Fall 2010 TCJ STUDENT EDITION
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TCJ Student is an annual publication of Tribal College Journal. Both the journal and this student issue are published by the American Indian Higher Education Consortium, an organization of the 37 tribally controlled colleges and universities in the United States and Canada.
© Copyright 2010 by Tribal College Journal
Student Edition editor: Esther Belin is a Diné scholar and poet teaching at Fort Lewis College in Durango, CO. Since 1990, she has been a guest lecturer at a variety of institutions. Her writing has been published in numerous anthologies and journals, and she is regularly cited as the voice of the urban Diné experience.
ON THE COVER: Cory Tucker, Jr., is a first year business major at the College of Menominee Nation. He began drawing when he was 12 and has continued developing his talent. His work was most recently published in two issues of LowRider Art Magazine. He placed first in a 2010 AIHEC art competition and is one of 12 finalists chosen from a competition for Native Threads. The winner from that competition will have his or her work featured on a Native Threads clothing line. A 24-year-old enrolled Menominee living on the reservation in Neopit, WI, and the son of Violet and Robert Tucker, he says, “Whatever your dream is, keep pushing for it because dreams do come true. The sky is the limit.”
2010 Student Writing Contest winners
Introduction by Gloria J. Emerson
My Sweetest Victory By Desirae Grignon
Good Hair By Jaime Figueroa
Indun Love By L. Madden, Jr.
The Black Footed Ferret By Marvin Ashley
A Wolf Named Bear By Emanuel Red Bear III
Kaleidoscope By Christopher Marshall
The Last Battle By Kari Eneas
Page 2
Waiting for Spring By Melanie Erickson
They Tell Me By Shaina Nez
Bittersweet By Ruth McLain
Wicasa By Lynn Cuny
Apple Delicious By Marvin Stops
Foresight of Hope By Kari Eneas
Page 3
Where are we going? By Brian Sloan
The Perfect Recipe By Chamisa Edmo
The Loyal Desert Flower By Joey Dunn
Pejuta Wakan - Sacred Medicine By Brandon LaMere
Iron Horse By Schyler Martin
What Goes Around Comes Around By Brandon LaMere
Old Soul By Maranee Bowen
 Desirae Gagnon |
My Sweetest Victory
By Desirae Gagnon
I could say I keep to myself for the most part, that I never hurt anyone until exactly three hours ago. I had Gunner Thomas, a boy two whole grades older than me, on the ground whimpering like a cowering dog. It all started at the bus stop. Everything happens at the bus stop. I set out for a routine day as a sixth grader with my little sister, a third grader. As we walked the six blocks to the bus stop, I had to lug the huge papier mâché volcano she had made for science. She made me carry it.
The scene was horrible. My backpack with the almost-broken strap was heavy enough and my pants kept slipping down as I walked. Like always, we just minded our own beeswax.
I whined, “Geez, can I set this stupid thing on the ground?”
“No, the ground’s all wet.” Stevie pointed in front of me.
“Well, what I actually meant is, you take it.”
“No, Willie. My arms are too tired.” Stevie sat down in the soft snow, took off her hat, and started eating snow.
I know what you are thinking. You’re thinking what kind of weird name is Willie, right? Well, I was named after my uncle Willie, my all-time favorite person. He wasn’t around a lot, but when he was, it might have well been a holiday because he’s never on the same reservation more than a week at a time. My mom politely calls him a “free spirit” in front of other people.
In third grade he taught me a fighting form called “Will-ate.” He claimed he was the ultimate master, and people everywhere begged him to teach them. I believed him until a few months ago when I asked my mom about it, she laughed so hard she almost peed on herself. I know now it’s just a combination between his name and the word karate backed by a fancy sequence of Indian tortures and nipple twists all topped off with one secret move whose impact is so great that he told me to only use it when absolutely necessary.
I looked over at Stevie who had an angry look on her face.
“I suppose you’re mad at me now?” I asked.
