The Ghost Bus

The number 49 glided past the kitchen window, the acceleration creating a hum amongst the silence. Robotic sounds marked the expiration of another sixty minutes in our strange new world. Solitude was the sole protection of the driver. It wrapped itself tightly around him, the vacuity crushing him, a giant invisible bubble driving around town on pneumatic wheels. Praying for an empty stop would be his salvation. Opening the doors would pierce the imperceptible sphere, safer for him to drive aimlessly, never stopping, for his only company to be the ethereal passengers ringing the stop bell in his head.

Rachel Donald