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The Navajo Nation was established in 1868 within the state of Arizona. By 1950, few remained who remembered the American Indian wars. Perhaps that was a good thing because, as someone who lived through them, my opinion of white people stayed skewed against them. I would never forgive or forget the harm they had caused my people and me. I would never forgive them for invading our lands, decimating us wherever we settled on this vast continent. They did so to escape their own homelands, places where many were considered criminals. Unwanted by their own societies, they fell upon us.
The sun was going down as I considered events in my past. It’s what old people do. They relive experiences that happened since they were children. I am a Navajo female and spirit walker. I’m also an angry Navajo. Old age hasn’t changed me on that score. Even the calm that came from spirit walking failed to change my feelings. Hatred is an awful emotion. Spending your entire life harboring such feelings distorts your view of everything around you. It makes us unwilling to even contemplate the possibility that there is good and bad on both sides. When you’ve lost so much, there’s little left to feel good about. The massacre of my tribe and thousands of my people scarred my soul in blood. Hatred was inevitable, like the rising of the sun.
I was here in the late 1800s when, in 1886, Geronimo finally surrendered after being trapped in northern Mexico by the US Cavalry. Our last great hope to free ourselves from the white invader vanished with his capture. Our people took the news of Geronimo’s capture badly but with a sense of inevitability. The white people who occupied our country were all-powerful. The invaders had won. It was a difficult pill to swallow, no matter your tribe.
After that, white settlements multiplied at an astonishing rate. Their presence made me determined to learn as much about them as possible and perhaps find a way to force them out of our occupied lands. Yes, me, a fifteen-year-old, was prepared to fight the white invaders all on her own.
Learning about them was curiously interesting. First, I learned to read and write English before choosing material that provided details about all their different types. Initially, hearing them often referred to as Europeans, I was uncertain whether that was the name of their tribe or group of tribes. Also, at the time, I didn’t understand its significance, nor did I comprehend why so many spoke different languages, the most common being English. As the meaning of the word European unraveled, I discovered it referred to different tribes such as French, German, Spanish, Irish, and English.
The whites had arrived more than a hundred years ago and broke from their homeland in a war of independence. After they won their war, this mixed band of whites called themselves Americans. It was confusing to me because it seemed that they were a collection of foreign tribes banded together—in other words, mongrels without purity of blood. My confusion was caused by the way they referred to us as savages, even though our blood was pure.
Also, they were cruel, even inhuman, in the way they treated people outside their circle. That had never been the case with any of our tribes before the whites arrived. The whites followed rules, but those rules only applied to their own kind. Even then, many proved to be lawless, greedy, and base. Their attitude toward women would disgust even our most compassionate spirits. If not for the spirits, I might have died long ago. They protected me whenever danger stalked near.
My experiences with the white man proved incredibly confusing for many reasons, most notably, because of their claim to follow a merciful god and adhere to spiritual laws. An entity sent them laws to follow, as written in their Holy Bible. I’ve read and written these laws in a diary I keep because I have never encountered any white man who has not broken at least one of them. For that reason, I believe that after they die, they are sent to a place they refer to as Hell. Each time I come across one of them breaking one of their god’s laws, I write it down. I do so because it cheers me to think that their god will punish them.
I think their god must be very powerful and compassionate because, with his help, the Europeans took away our land. Yet, by doing so, they conflicted with his decrees. That was what I wanted to understand ... what I needed to understand. How did their god allow them to behave in such a way without punishment? Our spirits would show their displeasure using the weather. If their god was indeed angry with them, when did he reveal it? Did the whites believe they would return to this world or would be reborn elsewhere? The Navajo believed they would go to another world after this one; however, not all would. Some, such as spirit walkers, had a choice.
