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i-need-entertainment · 3 years

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Haikyuu Boys and the moment they thought their child came from satan

Characters: Akaashi, Washio, Konoha, Kita, Suna, Ushijima, Yahaba, Iwaizumi, Futakuchi, Daishou, Numai and Iizuna

Warnings: Children, children can be cruel- please proceed with caution, the guys being called not-nice-things cause kids are (albeit cute) incarnates of satan. I say this with love, and yes I have trauma, mentions of injuries, nerf guns and shooting someone with them, pushing someone down the stairs

Akaashi Keiji:

When your son was first born, he was very much a parents-only child. He didn’t like to be held by strangers, which were anyone not his parents.

But there was one exception to that rule, and that was Bokuto.

Which was good because even as an adult I don’t think Bokuto could handle being rejected by little Akaashi.

As he got older, he slowly warmed up to more people, but he was still very shy everywhere not home.

Bokuto had been visiting for the weekend, wanting to come see his friend and his family!

Bokuto had left that morning, and your son was still not happy. He really wasn’t a difficult kid, but this weekend had been a long and active one, so he was very tired.

And seeing as he was indeed Akaashi’s son, he was also very blunt.

“Come on buddy, let’s go take a nap. I know you’re tired.” Akaashi tried to coax his son to come with him, eye brows furrowing when his son shook his head and refused.

“Why not?” his son pouted as he looked up to his father.

“Cause I want uncle bokuto…” Akaashi frowned as he kneeled in front of his son, “I know, but he’ll be back to visit soon.”

His son shook his head, “No, I want him now, I want him to tuck me in.” One of Akaashi’s eyebrows rose, his head tilting to the side abit, “Why Uncle Bokuto? Why not daddy?”

His son sighed, “Because I don’t like you, I like Uncle Bokuto.” Before he trudged off towards his room, dragging his blue blanket behind him, leaving Akaashi speechless and betrayed.

You wasted no time in assuring Akaashi that ‘he didn’t mean it!’ and that ‘he probably won’t even remember it when he wakes up’. But that didn’t do much to sooth the seething pain of your first born betraying you✌😔

Washio Tatsuki:

Washio was outside with the kids, watching over them while they played.

You were inside, talking on the phone with your mom and sipping a cup of tea/coffee.

You were flipping through a magazine, laughing at a memory your mom had brought up, when the front door burst open.

Turning around, the smile on your face dropped when you saw Washio holding your youngest (3 yr old son), who was balling his eyes out.

Apologizing to your mom you stood up from the couch, immediately walking over to them.

“What happened?? Did he get hurt?” Washio sighed as he gently handed him off to you, running a hand through his hair as he shook his head.

“I don’t know, he won’t tell me. All I know is he’s scared, but he won’t tell me what scared him.”

You frowned as you held your little boy, cradling his head against your chest as you slowly rocked back and forth, whispering words of comfort into his ear and kissing the crown of his head.

Eventually, he stopped crying, he was still a bit sniffly and had a few hiccups, but he had settled down quite a bit.

You sat down on the couch with him on your lap, Washio standing after he had brought the twins in as well.

“Wanna tell me what scared you baby?”

Your little boy looked at you, slate gray eyes shimmering with tears as he wiped his cheek before turning to look up at your husband.

He pointed a little finger, “Daddy, daddy’s scary.” He then proceeded to dive back into you, head snuggling into your neck.

You quickly looked up to see your husband's eyes widen as his jaw dropped, looking down to your son in complete and utter disbelief.

It broke your heart the way he clung to you that night, head buried in your chest as he quietly asked if he was a good father, conclusion: kids can be cruel…

Please don’t hate me, i guarantee this hurt me more than it hurt you

Konoha Akinori:

You had brought out old videos from Konoha and yours high school years, wanting to show them to your kids since they were curious. And you and Konoha had wanted to trip down memory lane anyway.

You had chosen a game of Fukurodani vs Nekoma, since those were always good ones.

Your kids were more than entertained to watch it, since dad had long hair?!?!?

They also liked seeing some familiar faces, like Komi and Saru and others obviously.

But one of your children found a specific moment a little...too funny.

It had been a rough match, and a close one as Konoha had remembered it. Akaashi had been subbed out after a ball caught his nail, Washio had very minorly twisted his ankle, and Bokuto had already gone through 2 emo modes, the 3rd not far away.

Konoha had been getting over a cold, he was no longer sick but he wasn’t at 100% yet, so he wasn’t completely in it.

Not to mention he had to make up for the absence of both Akaashi AND Washio.

It was half way through the second set, he was in the back and Yamamoto was up to spike, only Konoha wasn’t expecting Yamamoto not to hit and instead for Kuroo to come up from the back, meaning the ball his Konoha right in the face, knocking him down on his butt.