“No.”
“Well what’s with the horse face?” My attempt to make her laugh.
“Those girls keep laughing at me.” Stevie looked up and pointed towards the group with her eyes.
My sister is a tomboy. She plays like a boy, dresses like a boy, and even has a bowl haircut like a boy. One time my grandma mistakenly bought Stevie a pair of jeans with little blue bows on them. We don’t have a lot of clothes and she would cry until she couldn’t make any more tears when she was forced to wear them. One day my dad told her that they weren’t bows, they were skull and cross bones. I’d never seen a happier girl after that.
“You got a staring problem?” I folded my arms and looked fiercely at the three girls standing in front of us. “I said, Do…you…have…a…staring…problem?” I bellowed.
“No, but you guys have a butt-ugly problem,” yelled one of the little imbeciles. “Your sister is weird. She dresses like a boy.”
“What’s wrong with being different? You’re all stupid ‘cause you act the same and wear exactly the same things. There’s nothing special about you.”
“I guess that’s what any poor kid would say.”
“Come here and say that, you bitch!” The word shot out of my mouth like a bullet. Stevie sat there with her eyes wide as she covered her mouth and laughed in disbelief.
“I’m telling my brother!” shouted the blond, pig-tailed girl and ran away.
“What are you going to do? Fat Boy Gunner is her brother,” questioned Stevie as she continued eating her snow chunk.
“Whatever, I can take him.” I said angrily, trying to convince myself.
“Good thing you learned Will-ate, huh?” Stevie patted my back.
I pointed my fingers between her eyes, “What do you mean? You’re helping me.”
A bulky farmer boy walked up to me. He had no hat covering his bright red hair and supposedly didn’t need a jacket either. He wore a scowl on his face and had a dirty snow ball in his hand.
“Who called my sister a ‘bitch’?” I could see his grip getting tighter on the snowball.
“I did.”
He took the dirty snow ball and smeared it all over my brand new white winter jacket, grinding it as if he were trying to stain every white fiber on my shoulder. I worked hard begging for that jacket; my mom wouldn’t buy it for this exact reason. My fist clenched so hard I don’t think a stress ball would have been able to withstand the pressure. Next, directing his anger towards Stevie’s volcano, he stomped, and the second he did Stevie screamed, “No!” more higher pitched than a dog whistle.
I cocked my arm back and threw it forward, sending him five steps backwards clutching his chin, and in a flash the big rhinoceros came charging towards me. I could hear the whoosh of the air he was snorting out of his nose. In the split second before he tried to push me down, Stevie came out of left field and dived towards his shins to save me from the blow. As the top half of his body sailed head-on towards me, I smiled inside because I knew exactly what move was necessary: the secret move. I drove my knee as hard as I could into his groin. His body immediately froze, he let out a screech and fell over into the fetal position. Everyone laughed in hysteria.
“Weak sauce!” I screamed at the man down. I turned around to see the bus, helped Stevie up, and brushed the brown slush off her snow pants. We walked to the line and waited to get on, my right arm around my sister’s shoulders and the bulky misshapen volcano under my left.
Desirae Grignon, also known as Waqnocikisekok, is from the Menominee Nation. She is currently working towards her Bachelor’s Degree in American Indian Studies at Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, KS. Grignon plans to help her people by “becoming an American Indian Studies teacher because the true history of Native People is misrepresented to the general population. I plan to help change this. I have always loved writing fiction, and I plan to continue to write in the future.”
Good Hair
By Jamie Figueroa
 Jamie Figueroa |
On East Fifth Street, when the rosebud trees were blooming, I sat between the legs of a woman I did not know. She towered above me on a kitchen chair, while I sat between her feet, cross-legged, on the porch of her apartment building where women lived with their children, and the government paid the rent and food. The children were scooped up by yolk-yellow public school buses and driven to school systems that would fail them. Diesel fumes blackened the air as mothers shouted obscenities. Five-year olds and nine-year olds were bastards, bitches, and mother-fuckers who had—Better behave or else! Don’t even make me say, what else!
