So I loved the amazing stories I got last time, I’ve decided to do another contest! There will be Inspiration Dice involved! I will only give a blurb this time (no quizzes about me!) and you write 500 words or less to add to it. There might be some other things besides the dice for the winner, but you won’t know unless you try! You have from today until Sunday May 5th to get entries in. I will announce a winner on Wednesday May 8th.
And here’s the start to your mini-story:
The bus stopped with a jerk. Passengers closest to the windows crammed their faces to the glass while the rest pushed themselves up to see what the commotion was about.
And you’re off! Make it funny, make it scary, add some drama. Do whatever you please to write a great story!
seeredwrite 
It seems most people interested would prefer to email me their submission. For those who would like that over leaving it in the comments: trishschmidt@hotmail.com
The bus stopped with a jerk. Passengers closest to the windows crammed their faces to the glass while the rest pushed themselves up to see what the commotion was about.
A tall blue box had materialized in the middle of the road, causing the bus driver to slam the brakes. The bus rocked back and forth a mere ten inches from the front; close enough for most of the passengers to read the sign at the top proudly proclaiming “Police Box.”
“Why did the police put a call box in the middle of the road?” One elderly woman called out. A glance her way only left one with the impression of a knit aviator cap covered in wool flowers worn low over her glasses and tied under her chin.
“Shush mum,” the brunette next her a made a lowering gesture.
“That was not there, I swear it wasn’t,” the drivers heart was still beating so loudly that it made the raucous behind her dim. She took a few deep cleansing breaths and wondered if she could maneuver around it? Glancing in the rear view mirror, she was grateful that no one else was on the road. At this time of the day, it was mainly an older group in the seats anyway although at the moment, the most able bodied were all up on their feet.
Suddenly, the box opened and a face peeked out. Pretty, young, blonde, eyes wide, mouth in a round “O” of astonishment. She slammed the door shut.
“What?!!!!”. Yelped a man leaning very close to the driver. Okay, that was loud, she definitely heard that one. The crowd pushed forward again, more wanting to see, there geriatric eyesight making it difficult.
The door popped open again. A different face, thin, glasses, intensely raised eyebrows.
“Oh!! No! No! No!” He ran out and knocked on the bus door. The driver opened.
“Is this the bus from Oak Crest Retirement Community?”
“Yes.” The driver was the only one who spoke, everyone else was eerily silent.
“What year is it?”
“I’m sorry what?” She was confused by te question and suddenly he leaped onto steps. The crowd no longer pushing forward, most had say back down.
The man at the front sized up the crowd, scanning for something. Whatever it was, he didn’t see it.
“Is there a Geraldine Redcliffe on this bus?”
The brunette, the only one younger than the rest slowly stood up.
“That’s my mother. What do you want with her?” Her voice trembled with fear.
He glanced over to the lady in the hat, who stared up with curiosity, although it looked a bit off. She should recognize something, this woman, of impossible things, instead her eyes were the same as everyone else’s staring at him.
“Why didn’t she answer herself?” His voice quieter, already knowing the answer.
“She has dementia. Sometimes she knows, other times…”
“Oh.” He paused. “We’ll folks, sorry about the little scare, I didn’t mean to park it there, well I mean I meant to come here but not in the road, I got the timing a bit off… You know this road has only been here about 40 years-”
A voice clearing a throat stopped him and the pretty blonde lady hopped up behind him. “Rambling” she mouthed silently.
“I know!” He mouthed back. She looked behind her and frowned.
“Oi! Get up here, since when are you shy?!” She yelled.
Another man, dark hair, blue eyes stepped onto the bus.
“Hi,” he did a little wave. “Jack Harkness.”
His grin raised the eyebrows of more than a few ladies on that bus. And quite a few of the men as well.
His eyes rested on Geraldine. She looked over with polite curiosity, watery eyes sliding over all of them. The droop in Jack’s shoulders were noticeable when she did not recognize him.
He took a deep breath and walked over to her daughter. On one knee, he reached into his long coat and pulled out a worn black book held together with twine. He ran his hand over the cover.
“This is hers.”
He placed it in her daughter’s hand, but was reluctant to let it go.
” She was afraid that she would lose it, that she would lose everything.”