The spirits were of no help with my understanding of the Europeans. I did not understand why. When I asked them, they said the presence of the invaders was fated; it could not be prevented. They admitted that they would not be strong enough to resist them. I never thought I would ever hear that. They were our protectors. Without them, we were lost. They explained that things sometimes had to change, no matter how hard it was for us. This was one of those times. They could still help us heal, help with our crops, and defend us as we merged with the invaders. We would not be made extinct, even though that was the intention of some whites.
I did not accept what they told me. I could not accept what they told me. I refused to accept what they told me. The white man was here to stay. It was a nightmare with no end. I was angrier than I had been before they told me.
Of course, that was a long time ago. In between then and now, the railroads opened the country to settlers and businesses. A few years later, the whites were driving around in the latest-model automobiles, noisy contraptions that made traveling by horse antiquated. Advances didn’t stop there; today, they even fly! So much has changed. Today, I know the spirits were right. So much has changed.
When dwelling on the past, which in my case covers a lot of time, I like to go back almost to the very beginning. The name given to me by my Navajo parents was Doli, meaning bluebird. I was born long ago when the great buffalo herds were a brown sea blanketing the open plains, and mother nature was content to let her children play and dance across the vast open spaces.
The spirits explained that nature concerned preserving the life cycle of each living thing. It was all she asked in return. To humans, she bestowed the privilege of guardianship to preserve our world as it had been given. Doing so made humans the predominant species. Initially, they enthusiastically accepted their task, taking only what they needed from it to do so. Yet, because they are the least content species on our world, cracks in their enthusiasm began to appear all too soon.
The spirits knew. They foresaw all, but they believed in their own ability to bring mankind back from the abyss, no matter how difficult. Humans were always too interested in themselves rather than the beauty that surrounded them. Deviating from their task was made easier because of the ease with which they could be distracted. They took land that did not belong to them and robbed the environment of resources to generate personal wealth. The creation of personal goals became the focus of their intention. Gradually, inevitably, hostility became a familiar pattern within the environment they were building.
The reaction of the spirits was reflected by extreme weather conditions, thunderstorms, lightning, and high winds meant to denounce any wrong direction mankind had taken. However, envy and greed intertwined so quickly and easily to create chaos; it filtered out much of what the dominant men needed to hear. Wrapped up in their own ambitions, they continued at the expense of their environment and others.
For the spirit walkers, it was a hard time. Persuading anyone outside their tribes they were behaving against the wisdom of the spirits was like leaves falling on water, incapable of sinking below the surface. Dominant men were uninterested in listening to anyone speak about anything other than how to increase personal wealth.
I first realized that I’d been chosen as a spirit walker while I was still young. I was awoken early in the morning by a woman calling my name. My parents slept as I rose and stepped outside, where a mist hovered all around. Stepping slowly into it caused an odd sensation, as if a pair of hands welcomed me, grasping my shoulders, pulling me against an invisible body. Yet no other person was visible. No one held me ... no one that I could see.
“Doli.” My caller sounded female.
“Who are you? Where are you?” I asked, staring hard into the mist.
“Do not fear me, child. I am your spirit guide. I am one of the creation spirits, Asdzą́ą́ Nádleehé.”
“Are you a Navajo spirit?”
“I am,” she replied. “I’ve come because you are ready to be awakened. Have you sensed anything different about yourself recently?”
“I’m not sure. What do you mean?” I asked curiously, my mind racing.
“You have reached an age when you need to be made aware of who you are and the reason you are here.”
The mist suddenly became so dense that I could no longer see my home, but I wasn’t frightened. I felt comforted by the mist as if it were caressing me, soothing and calming. A few deep breaths made me unexpectedly lightheaded, and I steadied myself with my arms out at my sides. My eyes closed involuntarily, and a figure appeared in my mind. It was a beautiful woman with long, dark hair and large, brown eyes. Her bright smile was friendly—no, much more than that—loving. I could feel her emotion reaching me in waves of love.
“You are an old spirit, Doli. One that has been reborn many times. Keep your eyes closed, and you will see who you have been in previous lives in this world.”
