Storytime Saturday, featuring an excerpt from an upcoming untitled piece.

Read on if you'd like; if so, thank you for taking the time to do so. Best of days to all.

The bus veered around a series of winding corners, and they slowly and methodically snaked their way deep into the trees. He surprisingly managed to drift in and out of sleep periodically with each bump and sway of the ancient machine as it rocked him to sleep. The old driver tamed the turns like a seasoned pro, and managed to swerve deftly around each craggy bend; any driver with normal nerves would surely not have attempted that type of road with the type of speed that this guy was able to conjure up. It was actually quite a shock that the old scrap heap was able to generate any speed at all, he mused. One look at that thing and you’d think it must’ve been George Washington’s motor coach. That fucker had to have been at Valley Forge. A good jolt jarred him from his sleep, and he sat up wide-eyed in the seat. He gave a quick, slumber induced glance around the bus in order to get his bearings, and noticed that her eyes had closed and her head was tilted back against the seat. Her head shifted gently from side to side with each curve of the road, and she looked so peaceful like that, he thought, her head dancing along with the movement of the bus. The breeze forced its way in and caught fragile tufts of her hair in its grasp, and sent it flying rapidly in front of her face. She was beautiful.

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