Hurd 1

Andrew Hurd
Professor Ethan Whittet
First Year Writing
30 November 2015
The Bus Stop
You never realize how much water falls out of the sky when it rains until you have to
sleep in it. The mechanical pattern of raindrops that fall on the pavement create a mist of
uncertainty, the rigid black pavement of street hidden underneath this translucent sea. In the dead
blackness of night, I saw women wearing designer clothing and jackets with floral umbrellas
illuminated under the radiating street lamps. The knocking of their high-heeled boots echoed
across the street offsetting the calm rhythm of the rain, their laughter piercing my ears, almost
ominously. Most likely, these women head to their houses or dorms in drunken stupor, falling
asleep with the residue of the night's events still lining their clothing, awaiting the imminent
regret the following morning.
Usually, I would sleep at seven o'clock, where hunger overtook my will to remain awake.
However, the increasingly frequent sleepless nights allowed me to witness the hopeless drunks
who started their binge as early as the afternoon; or the new college graduates, clueless as to
what their future holds stumbling the streets after midnight, searching for the answers, blind,
without direction. Tonight was no different. I shuffled upright on the bench I was laying on and
the trash bags slowly fell off my body onto the ocean beneath me. I squinted to see the clock
tower in the distance through the streaking lines of rain.
Eleven oclock.

Hurd 2
It was Friday. Or Saturday. I wasn't sure. Time had become so arbitrary to me over the
past few months. The weekdays blended into the weekends until the only differentiation was the
number of people occupying the normally barren streets at this outlandish time. There comes a
point when time just becomes a host for routine, trapping hopeless minds in a psychopathic cycle
until we die.
This bench I resided on had lent its ears to stories of relationship troubles, sex scandals,
police brutality, drug overdoses--everything. It sat humbly under the glass ceiling of a bus stop
that cradled me in my sleep, giving me enough false security to keep me sane.
The rain picked up speed, the chorus of drops singing to me more frantically. A sports car
rushed by, the engine roaring its song to me as well, creating a tidal wave on the sidewalk not too
far from my bench. An individual walking on the sidewalk shrieked as the massive body of water
engulfed his body and soaked his brown leather jacket, shading it a slightly darker brown than
before. It was like he was strangled by a heavy blanket, buckling at the forceful weight of nature.
I closed my eyes. I wondered what life would be like if we switched roles, even if it were
for a few minutes. I wondered if I would see the young man huddling under the bus stop, pitying
his misfortune. I wondered if I would make eye contact with him, quickly averting my gaze in
shame to avoid being entranced by his lifeless expression.
My eyes snapped open. The person with the brown leather jacket was gone, transformed
into an invisible silhouette on a black background. I was still huddled under the glass ceiling, my
cardboard blanket humbly resting in front of me on the ground, accompanying the now soaked
trash bag.
I heard the car in the distance, the deep wail of the engine turned to a shallow hum as it
travelled to places unknown to me. The wind responded with a howl of its own, quickly

Hurd 3
sweeping the trash bag across the street, only noticeable as useless debris on the lonely
pavement. On one of the glass panels, the illuminated advertisement flickered as the rain
tampered with the electrical circuit, weakening the stability of my trusted shelter.
The bus doesn't come that frequently this late at night. Maybe once every thirty minutes
if youre lucky. The swarms of people usually come in between two to five minutes before the
scheduled time. And then theres always a few individuals that arrive late and ask around if the
bus took off yet. I would always say no, even if it really did leave already.
A couple frantically darted under the bus stop while holding a newspaper over each
others heads. They released a deep sigh of relief and shivered while laughing into each others
eyes. The carefree aura they possessed was something I had been longing for. I started to believe
the only way to be content in this city was to ignore all the hatred and trauma around me; to
confine myself to a bubble that somehow blurs all the filth.
A man in formal attire then walked under the bus stop and folded his umbrella, shaking
off the water onto the ground in front of me, as if disposing of something toward my direction.
He adjusted his tie and checked his watch for the time. I looked over to the couple to see if they
were as bothered by his presence as much as I was. They were too engulfed in each other to
notice his entrance. I overheard a scoff in his breath as he sat down and noticed my presence,
disgruntled that we shared the same bench. The gray in this mans suit shined with a powerful
hue that instructed me to remain to myself, voiceless on the bench as I was sculpted to be.
I stared at my hands--they were rigid from lack of hygiene and care. A few months ago,
in the dead of winter, I noticed a pair of gloves lying on the floor of the subway station. They
stared back, mocking me with their soft cloth and warmth. That winter day was exceptionally
cold, so I reached down to take them, but was greeted suddenly with a startling shout from whom