You all kinda laughed at that part, I mean, who wouldn’t? (don’t lie-)

But what you didn’t expect was a full on demonic cackle coming from your 3 year old who was sat in between you and your husband.

It wasn’t a chuckle, or even a laugh, IT DIDN’T EVEN SOUND LIKE YOUR 3 YEAR OLD!!

It was...unsettling, and when she bounced back not 2 minutes later, you snuck a glance over to your husband, who was slowly scooting away.

Kita Shinsuke:

Kita came in from the fields, closing the door and slipping off his shoes, stretching his hands above his head as he groaned.

He smiled when he heard little foot steps echoing through out the hallway, watching as his little girl ran towards him and into his arms.

He smiled wider when you walked out of the nursery, little baby in your arms as you came up to him and gave him a kiss.

Time skip to dinner that night, all 4 of you are sat at the dinner table.

Kita is sat at his usual spot on the end, you sitting to his right as his daughter sat to his left, you feeding the baby.

He put down his fork to rub his neck, fingers trying to work out the knots that had formed over the past few days.

“You know, granny and I are going to get massages this weekend, why don’t you join us? Gin said he’d be willing to watch the kids.” Kita smiled towards you as he nodded.

“That’d probably be a good idea, thanks honey”

You nodded as you continued to feed your youngest, sending silly faces and smiling at her little giggles.

Kita was about to continue eating when his oldest daughter asked him a question.

“Hey daddy? Why do you need a mass-age.” He chuckled at the way his daughter said massage, going back to eating.

“I’m goin’ cause my neck is sore sweetheart, it’s just from work, nothin’ to worry bout.”

Your daughter nodded, returning her attention to her plate as well.

“So, basically, daddy’s just really, really old.”

You turned away so your husband wouldn’t see your smile, and it worked until you snorted and started laughing.

His small glare towards you only making you laugh harder.

“It’s not bad daddy, you’re just really old, but s’okay, I still love you.”

He shook his head, eating the rest of his dinner with a pout as your daughter carried on like nothing happened and you explained why she shouldn’t say those things.

Suna Rintaro:

Suna was sat on the couch with his oldest son and daughter, watching a movie.

Obviously it wasn’t scary or inappropriate for children, I mean, it was a kids movie. But he had to admit, this one was cutting it a little close.

He would have turned it off but...it really wasn’t that bad and the kids were sitting quietly and watching it, so he figured it’d be okay.

His kids weren’t exactly squeamish, and they didn’t scare easy, but they were also only 8 and 6, so he wasn’t going to risk it.

He also didn’t want to risk it with you, he had a comfy bed and he’d prefer to continue to sleep in it😊

Sometime after the half way point of the movie, a scene came up that was questionably violent for a kids movie. There wasn’t any gore or anything, but it wasn’t a clean death either.

He reached for the remote to change it when his kids started giggling.

Not like uncomfortable awkward chuckles, I mean real and sincere laughter...AND SOME DUDE HAD JUST DIED?!?!?!

Suna texted you with a ‘please help, our children are demons’ as he tried to return his focus to the movie and not his snickering children.

Ushijima Wakatoshi:

Ushijima had just picked 3 of his kids up from school, and was taking them home.

His 2 oldests were talking to each other about school while his youngest (of the 3, not in all), just sat quietly and listened to the radio.

His oldest had asked about his day, and Ushijima told him all about his practice and the practice games they played.

The 2 oldests were entranced, and loved hearing about the sport, his middlest however did not.

It’s not like he hated the sport, but it wasn’t really for him. He much preferred martial arts to volleyball, which was fine with Ushijima, at least his son was happy!

Anyway, Ushijima and his 2 oldests started to talk all about volleyball, the middlest looking confused.

“Wait, why is it like that?” Ushijima peaked in the rearview mirror, “It’s the rules, like how there are rules in Jujitsu.”

Your middlest turned towards the window, “Yeah, but Jujitsu is cool, volleyball sucks.”

Ushijima almost crashed, and it wasn’t long before he got home, pulled into the drive way, parked, and turned to face his middlest with a face that said ‘where did I go wrong…?’

His son just turned to face him, “What?” Ushijima shook his head, turned off the car and headed inside.

When he got inside and walked past you, all you heard was him muttering ‘no child of mine will say that about…’ as he headed straight for the bedroom to lie down.

Yahaba Shigeru:

Yahaba was walking around the living room, sorting through the mail as he separated bills and important things from junk mail.

He had been working in his office all day, doing paper work and what not, and right now he had his ear buds in since he was technically in a work meeting. (muted with the camera off cause how else do you do things virtual?)

So he was completely unsuspecting of his two sons as they snuck up behind him, both holding nerf guns in their hands as they crept closer and closer.

Yahaba had paused, slipping his phone out of his pocket as he started to talk to his coworkers about something when all of a sudden the unmistakable whirring of the automatic nerf gun started.

