Stranger

Stranger

A Story by Scribbles
"

More prose. Staring at people at my bus stop.

"

She sits. A small, round woman slushed and fatigued after a long day's work. She shifts uncomfortably, perhaps under my unblinking stare. I turn away. In today's moderm world, there is no time for strangers such as us to make aquaintance. From the corner of my eye I survey her, from her straggled, silver hair down to her all-purpose moccasins. Wrapped in an anorak against the bitter cold, she checks her watch. She glances sharply toward me through deep-set, wrinkled eyes. They have seen far more than I, in my tender youth, could know.
Who is this woman? With eyes like smoking coal against the sickly paleness of her skin. Perhaps she is the grandmother long ago forgotten, warm and caring - wishing to be reunited with the grandchild she once lost. Perhaps she is the mother of the man I'll one day marry - wary and judgemental as I steal away her only son. Perhaps she lives alone, an exile from the outside world, desperate for the family she once had.
I'm sure throughout her youth she danced and smiled and wept. Lovers may have one day gazed into those charcoal eyes, making promises that never could be kept. I thought of all the wonders that had passed before those eyes: moments great and small, not always remembered, never quite forgotten. But I never was to know the truth. Snapping out of my reverie, I watch the stranger stand, and we board the bus together.

© 2011 Scribbles


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Reviews

Beautiful(: I really like this story. It shows how life comes and goes and that sometimes we need to stop judging people immediatly and accually get to know them.

Or something like that..

I undersatnd the meaning of this story, I just can't write it down because I wouldn't know how to say it.

Anywhooo..great job on this(:

Posted 8 Years Ago



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1 Review
Added on May 30, 2011
Last Updated on May 30, 2011
Tags: prose, stranger, bus, woman, old, thoughts.

Author

Scribbles
Scribbles

Dublin, Ireland



About
I want to write plays. :) more..

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