Hurd 4
I assumed was the owner. Quickly, I grabbed the gloves and dashed up the stairs into the streets,
my breath taken away from me instantly by the cold gust. I heard the degrading curses thrown at
me from inside the subway, garnering disapproving stares from onlookers. I sprinted away from
the entrance, weaving myself through alleyways and side roads to ensure that my pursuer could
not track me. I looked down at my possession, and realized that I managed to only grab one of
the gloves during my hurried escape. Too anxious to return and attempt to see if I potentially
dropped it, I continued walking in defeat, adrenaline wearing off and coughing from the cold
battering I had received.
This occurred on my eighteenth birthday. It is the single moment in my life that I am
most ashamed of. Not the fact that I dropped out of high school or that I ran away from home
due to my abusive father or that I couldnt find a job that gave me enough money to survive. It
was that I stole a mans glove that he rightfully owned. I reached into my jeans pocket and felt
the now tattered cloth that kept each one of my hands warm last season and my mind filled with
regret once again.
Numerous people began to enter the bus stop at this point, standing under the glass
ceiling, each with their own individual story. Either people would completely ignore me or go
out of their way to express disgust before they browse their cell phones or chat mindlessly with
their peers. I sat motionless on the bench, isolated from the masses, paralyzed by the drunken
shouting and indecent conversations that were passively meant for my ears.
Eleven-thirty.
A short man with an unkempt rugged beard squeezed through the mass of people and
caught focus of my eyes. He stared back. The crease between his brows was defined, as if
holding a weight that could crush the average man. On his face, he wore a similar expression of

Hurd 5
solitude to mine, only his was far deeper and complex. The noises around me became muted, and
the only sound I heard was the calming rhythm of the rain once again. He shuffled over to my
side and sat on the bench, rattling with the trinkets he accumulated in his bag over his seemingly
excruciating life. The pompous man in the gray suit uncomfortably shifted away from him, but
the gentleman took no notice. He removed his bag from his shoulder and placed it in his lap,
beginning to dig for something of clear importance. I looked at him intently as he pulled out a
bus ticket from the depths of this endless bag. Its texture dulled with serene importance and the
mans hands shook when he gripped it tightly in his hand, crumpling the piece of paper.
He could see through my worn coat, dirty jeans, and empty eyes. His mouth quivered as
if he wanted to say something but he couldnt produce the words. I leaned in closer.
Young man, he said with a rough yet delicate tone, I have made many mistakes in my
life. If I see another soul make the same, then I know I didnt accomplish anything in this life.
With that, he took my hand and placed the crumpled ticket into mine and closed it gently.
The bus arrived at that moment and the gentleman puts his bag on his back and boards without a
chance for me to express my gratitude. I was rendered speechless. My head dropped down to
face my rigid hands once again as the last individual boarded the bus. In one hand, I gripped the
glove, and in the other, the ticket. As the bus sped off, the pressure finally cracked my conscience
and tears rushed down my face and onto my hands. Shaken, I gripped the items even tighter,
attempting to calm my emotions, yet the tears wouldnt stop.
I stood up, releasing myself from the bench. I walked outside of the bus stop into the
pouring rain, staring at the blinding darkness of the sky through the relentless droplets that
concealed my tears from sight. Eventually, people began entering the bus stop once again, only
this time I was not on the bench accompanying them.