I was nineteen and no longer had hair that swung at my waist. I cut it after the miscarriage and then regretted it. Regretting the yes, regretting the unwinding of my panties, the worn out elastic threading, but he didn’t notice—regretting the pee-strip reading positive, regretting the third month when I started to show, the smell of death, like sweetbread gone stale from inside me. Regretting not having a solid curtain of hair to hide behind.
As she braided extensions into my close-cropped mane, I prayed for all the things I thought I didn’t want. I prayed for them to come back to me.
There were two different shades of dark brown made from horsehair, and when the beauty supply shop on High Street ran out of my color, I had to go to Kingsdale Shopping Center where they only sold synthetic. The colors didn’t match. The neighbor passed by on her way to wander the park for something cheap to get happy with. Standing over us, she looked me in the eye, opened her large mouth, full of gold rimmed teeth, and said, Girl, you got good hair, why you wanna go and put that s*** in there?
I smiled but did not open my mouth. I did not open my mouth for the nine hours I sat on that porch. The cement cooled my hips as the spring day warmed up, humid and in the low 80s. It was the birth of spring in the heart of downtown Columbus. Brownstone apartments with the door open to every unit, daytime TV entertaining women who sat on their porches talking, who slept, who sat on folding chairs while the abundance of their hips flooded over the sides, who scrubbed the evidence of cockroaches from the floors on their hands and knees.
She had me pinned. The warmth of her thighs, darker than mud, encased my upper body, my brown-sugar arms pinned to my sides. Her grip kept me breathing steady. Using the sharp end of a black plastic comb she divided my hair. Her parts cut into my skin and burned. I could feel the ripping. I could hear my tight white scalp being sectioned by the sharp point of plastic. Around noon—we did not stop for lunch—she said, Baby, your scalp bleeds like nothing I have ever seen.
She put extra pomade on to stop the bleeding. It looked like Vaseline but was the color of motor oil and smelled like it had been stored in the mouths of animals that only came out at night. My blood went in and was mixed with the other blood in that dark tacky goo—her mother’s, her own, her children’s.
At the end of the day I had hair again, hair that crawled down my back in the tight twine of artificial braids, and scabs that crusted my scalp. The smell of food frying in Crisco filled the air. The children had returned from school, and several men gathered, like stray cats, on the edges of the complex. I was finished. My head throbbed, and I was hungry. My tongue was an awkward wet thing pasted to the roof of my mouth.
At the horizon, the swollen sun burned, lighting up small velvet shoots of trees—maples, birches, elms—their roots veined the crumbling cement sidewalks while their top branches had been severed by the city, so as to not interfere with the function of the power lines. They had grown to adapt, stunted and wide, while tulips and crabgrass curled and thickened at the roots. Walking to my car parked on the corner of Fifth and Morse—two blocks away from the porch and the heat and safety of those substantial thighs—I realized I had become a stranger to myself, with a head full of hair that was not my own, and all that I grieved was not the least bit closer to me.
Jamie Figueroa is from Puerto Rico and has Hispanic, Afro-Caribbean, and Taino ancestry. She is in her second year at the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, NM. “As a creative writing major, my foci are fiction and creative non-fiction, but I also have a deep appreciation for the practice and power of poetry and enjoy playing with the form.”
Indun Love
By Larry "Dave" Madden, Jr.
 Larry D. Madden, Jr. |
Johnny Miller stepped into the Lone Tree Lounge and went up to the bar. “Millie, how’s it going?” he asked the bartender.
“Long time, no see, Johnny.”
“I just can’t stay away when a beauty like you is around,” Johnny said.
“You’re always a charmer,” she said. “What can I get you?”
“A Coke for starters,” Johnny said with a wink. “Have you seen Sara today?” he asked.
