, was on top, pointing toward some point in the sky.

                “That’s a neat bus” I said.

                “Thank you” The man said kindly, “Do you want to see it?”

                Before I could respond with my choice, I heard my name called out. It was my teacher, and we had to go back to class. I dropped my head, and started to shuffle away, when the old man said:

                “Maybe some other time”

       Yet, time passed, and I never saw the bus. But it dropped my mind, as more important things began to crop up, such as starting middle school six years later and then high school three years later. Learning how to drive took precedence after that, and after that going to prom.

                I didn’t want to be a bus driver anymore. I opted for the path of creative writing, which I am no good at. There is no pleasing the teacher; He says my writing is too fantastic, which I thought was a complement; until he explained that he actually didn’t like my “made-up stories”.

                This story is not a “made-up story”, but a completely true narrative. This is my final story of my senior year; the year ends in two weeks, and I’m going to college in a few months time. I’m already in trouble with the class, so no one should care about what I write.

Here goes nothing.

Hah hah, you don’t know the plot! I don’t think I should tell you yet…

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