Sunrise wasn’t far off, and it was Thursday once again. He could hear the wind sharply blowing hard against the left side of the house. It would be miserable outside this early. The thought of it all made him pull the faded cotton quilt higher around his neck. The pillows had never felt so soft, the comfort of the mattress so appealing. But it was Thursday, and he would need to be out and hunting before dawn.

Tonight was Broxy stew night, tonight was Thursday, everyone else was depending upon him for their dinner.

From down the hall in the kitchen he heard the electric coffee pot click on. He lay still in the bed until he could smell the coffee brewing then summoning all his strength tossed all the covers aside onto the floor and moved swiftly out of bed. Experience had taught him that once the quilts grew cold on the wooden floor they would lose their powers of persuasion.

He had prepared his backpack the evening before, so departure into the cold predawn was merely a matter of layering up the clothing and drinking down the mug of coffee. It was always unsettling to try to eat before the hunt, there was too much else to plan.

Everything else was sitting ready on the kitchen table. On Broxy stew night it was best to have all the other ingredients lined up and ready to go. He methodically scanned the sack of red potatoes, the red onions, the chili powder and carrots. Reaching up over the stove he lifted down the big blue speckled stew pot and set it on the kitchen table along with the large wooden stirring spoon.

Nodding toward the necessities in approval, he slipped a dark grey parka over his clothes, shouldered his back pack and headed out the door. The wind cut through the air like an icy razor, but the high oxygen level in the cold air was exhilarating.

Although it was challenging to get out of bed on Broxy stew day, he always felt excited about the hunt once he was actually on his way to the hunt site.

Blood. It was everywhere. Where was he? Was he safe? No, now she remembered. The memories were in bits like broken beads. They were bright colors, but not in any order. Today was mixed with yesterday and last week and she couldn’t tell what had happened first or last. They were just broken beads of memory, scattered about in the dust at her feet.

Her legs were bare, her feet splattered with bits of blood. Her face felt tight and stiff, when she reached a hand up to touch it she could tell it was also covered with thick splashes of dry blood.

Her right hand felt swollen, and when she looked directly at it she could see a large gash in the palm sealed over with dark dry blood.

She lay on her side awhile longer, not able to plan what to do. She was directionless as a fallen leaf, and without life or the ability to think.

What had happened? Where was he? Oh, now she remembered, he was dead. The children were dead too.

Her body felt stiff as if it would take an unnatural amount of energy to sit up. She had to find the children. She managed a sort of crouching stance and looked about her in the red sunset.

The Crow warriors had attacked their camp at the river. He was killed. She could see his body over by the wagon. Out of bullets, he had been using his rifle as a club. But there were too many. The Crow had taken his clothing and had stripped anything they wanted from the campsite. She could see two of the children near him, also dead, also naked in the dust. The one boy’s body had been tossed into the ashes near the cook fire.

The youngest child, the girl baby, had been stripped of her blanket and her body had been tossed against the body of their lead mule. The mule must have been caught by a stray bullet; the Crow would not have wanted him to die. He was of value.

She couldn’t make her body walk, but she half crawled over to the body of the baby girl. The baby’s eyes were open, but her body was cold, stiff and lifeless.

She couldn’t keep her mind steady, darting back and forth in time. She should be making the evening meal, she needed to feed and water the mules – no, wait, there were no more mules. There was nothing to make for the meal. There was no one to make the meal for. Her face felt tight under the mask of dry blood. Maybe she could crawl to the river. She wanted to be in the water.

The evening clouds reflected the red glow of the setting sun, the dust beneath her reflected the bronze glow from above.

The crawl was becoming easier, there was no pain yet, but she knew there would be later. She needed to get to the water. The Crow had let her live. They would not be back. There was nothing left of value to them. As she crawled forward the dirt beneath her pushed itself into the deep cuts on her bare legs and side. It didn’t matter. Nothing hurt yet.

She dragged her body into the shallows of the river. The water should have felt cool against her skin, but she did not feel anything. She lay there, naked to the sky, face to the campsite, and let the shallow water lap over her body.

The memories were fresh. She saw the boys stacking the firewood by the fire. No, they were dead.

She could hear the baby crying and started to try to rise from the water, but then everything was quiet again, just the wind through the cottonwood trees. The baby was cold, still and dead.

Was that her husband’s voice calling her? Yes. No. The dead don’t call out.

She lost consciousness again, when she awoke the red sun had set, and she was very cold in the river. Now, she was starting to hurt. The water had washed away most of the blood. The stiffness had turned into searing pain. Her dark hair hung straight down her back. It was a wet blanket atop the deep gashes.