Millie gave a short laugh. “Yah, she was in here earlier with that cousin of hers, Danna.”
Johnny lit up a cigarette and thought about going home, then changed his mind. He drank his Coke and headed for the pool table. Quickly racking the balls, Johnny shot out the first game in halting style, but by the time he got to his third game, shots fell one after another.
Bobby McCarthy and a couple of oilfield hands came in and ordered three pitchers. “Johnny Miller, what the hell are you doing back here by yourself?” Bobby asked.
“Shooting some stick, you game?” Johnny asked.
“Seriously, what are you doing here?” Bobby said as he racked the balls.
“I came in here looking for my wife,” Johnny said. “I figured she’d show up eventually.”
“How long has it been since you saw her?” Bobby asked between shots.
“Two days. I thought she’d come back after she calmed down, but once she gets angry, she won’t let go.”
“What was it about this time?” Bobby asked.
“I told her to quit drinking, and she said no. She says it’s too hard living with me if I’m going to be straight.”
Bobby laughed. “Yah, I remember how you used to be,” Bobby said as he calculated his next shot. “Let me tell you, when you quit partying, that was the best decision you ever made. Too bad Sara didn’t follow you.”
“Yah, but it’s been a lonely one. All I do is work, and when I get home, Sara is either passed out or still drinking,” he said. “I love my wife, she could’ve had any guy she wanted, and she chose me,” he said in a far away tone.
Bobby knew that Johnny’s wife was far from the vision of perfection that his friend held in his heart.
About that time Bobby’s buddies said they were leaving and asked if he needed a ride. Bobby decided to stay. After they left, he asked, “Brother, what are you thinking? I hope it’s not something you’ll regret later.”
“She tells me that she is going to quit someday, then asks me for money. I’ve tried saying no, but that only makes things worse,” said Johnny and then fell silent.
Bobby shook his head, “Maybe you should just let her go,” he said. “You might be better off finding another old lady. I don’t think Sara’d give a damn.”
Johnny sat quietly, and then said “What the hell do you know about it, huh?” He stood up and walked over to the pool table and stood there holding the cue in one hand and grasping the table with the other, then slowly lined up his next shot. Johnny made a bad shot and said, “I don’t mean to get mad at you, but I’m afraid I’m going to lose her.”
Bobby was just about to say, “Maybe you already have,” when the front door swung open and two women came in, followed by two bikers.
Johnny watched intensely. Bobby grabbed him by the shoulder. Johnny shrugged off the hand and stared into the other room.
“Give us a round of shots,” Sara said.
“You gonna buy Johnny one?” Millie asked as she poured the liquor. “He’s in the back watching you.”
Sara looked over her shoulder. Johnny nodded as they made eye contact.
The biker next to Sara bent down close to her ear and asked, “Who the hell is that?”
Sara hesitated then jumped up. “Baby, what are you doing in here?” she asked as she hurried across the room. Johnny stood stolidly as she threw her arms around his neck. He looked down at Sara. She looked worn out with strained lines around her mouth and blood shot eyes.
“Who are these jokers?” Johnny asked pointing his chin at the bikers.
Sara quickly responded, “Danna got to talking to them and invited them to have a beer.”
Johnny looked at the three people sitting at the bar. Their fidgeting and shifting eyes told him everything he needed to know.
Johnny walked toward the bar, Sara following closely behind. Bobby leaned against the pool table, waiting. Stepping up Johnny looked at the biker. “So,” he said, “you’re having a drink with my old lady? I’ll have one, too. You can buy it,” he said looking into the biker’s eyes. “What do you think about that?”
The biker looked away. “Sure, whatever you want,” he said.
“What’ll it be?” Millie asked.
Johnny said, “Shot of Crown.”
The bar was quiet as Millie filled the glass.
“Let’s drink,” Johnny said as he grabbed the shot glass and held it up. Sara and the others fired down their shots. Johnny didn’t drink.
Sara looked at him. “You going to drink that thing or not?” she asked.
