'Twirly' by Lynda McMahon

I’ve got my bus pass. I can go anywhere I like so I catch the No.11 to Coventry. It goes the long

way round. I don’t mind. I’ve got all day. The X17 gets you there more quickly but I catch the 11.

For fifty minutes I’m going somewhere. To a destination where anything might happen.

The bus driver barely looks at me. It’s all ‘tap it and cap it’ since Covid. Progress. I try a cheery

“Hello!” Pointless but I have a go anyway. Nobody sits next to me. Why would they? The bus is

nearly empty. I’m not bothered. I don’t need to chat.

I love it when the students get on at the University. They’re going places they are. So young. So

hopeful. I like watching them. They don’t notice me of course.

I get off the bus at my usual stop. Sometimes I treat myself to a cup of tea. There’s a very nice café in the precinct. Quiet. I can watch people pass if I get a window seat. But not today. Next time perhaps. Today I cross the road and wait for the No. 11 back. It goes the long way round. I don’t mind. I’ve got all day.

'On the 11 Bus' by Birgit K. Gaiser

Peppa Pig squeaks on a man’s tablet as he desperately tries to keep his toddler entertained while her little sibling is howling in the pram. A group of teenagers in the back egg each other on to throw jelly babies at an extravagant hairdo a few rows in front. The dulcet US-accented tones of half a breakup conversation grind into my skull and, judging by the rising volume, the half I cannot hear is similarly uncivil. An ancient woman steadfastly ignores her ringtone, and I imagine that somewhere in London or Dublin a worried grandchild is wondering if she needs to call the emergency services.

Somehow the mellow, artificial voice of the announcement manages to break through the commotion in its wannabe posh accent: “This is a service to… Ocean Terminal. The next stop is… West End.”

I switch off Pharrell’s “Happy”, my own contribution to the ambient soundscape, and push the button.

'One for the Road' by Kate Simblet

McTravers jabbed his thumb at the tired air around him. Suzy had served him his fourth and knew what was coming: how he’d once hitched Route 11, left Red Creek for Arizona, took a whore in every town along the way.

Two made him anecdotal, three turned him letchy. Four, argumentative. After six he was just plain mean.

‘Betcha wouldn’t dare do it again, now that you’re…’ she paused to make sure she had all the bar-flies attention, ‘so many years older?’

She knew Route 11 Northwards was closed for a reason - there were landslides, crazed animals, rumours of a murderer. 

McTravers spat on hot asphalt, scanning the empty road for any sign of a ride. No bar-bitch would call him a pansy.

'Route 11' by Kathy Szaters

Work was great, thanks. Really busy, the day just flew. What’s for dinner?

Mark left his oxfords at the door, carefully hung his bespoke suit jacket, loosened his silk tie. Paul paused, leaving the ragu simmering as he gave Mark a hug. Paul cooked with love, and the kitchen of their inner-city condo was awash with the hearty aromas of his adoration.

Mark filled sparkling crystal glasses with his favourite merlot and set the table. Tonight, a deep blue tablecloth, with burnt orange napkins. Polished cutlery faintly glistened in the candlelight.

With an end of day weariness, Mark ran a bath after dinner. The custom-made polished granite tub beckoned invitingly. As Mark pulled off his pleated trousers, a crumpled-up paper fell from his pocket. He smoothed out the bank statement, before scrunching it once more, concerned. He would tell Paul. But not yet. He had more time.

Mark stepped out into the daylight in his oxfords, a pin-stripe suit, and a crisp white shirt. Drinks after work? Paul agreed, closing the door. Mark strode towards the office, stopped, checked to see Paul was nowhere nearby, then diverted to the tram stop. Alighting the Number 11 at Southern Cross station, he rode the tram to the corner of Spring St and Collins St, and then back, all day. He had done this every day for the last fortnight, taking full advantage of the “Free Tram Zone”. He felt sure he would get another job soon.

'The Lift to Level 11, Royal Prince Alfred Hospital' by Kathy Prokhovnik

Most days I’m not feeling anything. I’m just driving there, day after day, driving there and finding somewhere to park. Parking and walking up the street, crossing at one of the crossings. I know all of the side streets. I know what it feels like to walk up each street and come to the main road, to see the footpath occupied by nurses in their blue uniforms.

I’ve walked up those streets since it was cold, and I would bring my jacket and cold hands inside. Now it’s getting hot, and today I walk with relief through the high arched doors and into the hallway with the wooden seats down each side, littered with people slumping and spreading, bags beside them spilling out cardigans and bottles of water. There are people in wheelchairs, drips hanging from a pole, or in hospital gowns gaping at the back. The containers of sterilising agent beg you to clean your hands.

I stop at the café to get Phillip a coffee. He wants one every day now, and I’m getting to know the people behind the counter. I take the coffee over to the lifts, a place of confusion where people are always milling, wondering where they’re going, trying to watch each lift to see which one will take them there. I press the button. It hasn’t been pressed yet despite the number of people. The lift arrives and people get in, hesitantly, look at the buttons with peering eyes. Have these people never been in a lift before? I press 11 and we ascend, stopping to let the hesitant ones out. I get out at the top, level 11, and walk down the sterile corridor, around to his bed and there he is, head in hands.

'Fork in the Road' by Louise Hurrell

I love him but I don’t love him but I love him but…

My mind rotates like the wheels of our car, round and round, as I ease off the M11 at South Woodford and head towards Charing Cross. I’ve never driven in London before and I don’t know my way about the city, have no clue where I’m heading. But I’m happy for the distraction.

I don’t love him but I love him but I don’t love him but…

He sits beside me, chatting mindlessly, oblivious to the fact I’ve said nothing since we left. Another reason I’m happy I’m driving: I can’t look at him. If I turned round he would see the confusion, the hesitation etched on my face and he would know something was wrong. He might even ask and I can’t lie, I just can’t. Instead, I stare fixedly at the road, trying to concentrate.

We did have some good times. Times when we laughed so hard tears began to slip from our eyes, times when we wrapped ourselves so tightly around each other that we felt at one, lungs breathing and hearts beating in tandem. But somewhere - God only knows where - we slowly separated, pulled apart by forces we couldn’t name. There was no dramatic fallout, no major arguments. Nothing I could point to, to blame. The good times were simply gone, maybe. Maybe we could stagger back to that happy place, a pair of weary travellers returning after a long, long voyage. Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

We sit in the car not talking and not listening. I love him but I don’t. I don’t love him but I do.

I stop at the next junction, unsure of what road to take.

NFFD 2022 Prompt #5: Hit the Highway

 

Hit the Highway

This is National Flash Fiction Day's eleventh anniversary, so this year, all our prompts have something to do with the number 11....

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You can find Highway 11s and Route 11s all over the world; some of them are listed here.

For this challenge, write a story about someone (or something!) travelling on a real-world Route 11.  This can be a highway, a bus route, a path, or whatever you like, as long as it's labelled '11' in the really real world.  

Use at least one specific place name in your story, to tie the action down to a particular route.

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 5: Hit the Highway. 

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 19 June 2022 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.