There was nothing left at camp, the broken wagon. The Crow had taken all the blankets. But there was still some torn canvas left on top of the wagon. She could half stand now, and painfully moved in the direction of the wagon. Pulling herself up against the broken axel and wheel she tugged down the canvas. It was enough to wrap her body in for the night.

By habit she headed towards the ashes of the cook fire. Some of the deep coals were still warm to the touch. With bits of dry leaves and twigs she nursed up a small fire and lay on the ground next to it. The pain was strong now; she could tell the cuts were bleeding freely under the piece of canvas. The canvas was wet and red by the firelight.

The flicker of the fire played tricks on her eyes and mind, as she felt that she could see her husband and children move about with the moving light. But she knew they would not move any more, never again in this life.

The flickering fire revealed more, much more. Six Crow warriors stood watching. One had his head thrown back in an odd position, with his mouth fully open in silence. His tongue was gone. Part of her memory told her that she had cut it out after he had fallen dead before her. Part of her did not want to think about any of it.

His eyes had turned glassy, and he watched her as she watched him by the fire light. His tongue lay in the dirt a little distance away. It looked small, laying there by itself in the dirt and dark.

Tomorrow maybe she would bury her family. She would never bury the Crow, but she would want to drag their bodies down wind. And, there was the mule to skin and dry the meat. She would need food to sustain here until she was well enough to travel.

Travel. She had no reason to travel further on. They had been traveling as a family, part of the wagon train from St. Joe Missouri, heading West. They should never have left the wagon train. They should never have left home. Frank had wanted to head West to fresh land and a chance for a better life for their children. She looked over to where the boys’ bodies were laying still in the darkness.

The boys had piled up plenty of firewood the day before. She would need to make it last. She was not going to be able to find more dry wood for awhile. The Crow had probably taken the ax.

Part of her wanted to live on. Making plans to live on had become a habit. Since they had left home much of her waking time had been spent planning on how much water was in the barrels, how much food was in the supply boxes. Part of her did not care if she lived on. It all looked unlikely, and without purpose.

Frank had always pointed the wagon tongue to the northern star when making camp. He had been the pathfinder and had planned the next days travel. She would have stayed in Maryland. That was where her family had their farm. That was the life she had known. She could harvest and preserve food from the vegetable plot. She could milk cows, and she could churn. But here, on the raw edge of the frontier there was no vegetable plot, no milk house, no cows, there was nothing left of what she had brought with her. There was no reason to go on now. There was no way to remain where she was. But with a ragged piece of canvas between her and the autumn night, it seemed like an unlikely thing to worry over. Chances were slim that she would survive once the mule was eaten, and autumn gave way to winter.

She lay there, staring at the fire, feeling the pain grow and then fade from her body as she slowly bled to death. The fire burned low, as she fell into a dreamless sleep and the pains and earthbound cares seemed to lift and fly away.

The moon rose bright and clear over the tree line, in its silver shading it seemed to bring a level of peaceful order to the river bend once more.

Future immigrants would see the bits of wagon and bone and would return there, ever wondering what had happened. But the Crow never needed to return. Life was for the living. Land was for the keeping. Nothing of value to them had been left behind.

Title: Crow Moon

Literary Fiction

Adult level

1,500 words

Author: Lisa Schott

Background: B.A. from UCLA, write mystery novels, currently five self published

I had only just met him, that Easter morning. But he captured my heart at very first sight. He was everything I had ever envisioned, soft dark eyes, long lashes, short hair nicely kept. I tried to remain aloof as I sat on the sofa, sipping my cola, but kept watching as he wandered the living room meeting the holiday guests.

When he finally tired of that he sat down quite near me on the sofa and I could feel the warmth of him sitting so close to my left arm.

It took all the nerve I could summon but I finally turned to him and looked deeply into those languid brown eyes. He was looking right back at me, in a bold sort of way, and we simply were transfixed like that for several minutes.

Finally I felt this must be destiny, no one in the room mattered except this attraction, no one in the entire house were of importance except for the two of us. We leaned together, and I could feel his breath becoming my own. We moved as one, both wanting, both needing. Our mouths met, our moist lips brushed together for a moment which seemed to be eternity. He had won my very first kiss.

Sadly, as we each drew away, my older sister yelled out, "Hey Mom look at Linda! She just kissed junior's live pet rabbit right on his mouth!"

Celtic Seers could read the clouds

As tea leaves within that still warmed cup

From births pains and babies to funeral shrouds

The images revealed fate, free will and luck

Questions and prayers from soft silenced lips

On loves to be thought to be purer than most

Chasing victories, desires, battles and trips

Seeking comforts, glory and of conquests to boast

When next you stretch out upon the fragrant hills

Allow your eyes to truly see and your mind to full unwind

Spiritual presence of Celtics and clouds can guide your free will

As it has been from the beginning and will be for all time

When I close my eyes on a summer afternoon I can clearly flip back through the years in memory of childhood days in the high desert.

