I’m On the Bus
Araminta lived life through her smartphone, gossiping to
Chloe who lived on the other side of the world, Sandy only two doors away, and
anyone and everyone in her address book. It would not be obesity or type two
diabetes that took away this young life, it would be the lorry that ran her
down while she was chatting on her phone.
Catching the bus for the regular weekend visit to her
grandmother, Araminta had her smartphone pressed to her ear, listening to the
inane banter of Penny who could speak without stopping for breath. Not being
able to get a word in edgeways was frustrating.
At last Penny paused, giving her the chance to say, “I’m on
the bus. Need to find my ticket. Got to go, Pen,” and end the call.
Araminta dashed upstairs to the back seat where she called
Ben who never interrupted. She sometimes wondered if he listened to anything
she said and was more absorbed with some computer game or other, slaying
monsters or fending off invasions from heavily armed aliens. Ben was the only
teenager she knew who could eat breakfast, talk on the phone, and hunt Pokémon
at the same time. She could only wonder what he was doing by the time her bus
stop came up - it was always better not to ask.
Araminta told him, “Got go now, Ben. This is my stop.”
Her grandmother, Maisie, was busy as usual. In full-time
work, she still had time to deliver weekend meals on wheels and run errands for
elderly neighbours in the same block of flats. Araminta’s visits were probably
the only time she bothered to sit down.
They relaxed on the settee, looking out over the other
blocks of flats, laundry flapping on balconies and pigeons cooing amorously on
the safety railings. It was one of the few times Araminta was prepared to
switch off her smartphone.
“Now what have you been up to, then?” Maisie asked.
Araminta wasn’t sure what to say. When not chatting she was
usually Googling gossip, watching the newest uploads on YouTube or listening to
music. Her grandmother led a far more interesting life: she actually met the
people in her circle of friends.
“Found this amazing new app which lets you link across
social networks,” Araminta told her.
“Sounds as though Facebook will soon put a stop to that.
Aren’t they rather possessive? I’m forever being bombarded with invitations to
join them, but too old for that sort of thing.”
That was just Maisie trying to sound her age. She was more
savvy about the Internet than anyone else Araminta knew and far too grounded in
reality to waste time chatting to people on the screen when she could just walk
along the balcony or into the next street to see them.
“What was it like without the Internet and mobile phones
when you were young, Gran?” asked Araminta.
“Can’t rightly remember now,” said Maisie. “I was interested
as soon as it was possible to do things on a word processor. When PCs and the
Internet were available, writing a letter seemed very old-fashioned. Who knows,
soon we will all email our Christmas cards because there won’t be any
stamps."
"Already do it with most of my friends. Brilliant cards
out there - with animation and catchy tunes. Wouldn't send one to Mum, though.
She still likes the real thing."
"I brought her up well."
"But she can't make liqueurs like yours."
Maisie recognised the hint. "Like to try my new one?
It’s a fusion of valerian and other herbs to help you relax.”
Araminta could see how that would have been ideal for her
overactive grandmother, but wasn’t aware that she needed to calm down. The most
exciting things in her life were online; dancing dogs, sneezing pandas and
young men risking paraplegia by jumping into the sea from dangerously high
rocks.
The valerian liqueur was sweet and highly flavoured to
conceal the main ingredient, so Araminta swallowed it in one go before Maisie
could warn her not to. Her granddaughter felt a soothing warmth surge through
her body.
“Oh you silly little cow,” muttered Maisie as she cursed
herself for filling the glass too full.
When Araminta woke up it was lunch time. She had promised to
chat to Sophie on Skype at one: the satellite only allowed them 30 minutes so
she didn’t want to miss the connection and needed to get to her laptop.
Araminta kissed Maisie goodbye, snatched up her bag and
dashed for the bus.
It was strangely empty for midday.
She took her usual seat upstairs at the very back and pulled
out her smartphone.
Before she could decide who to call, half a dozen teenagers
got on at the next stop.
They were unusually quiet and seemed to float to their
seats.
Maisie’s liqueur must have been stronger than Araminta thought
because her surroundings started to take on a watery feel as the seats and the
walls of the upper deck merged into a huge amoeba-like mattress. All the
teenagers were bounced into a surreal dimension where the air buzzed with
pixels trying to take on shapes without quite succeeding. There was something
horribly fascinating about what they might have turned into... it could have
been anything from a shower of frogs to herd of velociraptors.
Araminta tried to ask the others what was happening, but no
words would come.
Her smartphone warbled its silly tune and she placed it to
her ear.
“What did you say?” a voice asked.
“I said, ‘Where are we?’”
“I dunno.”
Araminta lowered the phone and tried to call out. Again the
words would not come. The other teenagers were pointing at their mobiles. This
was the only way they could communicate.
During the panicked conversations, each of them started to
change.
Their faces became rectangular, started to glow and were
transformed into a screen mirroring each owner’s device. All they could do was
look at their phones and see themselves desperately trying to claw their way
out of them.
To her horror, Araminta realised that she was also trapped
inside her smartphone. That device, her closest companion, had turned the
teenager into a flickering anomaly that could be wiped from existence with one
tap on the screen, or perhaps fade away as the battery drained.
Araminta could also see the screen faces of the other
trapped teenagers, screaming to escape. From having the Internet at their
fingertips, they were now part of the pantomime that had kept them entertained and
were appearing in search results for the trivial and amusing. They were
probably getting more hits than those minor celebrities stranded in the depths
of some jungle the wildlife had deserted out of embarrassment.
For the first time in their lives, the trapped teenagers
desperately needed the real world. Maisie's aversion to the trivia on the
Internet now made sense. There were only so many times singing goats, bald
hedgehogs and idiots taking selfies on the edges of crumbling cliffs could be
seen before the viewer started to wonder if life held a deeper meaning.
To make matters worse, the nightmare dimension that had
engulfed them began to churn, whirling the teenagers and their phones round and
round.
About them, all the silly selfies, would-be superstars and
singing goats became bubbles of hot air which burst into oblivion.
Araminta’s head was still spinning when something wet
started to lick her face.
She woke with a screech.
“Stop that Wellington! Leave the girl alone!” Maisie’s voice
ordered.
Her neighbour’s dopey Staffie leapt from the settee and
dashed out onto the balcony to return to its home two doors up.
“Stupid dog. It’s a wonder nobody’s lodged a complaint about
him.”
“How long have I been asleep?” asked Araminta.
“Only half an hour. I didn’t wake you because you looked as
though you needed it. Bad dream?”
The teenager daren’t tell her. Some nightmares are best forgotten.