The most exciting thing that’s happened here was when a pointy man stole the number 63 bus. It took time to realise he wasn’t the real driver as he kept stopping to pick up passengers. The real giveaway was when he reached in his pocket for change and, not finding it, told the pensioner (blue rinse, thick coat and sand-coloured tights of a thread count you could smother a small child with) to fuck right off. I remember thinking then that maybe he wasn’t First South & West Wales bus company accredited. Even so, someone had to get these pensioners under control so I appreciated the effort. He drove like someone learning Ultimate Frisbee. We swung around small roads and mounted pavements. Then, as suddenly as he appeared, he was gone. Running through the graveyard like he had rickets, low and wide. It took a while for anyone to notice, but then, the dentures clacked. I got off and waited at Pyle Road bus stop working on my explanation as to why I shouldn’t have to pay a second bus fare.
Louisa Owen was born and raised in South Wales. She previously worked in magazine and comic book publishing and her work has appeared in British and American publications. She just completed her MA in Creative Writing at City University and her short fiction has appeared in Literally Stories.