Too Much Love
A Whimsybuggs Writing Workshop prompt to write a poem or story with these elements:
- a clever two year old
- a sheet of paper
- pencils
Too Much Love
Rain pelted the window, elongated drops that seemed to stretch and reach trying to keep up with the moving bus. Inside where it was warm, the lights contrasted with the somber gray outdoors like day unto night. The man pulled up his coat collar even though the space was stuffy. With a jittery hand, he pulled back his sleeve to spy his watch. Still an hour to go.
They were counting on him. It was nerve wracking. The bus slowed for a light then started up again. The rain continued its assault on the windows. In his agitated state, the drops sounded like cannonballs hitting the glass. His watch again, two minutes had passed. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“That man looks scared.”
The voice rang out like a parade of trumpets, blaring and fierce. Now his heart pounded faster than ever as he scanned the crowded bus for the source of the remark. It was a kid. A damned kid, sitting across the aisle, a tablet on his lap, pencil in hand, some scribbles on the paper. His mother sat beside him, an open book on her lap.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “He meant no harm.”
She was pretty, large brown eyes and soft hair that scooped around her face, angelic. How could such innocence exist in this world? He nodded but didn’t speak. It was important to keep a low profile. He checked his watch again. Fifty more minutes. Leaning his head back, he turned to face the window. Out there, somewhere, they were waiting for him to do it. They were waiting to celebrate the victory his act would give them. He pulled his coat closer, checking to make sure it was hidden. It wouldn’t do for anyone to spy what was strapped to his chest.
“Mommy, my pencil broke!” It was the boy again, tears welling in his eyes, a stub of yellow in his chubby paw. His mother rummaged in her purse, searching, while glancing to see if the boy had disturbed anyone.
The man reached over and handed the kid a pencil. He always carried one in his shirt. He wouldn’t need it anymore, after today.
The child’s eyes sparkled as he grabbed it, dutifully returning to his drawing, a tree with an animal, probably a dog. Not bad for such a young fellow. It was regrettable he wouldn’t live much longer.
He gazed around the bus to see its collection of faces, passengers with full hearts and busy minds, the bus being a mere incidental in the accomplishment of their days. The bus ride was much more important for him. Well, it was important for them, too, they just didn’t know it. It was their last moments on earth.
“Mr., I forgot to thank you.”
It was the kid, out of his seat and standing in front of him. His face with a pout, he was shifting from foot to foot, anxious to get back to his artwork. His mother smiled from her seat, and nodded to indicate she had sent him. A good mother, teaching the boy manners.
“You’re welcome.” He didn’t look overly long at the boy or his mother. Low profile. Must keep a low profile.
His watch. Fifteen more minutes. Fifteen minutes and everything would change, in this bus, and around this country, and the world. In fifteen minutes, he would release it, the biotoxin. On this bus, exposing these people, even the woman and the boy. The boy who looked like his own little brother, the innocent who didn’t stand a chance…
His cell rang. That was the signal to get ready. The others would be getting ready, too. Beads of sweat formed on his brow again, and the damned heart took off like a horse race.
The boy looked over and smiled. Not a kid smile, but a beautiful expression, a mixture of love and trust. He was the man who gave the lad a pencil. Now he was loved.
He sat silently. The clock ticked. It was almost time. His thoughts were his own, but his heart was all over the place. Enough! With a jolt, he got up and made a dash for the front.
“Let me off the bus!”
The startled driver didn’t react at first. The man grabbed him by the jacket and shook the poor fellow. “Let me off!” he bellowed.
The doors swished open and he sped out, galloping down a side street. With one hand he punched out the number on his cell. “Go to hell,” he murmured into it. Tossing the phone into a trash can, he ran, ran until he disappeared into the shadows. Let them find someone else to bring them victory. Not him. There was too much love in the world.
Copyright 2009 JO Janoski
Jo –you’ve done a great job on this assignment. You certainly grabbed my attention with the first paragraph, and the Imagery is fantastic. I love the contrast –the love and innocence of the little boy, the simplicity that totally melts down the impending terrorist danger. A Perfect story for our time.
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Excellent! *****
-sunny
Thank you, Sunny! I’ve been working hard on those aspects of my writing–imagery intertwined with characters who hold their own, and tension, too. I’m trying to do tension well.