Writing Journal 15/01/18

No one could forget the way the bus rolled; like a rag doll rolling down a hill. Such a solid object but it wobbled. The bus’ front, middle and back all one in the same but each seemed to choreograph their own fall, leaving the other two to fend for themselves.

The sound was incredible, blocking out the world. Every tumble like a blow from a heavyweight fighter, like it should be the last. But the underdog kept going, it’s undercarriage visible every four seconds. The tinkling of glass came with it, followed by the crunch of metal compressing, giving in to rocks and fallen tree trunks, another symphony of glass and it was the undercarriage again.

The rate at which it rolled had stayed surprisingly consistent. Even after the bus had left the road and started down the hill beside it, it just kept going, steady as she goes. It didn’t look like it was slowing down at all until it just stopped, like a foot stalling a soccer ball. It just stopped, sitting at the bottom, upright and forward facing.

The quiet felt loud enough to burst eardrums, a roaring echo still playing out. No one would forget the sound that replaced the roar. Nothing but silence and the ticking of the engine.

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