Johnny lowered the shot glass and placed it on the bar. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a drink as bad as I do right now,” he said. Johnny looked Sara in the eye, “I don’t think I’m going to drink with you today,” he said and then walked toward the door. “Bobby, you coming?” he asked.
Bobby walked over to the bar, grabbed Johnny’s shot and slammed it down, then turned for the door.
Johnny stood in the doorway, looking back in, “Sara,” he said loudly, “come home when you are tired of this s***” and then turned and walked through the door as it slowly closed behind him.
Larry D. Madden, Jr., aka “Dave,” is a member of the Osage Nation from Pawhuska, OK. His work was published in the TCJ Student Edition in 2008 and 2009. Madden says, “Being a contestant in the TCJ writing contest has been a great experience that has bolstered my confidence greatly in my writing. I would like to thank my wife and children for their support and influence. I would also like to thank the teachers here at Haskell Indian Nations University for their help and guidance.”
The Black-Footed Ferret
By Marvin Ashley
It was a warm summer evening in the middle of the month. I came out of the burrow to greet the setting sun. The first thing I noticed in the distance was a small song bird chirping away as if there was something to tell to everyone. As I made my way out of the burrow, I stretched and took a long deep breathe. As I gained my senses back, I started walking out further away from the burrow. I sat on a nearby rock thinking about my life and my situation. I have been living in these grasslands for nearly two years. I cannot complain; this lifestyle suits me.
The life of a ferret is sleeping all day, coming out at nightfall to greet all my relatives and hunt. I have no family of my own and seem to be better off with just my closest relatives. What troubles me tonight is the memory of listening to all the older ferrets talk about the great change when I was a young kit. I just thought these guys had way too much prairie dog. Now, at almost two years of age, I am now seeing a great difference in the land. It makes me a little nervous. What if the elders were right about the change?
What if there is a great change? What would we do? Where would we go? Yeah, I understand I sleep all day, but I have noticed a change. I cannot put my claw on what is making such a change. Maybe it is the Tall Walkers; maybe they know something. As dangerous as they are, they seem to be pretty smart. Who knows what knowledge they have? From what I hear, they enjoy having ferrets as pets. During the night these creatures will set traps all over just waiting for one of us to come around and walk in. Eat us or have us as their pet, it does not matter---it’s still dangerous.
I think back to my main concern---the rumors and the “Great Change.” Too much prairie dog or not, these elders knew something would change. Something is, and I don’t like it one bit! My situation started one evening about three or four moons ago when we all went out to get some food. When night falls most animals and creatures come to a halt in life to rest and regain strength for the oncoming day.
We ferrets appear with hunger when the night comes. As I lay in the tall grass, I hear a small prairie dog moving to a nearby burrow. I leap out with the most uplifting energy to claim what I need to survive. I catch a small dog, and just before I claim its body to nourish my own, I notice this prairie dog is quite smaller.
Before the last snow fall, the dogs were a lot harder to catch. This time it was as if he wanted to be caught. As if life was not worth living.
Then I hear him speak, “Take me brother; I have no reason to carry on. My family needs the food more. I have lived my time in joy and harmony. I have children to carry my name on.”
With my claws pinning him down I look down and realized what is happening. These prairie dogs are starving! Stunned, I realized this is no way to contribute to the great way of life. Before I could ask questions, my prey has perished giving his last breath for his family and telling me to take his life with no regret. With my appetite gone, I could only say good-bye.
Before I got on my way I prayed to father sky to help me understand the situation better and for the prairie dog’s family to cope with the loss. As I made my way home I walked in sadness with a growing understanding of the dire situation.
Marvin Ashley (Navajo) is originally from Ramah, NM, and currently attending Navajo Technical College (NTC) in Crownpoint, NM. He is working towards his Associate Degree in Environmental Science. Ashley emphasizes the importance of family, “My personal interests are being at home. I would rather be at home with my family than anywhere else. Playing basketball with my son and daughter are also a high interest.”