A whirlpool of blues and greens filled my mind’s eye before images of other women began to emerge. All appeared familiar as they went about their work, healing the sick, helping the vulnerable, and threatening the bad. Realization is an odd sensation. It begins in the pit of your stomach and gradually spreads throughout your body. The familiarity I felt toward the women passing through my mind suddenly turned into strong feelings of recognition. The lives I pictured were mine. The medicines and rituals, their uses, and the identity of the individuals they were helping were suddenly familiar. Even at my tender age, I recognized the impossibility of this fresh understanding.
“How can this be?”
“You walk with the spirits. You’ve always been a healer. You and I have known each other for a long time. After each of your life cycles, I wait for your rebirth so that I may continue to help your people through you.”
“Do my parents know?”
“Not yet, but when you return to them, you’ll explain that you’ve spoken to me. At first, they will be doubtful. For that reason, I want you to heal someone in your village.”
“Who?” I asked uncertainly.
“Atsa,” she replied. “He’s suffering with a high temperature. I need you to create a sand painting and hum a song to heal him. Do you see the symbols that you must draw in your mind’s eye?”
I pictured strange writing and nodded.
“Now listen to this humming. You must copy it exactly after completing the sand painting. He will begin to heal almost immediately. After your parents and others see what happens, they will begin to believe you.”
The humming possessed a note that remained almost static, with just the slightest movement up and down. I memorized it easily, helped by previous memories.
“I’ve passed on the wisdom you need to cure Atsa,” she said. “Do this outside his home. On other occasions, you need to do healing ceremonies on the inside. This time, you are there to prove yourself. All the villagers need to see you at work. That way, they will know that we are with you no matter where you are.”
“We already have a medicine man,” I said as if she might not know. “White Cloud. I don’t want him to be angry with me. Others might want to take over after him ...”
“There is nothing to fear, Doli. He’s ready for you,” she said. “He is to reacquaint you with all that you need. When you’re ready, you will take up his role. Those who might wish his place will not have the opportunity. White Cloud will move on, but only after he has trained you. Go now; your parents are searching for you. Do as I ask, and all will be well. Afterward, speak with White Cloud.”
The mist began to recede toward a thicket at the base of a tall hill. As I turned, I saw my parents headed my way. Explaining what had happened was met with the doubt anticipated, but as instructed, I led them to the home of Atsa. Atsa lived in a hogan, the traditional home of the Navajo made from logs and mud. Its solitary door faced east to welcome the morning sun, while its eight-sided construction denoted that it had been built to accommodate a woman. Atsa’s father died some years ago.
I knelt and drew out the symbols in the sand shown to me by the spirit. My parents watched patiently. Both were apprehensive. As I began to hum, they glanced at one another uncertainly while others from the village joined them as spectators. My father shrugged his broad shoulders and sat down next to me. After a moment, my mother did the same.
The door opened, and Atsa’s mother stepped out to discover what was happening. She said nothing and simply stared at my parents and me from the doorway, her arms by her sides. We heard Atsa call her, and she went to him, leaving the door ajar while I kept repeating the tune I’d heard.
When she returned, her eyes were wide, her expression full of surprise and pleasure. “His temperature. It’s gone,” she said as she joined me on the sand, hugging me close while my parents watched, pleased but even more confused.
They had not expected their little girl to be a spirit walker. There had been no sign. Nothing obvious that might indicate my destiny. I explained to them that I had been instructed to talk to White Cloud and headed off to find him.
The spirit had been accurate; White Cloud was very old, with a heavily-lined face plastered across a leathery, dry skin. He had long, gray hair, weary eyes, and a lean, undernourished body held up on thin legs. It wasn’t easy to guess his age. Spirit walkers live a maximum of one hundred years, and he could easily have been around that. It was odd for him to be found at the village as he usually lived a little distance away. I always thought it was because he preferred his own company, but now I wondered whether the spirits played a part in his reclusiveness.