Before he could even turn around his sons had open fired right on their dad, Yahaba yelping as he started to run, grabbing a pillow from the couch as he fumbled with his phone, desperately trying to mute himself between being pelted with nerf bullets.

“ACK- hEy! You two! Quit it!-” He had made himself a shield out of the couch cushions, finally getting his phone and apologizing to his giggling coworkers, he wasn’t in trouble obviously, the distraction and entertainment was a gift to them all.

The meeting then finally ended, and Yahaba turned to find his sons searching for bullets, him shaking his head as he walked towards them.

“Nice try boys, but I collected the bullets as you shot me, so there’ll be no more of that.” His youngest shrugged as he then decided to instead throw the toy at Yahaba, his oldest then hitting him with it as he shrieked and made his way to the master bedroom.

Iwaizumi Hajime:

You and Iwaizumi had 3 boys.

3 boys who were close in age and high in energy, never a great combo when they’re stuck indoors because of the rain.

You had been taking a nap due to a weather-related head ache, while Iwaizumi did some work from home.

He had heard some questionable sounds coming from the basement, but he didn’t pay them any mind, figuring they were just being kids.

That is until he heard a distinct ‘ow!’ from his middlest.

Walking down the stairs he could hear his youngest chanting something like ‘fight! Fight! Fight!’ which obviously made him move faster.

He rounded the corner to see his oldest and middlest in the middle of a circle, each with one of his boxing gloves on as they circled each other.

“The heck are you guys doing??” They all turned to face him, that was when he noticed they had drawn on themselves to, what he guessed, look like pro-wrestlers, the basement was also a mess.

“Having a cage match, it’s 2 for 2 so far, this round decides the world-class-gladiator-basement-fight-to-the-death match, and the loser gets sacrificed.”

He almost let it go as his boys were being normal boys, until the last part hit him.

“Wait- what?! Sacrificed to who?!” His son giggled, “I don’t know, it’s only pretend, daddy.” Deciding he could no longer bear their empty stares he made them clean up the basement before spending the next 1 ½ hours cleaning off marker.

Futakuchi Kenji:

You guys had taken your 3 girls to the park to have a play-date/picnic with Aone and his wife/kids.

You were sitting and chatting away with his wife, while Aone and Futakuchi talked about their high school days, Aone gladly telling Futakuchi’s embarrassing moments.

Your youngest daughter was 3, and so far it has proven to be the worst of any age they had experienced yet.

Or rather...he had experienced yet.

For you, she was a perfect little angel, sweet and giggly, super cuddly and very much a momma’s girl.

But towards her daddy? She held nothing but malice. She would often smack him and run away to you giggling, or scrunch her nose up at him when he tried to get a hug or kiss.

You guys didn’t know what brought on this sudden hatred, but you were sure it would pass someday.

Your baby girl had waddled up to the picnic blanket and plopped herself down on your lap, playing with some nearby grass as the more adults continued to talk.

Deciding to try his luck, Futakuchi got the attention of your daughter.

“Hey, why don’t you come sit in Daddy’s lap.”

Your daughter turned towards him and shook her head, “No.”

Futakuchi pouted, “Why not?” Your little girl huffed as she only turned her head this time.

“Because I don’t even like you dada.” She then plopped her head back down on your chest while you and Mrs. Aone started laughing and Futakuchi’s face showed only pain.

“hEy! I helped make you, the least you can show me is some gratitude!” Your youngest only stuck her tongue out at him, causing an audible chuckle out of Aone and more pain for Futakuchi.

Daishou Suguru:

When you and Daishou had your first child, your daughter, you never had a hard time getting her to sleep.

But for some reason, lately she had been getting out of her bed in the middle of the night, with seemingly no reason.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Daishou loves his little girl.

But sometimes...kids can be creepy, and yours were no different.

When she woke up at these awful hours of the night, she’d just go to you guys’ room and...stand there...she wouldn’t say anything, just stand there with her teddy bear in one arm and the other hanging limply at her side.

It was almost 3 am, so naturally Daishou had long since been asleep.

He had just rolled over to the edge of the bed to grab some water when he almost screamed.

Standing right there was his daughter, just standing there, watching him.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes as he took a deep breath.

“I- go back to sleep, it’s late.” Your daughter just nodded, turned around, and walked out of your room and back into her own.

Heart still beating out of his chest he got his sip of water, laid back down and tried to go to sleep, which proved difficult with the blank stare of his child still stuck in his mind.

Numai Kazuma:

You, Numai, and your 4 children had taken a road trip as your big summer vacation.

Currently, you were all driving through this cute little town on the out skirts of one of the cities.

Two of your boys were sleeping, one reading his picture book, and your youngest and only girl was looking out the window.

You had taken a turn driving while Numai had taken a small nap, although he had woken up a little bit ago.