A Wolf Named Bear
By Emanuel Red Bear III
Bear was a lonely wolf because he never liked playing with the other pups. He was always asked to play, but he would turn his head and walk away. Bear liked being alone, thinking and wondering why he was made to be a wolf.
One day, Bear was wandering around the woods when he came across a berry bush. He wondered how they tasted, so he tried a few. He loved the taste of the berries and wanted more. He looked around and saw a tree that had berries, and he decided to try and get the berries, but he was too short. So he made a wish that one day he would be able to eat the berries on top of that tree.
Many, many moons later, Bear noticed that his body was beginning to change. The rest of his clan noticed, too. His ears turned roundish, his tail turned shorter, and his fur lost its tan color. It was coming close to the end of the summer, and his clan was moving from their summer den to winter den.
One day, Bear was out looking for food when he came across a cave. In an exploring mood, he decided to explore the cave. The cave felt like it went on forever and ever. After many twists and turns, he got to the back of the cave and decided to take a nap.
While Bear was asleep, his clan became worried because Bear had never been gone this long. His clan sent out a search party and after two days came back with no luck.
What seemed like a few hours turned into months as the seasons changed from fall to winter, then winter to spring. As Bear slept, he finished his transformation.
When Bear awoke in spring, he noticed he had changed into a new animal. He also noticed his hunger, and he craved berries. As he arrived at the berry bush, he realized he was tall enough to reach the berries on top of the tree.
After, he craved fish and went to the river where he caught some fish to eat. Bear loved his new form, but he missed his clan.
From time to time Bear could hear his clan crying to the moon calling out for him. His clan missed Bear also.
This is the story of how the bear was made and why the wolves howl at the moon.
Emanuel Red Bear III grew up in Eagle Butte, SD, and is an enrolled member of the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe. He attends United Tribes Technical College (Bismarck, ND) where he is seeking an Associate Degree of Fine Arts in Graphic Arts. Red Bear is very active in his community and assisted in building the keeper sculpture for the city of Bismarck, ND, and an eight-foot snow sculpture for the Go Red campaign in front of St. Alexius Hospital there.
Kaleidoscope
By Christopher Marshall
 Christopher Marshall |
The walk home from middle school was always a treacherous one. The high school was along my path filled with freshmen yearning to prove themselves to the upper classmen by beating up on younger kids. If I made it home with just one bruise, then it was a good day.
My dad and I lived with his current girlfriend, Elise. My dad didn’t stick with his women for very long, and the longest he ever stayed with one was two years.
“I have a gift for you,” my father exclaimed as I walked into Elise’s house one day after school. It was a dreary day, a constant barrage of clouds rolling in, and the sun, like me, didn’t want to be seen by others.
When I tossed my bag on the couch, my glass pipe made a very audible sound against the metal bands of my pencils. I feared that my dad heard it, but the expression on his face did not change as he approached me. My father shadowed over me, and as a younger child I often sought refuge in his arms. After long car rides I would fall asleep in the car, and he would carry me into whatever girlfriend’s house we lived in at the time.
“Here you go, son,” My father was all smiles as he revealed his arms from behind his back and in one hand a shiny, cylinder tube. The last gift I’d received from him was a high quality, black poly-fiber duffle bag. All my worldly possessions could fit into that bag and my dad had one similar but slightly larger. They came in handy when we had to move.
“What is it, Dad?” My father didn’t say a word, and just raised the tube to his eye. Then he handed it to me. I raised it to my young, naïve eye. My initial view was dark and sterile. I turned to face the light without removing the tube from my eye. I’m sure my jaw fell when I saw them. The vibrant colors danced and whizzed about for my amusement.
“It’s a kaleidoscope,” my father said triumphantly, proud of his gift. As the colors continued to parade around for me, all I could think about was smoking a bowl and continuing to watch the colors. I stood there in Elise’s living room as if all that mattered at that moment were those colors.
