Chloe StewartMr. HodgsonEWC4URMarch, 25, 2013[Type text][Type text][Type text]

Neutral The bus makes its way along the icy road. It is filled with commuters journeying home. On this bus, passengers of all ages, shapes and sizes are seated on typical bus seats. From the senior ladies with their knitting, to the young children with their toys, to the middle-age businessmen and their attachs, all await their respective destinations. They listen attentively for the announcement of their stops, and once it is hear, they signal the bus driver to stop. The bell is rung and the bus slows to a stop to let out the passengers. After the fifth stop, there is but a handful left. In the back of the bus, is a group of students who discuss the lessons they have learned today. Nearer to the front, a small, old lady is seated by herself; she is focused solely on the task at hand, knitting a rather large scarf for the Salvation Army. Across from her, there is a man of around the same age who holds a bouquet of flowers. Next stop, Billings Graveyard. The old man reaches up and pulls on the bell with a hand crippled with Alzheimers. The bus stops, and he steps off into the snowstorm outside. HorrifyingAs you stand, face pressed against the glass, you feel a cold piece of metal slide across your back. Whipping around, you facenothing. You hear the tittering of some high-schoolers near the back of the bus and think it cant possibly have been them. There is an audible clicking of knitting needles coming from the old lady. Was it her? No, a meek old lady like her could never do you any harm. Was it the man who was seated across from her? No, this grandfatherly man who was cradling a bouquet of roses could never hurt you. You feel it again, and then suddenly it was as if the air had been electrified. Your senses are heightened. The metallic clicking of the needles deafening you; the pungent odour of the roses assaulting your nostrils; the glare from the sun in the mirror blinding you, leaving you momentarily vulnerable. You see things that moments ago were non-existent: the glare the little old lady gives you every time she looks up from her knitting, the malicious sneer that twists the face of the old man, the grins that are plastered on the students faces. Paranoia surges and you comprehend the roles of these people. The needles will plunge through your heart, the roses will line your grave, and the students? They will watch as your body is lowered in to the ground with their grinning faces. And you finally understand, theyre all out to get you. The bell of the bus rings, and you realize for whom the bell tolls. As the three parties rise to exit the bus, you say to yourself Surely, this must be the end.