Hurd 6
The bus pulled up to the stop for the last scheduled time that night, screeching as it came
to a halt. I entered, hesitating momentously as my foot touched the first step, then unraveled the
crumped ticket and handed it to the bus driver.
A smile crept to my face as I stared at my now bare hands. I looked through the window,
the violent rain blurring the bus stop from my sight. The wind fiercely howled once again,
looking for something to carry away in its marauding grasp.
All it could find, though, was a torn glove sitting on a bench under the glass ceiling.

Hurd 7
Self-Assessment
To categorize this short story within the genre, I will be analyzing it in relation to the seven
common elements that each short story must have: plot, setting, character, point of view, conflict,
structure, and theme.
The story opens with an extremely detailed description of the setting surrounding the
character. Although it is plausible to open with a character's thoughts or dialogue, I believe the
setting is one of the most important elements within this story. Because direct character
interaction is a rare occurrence, the character to setting relationship is highlighted and
accentuated, therefore creating an internally focused story. The first immediate introduction to
the main character occurs in the second and third paragraphs, where he offers his perspective on
life and shares his emotions on insightful topics, such as time.
A pivotal thought is located in the fourth paragraph, where he states, "There comes a
point when time just becomes a host for routine, trapping hopeless minds in a psychopathic cycle
until we die." This introduces the presence of the internal conflict occurring within the
character's mind. It strongly hints at a disapproval of his current situation and his desperation to
break free of the routine.
The following paragraphs also offer details of setting while also introducing the bench and bus
stop, which is a prominent symbol throughout the story. However, the paragraph where the main
character closes his eyes and imagines life as the man wearing the brown leather jacket further
develops the conflict, expressing his frustration directly.
When the couple and businessman enter the bus stop, it shows the main character's
reaction when he is in another individual's vicinity. The jealously toward the couple and hatred
toward the businessman expressed his isolationist attitude on society.

Hurd 8
The following paragraphs introduce another brief insight into the main character's history
through his interaction with the glove in the subway. His regret shows his humility and it
humanizes him as an individual. Afterwards, arguably the most important moment in the story,
the he is introduced to the older homeless man who charitably gives him a bus ticket he was
assumedly saving for an individual like the main character. This interaction forces the main
character's emotions to finally expose themselves externally, which inspires him to take action
and board the bus. When he outwardly identifies his conflict, he offers a solution by leaving
behind the bus stop and the glove, symbolizing his advancements as a person and willingness to
change his role in society.
Thematically, the story is populated with common messages such as "change comes from
within" and "don't let your surroundings define you." The conflict throughout is primarily
internal and the confidence gained by encountering the old gentleman fueled the main character's
actions to free himself from his self-imprisonment and encounter a new setting.
The structure of the story is erratic and disorganized purposely to simulate the character's
internal emotions. However, the calm nature of the language used accentuates his nonchalant
attitude toward his detrimental situation, especially at the start of the story. I struggled with
deciding on what tense to use to optimally express the message. However, the verdict was to
remain with the past tense. As a more traditional writing style for storytelling, the reader would
be able to focus more on the character development and themes as opposed to less familiar
present tense writing. Stylistically, I wanted to allow the reader to input their own interpretations
in certain areas such as the ambiguous ending or even the character's name. As a result, they
would allow for inferences with a more personalized and interactive experience for readers.

Hurd 9
Publication Letter
Dear Publication Company,
I wrote this story to allow the reader to identify the thoughts of a homeless man as he is
interacting with other more fortunate individuals. Although all the characters are fictional, I
attempted to create a situation that mimics reality through the descriptive setting and detailed
internal thoughts. For this reason, I would like to request to publish my short story through your
company. Preferable, I would like the story to be a standalone publication, but if it is required to
be in a book containing a series of short stories, that is perfectly reasonable as well. Thank you!
Sincerely,
Andrew Hurd

Works Cited
Chapman, Harvey. "Past Tense or Present Tense | Novel Writing Help."Novel Writing Help.
N.p., n.d. Web. 18 Nov. 2015.
Gondalia, Vidhi; Idriss, Maya; Li, Huimin; Yuen, Belinda. Short Story Reference Document.
First-Year Writing, Fall 2015. Northeastern University.