by Chandler Craig
When my Gram drove, I vomited gobs of yellow bile. Riding the bus feels a lot like that, but now I swallow it. The Indian man next to me smells ashy and sprays dandruff on me when he answers his cell; I've been snowed on twice so far. I hate him and want to slime him with bile, but I fake sneeze on him instead. Droplets shine wet on his polyester coat and he glares at me. I don't care; I hate the bus.
Chandler Craig is a recent graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and will be attending law school in the fall. She is currently unpublished.