People keep yelling, “Go Pokes!”. Who are the Pokes? Where are they going? Our only team is the Cowboys. Who are they poking?
Someone from Colorado tells you it’s windy. You disagree. The house behind you is torn apart by the wind. The Coloradan is launched into the air. You still disagree.
The roads close around you as snow piles up. A semi lies on it’s side on the edge of the road, its cargo frozen as it spilled out. Your heater is on full blast, and you are rapidly running out of gas. It is 100 miles to the nearest town. You cannot feel your fingers.
You’re downtown in the capital city of Wyoming. You almost hit an antelope. You pray it doesn’t come after you. There are more of them than us.
I didn’t think Wyoming actually existed, someone jokes. You look them in the eye and assure them that it doesn’t. You fade away as the wind picks up.
You are driving. There is a sign for an upcoming town. You blink and it is behind you. You remember that it is one of the larger ones.
Someone buys a stuffed jackalope from you in a gift shop. You stifle a scream. A jackalope killed your brother, as well as the entire hunting party sent after it.
The prairie stretches to the horizon. You have been driving in the same direction for three days. The July snow covers most of the yellowed grass. A sign assures you there is a town just up ahead. The prairie stretches to the horizon.
A woman at the bar has worked on The Ranch. You know this by the wear on her cowboy boots. You become self conscious about the lack of wear on yours. Others are starting to notice. The dirt from their boots begins to crawl toward yours. Soon you, too, will work on The Ranch.
You’re hiking far away from civilization. It’s late, the fire is low, and it looks like rain. A woman screams in the distance. Your party comes to with weapons in their hands, until someone mutters the word “Wendigo”. Silence falls, as you all agree that you heard nothing, before stoking the fire. Your burn sage, and try not to overthink the silence.
At Legend Rock, you trace 9 thousand year old pictographs, wandering the cliff base alone. You freeze: one of them is your face and hands, struggling to get out of the rocks. A shadow looms behind you.
Someone tells you you don’t need a jacket in your car, it’s summer. For a moment you can’t move, when you recall warming your hands in your friend’s corpse after a snap freeze. You make no move to remove the jacket.
You stop at a diner in Jeffrey City in a blinding snow storm. Everyone is staring at you, no one is talking. You quietly lock the door behind you and remove your face. Your family, after all, has lived here a very long time.
A friend complains to you that the University leaves the stadium lights on all night, and that it’s wasteful. Sternly, you tell her the lights remind Grandmother Night not to swallow up Laramie in the dark, that people still live there. She thinks you’re kidding. That night, the power goes out for over two hours. You manage to get the lights back on before too much of the town is taken, but not before you watch light of your friends eyes be swallowed into the darkness.
After being in Wyoming for several months, you return home for a visit. You can’t stop sweating. It’s 30 degrees outside and your skin feels like fire. You have a hard time remembering words, and awake one morning to find you’ve been sleeping in the box freezer in the garage. Your sister does not look you in the eyes at breakfast. Your teeth hurt.
You are watching a movie with a beautiful girl in your living room. Her car alarm goes off. Sighing, she pauses the movie and goes outside. Tears in your eyes, you hold the door closed, ignoring her pleas, screams, then silence, but for the crunch of bones. You’re sorry it had to be this way.