You guys had gotten to the outskirts of this small town, and were coming up on a cemetery.

Your daughter was 4, so she knew what a cemetery was. You guys weren’t too worried, she had grown up with 3 older brothers so things like bugs or ghost stories never really bothered her too much.

You and Numai had started talking to each other when you heard your daughter speak up.

“Hey mommy, hey daddy,” You took a peak into the rear-view mirror, your husband turning to look at his daughter.

“Yeah baby? What is it?” Your husband asked as he smiled towards his little girl.

Smiling, she turned towards the window and pointed to the cemetery.

“That’s where all the dead people are.”

Numai blinked as he just nodded and turned back around in his seat, slumping down as his eyes held a certain ‘deer in headlights’ look, slowly turning to see you as he pointed towards your daughter than to you.

“That came from your genes, not mine-” He winced when you slapped his arm, shaking your head as you too tried to erase the utter creepiness you were feeling after that.

Iizuna Tsukasa:

Iizuna yawned as he walked out of the master bedroom, having just woken up from a 3 hour nap.

Today had been a particularly intense game, which they had won, but had left him exhausted.

You were downstairs in the bathroom, working on washing the magic-marker your other children had put there off of your 10 month old baby while your 2 oldests were upstairs in time out where you left them.

Iizuna walked through the hallway, smiling as he heard his two oldests talking and playing. Or at least, it sounded like they were playing.

Recently, your oldest, your daughter who’s barely 4 and your son who just turned 2 had been bickering all the time, fighting over toys and had resorted to pinching.

When you had caught them and put them in time out, Iizuna was dead asleep, so he didn’t know his kids were supposed to be in timeout, and at the ages they were at it wasn’t unusual to see them play together.

Turning the corner his smile dropped as he sprinted towards his kids, watching in horror as his oldest pushed the middlest down the stairs, simply watching as her brother tumbled as Iizuna lost 10 years of his life.

Quickly scolding his daughter he ran down the stairs and carefully grabbed your son, who thankfully had no injuries, heart beating out of his chest as he sighed.

You, having heard tumbles and then tears, speedily rounded the corner with your now marker-free child in your arms.

It was safe to say neither of you knew how to respond to that, your oldest simply waving from the top of the stairs as Iizuna now has a significant amount of trauma.

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nadin-bayramova-blog · 5 years

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Integration - The Danger of a Single Story of Africa

The memory of me moving to Africa the first time, never leaves the back of my mind. At times I look back and realize how different my perspective of moving to a foreign country was, and how ignorant my thoughts might have been before the move. I had the kind of behavior or attitude about moving to Africa, that I now would judge someone else for having. Being an expat family, we like to say we are immune to change. Change has been a huge part of my life, since the age of 8, when I first moved from Azerbaijan to America. Moving, as time progressed, became a part of my identity. As expats, moving to another country so suddenly should never come as a surprise, yet this was our first big move, to such an “exotic” location.

Living in Texas at the time, the pressure to fit in was what motivated me daily. The pretty girls from average families, that had never been out of the country, were the majority. If you were not one of them, you felt like a fish out of water. At first not speaking English, not having a family pet, our car not being a truck, my confusion for country music and for the need of big backyards, made it hard for people not to view me as different. As time went on there was a shift in my mindset. I slowly faded into the crowd. I became much more close minded, especially about the people and different cultures around me. I no longer stood apart from the majority, the only difference in me being, that I still noticed the people who fell between the cracks, since I was one of them once. People often say that to make it in America, you need to leave your past behind and start a completely new life. Looking back at it now, a part of my true self was lost those short few years. I can now confidently say that I definitely regret my attitude back then.

Although this was a big turning point for me, it didn’t last very long. Staying true to the expat way of life, I didn’t get to feel comfortable for too long, as the time for our biannual moving tradition once again. When my parents said we were moving to Africa, my first reaction was shock. “Africa? How? But will we even go to school? What about a house? How will we go without a car?!” I thought.

I laugh at this now, but could you blame me? I was so oblivious to the world around me, given that for the last few years I lived in a tiny bubble of ignorance.

After the initial reaction, The first thing I did was check the World Atlas. After looking at “Africa” for a bit I realized I never even asked the specific country we would be living in. After finding out it was Luanda, Angola, I was a bit confused. Last time I checked that was in Asia. After finding out the difference between Mongolia and Angola, I laughed it off simply. “Who wouldn’t have mistaken the two?” I thought. I now feel a little embarrassed sharing that, since I don’t even have an excuse for not knowing even basic African Geography.

