Big Dan rests thoughtfully in silent scrutiny, a cigarette dangling from pursed lips, with a mind to the packing of the mules and the proper balance of trinkets and toys of little boy campers and fishermen who have pressed their gear upon him once again.
His mind is not upon them for the moment, but upon ropes and ties and stresses and strains in proper sequence, for he detests the thought of a dropped load or even the time to re-cinch one, when a previous inspection could have avoided disaster. Continue reading
Red sun blisterin’ hot, dryin’ out morning dew. No money till pickin’ time. Plastic sheets coverin’ sulfury-smellin’ dirt, screechin’ underfoot. Findin’ her place, bucket in hand. Endless rows of plump fruit fixin’ to swamp her. Mr. C. livin’ in her head, pushin’. “Hey, girl, you late. No profit in dallyin’. Finish yer row, have somethin’ special for ya tonight.” Seen Mr. C’s special before; not bitin’ today. Continue reading
I remember as a boy, when we could smell the Buffalo People coming. Their scent was carried on the south wind, and there was no mistaking it. They came into our country in the Moon of the Falling Leaves, and my friend, Crow Boy, was always the first to know. He would run through the village shouting the good news, then rush to my father’s lodge, where we dropped our trousers and slid into our wolf skins. Then we would show ourselves to Grandfather, waiting for his approval and permission to make our tryst with the Buffalo People before the hunting teams could get started. Continue reading
You’ll come with me to the mountain
Where wind is gentle and sweet
We’ll scent the Aravaipa
Where river and flowers meet Continue reading
Green green fields washin’ over him’ Green leaves, green stems smotherin’ the red fruit.
Spittin’ blood, wipin’ sweat, cadgin’ the life outa him.
“Go boy, you two boxes behind,” say Red.
Hands crampin’, fingers blisterin’, nails splittin’, sun pourin’ down. Gotta fill them boxes, gotta rid that debt.
“You full up, boy; heft that box, heft it up,” say Red.
“Tired’a Red, sick’a Red, wishin’ him dead. Continue reading
A bitch on a board. Rise, drop, hot wheels singin’, the wind in her hair. Ready for Scarecrow man – break on your board, slide under the skinny arm. Calls her Sugar, wants her sugar, just like Uncle Boris. Not about to get it. Pump, pump, glide down Center Street. Trash day on Maple. Keds nailed to the board, still light as air. Kickflip over the tipped barrel. Knew she could. Pump, pump, glide.
Home now, late again. Pop the board. Tail a little scuffed, just like hers. Too much ridin’, maybe. Continue reading
I open the Red Badge of Courage and take a look through the first chapter. I don’t get it. Even when I study the words real hard, some of them don’t make sense. There is a big list at the bottom of every page that tries to explain the meaning of the stupid words that the writer is using. Words like “keer” and “sech” and “kilt,” that aren’t even English words. After awhile, I finally get it that people in those Civil War days didn’t talk the way we do now.
It takes me about two hours to get through the first chapter. Even though I’m really tired, I think I have an idea of what’s going on. These soldiers belong to the Union Army and they are all waiting for the battle to start. And a boy called Henry Fleming has joined up and is stuck into this regiment. Henry is all excited about the glory of war and how great it will be to go into battle for his country. But I don’t get that because the soldiers are fighting the Confederate guys who are also American soldiers. And even Henry’s Mom seems to want him to go, because she tells him not to do any “shirkin.” I looked up that word in the glossary and it means that he always has to be brave and do his duty by killing the enemy soldiers. I wonder if my Mom would ever want me to go to war like Henry’s Mom.
I toss the book on the table and crap out on the bed. I don’t even know if I’ve really learned Continue reading
Only a few hundred paces from Black Wolf’s camp, Lozen returns from her morning prayers. The woman warrior pauses, taking in the movement in the trees. She sniffs at the cool air. There is an unnatural silence in the woods – the mourning doves are not cooing, the squirrels are not chirping. And where are all her animal friends that scurry about her feet? Continue reading
Mangus prepared for his escape. He slipped the Bowie knife into the sheath at his side, then filled his backpack with the pemmican Mother had just finished making. He lifted the pack and threaded his arms through the straps. After slinging the water skin over the pack, he bent and scratched out a note:
Mother, don’t believe what the police tell you. I am going to Continue reading
If you’re looking for a solid summer love story with music that penetrates your heart, try Begin Again, from writer/director Jim Carney.
One night while drinking at a bar, Dan Mulligan (Mark Ruffalo), a struggling record producer, encounters Greta ( Keira Knightly), a fiercely independent songwriter. Though Greta’s guitar-playing and vocals evoke yawns from the audience, the lyrics of her broken love affair speak directly to Dan’s own spiritual crisis. In a powerful and enchanting scene created by Carney, Dan produces Greta’s song in his head, complete with instrumental backup. Continue reading