I hear coyotes yapping in the distance, singing their song to the moon mother. My heart yearns to learn their song, but my voice can’t match the notes or rhythm. The only noise I make is a low hum-growl, throaty and guttural. They don’t hear me and keep yapping, singing, and dancing on the Oklahoma red earth. Car lights flash and their singing stops. Back to work.

The sun leans heavily on us redskins working the road crew. Paving highway roads, patching potholes, and getting hollered at for making an honest living. We get paid fifteen bucks an hour to hold a Slow Down sign and yet the locals call us drunks, crackheads, and lazy freeloaders. Most people think it’s court ordered community service, but it ain’t. Just regular work for the county. I make more money selling dope, except that business doesn’t offer insurance. The county does.

Once, I heard a wolf howling.

Damon McKinney is an Indigenous writer from Oklahoma and he is the former Associate Editor for Likely Red Press, a former Contributing Editor of Fiction for Barren Magazine, and the Managing Editor for Emerge Literary Journal

Sometimes the curtains were blue. They didn’t notice though, blindness struck them immune to the worldly objects. Their eyes weren’t milky, missing, or disconnected. They still saw but the light couldn’t reach their heart anymore. At least that’s how the occupants described their condition.

The curtains shifted colors from blue to deep golden red, mirroring the setting sun.

The house sagged. A depression, an indent, wallowed out in the middle of the parlor. They didn’t notice. Pins and needles, static, white noise washed their legs, that buzzing of nerves from sitting too long. And yet, still, they walked. Room to room, pounding along worn carpet paths. Or stumbling after too much afternoon wine.

Noise crashed against the walls. Scratching, vibrating, pillow talk soothed their ears. Voices they thought long gone caressed their memories, music held their rapt attention and commercials played in the distance. Yet they were deaf to the world outside. Misery and loneliness found no place in their home.

The curtains were blue.

Damon McKinney is an Indigenous writer from Oklahoma and a graduate of the University of Arkansas in Little Rock. He has a B.A in English with a Minor in Creative Writing. His work has appeared in JMWW blog, Equinox, Fancy Arm Hole Series 1, and Knights Library Magazine and JHHF Review. He is the former Associate Editor for Likely Red Press, a former Contributing Editor of Fiction for Barren Magazine, and the Managing Editor for Emerge Literary Journal.