My Right Side

99-word Dream Art November 7, 2024

My right side tenses, freezes, numbs. A school bus has crushed my ribs beneath skyscrapers with no names. My right hand rises as I fall, hitting shoulder, hip, head. A billboard overhead reads, “The body keeps score.” I’m flattened—the calculations click across Soma’s abacus, pausing to note the Bus Driver. It’s Kid Rock with a kid, but I know it’s Gary. My school bus driver from third grade. I can’t decide who he is. I summon Gary to imagination. Always in my business, watching me, talking to my parents. I release a black dove from my outreached right hand.