Fiction
Prairie Ghostby Robert Hinderliter
Whenever I tell someone I’m from Kansas, they always say, “You’re not in Kansas anymore!” as if wherever I am at that moment—a dive bar in Oregon or a Starbucks in Wyoming—must strike me as so strange and otherworldly as to practically seem like Oz.
When I’m actually in Kansas, or talking to other Kansans, I must of course be more specific. “I’m from Haskerville,” I say, and I’ve learned to not even wait for a puzzled look before continuing: “A hundred miles west of Wichita on Highway 54. You’ve probably never heard of it.”
Most people haven’t. With 600 residents, no stoplights, and as many gravel streets as paved, you could drive right by and barely realize you’d passed a human settlement. But if you do turn off the highway and cross the rail
