(Wayne Moore) = PEN NAME. Lucy Lightfoot goes there part 2
“The number 31 bus had other names. The bus of death, Charons death-taxi. Tomb thirty one. An absolutely proportionately significant amount of lives were discontinued roundabouts in close proximity in time and space, to the number thirty one bus.” Could the bus really be the vacuum wormhole which sucks together the rest of the strayed plot-part jig-saw pieces like splintered rowing-boat fragments all awash in the sea of Lucy’s uncharted mind ? Fragmentary glimpses. Everything had become fragmented. Disjointed in her life. In their lives. They'd all had psychiatrists. They’d all been on pharmaceuticals, they’d all been exceptionally high achievers, with a zest for life, mentally excelling, yet veritably hard to pin-down into any subjective category a-ready for intellectual entrainment into service to the system. Round pegs in square holes. It was one thing Catherine learnt quite early on. You just don’t ask questions nowadays. You never ask why. You don’t ask why there even needs to be television on a bus, in the same way no-one asked why it was now necessary to force bus-users to undergo constant multiple surveillance. Catherine learnt it, Lucy had learnt this. It made more sense, the latter thought, as the governments free distraction, if that T.V. Showed its viewers programmes. “So what” muttered Lucy “does a television do if it doesn’t show programmes ?” There seemed no other possible use for such a machine, and Lucy wondered if the set maybe was showing programmes somehow without people noticing. Lucy had read reports written by neural weapons designers who had blown the whistle on new technologies in existence that could project “synthetic realities” as semiotics embedded in television. “Maybe they were programming people” she caught herself muttering under her breath, then held her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger. “Talking to yourself is a sign of nuttiness Lucy” she muttered again, followed by a loud “tut !” As she realised what she was still doing. “It’s this case. It’s made me drop those marbles” she thought to herself as her dialogue switched to inner. “Let’s go and pick them up again, girl. Show yourself your barking up the wrong tree. See for yourself. Show yourself it’s not that bus that’s the missing piece.” – Dammit. Dammit she would do. Lucy then took a good, long sip of her milk and honey. She glanced over at the steadily ticking round clock-face. “Three-ay-em.......................I'll go for a trip on that death-trap in the morning” she muttered as her ample bosom slowly rose and fell in time with her ample actual inhalation then exhalation of air.