A group of high school kids had gotten a hold of me one day after school. All four of them took turns punching and kicking me. Of my injuries the worst had to be my two black eyes; they were swollen almost completely shut. I couldn’t look into my kaleidoscope for two weeks. It had found a home on the dresser in my temporary room, and I would pass the time sitting on my bed starring at it, wondering just when I would be able to gaze into the euphoric colors once again.
I was smoking a bowl in my room one afternoon; my eyes were still tender, but I got the urge to look into my gift. I picked up the kaleidoscope from my dresser leaving a dust free circle on the wooden dresser top. I lay down in the archway of the door to my room. I could see downstairs into the living room and into the other adjacent rooms. The high was creeping up on me, a familiar hazy sensation washed over my senses like a warm blanket.
Not long after this, I overheard Elise and my father talking in their room one night. Marriage was a topic that was brought up numerous times. Elise was hell bent on sending me away to a boarding school. Elise ended the lengthy conversation with an ultimatum, “The only way that I’m going to marry you is if you send that little brat to a boarding school.” My father fell silent. I could hear footsteps move across the hardwood floor and the gentle click of their door closing shut. I like to think that my dad had fought the good fight.
I laid there for a long time just staring into the vibrant world found through that singular lens. My head began to spin along with the kaleidoscope. I closed my tender eyes and slowly drifted back to those punks who had beaten me. In my dreams, I could have revenge. My grip on the kaleidoscope loosened as I drifted off to sleep, falling from my hand, hitting the ground and rolling away towards the stairs. I could hear the thud and gentle roll of it as it came to a rest. Sleep had overtaken me.
There was a woman that kept popping up in my dreams. I was walking down an unfamiliar street lost and crying. I didn’t know where I was or what I was doing. Soon a woman walked up to me and asked me where I was going. She offered me food and shelter. When I told my father of this dream and described the woman to him, he said, “That woman sounds like your mom.”
Shortly after our conversation, I heard my father yell in my dreams and then loud banging noises. I arose from my slumber, wiped away the sleep from my eyes. I stood up and walked toward the staircase. I looked down and saw my father at the foot of the stairs lying on his stomach. His neck was turned completely around, and his eyes were fixed on me. He didn’t move; he didn’t make a sound; he just laid there. I too just stood there. I looked over and on the floor was my kaleidoscope bent out of shape, broken, and the colors that once filled me with wonder and amazement were revealed as only colored beads.
Christopher Marshall was born and raised in Tulsa, OK. He is a member of the Muskogee Creek Nation. He’s been writing since elementary school and is a junior at Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, KS, working to attain his Associate Degree in Media Communications. Marshall participates in the Haskell Film Club “Stories N Motion” where he has written and directed one short film and two features.
The Last Battle
By Kari Eneas
The low morning fog settled in droplets on her wolf-hide parka. The steam from her breath only created more condensation within the tiny burrow concealing her and 15 of her tribe’s best warriors. She sat silently and unmoving at the mouth of the cave. Off in the distance the song of war had begun, drifting softly on the cool daybreak breeze. As a trained warrior, she awaited the arrival of battle with anticipation.
The people of Dwinton had become increasingly aware of the restlessness in their neighboring tribes so a scout party was sent into position on top of Ferdindale, a high plateau of bedrock bordered on one side by a ferocious running river and on the other, a cliff that dropped for miles below. Ferdindale was Dwinton’s foremost advantage in battle.
A bugle horn was blown from behind the group’s hidden cave.
“Awake the men,” Raphira commanded, “the army draws near.” Silently the scout party waited for the arrival of their savage counterparts. It had been rumored that they carried within their ranks the ancient creatures spoken of in old childhood tales. Able to devour human flesh, these giant fowl-like creatures resemble human form and have very little weakness so that the elders had sealed them away hundreds of years ago.
