Photo by Melissa Michal. Sepia toned image of tall grasses and flowers waving in the wind.
Seven of them stood in the twilight. The one building left from the schools rose in front to be outlined by clouds and a gray sky fading into black. The brick expanded to the east and to the west, one long, large block of rooms and rotting wood. (Read more in the Fall 2021 issue of SFRA.
The lake draws small ripples at the shore. Pines in the forest across the way sway slightly. Slapping twice against the window pane, a tattered shade moves off-beat to the curtains that billow toward and away from the long grass. Nothing else stirs except unseen robins singing close by. (Read more in the Winter 2019 Issue 7 of Arkana. Also listen to the recorded version here!)
On Sundays, Phillip would walk into church, scuffed knees, his shirt backwards or untucked at times, and smelling like the fields. I don't know if it was due to slowness or shyness or sheer dumb luck. But Phillip was just full of ignorance. He would walk right up to the front pews and plop himself before the pulpit. (Read more in the Summer 2010 issue of The Florida Review, also included in Living on the Borderlines)
"On Writing 'Ghost Hunt' and Preparing My Own Spirit"
We who are Indigenous have been erased in the academy, Hollywood, education, politics, and technology. Any space that you can imagine, we do not exist because oftentimes, even if you find us there, we have been interpreted, wrangled, rearranged, and crafted to fit Euro American ideologies, even though most often those are entire fabrications. (Read more in the Fall 2021 issue of SFRA.)
The belts chur around and around empty until the faithful plunking sounds release black bags upon black bags. They circle, a continuous movement that reveals nothing familiar to our waiting eyes. Three people find their bags. Twelve of us stand looking at each other and wondering. (Read more in the Spring 2015 issue of Yellow Medicine Review, also to be included in Broken Blood)
I am an amalgam. Love. Ideas. Cultures. Identities. Knowledge. Haudenosaunee. Seneca. Welsh. English. German. Friend. Writer. Teacher. Daughter. Student. Hiker. Beader. Photographer. Someday mother. Small-town raised. No rez. (Read more at IWP).
Until I moved to Arizona, I hadn’t thought about water and how the liquid gives us life and connection and cleared spirits. The east coast is plentiful with water. Growing up in Western New York, there was a lake at the edge of our town, creeks in my grandparents’ backyards, waterfalls at Letchworth State Park, the Great Lakes, the Finger Lakes, the Atlantic Ocean, all within driving distance. (Read more at Water River Life-Giver).