Young Writers Society

Tuesday, 18:30, route 40 westbound

Mr. Talisman has just purchased a new house up on the hill. He fidgets in his seat, bursting with excitement like a teenager who has just bought his first car. A wicked grin spreads across his face, stretching the wrinkles around his nose and eyes, and his knee bounces in a quick, steady beat.

“You look particularly happy this evening,” comments Mr. Pyus from across the aisle. Somehow, the ponderous man’s presence can’t taint Mr. Talisman’s glee. “Did the one god finally call to you?”

“I bought a house,” Mr. Talisman replies, raising his eyebrows. He can’t find it in himself to sound gruff or scratchy, but he manages a haughty lift of his nose.

The seats creak as Mr. Pyus adjusts himself to face the aisle. “Did you now? I was wondering when you’d finally move out of that old place. Men in our generation are meant to start their own households.”

“Darn right. Kids these days all move back in with their parents soon as they get their fancy degrees.” Mr. Talisman puffs his chest in pride. Then, as if fate has sensed his hypocrisy, the bus jumps over the bump on the highway entrance, and he is forced to deflate so he doesn’t topple over.

Mr. Pyus hums a note of amusement and turns back to the front of the bus, beaming. “So, what will become of the old house?”

“I’m having it demolished,” Mr. Talisman answers, though he spends a few moments grumbling about the state of the roads first. “The city’s never going back to how it was, so I’m better off destroying the old place. It’ll serve my old man right, having his life’s work crushed. I didn’t like living with all those spirits anyways.”

“Is that the reason?” Mr. Pyus asks. He cups his chin with two blockish fingers and lifts his gaze to the emergency roof hatches, studying them as though he might need to use them soon. “I thought it would have had more to do with the evidence. Surely you’re aware that no amount of destruction can hide sins from the one god.”

Kicking his feet on the plastic floor, Mr. Talisman furrows his white eyebrows and hunches over to look at the ground. “And yet money can hide almost anything from him,” he scoffs.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Mr. Talisman grunts. He shoves a hand in his pocket, and his wrinkly fingers brush against a crinkled slip of paper. Glancing at Mr. Pyus, he wraps a hand around the note and pulls it out.

The note is a torn quarter of a sheet of blue-lined notebook paper. Blotchy black ink and a spatter of oil sprawl over the lines in sloppy, uneven bullet points that run perpendicular to the pre-printed blue pinstripes. Mr. Talisman frowns. He is fairly certain he discarded this yesterday.

Crumpling the paper in his hand, he slides his fist back into his coat pocket, but a shiver of movement makes him pause. Mr. Pyus is looking now, an innocently smug smile stretching across his face.

“Grocery list?” Mr. Pyus asks.

Mr. Talisman narrows his eyes. He knows this act. “Yes,” he says, voice firm and solid and low.

“I imagine you had some difficulty finding some of the items in the store, didn’t you?”

The bus rumbles across a section of road coated with kicked-up gravel, and Mr. Talisman clenches his jaw. “As a matter of fact, I did not,” he spits out. “You’re having delusions again.”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Mr. Pyus scolds. “Speaking with the one god is hardly a delusion.” He holds up a finger and closes his eyes, looking the part of the wise teacher. “But thinking you can put your past behind you at this age, my friend, now that is a delusion. Perhaps when we disembark you’d like to show me your list? I can tell you where to find everything.”

Wrinkles folding into a scowl, Mr. Talisman crushes the paper in his hand. It crackles, audible despite the whirring bus engine and roaring heater. “I’ll tear this up and no one will ever know,” he growls. “At least, no one who matters.”

“All people matter to the one god.”

Smoothing out the paper on his leg, Mr. Talisman shoots a snarl at Mr. Pyus. “The one god isn’t the police investigation or the government, or even the dragons after my hide.” He holds up the list with both hands, fingers on either side of the sharp fold running down the length of the paper.

“And torn-up papers can be glued back together,” Mr. Pyus points out. Like a machine, his kindly gaze is unwavering and automatic.

Mr. Talisman rips the list in half. He smashes the pieces together, flattens the crumpled mess and reaches for the underside of the seat. A wad of half-dried gum meets his fingers, and he grins like a madman. “But here’s the question: who would think to look?” Then, keeping his eyes locked on Mr. Pyus, he sticks his paper to the gum under the seat.

The deed is done; his evidence is gone. No one will even want to look at it.

In his usual infuriating way, Mr. Pyus only shakes his head the tiniest bit and holds his smile like it has been plastered there. “Ah, but you see, the one god has a way of influencing things. You never know what kind of person will chance upon your secrets.”