In a way, I was a bit worried with what I was about to experience. Having to go through the same adaptation process would have been even more unpredictable in a completely different country. Also, now being 10 years old, this was a big deal to me. As the date got closer, my worries grew. I began to question my safety living in Angola (based on the conflicts in Sudan), the language barrier (even though my school would be in English), the cultural difference (as if the abundance and contrast was something I couldn’t handle), everything that a cautious tourist (which with my experience, I definitely wasn’t) considered before traveling abroad. I remember being rather stressed, yet not even doing any research to educate myself on life in Angola. I was solely reliant on my perception of Africa, from what I heard on the news, which was sometimes playing in the background at our house, and from scares my peers liked to joke about (like living in a hut or becoming malnourished). I was set on one opinion, that I would absolutely hate my life in Angola. Reflecting on this now, I realize just how completely, foolishly, and obviously wrong I was.

As we packed our several hundred boxes, from all the material items that were plentiful and always available in the United States. We left our lifestyle behind, and without looking back, flew business class seats provided by British Petroleum to our new home.

My first impressions were the following.

The airport was not the crowded huge building I had been used to, but rather small empty one. The African climate instantly caught me by surprise. I did not expect the sun to hit so brightly, and the humidity to be so high (almost as high as in Texas). The shuttle from the airport, felt like my personal African tour bus. A horizon of slums, and bright red mud, reminded me of another planet. Slowly the slums transformed into tall palm trees, and gated fences. Rows of modern houses stood close to one another, as I simply admired. Where were all the huts that I was promised? When we arrived home, our fridge was already stocked abundantly, with fruits the colour spectrum of a rainbow. Coral pineapple, purple passion fruit, bright orange mangoes, were a sight to see, given that I was so used to typical granny smith apples. The mosquito net wrapped around my new bed, resembled girly room decor, or bed curtains, that I had wanted so badly before. I slept so deeply that night. School was what came next. In my old school, my friends had worried for me. “ Will you even get an education?” “ How will you even learn with the whole town in one classroom?” “ It will be taught studying in Africanese”, they all said, with full and portraying confidence. I wish to show them, just how much, they got wrong about African education. Yes, African patterns did decorate the walls of the several classroom buildings, but compared to the crowded public schools in the US, this was a sight to be seen.

Students gathered at the sand filled playground, a swimming pool, and a football pitch, was available always throughout the school day, something that I never saw in Texas. Not only was I feeling so entirely grateful for moving to Luanda, but also felt guilty for choosing to believe my naive friends before, and so obliviously feeding into the African stereotypes.

I want to spread a message, that not only will change bring good to you, but change will also bring the often unexpected. A person only learns from new experiences, and that is the unique beauty of integration.

#blog post #stereotypes #danger of a single story

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wildflowerfiction77 · 5 years

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The Scribe

By Daniel Vera

8/10/2019

The Dead

I am five years old. I am from a decimated people, living in a generation of incarceration. I see my family living in alcoholic dreams and government given drug illusions. I am ten years old. I see my cousins running as fast as they can, being swallowed by metal machines and microwave t.v. dinners. I watch cartoons of cowboys killing Indians and Ronald Reagan eating money. The schools tell me I do not exist. I am fifteen years old. My father overdoses on hate and my mother is bought by John Wayne. I wave goodbye to the cemetery of stone crosses that house the dead and living dead that were people I once knew. I am twenty years old. I have been incarcerated by devils, red and white. I watch the water drip from the ceiling cracks from broken cell walls. It is a slow drip. It echoes across the chambers of the forgotten and unloved. I sit in the darkened square. I write down the story in my mind, one day at a time. I am the Scribe.

The white devils sailed their ships to the lands of my ancestors. They brought the winter death with them. From their pigs, cows, rats, goats, horses, chickens and black plague, we were sent to hibernate for 500 years. In our slumber, they raped our women, enslaved our men and stole our children. They told us that we were wrong, and they were right. They told us they were strong and we were weak. They told us that we did not exist and that they were God. They changed our stories and then changed them again. We believed them. The fire has become cold. The souls of the living have been isolated to the corners of nothing. We all bleed in nothing and breath in the ashes of truth: a plastic and metal world.

They asked me if I killed her. My own cousin. They found me in the field where she was lying dead. I had the knife that pierced her bloodless body. They did not believe me or did not want to believe me. Either way, I sit in this cell waiting for death like many ancestors before me. I once had a dream. I once had a hope to change this world. The ones that like the world the way it is, made sure I wouldn’t. From small town to big city, they are the devils that walk the earth. They consume everything in their path. They feed upon the souls of the weak. They separate the families of the chosen and strong. The ones gifted with the destiny to bring in the new season are in danger from the trolls of the Golden Kingdom of TAR. I have been given the gift of sight. The ability to travel through realities. To live in the future and the past at the same time. I do not fear death. I have already died. I write this story down for others to understand.

Vision Quests

I find visions in the day. I see the blurry lines of happiness. Families running across open lands. Fields of many bright colors under a shining sky. The bright fluffy clouds float slowly above as a reminder that we are a small part of mother earth. The scent of Spring flowers that fill the air are carried by soft winds. The rivers flow mightily and the animals roam the earth linking the circle of life as it was created to be. In life and death we find meaning.

