The stories had been passed like wildfire through the bus for years. The stories about the family of cannibals that lived in this bus and roamed through the woods snatching up wanderers and chewing them to death. The stories about the zombie-like, half-human man-eaters watching eagerly as the bus full of treats crossed their fields hoping one or two children would accidentally fall out.
Each morning and afternoon the bus would be alive with chatter until we passed this field. In those moments a hush would settle over all of us as we glued our eyes to the windows in the event that the cannibals would emerge to snatch any stragglers.
One day my father and I were walking somewhere (destination unclear to me) and we began to walk next to this giant field. My heart was pounded fanatically as my eyes glued to tall weeds darted around so that if attacked by known cannibals I would have a leg up on the impending slaughter. I shook nervously and my toes barely touched the ground as I feverishly tried to keep up with my dad.
Then he decided to cut through the field. THE FIELD OF CANNIBALS!! I plead incessantly, explaining the situation, but my father quickly disregarded my dramatic panic ridden squirms. And so there I was, scrambling through the weeds-- my heart scampering up and down my body. Then all of my worst fears were confirmed. We stumbled across a dead body...
I mean, okay... it was the body of a dead dog... but it was half eaten!
I mean, okay... it was half eaten by the earth, the worms and the birds... but it was there!
I lost it. It was pure evidence of everything we had been imagining that happened in this field and I was next. Somehow we made it out of the field and home again. Somehow I never saw a cannibal. Somehow no children/parents/pets went missing.
Somehow.
All my life I have lived around these Cannibals.
In my mind.
Have a shpadoinkle day!
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