Tag: 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.

ireneandowls:

– “Remember the Alamo,” people say. They glance toward the horizon with fear in their eyes and plan their yearly pilgrimage to San Antonio.  The Alamo does not like to be forgotten.

– The lake is not natural. It was built as a reservoir, everyone says, but when you go out on your cousin’s boat, you always see strange movements in your wake. In summer, when the water level drops low and lower still, bare branches reach from below the surface, strangely twisted and contorted. The lake lodges close down. Your cousin puts his boat in storage. No one mentions that there are more branches this summer than last. No one mentions how they move even when there’s no wind.

– Each winter, the Northerners come, driving in by the dozens from Michigan and New York and Oregon, even Canada. “We’re getting too old to brave the snow,” they tell you. “It’s so warm here! Such balmy weather. You must love living here year ‘round.” They look somehow thinner than they were when they arrived, eyes fever-bright and fingers twitching nervously. “Such nice weather,” they whisper. “So warm.”

– “Everybody’s somebody in Luckenbach,” proclaims a T-shirt in the back of your closet. You have never been to Luckenbach, and neither has anyone you know. The shirt hangs there as a reminder: someday Luckenbach will call to you, and you will not be able to resist.

– It is fifty degrees out and everyone you pass in the street is in heavy winter gear, as though their skin feels a chill that the thermometer doesn’t register. 

–  In the night, you hear gunshots. “It’s okay,” your mother says. “Just dove hunters.” You  know it’s not dove season, but you go back to bed anyway. It’s better than thinking of alternative reasons for the gunfire.

– After a day of excruciating heat, the skies open and rain pours down. At first, you’re delighted, but as the rain goes on and on, you start calling family members to make sure they’re on high ground. The rivers rise and flow over the roads, dividing the town into a series of islands, and still it rains. There’s a dip in the road at the entrance to your neighborhood, and it fills with water. You count your canned foods and check the weather-proofing on your doors and windows. It is still raining. You no longer remember what dry ground looks like.

– You pass a recent roadkill on the highway. In the split-second glimpse you get of it, it seems too big for a deer. There are too many limbs. A high-pitched ringing starts up in your ears and you quickly look away. When you drive past the spot again later that day, there’s nothing there.

– “Texas-sized,” says the 64-ounce cup you bought at the gas station. “Texas-sized,” brags the diner about its burgers. “Texas-sized,” whispers your neighbor, pointing out the tracks in your lawn. They look like coyote tracks, but they’re ten inches across.

seiya234:

quicklikelight:

There’s a hidden cemetery on the road to the park. There’s a hidden cemetery behind the Community Center. There’s a hidden cemetery in your backyard.

“It’s a dry heat,” the grocery store clerk reminds you as you buy your 6th bag of ice. “It’s a dry heat,” your second grade school teacher says as she refuels her SUV, white hair tangled with sweat. “It’s a dry heat,” the old man on the corner says as he rolls up the sleeves of his poplin shirt. “It’s a dry heat,” you repeat. The humidity is only 97% today. 

“You’re Ol’ Mike’s granddaughter, aintcha?” you hear. You are. You have no other name. You don’t know who Old Mike is. You’re his granddaughter.

Mr. Miller owns a soda shop on the town square. From the window you can see the courthouse in the center. It burned down in 1937. 

The night sky is vast with no streetlights. Buck Hooten disappeared last year after he got a telescope for Christmas. You don’t look up for fear it will swallow you.

“Watch for coyotes,” they say. You live in town. You have no pets. Still, you lock your door at dark and listen. You can hear them howling. You pray for coyotes.

The Pink Mansion is haunted. You ride your bike past every day, tar sticking to your Keds. The “For Sale” sign sways gently. The July air is still. 

It rains for three hours. The forest weeps for joy. The sun drinks up its tears, leaving it parched again. 

The house next door is abandoned. The house across the street is abandoned. The house catty-corner to yours is abandoned. The house you live in is abandoned. 

There are cracks in the soil. Some of them have marks from scrabbling hands at the edges. You scuff them with the sole of your shoe.

There is a church across the street from another church. The stained glass is red like blood, and when the doors open you can hear the choir. No one attends on Sunday morning.

The football stadium fills with the entire town on Friday night. “Budge over,” a third cousin says. “We need more room. There’s not enough room. Gotta see them boys play!” Outside, people crush at the gates, trampling one another to get into the stadium. Their screams sound like the Fight Song. We need more room. There’s not enough room. Gotta see them boys play.

You walk into the woods to get out of the heat. The woods are hushed and still around you, a sea of green and brown the doesn’t end. When you turn back toward home, you only see more trees. The woods have you now.

coldacehonky