I awake in a cement street. The warmth of the sun still smolders in the tar filled ground. The smell of metal garbage bins, empty bottles of booze and old fast food linger. They mix and ferment in the stagnant evening skies of another city. I hear people walking, cars driving, sirens howling. The chatter of groups of people in rooms fade in and out. A dog barks in the distance. A woman yells in a drunken stupor. A roaring of machine motorcycles criss cross. Money exchanges hands.

In the dirt, my people live in tin cans and rusted bowls. The drug dealers scurry and feed. They leave trails of blood and tears. The eyes are sunken, the pupils are dilated. The lips are dry and cracking. The noses are dripping. The bones are showing. The diapers are unchanged. The T.V. channels are stuck on static. The sink is full of weeks of dishes. The empty wallets and bank accounts are mixed with filled ashtrays and casinos. We fight with each other. We hit each other. We scream as loud as we can. We break glass and dry wall. Most importantly, we break each other.

There are the healers. They try the best they can. They try to make peace. They give their time to listen. They give their hearts to love the unloved. They give their hands to lift the others from off the ground. They can only give so much. They are tired. They have lost their voice from pleading to God every night and day to give mercy to his children. To hear the prayers of the reservations. For 500 years, God has let the snow fall. It is a cold winter and fever has taken many lives before their time. The healers still work feverishly. The warriors are drunk and burdened. The wise are sleepwalking and are speaking incoherently. Only the thieves thrive. Only the cowards survive. They thrive and survive from the blood of their brothers and sisters. It is winter.

I then see a light. At first it is just a glow in a far distance of space. A flicker. As the light strengthens, it grows in brightness and size. The light breaks through the dark clouds like the sun over mountains in sunrises, filling landscapes and eyes. We can see each other and ourselves. From the slumber we yawn and stretch. Gathering consciousness and cleaning ourselves in daily rituals, we move into works for community and greet each other for first times. Many eyes and feet cross the green earth. Many mouths drink of pure water and breath fresh air. Many hearts are opened and born or reborn.

Love and Hate

Growing up in a small town next to the city, my siblings and I would play in the fields. I had two brothers and two sisters. I was the middle child. I learned how to be tough and sensitive at the same time. The town was a farming town in which life was relatively slow. Fighting each other in the neighborhoods was a daily ritual. My parents moved here to leave the reservation. We would visit it often to see our relations and to hold ceremonies. Most of that changed when drugs and alcohol became another family member.

The late nights were filled with brutal fighting after nights of drinking gatherings. I would often find cut straws on small mirrors next to the dozens of beer bottles left on the table. My younger brother and sister would eat cereal while us older three would clean up. Our father would sometimes leave for weeks. The change was gradual, but it became another tragic story of the red man. No one could have believed that my older brother, Warren, would have met such a tragic death. Our family was never the same after that.

They said it was suicide, but some of us had our doubts. Warren and I would play football every day. His dream was to be the all star running back for the Red Skins. He would always work at any odd job that would help him achieve this goal. The neighborhood stores, paper routes, at the school, mowing lawns and walking dogs. He was an inspiration. He made enough extra cash every month to pay his way to the school functions to be part of the football teams. When they finally gave him the starter position, he became the star of the town. They called him the red lightning bolt. By his senior year, scouts from colleges and even the NFL were coming around and talking to his teachers and our parents.

Something went wrong though. The better he did, the worse my father became. As soon as Warren had gotten his first paper route, our father and him stopped talking to each other. He never told me why, but we all new that they had gotten into an argument about something. My mother tried her best to keep the family together, but that’s when the party was brought to our house nightly. My parents were getting extra money, but it was something that we ignored. Mayra, the oldest said this had something to do with Warrens death. I wasn’t sure, but I noticed that he had started dating a girl, Julie. Her ex was affiliated with one of the larger Mexican gangs. I’m not sure how they were connected, but Warren wouldn’t snap under pressure. He worked too hard to achieve his goals and his dreams were all coming true.

That year was when he was offered a full scholarship to the State University along with a stipend for rent and food. He was set. The one thing that he did sacrifice was his education. He had poor reading and math skills. That’s how he and Julie met. She was a blond girl from “The Hills”, where the rich people lived. She must have been a trouble maker with her family, since she liked dark skinned guys. Warren and I went to different High Schools since he was able to get into the one with the better football team. Mayra and I were happy at the school we were at. She was somewhat of a teachers pet, and I was fine just hanging out with my group of friends. We were into cars and would spend most of our time between working on them and playing video games.

