First place winner Quincy Writer’s Guild short fiction contest 1998.
My name is Tinebenga of the Bunun tribe. Tomorrow morning I will hang you all by your feet and roast you like we do wild boars. I’ll dance in front of your face and see how your brain handles the pain of the fire underneath you. I’ll rise up and slit your throat and gut your stomach and display your head in my hut, and then I will marry Su Wen.
Tearing down a house is like that, you might say, a sort of opening of the pores to expel the old and unnecessary things and to make way for new and necessary things…
He got in his convertible red Mustang and drove out of the parking garage, thinking, I don’t even have to pay on this thing anymore. It’s paid for! It’s all paid for! He honked his horn and shouted, It’s paid for! It’s all been paid for! So long suckers!
A thirteen-year-old white boy puts himself through a native American coming of age ritual that he read about in an old library book. He spends the night alone outside near a statue of a Cherokee warrior. Written in 1991.
A look at how rich we all really are.