The Cult of the Scarecrow 


Zombies. I hole up with friends at their grandparents place. I think it’s fairly secure. They take a look around. We discuss security. I look round, and there’s a small man lay on the carpet. I ask where he came from. Who he is. I threaten him with  a knife. He won’t answer. I threaten to blind him, to cut his balls off. Still no answer. I cut into his cheek. Saliva and blood stream out, onto the carpet. We don’t know who he is. We throw him from a window, and hear a splash as he lands in a large, cold puddle. He is ok. I clean my knife in the kitchen. I wonder if this whole thing is to test my ethics, my commitment to non violence. I ask my friends again where he came from. We search the place properly. We find a grandparent in bed, alive, though my friends are convinced they are dead. We discover a large security guard, I point out how bad at his job he must be to miss the tiny man. There are whole areas they missed on their first search. We argue about opening windows. 

 
I’m at a roadside. A friend from school is annoying me from his car while I try to read a paper. I cross the road to get away. In a car park opposite, he gives me a battered leaflet from some cult. He thinks I believe some impossible things, and therefore will believe this. 
 
A man who is a scarecrow. On his head a Dionysian wreath. I see a montage of him meeting a wife, and starting his own cult. They all wear a wreath of red berries on their heads.  
 
A journey to a station. Many ups and downs, unnecessary twists and turns. A small window I can’t seem to fit through. I’m wearing brown and yellow. It’s symbolic of something. 
 
Walking through a shopping centre reclaimed by the desert. Literally deserted. My friends tell me their grandfather died.  A woman walks ahead of us in a fur coat. I ask if she’s seen any zombies. She says they don’t exist. I realise that she’s correct. 
 
I sit at a table while I wait for the train, inside a huge, thin white paper bag. I see the small man approaching. He has huge scissors. I apologise to him. He hugs me and tells me that it’s ok. He couldn’t speak because of pressure in his cheek, that I released by cutting him. He does crafts now. He shows me where people drop their keys. He claims them, and re sculpts them, and uses them to get money. I hug him again, and leave to begin the next part of my journey. 
 
🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪
 
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