She waits for the bus.
Her feet hurt. She wishes there was a bench. But there isn’t, of course. That would be too easy. The bus stop with just a rusted sign, with no shade from the sun or cover from the rain — that’s her bus stop. That’s her life.
A misty autumn drizzle swirls around her. She keeps her neck bent, and her hood over her head, but the rain still dances into her face. It keeps things real, and keeps her aware. In her pocket, clutched in her fist, is a crinkled dollar bill. Bus fare for the twenty-seven. It’s her ticket home.
Could be her ticket away, she muses.
Before she can stop herself, the idea grows.
What if she didn’t take the twenty-seven?
That gray bus, with its dirty belly. With that driver who has been sitting behind the wheel for the past five years, who she knows recognizes her, but still pretends he doesn’t. Who looks at her with contempt as he opens the doors for her, because he knows no matter how hard she works, and no matter how hard she kicks toward the surface, she never going to break through. That bus that is always empty, except for her. That bus.
What if, when the twenty-seven stops, and the doors open… What if she doesn’t get on?
She has seen the forty-two. It passes by a few minutes after the twenty-seven.
The forty-two is yellow. She thinks it is one of those natural gas, environmentally friendly buses. It’s never empty. Many faces are on the other side of the glass — faces that are alive with thoughts. She doesn’t know where the forty-two goes exactly, or at what stops are on its route. Bright, new places, probably. Coffee shops and universities and business parks, she thinks. Places with life and sounds.
She could just get on the forty-two instead.
What waits for her at home, besides an empty apartment with peeling wall paper and a kitchen faucet that constantly drips — like a countdown to the end of her? What else is there, except loneliness, some unpaid bills and unconditioned air?
Margaret lives by a coffee shop, she remembers. Warm, soft Margaret. At work, Margaret is the one who laughs the most. She is big and brown and happy. She has not broken through the surface yet, but she is close. It’s all over her face.
She stayed with Margaret once when her water was shut off for a few days. She remembers the apartment was small but bright. No wall paper peeled there because the walls were painted yellow. Like the forty-two. It was a little too bright — too canary — but she didn’t mind. Margaret drove her to the utilities office the same day they got paid. It was a nice thing to do. But it meant her life had to go from canary back to sparrow.
She could knock on Margaret’s door. She could explain. Perhaps together, they could kick hard enough.
As that thought sparks in her head, warm enough to make her forget the rain, the twenty-seven comes around the corner. It drags itself up the hill, dirtier than usual. It stops in front of her.
The doors open with a hiss. The driver looks down on her with eyes that are empty with disregard.
Yellow flashes in the corner of her eye. It’s the forty-two. It is early today.
She hesitates.
“Canary, canary, canary,” she whispers, staring at her dirty sneakers.
She imagines the blankets of clouds scattering above her, and golden rays of sunshine lighting down on her. She imagines her world in yellow. The dollar bill in her fist is warm and pulsating. She feels nauseated.
“Get on, Sarah.”
Her head snaps up in surprise.
The driver has spoken to her. For the first time in five years. He looks at her with clear, brown eyes. He knows her name. What’s more, he smiles.
Sarah can’t help herself. She smiles back.
The yellow forty-two doesn’t stop. It whizzes past the bus stop, passing her rusty sign, onward towards another world. Sarah doesn’t care. That’s not her bus. It’s not going to her world.
Eagerly, she skips up the steps and into the twenty-seven. The doors slide shut behind her. She is safe.
Safe in sparrow.
Sylvia Hiven lives in Atlanta, GA. Her work has previously been published in Absent Willow Review and Mirror Dance.
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19 Responses to “SAFE IN SPARROW • by Sylvia Hiven”
Comments
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December 26th, 2009 at 6:35 am
How oddly touching and beautiful! Fabulously written, Sylvia.
December 26th, 2009 at 7:44 am
Some interesting concepts, and a bit of a surprise at the end when the driver knows her name.
December 26th, 2009 at 8:12 am
I liked the way the sentence fragments seemed be more like the voice of the protagonist. I liked how the story makes an every day event significant. And I liked that the protagonist has this epiphany about her life. This is what flash fiction can do in a few hundred words.
December 26th, 2009 at 8:40 am
To quote Billy Crystal (as Fernando Lamas)
“Absolutely mahvelous!”
December 26th, 2009 at 8:44 am
This story resonates with me on multiple levels. I love the exploration of depression. Sarah’s reference to breaking through the surface is powerful–I think people sufferig from depression often share that feeling of drowning and not being able to come up for air.
But what I really liked was that she had come to embrace her darkness…the dirty, lonely bus was far more comfortable to her than the bright cheerful one.
Her depression had a face (the busdriver) and it welcomed her.
I really love how much this tale tells in such a chort space.
December 26th, 2009 at 9:40 am
Imagery is simple and powerful. I had no trouble visualizing Sarah’s world or feeling her emotion. Very nice.
December 26th, 2009 at 9:49 am
I loved this story. It was beuatifully eritten and Sarah seemed like a very real person to me. I’m a little sad she didn’t get on Margaret’s bus and take the first step away from her problems, but we all must come to these decisions in our own time, I guess. This is a perfect holiday story, very heartwarming.
December 26th, 2009 at 10:56 am
I absolutely LOVED this piece! Isn’t it amazing how a single smile can make your whle day suddenly seem brighter? 5 cannary-yellow stars for Sarah.
December 26th, 2009 at 11:12 am
I love this! I remember now why I didn’t read it before, because I knew it was going to appear here
I thought it was beautifully written and easy to relate to. I could see myself doing the same thing, while at the same time imagining what could be. The symbolism here was superb, and loved the fragmented sentences too.
Beautifully executed, dear! Lovely effort!
December 26th, 2009 at 11:27 am
Great story! I loved the visual imagery of kicking toward the surface, how she recognized it in herself and in her coworker, too. I think everyone can identify with Sarah’s thoughts on breaking through to something better, but then sticking with the safe and comfortable.
Lovely, Sylvia.
December 26th, 2009 at 11:36 am
Perfect for Christmas. Thanks.
December 26th, 2009 at 1:07 pm
Beautifully told! By the time her bus rounded the corner my heart was crying out “don’t get on, don’t get on” and when the bus driver called her by name I had chills. Thanks for this moving little piece. It’s sure to stay with me for some time.
December 26th, 2009 at 3:30 pm
I love the image of how hard she’s kicking to the surface, and her understanding that the forty-two is a little too bright, “too canary”.
A beautifully written, sensitive story. Well done.
December 26th, 2009 at 4:42 pm
“Who looks at her with contempt as he opens the doors for her, because he knows no matter how hard she works, and no matter how hard she kicks toward the surface, she never going to break through.”
Among the many great lines, one of my favorite.
Very, very well done. A nice story of hope without the hypercaloric helping of schmaltz which often accompanies them. Bravo.
–John
December 26th, 2009 at 6:08 pm
Wonderful tale, Sylvia. I enjoyed contemplating all the possibilities right along with the character. I was touched when the bus driver knew her name. Good job!
December 27th, 2009 at 3:53 pm
I liked this one. Well-written, layered, touches one of the core tenets of what it is to be human without overstatement.
I am interested, though, what changed in the driver — or was it her perception of him that changed.
Nice job. 5 from me.
December 28th, 2009 at 5:55 pm
This is one of the best I’ve seen at EDF for a while.
December 28th, 2009 at 11:04 pm
Gave it a well earned 5. Would like to read more like this.
December 29th, 2009 at 7:07 am
Nice, certainly drips with the frustaration of an everyday slog. A well told story.