40 WHACKS

every year, the bluebonnets appear, almost overnight. every year, thousands of people flock to them. it bothers you that no one really questions why.

“how can I help y’all?” the waitress asks, looking over your shoulder. you are the only one in the diner.

you’ve been driving towards el paso for hours, but you swear the scenery hasn’t changed. out on the horizon, the turbines have stopped spinning.

y’all come back now, y’ hear? the sign on the highway says, its once-bright paint faded and peeling. this is not a farewell. it’s a warning.

no one really swims in the lakes. ask anyone why, and they’ll mutter something about the cleanliness or the fish. they won’t meet your eyes.

you haven’t seen a cicada in years, but their rattling hiss haunts your every step on hot summer days. at least, you hope it’s just the cicadas.