Into the Unknown

I listened to the sirens as they got closer. I was home alone watching some Twilight Zone marathon for Christmas. My mother had taken the family to Granny’s for dinner. Warren had went to his girlfriends house to meet her parents. I don’t know where my father was, until the cops knocked on the door. They asked if I had seen him. I said no. They wouldn’t tell me what it was about, but told me to have my mother call them when she got in. They were staying the night to open presents in the morning. I figured my Dad was in the drunk tank or did a robbery. Either way, I was used to the dysfunction that has become my family. This was a mild night. I decided to play my guitar while the T.V. played reruns of the episodes I already watched from the year before.

It was around 2am when I heard some rustling in the living room. I heard my brother and father talking. I didn’t feel like dealing with it, but listened just in case things started to escalate. Before anything happened, the front door slammed and I heard Warren’s car drive off. I didn’t hear anything else until the next morning. Warren was at the dinner table eating some cereal. He seemed like he was in a normal mood. I asked him about Dad, and he said it was the same old thing. He had just stopped by to get some stuff. I told him that the cops were looking for him, and he looked surprised. After that, his mood became pensive. I could tell it was a good time to leave him alone and not push any buttons. I went along my day and noticed that Warren used the last of the milk. We had just bought some Coco Puffs and I wasn’t gonna eat them with water. Since my bike had a flat, I made Warren drive me to the store before he took off to his girlfriends again. On the way I decided to ask him about his new girl.

He told me about how they met and how nice she was. I guess she was a cheerleader and her Dad was the Mayor. That was kind of weird, but he seemed to really like her. I guess his football status had made him eligible to hang out with the elite. I was glad that he and I had the opportunity to finally talk. It seemed that so many things had been happening in our family that started getting in the way of actually spending time together. I told him about a girl I met in class as well. She was a Mexican girl that just transferred to the school. She started hanging out with our group and we were hitting it off. After he dropped me off at the house, that was the last time that I saw him.

Mayra had told me that night about mom and dad splitting up, and dad had moved out to go live with a girl he was shacking up with on the Rez. Truthfully it was better than having to hear them drunk fighting at night. Maybe this way, life will get better in the long run and there might be some hope for the last two to have a somewhat normal life. Jauna and Bennie were the rug rats. They were the twins that couldn’t have been more different. Jauna was passive, yet devious and Bennie was hyperactive, yet an honest and simple soul. They gave my mom plenty of trouble to deal with. Mayra helped her out when she could, but spent most of her time studying at the school library or hanging out at one of her after school clubs, like student government. I didn’t understand her. How are you going to work for free? We got the call on Christmas day.

The Library of Dreams

It was a hot summer night. The trees were swaying with the mid west wind, taking the edge off the humidity. Just right for some beers and lake night swimming as we passed the bottle of tequila around and a joint. There were five girls and five guys in our group, most of us native or at least half native. Maria was the Mexican girl that had moved to town and became my girl. We had been seeing each other for about a year now. My life had changed a lot. I look at the stars and see faces. I used to look at the sky and see just opened air. I kiss Maria and we all take turns singing as loud as we can. We howl at the moon. We sleep under the night sky and I have a dream.

I have the same dream over and over. I am running on the water, until I notice it and then begin to float in the air. I am calling my brother to throw me the football, but he doesn’t answer. I see my family gathering around a casket. They are dressed in dark suits and black dresses. They are crying. I try to talk to them but I can’t speak. I can’t focus on the faces nor who is in the casket. Then we are in the graveyard and I am clawing at the dirt. It is my brothers grave and no one is there but me. The red and white flowers fill the floor, but I still claw until Maria touches my shoulder and guides me away. She tells me to find the road. I don’t understand what she means. And usually I wake up about now, but tonight seems to be different. We start to dance in wedding clothes. At first it seems like family and friends are gathered around at our wedding. Then I notice the faces of the people. I do not recognize them. Some of them look like police men and politicians. Maria also changes. She turns in to Julie and I seem to be Warren. I see us dancing and eating cake. We have children and a house on a farm.

I am running. This time it is a football game. It seems so real. I can feel my breath in the cold morning air. I can hear the crowd in the stands cheering. The collisions like thunder around me, as I break free over and over again. I have the football in my arms as the sky throws down rain and lighting. A red lightning bolt hits the field and I awake.

Talking in Receivers

I have lived past Death Row. Somebody wanted me dead. Somebody set me up. Somebody killed my brother. Somebody has killed my cousin. Somebody has left many dead bodies in their fight for power. Somebody has let the dead travel to the world of the living. I am the dead here to find that somebody. I am the prayers of a million people that have died waiting for the scales of justice to balance itself. I cannot sleep the long sleep. I am only here for a short time. My soul remembers all the pieces left for me. Now my hands must put them together.