The daughter ran her hand over a pencil marking that had worn the numbers 1942 into the cover.
“Who are you?” She whispered not looking at him.
“My Captain,” came the soft scratchy voice of someone waking up. Geraldine’s tears ran under her glasses, over her cheeks. Her smile stretched her face and She reached out and gripped his hand fiercely for one moment.
Please forgive my awful little fan fiction. I was excited by the prompt and typed it up, on an iPod no less. I know there are spelling errors, grammar errors, i didn’t count the words, and it definitely could have used rewrites but it made me happy. So thank you and again, my apologies.
Yay! First fan fiction ever!
Bus Stop
The bus stopped with a jerk. Passengers closest to the windows crammed their faces to the glass while the rest pushed themselves up to see what the commotion was about.
From my perch on a pine branch 20 feet above the street, I froze. The bus never before stopped when we pelted it with water balloons. Never. Sure, it may have tapped its brakes a couple of times and slowed down, but never had it come to a complete stop.
We’d got it real good too. I could see the blue, red, and yellow pieces of rubber stuck to the wet bus windows. One must have made it through an open window because there was a wet-haired girl balling in one of the seats.
Ralph, my never-gets-caught-ever friend, was already down from his spot two trees down and running away laughing like a lunatic. I was paralyzed except for my eyes which moved to the front seat of the bus, where the driver was staring directly at me!
My brain searched for an escape. I looked to my bucket of water balloons hanging on a broken limb to my right. My logical mind screamed, “Leave it! Get out of there now.”
My body didn’t respond so well, I was still paralyzed by the angry stare of the burly bus driver below. The bus driver broke his death stare on me. I exhaled, and then realized he was turning off the bus to get out. My heart pounded through my chest. That flight or fight response we talked about in science shouted “Flight!”
I sprang into action, or rather stepped gingerly onto a lower branch. I dared a look up to see where the driver was when my foot slipped off the branch. I fell until my ribs crashed on the branch. I bounced like a Plinko chip down onto the soft bed of brown, crisp pine needles covering the ground.
If I could breathe, it would have been a very relaxing moment. Were those angels of death spinning around in the branches above me or just stars? Reality and the ability to breath returned the moment I heard the bus door open. I rolled over, fought my way through the pine branches, and escaped through the neighbor’s front yard.
I ran like the wind between houses, across backyards covering several suburban city blocks until I reached the slope of Ralph’s big back yard. Twenty feet from the street, I baseball slid across the thick grass, disappeared down into the deep ditch, and stopped at the hole of the cement drainage pipe, where I knew I’d find my best friend out of breath and laughing up a storm.
We sat against the cold, curved wall of the pipe and smiled. They may catch me, especially if that bus driver climbs up to get my bucket with my last name painted on it, but none of that mattered right now.
It’s good to be a boy.
It seemed off that the bus would stop where it had for no particular reason. Rush hour was at an end and the traffic was light. Still; the sounds coming from out on the street were more than enough to make the otherwise quiet passengers turn into rubberneckers, at least until the scene unfolding outside made sense.
Flags and banners smeared with streaky writing in what looked like blood fluttered in the wind. A group of people protesting swarmed around the intersections, chanting in a strange language.
Whispers started to wash through the bus.
“What’s going on?”
“What are they saying?”
A polite cough sounded from the back of the bus and a bespectacled girl with caramel skin looked up from the book she was reading.
“It’s Enochian,” she announced matter-of-factly. “They’re protesting the fact that the writers killed of Castiel in the last episode of Supernatural. We’re just driving through the film set.”
A hushed murmur of understanding passed through the passengers and the bus grumbled as the chanting protesters moved on to their next target.
A pale man in a trench coat sitting next to the girl who had spoken smiled. “I’m not sure why they’re so mad,” he offered with a shrug.
“They just miss you,” the girl replied, turning back to her book.
No one else spoke as the bus finished its route.
The bus stopped with a jerk. Passengers closest to the windows crammed their faces to the glass while the rest pushed themselves up to see what the commotion was about.
“What’s happening?” I asked curiously.
“Hush, Lilly.” Mom touched my leg. “You hear that?”
A roaring sound, like a train was coming our way. We were in the middle of nowhere with golden corn flowing in the wind. No train tracks.
“What do we do?” someone screamed.
