The Dreams of a Warrior

Photo courtesy of Sunday Photo Fiction

Grey Eagle was a warrior

at least he was in his dreams.

The son of the son of the son of a mighty chief

many battles under his belt.

Grey Eagle would not know this,

it was not part of the Government’s plan.

Grey Eagle was taken

when he was but a boy.

They would teach him a better way

away from the people he loved

and they had no say.

They educated him

and taught him the ways of the white man

because they thought he was a savage.

His lessons were beat into him

with a whip and a leather belt

or a hand;

He missed his brothers and sisters

and his mom and his dad

and the people in his life who were most important.

They took away his heritage

and his culture and most of all,

they took away his hope.

Now he’s just an indian

nothing but a drunk and a joke.

But at night

when he closes his eyes

he soars high above us

in the skies

where he is free

to dream.

and to fight

and to hunt

like his forefathers

were allowed to

do.

This is my entry into this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction

 

 

 

 

Music to her ears

PHOTO PROMPT ©David Stewart

The ride to the park was downright annoying. The idiot behind her had his music on blast; if you want to call this stuff ‘music’.

Wouldn’t you know it, the guy was heading to the park too, followed her the entire way.

Who was this guy? Ball cap twisted to the right, white rimmed sunglasses, and that loud rap music, God, this was too much!

“What’s wrong with kids these days?” she thought, as she rolled up her windows to drown the noise.

As she pulled into the lot, she noticed him hurrying to the bandstand, cello in tow.

This is my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers. Be sure to check out the link for more stories.

 

The Tweeter

“Whatcha doin Bobby?”

“I beez a Tweetin'” he replies.

Little Billy stares at his older brother as he tinkers away with his phone.

“You done don’t look like no bird, so how is it you tweets?” asked the little one.

“Weel, I watched the growed-ups at school, and they sits around a table, none of dem talking wit each oddur, and all of a sudden they are laffin at nothin’. Well I barged in the room and axed dem what dey was laffin at and dey sais dey were tweetin.”

“Well tweet fast, I wants to play a game or sumptin’!” says the impatient one.

In no time at all, Bobby gets tired of all the tweetin and decides to take his little brother and go fishing. Mom, who was standing next to the house at the time laughs at the antics of her kids and decides to see what her oldest has ‘tweeted’. As she reads the screen, she smiles to herself :”Tweet tweet chirp chirp chickadee dee dee”

I just started using Twitter.  Thought this little story might give you a laugh.

The assignment

PHOTO PROMPT – © Copyright – Rachel Bjerke

The retirement home was filled with stories, but none stranger than that of John-Paul’s. He claimed that was born in a tiny village in the middle of Central Park.

“Maybe your grandfather lived there, but not you” doubted the nurse who was assigned to the old man.

“Take this map, and one day, when I am gone, follow it. It’s there I tell you!” he pleaded.

Sure enough, one chilly October day, she found it. The entire place was covered by moss and branches, but she could see that John-Paul was telling the truth.

This little tale is brought to you by Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. Be sure to check out the other titles using the link below.

Under the Sycamore Tree

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

He would pick daisies for her

as they walked along the road.

The water under the bridge rushed

but he didn’t.

He would hold her hand

and they would lie

under the Sycamore tree,

staring at the sky

and dreaming

of their future.

Then one fateful day

he got a letter

from Uncle Sam.

He was called to fight

in a war that made no sense.

she cried

and he tried

to make the best

of the situation.

in ’73

he returned

battered and bruised

inside and out.

Ellen was gone

and so was the sycamore tree

nothing  but a memory.

This tragic little story is brought to you by Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. Please follow the link below for more stories.

Blood on the Highway

His boots clicked on the hard, dry pavement as he exited his truck. I could hear his footsteps as he slowly scanned the area and walked toward me. He didn’t come to my rescue at first, rather he went directly to the animal.

The Caribou squealed in pain, its limbs broken, its body battered and bloodied. The man held the animal in his arms, saying a prayer while he shed tears for the suffering beast. A loud cry came from the side of the road, as a larger animal, perhaps the mother of the injured deer said goodbye to her baby. I watched as he removed a long blade from the leather sheath that dangled from his belt. He took the knife and quickly cut the throat of the suffering animal. Everything went silent and its body went still. With that, the herd moved on, leaving the slain one behind.

I was most amazed at his strength, as he heaved the animal over his shoulders and into the back of his pickup. He walked over to where I lay, bent down and smelled my breath. When he detected the smell of whiskey, he spat on me and walked away, leaving me to bleed to death on the lonely highway.

I tried to call out to him, begging him for help, but he said nothing. He simply walked back to his truck and drove away.

This is a work of fiction. Just to let you know.

Mushroom Mike

PHOTO PROMPT – © Erin Leary

In early Autumn Mushroom Mike would be found bent over, picking ‘magic-mushrooms’.

Mike spent his entire life in search of the ultimate high. Magic-mushrooms began to lose their appeal, so he decided to try Egg Mushrooms, found only on Ol’ Harry’s farm.

Harry had a reputation of being unruly. When he noticed Mike’s ass sticking out of the tall grass near the barn, he took action. A barrel of buckshot in the cheek was all it took to get Mike on his way. Harry laughed as Mike ran through the fields, holding his ass and crying.

WHAT A HIGH!

This little tale of sore asses and stoned minds is brought to you by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. Be sure to follow the link to more stories.

The Old Rusty Car

Walking through a field one day

amongst the old wrecks that lay

rotting into the ground,

I happened upon a pile of rust

in the shape of a car.

What history lay here, in front of me

grass growing through the floor

bird droppings on the smashed windshield

seats ripped and torn and blood stained.

The front bumper was bent in the middle,

as if it collided with a tree.

Inside I seen candy bar wrappers and pop bottles and a broken toy

a baseball hat, a broken bat, and a skipping rope on the floor.

And beneath the driver’s seat I spot the culprit

an empty whiskey bottle.

 

 

 

 

one solemn request

To all out in blog land,

if you could do yourself a tiny favour. If you smoke, could you take the time to remove the cigarette pack from your pocket or purse, and beat the damn thing up?

Could you take this day to be smoke free, even if it means a bit of personal suffering on your part? Could you do this for the sick and dying in hospitals, all due to the terrible addiction called smoking?

Do this not only for those sick and dying in our hospitals because of smoking, but for their families and friends and for those who love and care for them. Do this not only for your own health, but for your children, your families, your friends, and for those who love and care about you. Those are the ones who suffer most, feeling helpless and forced to watch and endure all the pain you have to suffer because of your nicotine habit.

One day, that’s all I ask. Do this to prove to the cigarette companies and to the governments who continue to profit from your addiction that you are strong and that you can give up smoking. Show them that you care about yourself and most of all about your families and friends who love you.