“Sit,” he said. It was dark, and a small fire burned outside his hogan, licking at the night, sending cinders high above. “They spoke to you, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” I replied, making myself comfortable opposite him on the sand. I crossed my legs and folded my arms.
“Come to me each evening at this time, and I’ll teach you our history and healing. These are things you need to know to pass on to others that come to replace you.”
I nodded.
“The life of our tribe has changed since the white man arrived. Their forced changes have done us harm, not only because they have taken much of our land, but also because they’ve brought with them a religion so unlike our own. They call us savages, but being forced against our will to accept their god while stealing our land is savage.” White Cloud sounded angry. I had never heard him that way before.
“Are we going to be all right?”
“Not for a long time,” he muttered, his eyes staring into the flames. “There are so many things white men don’t understand. They’re blinkered by their own vision of how they believe the world around them works, ignoring what doesn’t fit with their beliefs.”
“What do the spirits say?”
“They warn about the white man ignoring them, and how the white man will consume our way of life and deny the existence of the spirits. Their warnings are slowly coming true. They invade our lands, forcing us to retreat to areas that are hard to live in. How we view life is beyond them. They appear against anything associated with our culture, refusing to accept even basic things, such as the five genders we recognize. To them, it challenges their Christian religion. They recognize only two genders—male and female. They cannot accept that both female and male characteristics can be found in either. Unlike us, they don’t consider these characteristics a gift given by nature, nor do they recognize that transgender people can see both sides of everything.”
“How can their religion be so blind?”
“It was handed down by their god and then rewritten by white men. They also made a point to create specific roles for women. By doing so, they ensure that women are considered inferior. It is what they do with any civilization they encounter.”
“You believe they changed the words of their god to suit their own interests?” I asked for clarity, unable to believe that their god would not have responded in some way.
“The leaders of white men have shown themselves to be untrustworthy. They will always put their own greed first. The spirits are important to our people and its culture; we cannot allow the white man to wipe out our belief in their existence.”
“Is the white man evil?” I asked. I’d heard White Cloud talk to others about good and evil and the necessity for balance. The Navajo tribes believe that everything in the universe has a purpose, be it good or evil. Through connecting to the spirits, it was possible to maintain the natural balance by accomplishing good after evil was committed. Without that connection, it might be possible for evil to overcome good.
“We must do what we can,” he replied, his voice distant, his gaze lost in the flames. “We should perform a song every evening. Doing so will restore balance. You must watch me to learn the steps. You must follow my steps accurately.”
I watched as he rose from the fire and began to dance while chanting words I had never heard. The complicated dance routine was difficult to follow, but somehow, I began to recognize the steps and recall how they formed a specific sequence. Medicine men performed ceremonial dances and sang to help cure the sick, protect a family or tribe, and encourage crops to grow. The rituals were handed down by the spirits.
What confused me was why the white man who appeared so advanced did not communicate with the spirits. They were not gods, unlike the Christian God they worshipped. Spirits were our friends. They belonged to the natural world in which we all lived. They were to be respected, even admired, but not worshipped. In the early days, the white man was too interested in our destruction to accept our way of life or even try to understand our beliefs. The few who did listen and wanted to learn only did so to be accepted into our society as a way of spreading their own religion.
They considered us savages. Some thought their attitude was impossible to change because they were uninterested in accepting us as we were. In their eyes, adopting their way of life would be an improvement for us, but our society was established. Adopting a new way of life was tough for my people, partly because many did not view their ways as an improvement. Worshipping a god none of us had ever heard of before the white man came was at odds with what we understood about the natural world. Plus, the fact that white men did not adhere to the laws they received from their god did not motivate us to mimic them. Yet, they were determined to indoctrinate us, to mold us into copies of themselves.
Over many years, our appearance and customs did move in their direction, although many also kept faith with our established beliefs. Some argued that a combination of the two cultures might prove beneficial; I was less convinced. I remain that way even today. The white man has lost all connection with his spirituality, turning more and more toward the science of his creation and believing it has all the answers. I still speak with the spirits, and I ask them for guidance in our relationship with the whites. They have never been anything other than neutral, as if neutrality was an acceptance that the future was already written and could not be changed.