The other passengers erupt in horrified chatter.
I still couldn’t see what they were looking at. I cocked my head moving about trying to see.
“We need to take shelter!” The bus driver screamed.
The wind howled outside and the sky darkened.
Chaos ensued. People rushed out of their seats off the bus into the brewing storm.
“Mom?” I whispered pointing at the window across from us. There was what everyone was terrified of. Hurling toward us was a monstrous tornado, spinning out of control. Debris whirled around the funnel, trees, cars even parts of houses. The roar growing louder the closer it got.
“We have to get off!” Mom screamed.
“Where? There is no shelter. We are in the middle of nowhere!”
No use arguing, she grabs my hand, nails biting my skin. Pulling me with such force I can’t help but follow her off the bus.
The wind greats us with ferocity, my hair blowing every which way.
The tornado barrels at us full speed. I can feel the vortex sucking like a vacuum. My body wants to fly toward the it. I dig my feet into the asphalt, the tornado beckoning me.
Nowhere to move, we just watch our killer advance.
The other passengers were huddled in ditches on the side of the road. That tornado will inhale them up so what would be the point? I was going to stand my ground.
“Leave it to you to choose storm chasing for vacation and our bus breaks down in a tornado’s path.” My Mom chides. She wraps her fingers around mine. “I love you honey.”
My lip trembles. I can’t speak but I let my eyes show my love.
The wind intensifies, the sky grows dark and the tornado is upon us.
Then something strange happens. The tornado stops, I mean completely stops. It is a whirling monster that begins to shrink. The wind disperses and the funnel recedes, dying off. The debris fall around us like rain. The clouds disintegrated and the gray spinning wind falls to the ground. It its place is a girl.
She is spinning like the tornado, her dress flowing around in beautiful silver blue bands. In her hands are two serrated swords sparkling with each swirl of her wrists. She crouches to the ground swords pointed toward us.
“If I were you I would run.” Her voice is a musical melody of whispering wind.
And soon it was clear. Thunder roared, lighting snapped and behind her was more tornadoes. Earth was being invaded.
“A woman’s been shot,” someone said.
That was all I needed to hear. I sprung into action, forcing my way through the throng f passengers blocking my way to the front of the bus. When they noticed the stethoscope dangling around my neck the sea parted and I ran to the front. The bus driver implored me that it wasn’t safe, that surely the shooter was still out there.
“I don’t care!” I yelled. “She needs help!”
Reluctantly, he opened the door, and I jumped down to the street. He quickly shut the door behind me as I ran to the woman. She was laying face down part way into the street, her legs splayed unnaturally in a remarkably final direction. The exit wound of the single bullet was gruesome; basically the back of her head was gone. Blood and brains spattered the sidewalk, street, and her clothing. She was clearly dead before she hit the ground, but I felt that I needs to at least try and save her. I straightened her legs, then rolled her over onto her back. One bullet, right between the eyes. Her blue eyes remained open. They looked sad, but without fear, as if she had no idea she had been about to become a statistic. A single strand of blood had streamed down her pale face. I took her wrist to check for a pulse, certain there was no use. Finding none, knowing she was gone, I reached to shut her eyes. Before I could close them, I froze, as realization hit me like a 2×4.
It was my wife. My beautiful, beloved Melissa, dead at my feet. I collapsed, wrapping my arms around her, my sobs of fury muffled by her chest.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my lucky day. Get up, Dr. Collins. Nice and slow.”
I stood, unsure my legs would hold me, petrified by the cold voice. I turned, and there stood a man my age. Brown hair, unkempt. Brown eyes, wild but calculating. A hint of a smile. A gun in his hand, pointed at my chest.
“You don’t know who I am, do you, doctor?” he asked.
“You’re a murderer.”
“You were first,” he spat, “my wife died in your care last week. I was going to let you live, lonely as me, but fate delivered you here.”
Last week was the first patient I ever lost. Surgery to remove a tumor, she went into cardiac arrest and we couldn’t save her.
“I’m sorry. We did everything we could.”
“Not enough.” He gestures with the gun towards Melissa. “Just like for her.”
Angry, I took two steps towards him. He shot twice, slamming me in the chest. I feel to the ground, bleeding, coughing blood. He fired again before everything went black.