The Bus Terminal

The Bus Terminal - A Modernist Encounter
Gillian Tyrrell


It is twilight. The sky hangs, heavy in the breath of the night air - an ominous sea, draping its hues of the deepest silvery blue across the city. The lampposts at the bus terminal flicker on with a triumphant buzz. Concrete planters dot the pavement; their flowers now wilted from the unashamed gaze of yesterday's sun. I stand amidst a garden of crumpled paper and cigarette butts, my eyes tracing the paths of the beasts of burden that pass me by; they circle this concrete island, from the safety of an asphalt moat. Deep, whirring sighs escalate as they turn, falling into a faint mechanical murmur, before the bus comes to a hissing stop. A stirring occurs. Figures leak from enclosures, drifting steadily in all directions. Dozing eyes snap open, and shapes lurch from park benches, making haste for a bus on the brink of departure. Those who have been waiting patiently at the signposted destination press closer to the curb, so as to fend off those just arriving. With a glance down at his battered watch, a man with parchment skin on which age has signed its name, shuffles toward an awaiting bus. Motion has become the medium. Shadowy masses push forward at each withdrawn door, and individuals melt into a collective. With not more than a hum of resignation, the buses pull away from their resting points and disperse, happily fulfilling their purpose. Throughout the tide of travelers, the bus terminal stands firm; a fortress weathering the transitory storm, it is the keeper of time. Carved against a backdrop of glowing darkness, broken only by the lit windows of living rooms, and the faint etching of church spires, its silhouette keeps watch through the veil of night.