The beginning of the hunt starts at the reservation. This is where we were betrayed. Someone here bloodied their hands, and tried to wash them clean with more blood. Here is where I find my prey that has preyed upon my family. His name is Marco. He is the seller of Meth. He is the white mans dog. He is the stealer of souls. I know him too well. He lives at every gathering of lost souls. He lives at every gathering of the weak and unloved. He fattens his belly with the misery of the community he lives in. He takes and takes, and even though his sins are small compared to the sins of his maker, I begin with him.

There was a trail that he has left. It is still smoldering and burning. I smell the blood and begin crawling through the dark souls that live in the night. They are gathered at the tavern to share and take from each other. The music fills the dirt and rusted metal and old wood surroundings. The drunken laughter and loud callings of the people inside run and run to find each other. Like always, the pack of vicious wolves on motor cycles claim their territory. He is among them. They all grow fat from the blood of the reservation. Later I will find the corrupt Tribal leaders that allow these monsters to feed, but for now, death will be satisfied with ten more and hell will have its doors open. I can feel the evil before I walk in.

I am dressed in ancient regalia from a people long ago. I am the prayers of my bloodline from over 500 years. We call out. These lost souls will find redemption when they are released from their earthly prison. Two await for me at the door. Their bodies burst sober and skin turn ice cold when they see the monster they created emerge from the shadows. Silently the bodies fall to the floor as my ancestors blades drip crimson. The rest of the party begins and we dance.

Guns fire and bats and chains break upon my sun gold skin. I travel from the after world and re emerge in shrouds and corners of shadows. I use the power of the sky, water, fire and earth to make death rain. Lightning and tidal waves leave these lifeless bodies at my feet. I see Marco. I ask him who gave the orders. He sits in a state of shell shock and then reaches for his 9mm. I let him shoot. He does until it is empty. He then begins to mumble something that sounds like prayers and repentance. It is too late for repentance from me. That is not my job. I am only here to collect and tell this story. The story of the loveless and heartless. He gives me a name I recognize. I take his heart. The spirit of the wolf comes to me, and we leave to cross the plain of the living to find answers from the waters and leave alms for the receiving dead. This is our duty for the balance must be met, even by us. We are joined by the other venturing spirit animals as they surround me. They give me their power as we meet in the place between life and death.

Mailbox

Braxton Mahohn Jr. was the Mayor of the small town. The cattle ranches and farming industry were overcasted on this August night. A young woman quietly whimpers and sniffles salty tears that have dried out from the weeks of grief and heart broken pain. She has lost someone whom she didn’t mean to love, but couldn’t help fall for the proud, strong soul and energy that he gave to everyone that knew him. She thinks upon his kind gestures when he was courting her. She remembers their late night phone calls and how he would always promise to write her name in lights in the Hollywood night sky. She loved movies and one day wanted to move to California to become an actress. A foolish dream, she knew, but when around him, people felt that they could do anything, and their dreams were only steps away.

She lays her golden locks in her tear drenched pillows. Uncaring, she lays for hours and days. In her hands she clenches the locket that he gave her at their first anniversary. A golden heart with the simple word inscribed; love. They would go on long car drives to watch sunsets and night skies. She was caught up in his magic, even though she wasn’t supposed to. When he died, she couldn’t believe it. Since then, she hasn’t been the same. Her father has brought in doctors to oversee her mental health. They give her a new drug to help with her anxiety attacks. Little round blue pills... they look like pearls.

Being the only child, she was used to being overprotected and living wiht strict rules. This was part of the reason she rebelled in the first place. She was attracted to the dangerous life when she started High School. She would hang out with the troublemakers, often giving them access to places they wouldn’t normally have access to. She learned their ways and adapted to the wild life. When she met Warren, she was supposed to ruin his reputation and get in trouble with the law. She never agreed to help kill him.

Her father looks through a slightly opened door into the room at the broken girl. He lightly closes the door without making a sound. As he walks down the hallway accompanied by his servants, he gives the order to double her medication dose for the remainder of the week. He will have important business to attend to and doesn’t want her to get into any trouble while he is away. The mother overhears this and in her pill induced haze, summons the strength to protest with a flying cocktail glass across the room. It nearly connects to the mans head, but his military training has not failed him, even in his later years. He orders the same for her, except they secretly supply her a daily dosage in her drinks. Even with the current state of his family, he still loves her, although he finds his pleasure in other ways.

As he readies to leave, he enters the limousine and verifies his appointments. One is to ensure his pleasure packets in Indonesia and Chicago. His young Italian assistant, Stephano, shows his jealous disapproval, but restrains himself and verifies that all things are in order. The phone rings from the President. He does not pick it up and simply says that he will see him when he gets their to Indonesia, and proceeds to his flight and consumes a pill himself. It is a new world, yet an old world. The Scribe writes down a new dream while he dreams. In it are many faces known and unknown, some friends and some foes. He sees his brother and Maria. He sees fire and water clashing. He awaits in the clouds, in the night sky, in the rivers, in the blood of the earth. He waits.

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