My Grandparents were far from wealthy, but they truly understood what made the good things in life, and the richness that came from that was more valuable than diamonds.

On hot summer afternoons, they would tumble the three of us grandkids into the venerable sedan and drive us down a winding canyon road lined with cottonwood trees. The floor of that shallow canyon held an ice cold creek which came from the dark, lower reaches of a large reservoir somewhere up canyon.

That meant that the water was sparkling clear and cold even on the hottest desert day. The cottonwood trees would be dropping their soft white whisps of cotton down upon us as if the angels themselves were dropping tiny wings swirling down through the air.

And my Grandfather would bestow an empty coffee can to each of us and allow us to hunt the ripe raspberries which grew in thick brambles along the farther shore of the creek. At first of course most that we picked went straight into our mouths, but as that slowed down and the coffee cans were filled we focused more on the pies to come.

When the cans were full, and we had washed and splashed about in the icy creek water in an effort to get clean. Grandma would fuss for awhile over any scratches on our arms, and praise our full berry cans. They would load us up and start the return drive up the dusty canyon back home. By the time we were back the entire warm car smelled of ripe berries.

We were usually asleep in the back seat before arriving, and we were often too full to bother with dinner that night. But the next day, Grandma would bake all that ripe fruit into the most beautiful golden brown pies you could ever dream of.

Fortunately, by then, our appetites had returned.

(to the beat of an Irish drinking song)

At Blue Point Fair, in a village there

A young maiden anxiously looked at the sea

Combing her long locks, minding every tick of the clock

She awaited the return of dear lover Du Pre

When the clock struck nine, golden ribbons she entwined

Deeply into her dark satiny braids

Waiting yet still then as the clock struck ten

She caressed her dresses and sighed

The night pressed forward on, yet she waited til dawn

Pressing her bosom to the window pane

Yet returned he no more thou her broken sobs implored

He had been captured by the free life of the sea

He had loved her dear when he had held her near

And had murmured “Surely I must love thee”

But now from afar, other ladies, taverns and bars

Had devalued love’s tingle severely

By early next spring, another suitor, and a ring

Did present themselves to this lady so fair

She wed the next year, and shed not a tear

They raised four pretty daughters with glee

And the sailor Du Pre, enjoyed his life set oh so free

Thou he had felt marriage a trap, he died of the clap

And they say he was buried at sea.

They say love is a thing of raw power, but so are storms. You stare at the sky and try by force of will to summon a cloud from over the hilltops. Love is that mystery. The force of its creation is beyond mortals.

Then as we go through our daily tasks, with minds full of minuscule matters, there can be a day when the forces of nature conspire and collide. The all powerful electrical storm crackles and strikes. A single lightning bolt splits and strikes two humans directly binding them forever through this lifetime and beyond.

That binding lasts through lifetimes. That intertwining of two souls does not fear the fading of time or the complexities of circumstances.

It is the union written about from the birth of humanity to this day. And, when it happens it needs to be honored, cherished, and exalted because both lightning and true love never strike twice.

Morning fight for me

To work I must be

Water splashes upon waist

...Public disgrace

Of course my wings have always made me feel different from the others. Most children are born with just two arms and legs, but with my additional two long glistening luminous green wings draping down the back of my shoulders I knew I stood out from the crowd.

It was fortunate that I was able to shed them each autumn or I would have had difficulty getting caught up in those strong winter winds. And yet, each spring, with a little itching from the center of my back, out they would grow once more. By age eight they would grow so long that they would drag lightly across the grass and I had to be careful getting them folded under me when getting into cars or elevators.

The wings made for a joyous childhood full of midnight flights and celebrations with the fireflies on warm summer nights.

Although only children tend towards loneliness and boredom, I could always break free and take flight from suburbia to visit the mountains or the lakes with the wind in my hair and my friends were every sort of feathered airborne creature. What romps we all had together.

Eventually though, I seemed to fly less and less. The call to simply sit quietly in the sunlight was increasingly appealing until late one summer day I found my wings were shedding early and I strongly felt the call of the adolescent cocoon. My youth was passing and it was time to taste the next adventure.

Junior High would have been easier with my wings.

Month of between times

Neither winter nor spring

Whose short days

Taunt of warmth they do not bring

Cherry trees that do peak in

Through frost tinged window panes

Silently waiting spring times release

Freedom to burst forth blossom and vein

Yet the ice cold heart of winter

Mutes sunlight within gray shadows of blue

And time changes pace for no man

Winter releases to spring when it is due