I watched as the white man’s science lured our youth away from our beliefs and practices with potential opportunities to change themselves and us. To be a part of the whole that was America was fresh hope for recognition. Children are always so willing to please. They have a need to be accepted. White men were now in the majority. New settlements and towns had sprung up everywhere, and by 1900, the Indian Wars were lost in history. Their domination attracted many of our young people who left reservations behind. Yet, somehow, some still clung to the old ways, including our belief in the spirits. I suppose I helped with that.
I kept faith with the spirits all my life and was rewarded for doing so. My life has been a long and healthy one. I have also been spared the violence inflicted on so many others—not that I have been totally spared suffering. I had to experience some to understand what it was. Learning from experience is the way of the spirits.
I was fifteen when my first violent experience struck like lightning from an angry sky. I was walking home through a thicket as the sun hung low in the sky when I stumbled across a large man relieving himself behind a tree. I don’t know which of us was more surprised. He was tall and heavily built with a full beard. He wore a yellow necktie, jacket, shirt, jeans, and a gun belt. He recovered quicker than I did, and without putting himself back in his trousers, he reached out toward me. I ducked, slipped under his long arms, and turned to run. He spun quicker than a man his size should be able to and snatched my hair in one of his big hands. I screamed as he yanked me back and threw me on the ground.
“You’re a pretty one,” he said with a grin, still hanging on to my hair, twisting it around in his big fist.
I could barely move. He dropped down on one knee. I was struggling, but my head hurt whenever I moved.
“You’re real pretty for a savage.”
I suddenly stopped struggling. My mind was momentarily blank. An image of the knife I had sheathed in my boot flashed into my head. The big man was straddling me, sensing I had given up the fight. He released my hair. His weight was so heavy it easily pinned me down. I could barely breathe as my hand slipped down my side before he tore my buckskin tunic apart. My fingers felt their way down my side. My knee bent to bring the knife within reach. My fingers slowly slipped around its handle.
The man was too distracted to notice. He smelled of whiskey. His spittle dribbled in pools on my chest as he slobbered all over me. Slowly dragging the blade free of its sheath, my hand tightened. The handle was cold metal. I was holding it as I had learned as a small child. Never let go. I repeated the words to myself. My father always warned me that if I ever lost my knife in a fight, my life would be forfeited. The man was so engrossed in what he was doing, a howling mob wouldn’t have disturbed him.
I raised the knife high above him and stabbed down as hard as I could. Its blade was honed sharp and cut through his clothing without hesitation, sticking deep into his left buttock. His eyes bulged. His jaw dropped open. A high-pitched scream emanated from deep within him. He rolled off me, his hands reaching around to his backside. I had maintained my grip on the knife and pulled it out. It was covered in blood all the way up to the hilt.
I was up and running for home while he scrambled on the ground, holding his wound. My people were about six hundred yards away. I could see them emerging from their hogans, staring in my direction. I was screaming for my mother as I burst from the wood and raced on. My mother emerged from our home, her face full of panic. Then she began to run. We crashed into one another, and she hugged me close. I felt safe. My mother was warm and protective.
A moment later, a troop of cavalry emerged from the far side of the wood and began heading toward us. My mother pulled me toward our home. I sensed her nervousness. We were known to be peaceful. Geronimo was in New Mexico, still resisting the occupation. We had nothing to fear. We had done nothing wrong.
The soldiers stopped in front of our old chief. Most of the young men, including my father, were meeting with another tribe about developing closer ties to help each other grow. Red Horse, our old chief, stood with two others and talked to the lead officer, who remained on his horse, looking down.
After a minute, the officer began to wave his arm as if brushing away our homes. Red Horse appeared determined to be heard. From behind them, the big man who attacked me rode up to join what was clearly turning into an argument. He climbed down from his horse and limped over to the officer before pointing in my direction. The officer climbed off his horse, and he and the big man strode toward us.
