Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

of events can unlock… Like us, each of these “locks” is unique, and so
we must find equally unique keys. You too are an Agent for the selfguided
evolution of the species, though you may not know it yet.
This is what you are an agent for, but what are we agents of?
I personally think of this, of Her, as our mother of birth and death.
When you offer yourself up to Her, she takes you in and guides your
actions. When you offer yourself to Her, and pass the gate of your death
and birth, you are faced with a choice: return to the world, motivated by
compassion, or remain forever in that dark womb, a shaman or lunatic.
When I turn on the evening news—something I do less and less these
days—I begin to wonder if it is too late for humanity This pessimism is
not really in my nature however. Even if it is a losing battle I will fight it
with the tools afforded to me: the pen, the word, and my embodied messenger
clothed herenow in the flesh. I took an Oath, and I will follow it
to the best of my ability until death claims me. No hunchbacks out of
you, soldier.
Twilight has given way to a rosy dawn; the last sliver of the moon,
visible through three panes of glass, is now all but gone. Soon that rosy
dawn will turn golden. And thankfully the dog has ceased his noisy
rummaging.
Out the apartment door with my hair still wet, down the block where I
wait at the same bus stop every morning. Each day I catch the 8:20 bus
with the same assortment of people. This cold, icy morning in the short
days of December is no exception.
As you may have guessed, I am the type of person who catches every
detail, but I rarely speak except when it is required for an assignment.
Subjective investment in a situation mars your capacity for keen observation.
There are three people in the 8:20 crew, besides myself. A
wrinkly shell of a woman wrapped in something coarse and thick—wool
or burlap; a bubble-gum popping brunette who always wears sunglasses,
probably going to the liberal arts college at the end of the line; and a boy
in his late teens. The boy catches my attention, as he somehow manages
to be even more generic than the girl: blue eyes, worn Converse sneakers,
ragged dirty-blond hair. No soul anywhere to be found. The Mr.
Bungle t-shirt throws a small kink in his character, but with the faded,
faraway look and bloodshot eyes, the whole package strikes me as a
living, breathing caricature of the late 1990’s. Spending an hour in front
of the mirror trying to look like you haven’t looked in a mirror your
whole life.
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