fascism

there is a bus, and the bus trip is long. a small village, periodically visited by some creatures part ghost, part zombie, part alien power. they shuffle along like scarecrow automatons. they appear periodically, and the village’s citizens must freeze whatever they are doing. whether sitting or standing, arms akimbo, elbows out. head down if sitting. still though terrified. but everyone in the village is expected to remain silent on the matter. not just then, but generally. I think of calling Marc—finding a place to talk freely, to tell him what’s going on—to get a witness. at night I am flying low to the ground—trailer-top height, and as I fly by a group of trailers, I drop my big leather wallet. I go back in the dark to shine light on the tall grass, but I do not find it. I give up and determine it best to come back in daylight. I take a bus to the edge of the village in the day, thinking I will get off at the group of trailers where I lost the wallet, but I miss the stop. the bus is packed, and the driver says we will come back here at the end of my route. About an hour. we drive out to the rural areas, and it is strange. at one point we think we will not be able to traverse the road because there is so much fallen forest, timber, pile after pile. a pack of small, feral-looking black dogs run through, and I ask out loud if they are javelina. they say no, as I realize it’s just dogs. at some point, we are all required to change busses, and it’s expected I’ll crawl through a thinly opened top bus window to get to an empty seat of which there are none. we pass by unimaginable scarecrows that look like tree root dancers arched up or back—even across—the field. giant scarecrows made of trunk and branch. I am so upset by the automaton’s “visitations”, but what makes them even worse is that the village does not speak of them. I go to the office of the accountant. Carole Guess is there. The accountant and Carol crunch numbers together. I had wanted to talk about the last visitation or horror show. how stricken I am. how I feel. but they made it clear I should just go away. ss the accountant Jean Valentine? yes, I think so. then I find a young man who I sense I can ask about this. he tells me it is not okay to talk about it. you are not supposed to, he says. and I am heartbroken because the feelings are big, and I feel even more alone.