Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

finally come to rest in, a sea of dead reeds, the color of bleached bone,
swaying in the crisp autumn wind.
He slowly trudged closer to the vehicle, cautiously and full of trepidation,
as one might approach a corpse or other hidden horror. From this
distance he saw the number 13, faded but still clearly apparent, on its
side. There came a glimmer of recognition, but what it foretold he
couldn’t tell. That number seemed to grow larger and larger, or he was
being drawn into it, and he stopped, dropping down to his knees, his
mouth slack. The reeds continued to ripple, and in the distance three
black birds circled around lazily. Even when the wind began to howl and
the sky blackened there came no reaction from Orpheus. Eyes dead,
mouth open, he sat in the field as it began to rain.
Huge sheets of it poured over him as he stared at that number, and he
could hear sounds. Young voices forming a chorus in their disharmony.
What to adults sounds like children playing to the children sounds ominous
and terrifying. Some are predators and others are prey.
He could feel the lunch box held tight to his chest, hiding his unease
at the paunch underneath. Tension balled there. Staring up the mudencrusted
stairs of the bus, past his grey, playdough hand clutching the
box, sat a hunched form.
“Come on kid.” The words held an air of exasperation. Here it was,
this bus, this very bus that carted him off to Fairview elementary. Anxiety
embodied. The slate smell of flatulence and Freetos. There was a
blood red grin carved deep into the stern, slack flesh of the driver’s face.
“Don’t just stand there, get on the bus. You have to get on the bus. It’s
the law.” The voice seemed to issue from the gash across his face, but
there was no movement.
The door opened mournfully. The storm screamed all around him,
purple and furious. He walked inside, clutching a lunch box that wasn’t
there.
As he approached the seat, trying to smile but feeling it sit awkwardly
on his face, he was struck along his lower legs and ankles, and he
immediately tasted blood when his head hit the floor. Laughter echoed
all around him.
Peering up over the edge of the torn vinyl seat cover, he saw two cold
brown eyes leering down at him. The eyes, he knew, belonged to Dave, a
predator. His nose stung as the syrupy red humiliation began trickling
down his face and pooling on the floor. The side of the seat was a plateau
face, the top was barely visible, and above them, those leering eyes at the
top, calculating its prey’s next move.
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