“He attacked me,” I whispered to my mother.
She stood erect, proud, and ready to defend. I wasn’t afraid.
The officer was lean-figured and narrow-shouldered. A wispy mustache attempted to cover his top lip and bad teeth. His frown looked angry. “This man says that you stabbed him; is it true?” He looked directly at me.
“He attacked me.”
“I take it that bloody knife in your hand is what you used?”
I looked down at my side. The knife remained in my hand, blood running off its blade. “I used it to protect myself.” I returned the blade to its sheath. My English was good, even then. I think it surprised both white men.
My attacker stepped between us. “You going to take the word of a squaw or mine?”
“Her clothing is ripped,” the officer said.
My heart missed a beat. The cavalry officer sounded as if he believed me.
“Well, no squaw is going to get away with stabbing me!” the big man said, reaching for his gun.
The rifle shot was like a crack of thunder. It came from right behind us. I jumped as the bullet hit the big man’s chest and sent him flying backward. Red Horse joined us, a smoking rifle in his hands. The cavalry officer reached for his weapon. Red Horse didn’t hesitate. He fired, and the officer buckled. He was dead before he hit the ground. After that, all pandemonium broke loose as other old braves fired a rifle volley into the troop of cavalry. Several fell from their horses before the others separated left and right, riding hard. They turned after putting distance between them and us. A bugle sounded as they charged.
My mother turned me toward the thicket and grabbed my hand. We ran quickly toward it, stumbling over rocks between clumps of grass and kicking up dirt as we slid behind a large, broken trunk lying across the ground. Behind us, a pall of gun smoke rose as the cavalry reached the old men, guns blazing, swords scything. Cavalry troopers were still equipped with swords. The blades were razor-sharp, cutting through flesh and bone without pause. People were screaming before they died. Not only did the troopers and old men fall, but women and children did too. The massacre of my village took about five minutes. Forty of my people died that day.
My mother led me away, keeping low. We went through the thicket to a low, rocky hill and began to climb. Just before the top, the night completed its entrance with a large crescent moon in its sky. We settled down behind the largest boulders we could find that provided cover from above and below. It was cold, so we huddled together and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Early the next morning, we stared down at our village far below. A pall of smoke hung over each hogan. They were burnt to the ground. It was the only reason the birds were hovering rather than pecking at the bodies left behind. There was nothing we could do for them, and my mother wanted us to find White Cloud. The medicine man lived somewhere outside the village and high above the ground to be closer to the spirits.
We found him living in a cave, cooking a meal over a small fire.
“I’ve made some food. You must be hungry,” he said as we stepped inside.
The cave was tall, at least twice the height of my mother. Uneven, dark rock walls were covered in paintings of symbols and animals lit up by the flames from the fire.
“You know what happened?” my mother asked.
“The spirits warned me just before. There was nothing I could do,” he replied soberly, his face grim.
“You knew we would survive?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Why didn’t the spirits warn me?”
“You’re still young,” he replied. “They knew how you would react. Each of us has a role to play. They did not want it delayed for any reason. Your life is to be a long one. From this day forth, you will be called Gifted Sparrow. We are to join other Navajo tribes to the east. There, we will begin our journey to regain what we have lost. Things will change, but very slowly. You must believe that.”
“What about my mother?” I asked.
“She will stay with us. There is much to be done.”
“What about my father and the others with him?”
“We must hope that they will eventually find their way to us. Your father’s life has taken a different turn. He will follow another path.”
I wasn’t certain what that meant, but I was glad that he was still alive. In some odd way, I was hopeful that the future would improve, and that I would be a part of its improvement.
***
YEARS LATER, WE WERE based around the Red Indian Reservation close to Salt River. My mother and I lived just outside the village. We cared for people using all that I had learned from White Cloud. After he died, I replaced him and cared for our new tribe as he had done. My faith in the spirits was rewarded by my mother living a long life in good health. We never saw my father again, and never heard from or of him. He just disappeared.
