In Oklahoma, women wield their keys like daggers. Their hair is raggedy and wild, not meant to be tamed by prestige hands. Dust covers their ancient, leather boots.
With eyes aflame, they watch rusty pick-up trucks speed down the dirt roads. The younger women paint their lips red, the older do not.
But they all respect the silence as they sit on the front porch, their calloused hands wrapped around their shotguns.
The little girls, hair just as frizzled as their mothers, peer through the front windows.
The land is godless, free, eternal. As the moonlight digs its teeth into the wheat fields, the women stand up and march into the night.
Each scream is part of a furious battle song, their beating hearts like the drums of war.
And when dusk finally crawls back to its slumber, the women return to the town with blood on their ghostly faces.