“What do we do once the battle begins?” Trubelenor, Raphira’s best friend, signed in the old ancient language, continuous flowing movements comprised of facial expressions and hand signals. The old language was used as a way for communicating while remaining undetected. Raphira recognized a glint of fear in her dear friend’s eyes. Experienced in battle, Raphira knew what to expect and how to react, but she worried for Trubelenor who although she had excelled in training, was inexperienced.
“We attack and drive them over the edge,” Raphira instructed nodding towards the edge of the plateau. “Nature is on our side in this battle; we must not lose the element of surprise,” she cautioned the group.
The first enemy warrior appeared in front of the cave but passed them by as if he had not noticed them. A short pang of recognition hit Raphira as she identified the man as a friend she had frequently met with many summers ago as a child. She pushed those thoughts aside, rationalizing the situation. As the army continued to march, Raphira relaxed, “We have hidden ourselves well,” she thought to herself. Following closely behind the people were their dogs, an element they had overlooked. One of the dogs, a beautiful beast with a white face, stopped in front of their cave and began to sniff the air. They had been detected.
“Now!” Raphira ordered, no longer concerned with silent language. Their cover had been blown, and the element of surprise was quickly fading.
Springing from the camouflaged cave, 16 warriors emerged and began slashing their way through their enemy’s army. Without the element of surprise, pushing the army over the edge was going to be difficult.
Raphira had already slain half a dozen foes when an enemy wielding a club struck her from behind. The force, crushing the bones in her arm, knocked her to the ground. Breathless she turned to acknowledge her assailant. The sheer size outweighed its ferocity as she faced the fictional childhood creature. The smell emanating from the creature overwhelmed Raphira’s senses, taking her a few moments to assess her next move.
Without her arm she was useless with a sword, but she knew the giant’s weakness. Revealing a hidden dagger from within the folds of her cloak, she desperately plunged the dagger into her enemy’s knee, forcing it to the ground. With the creature now closer to her level and off balance, she took initiative and kicked it in the face, a loud crack resounded from the giant beneath her foot as its nose broke. Another kick and the intimidating creature fell over the cliff, screaming as he tumbled hopelessly to his death.
A familiar cry to her side caught Raphira’s attention just in time to see Trubelenor in mid-combat as another giant made its way around the hill and used its weight to crush her into the ground.
Ice shot through Raphira’s veins as the sight of her friend’s death caused her to go numb. A pain cut deeper than any weapon could penetrate, and she lost control as she became blood-drunk with rage. Ignoring the searing pain in her arm, Raphira went into a frenzy, lashing out at anything within reach. Leery of the insane warrior, the other tribesmen kept their distance.
With time turned against them, Raphira and the last seven warriors stood against a sizeable army. Picking up another sword Raphira was twice as deadly, spinning both delicately crafted swords in a beautiful death dance.
As all hopes were lost after four more brave Dwinton warriors fell, a loud war cry from the north announced the arrival of Dwinton’s main army. In the excitement and relief of the advancing army, Raphira was blind to the arrow coming from a bow to her left.
The pain in her chest exploded like fire coursing throughout her body. Raphira screamed out in pain, swinging her sword with all her might one last time, sending a surprised enemy over the edge into the raging river. Raphira’s body no longer able to hold her up, the world around her faded into darkness, and she smiled as she closed her eyes.
“I’m coming…Trubelenor,” she whispered under her breath, ready to join her beloved friend. As her body hit the ground, Raphira’s battle was finally over.
Kari Eneas is enrolled in the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes and attends Salish Kootenai College in Pablo, MT. Describing the inspiration behind her story, she said, “One night I picked up paper and a pencil and began envisioning a world of my own. As I wrote my thoughts down, they quickly began forming into an elaborate scheme. I formed a world unlike our own. It felt so exhilarating, being able to create a land and people and share them with another through a story. As plans for my characters grew bigger, so did the story. Still a work in progress, I hope to finish my novel in the near future.”