texas gothic

starrycastiels:

it’s december. every one is bundled up in coats and scarves. it is 93 degrees.

it rains. the dead patch of earth that is the state suddenly blooms. plants test their boundaries, creeping across miles of cement for a chance at water. cars wreck by the multitude. school districts start murmuring about closing for inclement weather. it’s been weeks. no one has left their house in fear the rain may start again.

you can feel the air sticking to your skin. something in it is pulling at you. when you step outside, your vision clouds, presumably because of the steam on your eyewear. you reach up to clean the lenses before remembering you don’t wear glasses. you still can’t see.

it’s wednesday. the tornado sirens start. dogs howl in unison. wind screams along. you, too, wail with the sirens. they never stop. it’s wednesday.

you own a pair of cowboy boots. they fit perfectly. they’ve fit perfectly since you were 12. you don’t remember buying them.

you get stuck behind a railroad crossing and wait for the train to pass. you count the train cars to pass the time. you’re at 538. you’ve started over repeatedly. they’re still coming.

the sidewalk is hot enough to fry an egg. you know, because you watched your neighbor sizzle and crisp on it.

there is a barbecue place down the street. family owned, they say. best damn brisket in the state, they say. shame about all those missing people, they say.

the clerk at walmart smiles at you. her nametag has no name. you grab your groceries. her eyes are watering. she is still smiling. she forces  “have a good day, y’all.” through her teeth. her smile is no smaller. tears are streaming down her face.

you fall asleep to the hum of air conditioners. you wake up to the hum of air conditioners. by the middle of july, you realize the hum has become a roar.

you’re on the highway. you’re not sure which one, you just know you’re headed out of state. lubbock is 100 miles away. out of the corner of your eye, you see an obsolete oil derrick surrounded by cows. the cows stare at you. you take your eyes off the road to stare back. you stare at them for what feels like ages, but when you look back at the road, lubbock is still 100 miles away.

the forecast for one afternoon is 100% sunny, with 100% chance of severe thunderstorms, with a 100% chance of both hail and tornadoes. you watch all of these things occur simultaneously. 

it’s pecan season. the tree in your yard is laden with nuts. there is a crowd gathered round, holding plastic bags and odd contraptions meant to pick them from the ground after they fall at maximum efficiency. very quickly, your tree is bare, and yet the crowd is still there, scouring the ground. when it’s clear all the pecans are gone, the mob regroups around your tree, waiting for the next spring and the next bud.