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Thanksgiving Tribute to the Native American -prose-

Updated on October 29, 2014

Native Harvest story prose

Native Harvest Fiction Story

Native Harvest

Written in pure fiction portraying the Native Americans.

I curled in a fetal position and heard the rumble of the thunder feeling myself turn in my mother's womb. Her hand held her stomach comforting me as I heard my father's strong voice. The wolves howled in the distance and the fire warmed us from the cold damp air.

The following years to come: The sun cast a warm glow, and I glanced at my mother's black hair shining with tints of blue. Her eyes looked at me as I played with the wolves, feeling the unspoiled earth under my bare-feet.

My father was in the field hunting for our tribe’s survival, his body bronzed by the sun, his arrow ready to strike. Silence was heard, but the purity of nature was balanced with plentiful abide. The women were grinding corn, and I remember thinking their hair was black, but not as beautiful as my mothers who radiated highlights of blue.

'Our village'... all working for the same, and looking to the Gods as nature wrapped her arms around us.

Years past, and I saw my mother's hair streaked with gray, and my father was now the chief warrior. I proudly stood by my parents. I looked up to my brother who was a duplicate of my father's image when he was younger; both were brave men who honored their people.

We traveled on, walking through the crisp fallen leaves with winter's fierce grasp on our heels as snow began to fall. Seeking shelter in our lands, the winds howled as the air nipped us in tiny freezing bites. Frosty crystals grasped each strand of our hair, and we walked as if we were images of ice sculptures. Decisions were discussed and we settled there for the season where bountiful supplies of food and wood for warmth were available to us.

A sound... a crack…seared overhead!

I ran from my teepee to see, my people scattering, fighting for the peace we all lived and would die for. Ducking low and getting on my horse, I worried for my people and desperately tried to evade the fire. I ran the opposite direction from the white man, trying to divert their attention from the others. A bullet and a loud explosion made my horse rear, his mane flying. I looked down to see my mother's last breath escape from her lips...dying.

Sliding down from my horse, I threw my body over hers, as I looked up into my brother's eyes. The expression in his dark eyes changed right before me, as hate settled in each dark orb…watching what this white man had done. His jaw clenched and his muscles rippled, drawing his bow and arrow tightly to his side. My tears wept upon my mother's body, her stillness provoked a scream through the woods, as I watched my brother screaming to the skies.

Our dear father picked up his love, tears falling on the rawhide skin she wore. He looked up to the sky, sorrow and hate mixing as one. Taking her body and resting it down on the fires for her last rest; the burial flames engulfed her making him swear to avenge her death

The village was no more, blackened charred corpses laid before our feet as we walked surveying our losses. Clenching the knife in my palm strapped by my side, I swore to myself I shall kill this man of hate, white, and pale in color. Anger settled in for a permanent resting place within my soul, and darkness simmered changing us. The sounds of death rattled in the village, and our dreams disappeared tarnished.

I looked at our lands stripped of game, streams dry and muddy. These men who destroyed so much, will surely feel my hands and my blade slicing and draining their blood. A smile played on my lips, thinking of the revenge for my people’s destruction.

Morning broke, and a few of my people gathered in line for food. Their eyes spoke of pain, having no family or purpose. Riding through the villages people stood segmented in food lines holding their plates out to this white man, for foods they themselves would spit upon.

I looked over to the white man serving the plate to my people and grabbed a homemade dagger, for I had no more bow and arrow representing my people. A fiery revenge rushed through me and I held my dagger behind my back.

Taking great aim, my hair the same color as my mother's dropped to my shoulder, and the same hint of blue caught my eye reminding me of her. I pulled back and stabbed the dagger into the white man’s back, and a scream of anguish was heard in the sky.

This thing they called white man dropped the meager plate of food he was handing out to my people; as his blood soaked the shabby meal.

I screamed with revenge and held my dagger high, watching the plate swim with the white man's blood. It was suitable to serve him and his own kind until every one of them died, returning the land to our people.

A glimmer of hope was seen in my people’s eyes, hoping this white man's blood would wash away the dark destruction they have painted upon the existing world.

The End

Copyright/All Rights Reserved B. A. Williams

Remember the roots of America


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    • B. A. Williams profile imageAUTHOR

      B. A. Williams 

      4 years ago from USA

      Thanks Romeos for commenting this was a near to my heart piece that I wrote awhile ago. Every Thanksgiving I read it again, and my feelings for the Native Americans have never changed. Thanks for stopping by.

    • Romeos Quill profile image

      Romeos Quill 

      4 years ago from Lincolnshire, England

      A sad, macabre and very well-written believable and emotional wrangle of how these noble yet dispossessed people must have felt, from all of the myriad tribes.

      Thank you.

      Warm Regards;



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