On an odyssey over an apple — Part 1

A travelers short story inspired by his journeys

I’m sitting in the back of a vehicle full of junk. A veritable soup of soaked paper cups remains of long-gone meals and other unrecognizable things I don’t even want to think about, occupy the floor. The hodgepodge probably explains the unpleasant, strangely familiar but pungent smell in the stuffy air.

How can the driver recognize something in this crowded car?

What prevents him from falling asleep? He, the old sleeping pill! He seems threateningly close to falling asleep. At least he hasn’t noticed so far that the cassette, which had previously been playing odd, repetitive music, has been emitting nothing but a bright hissing and an annoying sounding of metallic chatter for a few minutes now.

But it seems impossible to make him aware of it. I do not speak his language and if I’m moving towards the front from my place in the backseat, one of these stacks piling up could collapse and bury me.

I find myself framed on my seat by veritable towers of impossible constructions, made up of piles of boxes and cartons, which in turn were built on heaps of metal and plastic.

I have been giving one of these towers my undivided attention for some time now, it threatens to fall at any time. My backpack serves as the last bastion. The course of the road, which deteriorates with the altitude we are climbing, does not offer much help either. Any pothole could make it collapse.

Initially, I hoped to finally find some sleep in here that night. After the previous course of the evening, I thought it couldn’t get any worse.

For the last few days, I had been famished and had not really been able to find anything edible — apart from an old chocolate bar that had been completely forgotten during the journey. It had metamorphosed through a cycle of melting and re-solidification.

So it was a pleasure for my heart to get hold of a bag of my favourite fruits.

It was there where I waited for the night bus that would take me to a town on the other side of the mountain range. After some time waiting for a man with a donkey cart stopped. He began to set up a stand and presented red apples row by row.

In the distance, I could hear something loud clattering. Eventually, when the sound seemed to come closer, I noticed that it was a bus. The condition of the bus made me doubt. The former blue stain had faded and was eaten by rust, only the yellow writing “Chasquí” was barely decipherable

The windows, when still there, had a milky tinge. One light bulb shone weakly, the others flickered nervously. On the roof of the bus, luggage and merchandise were tied up. The squealing of the tires was only covered by that of the rusty doors.

When the bus stopped, a black cloud of smoke rose from the exhaust. The old man shrugged his shoulders and the donkey made the impression that it was the most normal thing in the world

I was not sure if I should get on, so I asked again.

This was indeed the right bus and the only one that runs weekly.As I saw no other possibility to get over the mountains and to be crushed by falling luggage I decided to get on.

This is the first part of a short story I started to write 3 years ago. I recently found it on a flas driver and decided to adapt it on work on it again. 22th post for the ILLUMINATION 30-day writing challenge by Dr Mehmet Yildiz described in this article.