I’m writing this on the bus to Orton. Except, it isn’t the bus to Orton. The stops are different. It’s the same route through the town, along the river & the river’s still there. The twists & turns are all the same, I think. The river bank on this side is as it always was; a roadway for the bus to Orton, only slightly raised above the river level. So close to river level, in fact, that every winter it floods & every spring the council forget their promises to raise the level of the road to Orton. But, as my eyes move away from the shore, I can see things have changed. The river is wider, for a start & on the other side, the low bank has been replaced with a towering wall of white brick. Atop the wall, I can make out fantastic buildings of the same white brick. Like something out of ancient Egypt. All with flat roofs, that overhang the tapered sides of the buildings.
The bus is full & whenever we stop, the passengers getting off seem overjoyed. While the rest of us chatter nervously about the changes. Each stop is so different, I wonder they don’t die of it. We’re passing through the city’s banking district. Men in suits who had been muttering nervously, start tearing at the automatic doors & falling over themselves to get off the bus & into the Lloyds building. Except it isn’t the Lloyds building. It’s taller & blacker &, I don’t know, sharper. More like a temple than a bank. As I crane my neck to follow it’s facade, up to the sky, it’s pointed gable is so distant it appears shrouded in mist or clouds.
As we pull away, their yells of ecstasy change to howls of pain & I swear I could smell burning. I don’t remember that smell, from other trips to Orton. But I’m not sure I remember those trips at all, now.
The old lady, next to me, starts to chatter. Says she’s been getting this bus all her life & doesn’t recognise anywhere on this route. But when we reach her stop, she jumps to her feet with as much ecstasy as anyone else getting off there.
The next stop is mine. Orton. My god it’s beautiful.
∞
J.J. Wheatley is a London born muscian, writer & programmer. He has soft spots for the prose of H.P. Lovecraft & the music of John Darnielle. More info at jjwheatley.com
