Bus Riders But for the indentations of their eyes, their faces lack features. Their stillness has the weight and volume of genocide. They stare ahead with the dignity of those who have earned the right to be left alone. Their unholy whiteness sets them apart from everything around them, even the eggshell walls. Next to them, my own skin is developing like a photograph in a tray of chemicals, brown freckles darkening, pale veins burning bluer, tiny unfelt scratches materializing in red branches. Soon, I expect the flagged spires of Disneyland to surface on my arm, as though my simple breathing body were a family vacation from these people and wherever they are headed. Michael C. Smith Michael C. Smith is the author of Writing Dangerous Poetry (McGraw-Hill) and the coauthor of another book on creative writing, Everyday Creative Writing: Panning for Gold in the Kitchen Sink (McGraw-Hill). His work has appeared in several journals, including Iowa Review, Seneca Review, Northwest Review, and more. Recently his metafictional story, “Bass Weather,” published originally by Gemini Magazine, was included in the 2017 Best Small Fictions anthology, edited by Amy Hempel, and including works by Joy Williams and Brian Doyle. He lives in Pomona, CA, and is a proud graduate of the MFA program at the University of Arizona.
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June 2025
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