After my mother passed, I carried on. Trouble came and went, but I lived on. Life has been hard, but in many ways, good, too. I watched our population grow again, and we have kept our reservation land. I never married or even met a man who I could consider sharing a relationship with. I think that made my mother sad, but it was what it was. My work with the tribe was necessary and kept me employed every day. I was never again referred to as Doli. Today, in 1950, I remain Gifted Sparrow.
STEVE CARR, WHO LIVES in Richmond, Virginia, has had over 380 short stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, reviews and anthologies since June, 2016. He has had six collections of his short stories, Sand, Rain, Heat, The Tales of Talker Knock and 50 Short Stories: The Very Best of Steve Carr, and LGBTQ: 33 Stories, published. His paranormal/horror novel Redbird was released in November, 2019. His plays have been produced in several states in the U.S. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize twice.
His Twitter is @carrsteven960.
His website is https://www.stevecarr960.com/
He is on Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/steven.carr.35977
MAX CARREY LOVES TO delve deep within the complicated pasts and suspense filled futures of her characters. Currently she lives in sunny California, but will be moving to a gloomier location much like the settings in her stories (hopefully without the tragedy and mayhem involved). She has several upcoming stories to be released in print and online with magazines and indie publishers alike.
To stay up to date on future releases follow her on instagram @maxcarrey
SCOTT WAS BORN AND raised in Fairbanks, Alaska, where he discovered the joys of losing ones self in the pages of a good book. He has been published several times in a variety of anthologies and magazines published internationally. In addition to writing, Scott is an accomplished graphic artist, and professional photographer.
DAWN DEBRAAL LIVES in rural Wisconsin with her husband Red, a slightly overweight rat terrier, and a cat. She has discovered that her love of telling a good story can be written. Published stories with Palm-sized press, Spillwords, Mercurial Stories, Potato Soup Journal, Edify Fiction, Zimbell House Publishing, Clarendon House Publishing, Blood Song Books, Black Hare Press, Fantasia Divinity, Cafelit, Reanimated Writers, Guilty Pleasures, Unholy Trinity, The World of Myth, Dastaan World, Vamp Cat, Runcible Spoon, E. Merry Publishing, Siren’s Call, Iron Horse Publishing, Setu Magazine, Falling Star Magazine 2019 Pushcart Nominee.
https://www.amazon.com/Dawn-DeBraal/e/B07STL8DLX
E. W. FARNSWORTH IS widely published online and in print. His short stories have often appeared in Zimbell House Publishing anthologies.
Known primarily for his John Fulghum Mysteries volumes, also from ZHP, Farnsworth has published in nearly every genre and many cross-genres. Detectives and police from many contexts interest him—including science fiction, westerns, American Indian, Classical and 20th-century noir.
The eighth in Farnsworth's sequence of volumes of novels and stories devoted to John Fulghum and his precocious friends will appear later this year from ZHP.
To follow news about the author and his works, please see https://www.ewfarnsworth.com/.
DAVID MASSEY HAS A Masters Degree in English Literature After 1660 from The University of South Carolina and while there studied creative writing under George Garrett and James Dickey. He turned belatedly to fiction writing as a serious occupation but has made progress of late, publishing a half-dozen short stories in the past three years.
TOM MUNROE TAKES INSPIRATION from the people he encounters. Their idiosyncrasies blend with his personal experience to generate story concepts and characters that strike a personal emotional chord. He is a computer graphics teacher when not writing and traveling.
BOB PRICE WAS BORN in West Africa when his father was employed by the British Colonial Service. His mother moved to England in 1958 with him and his sister. In 1995 he wrote a crime fiction novel that was published both in the UK and the following year in Sweden. In 2019, he began writing fiction focusing on short stories ranging from contemporary detectives, fantasy, science fiction and westerns.
The Last Elven War
Reanna the Red
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