The Sweat Lodge

The second hour of the sweat lodge was conducted in total silence and reflection, as was the first.

An elder finally spoke. “The path you are walking leads to darkness.”

Moonchild nodded.

“What am I to do, Bearpaw?”

“There are many paths that don’t lead to darkness. Cleanse your thoughts and ask the Great Spirit for guidance.”

More stones were brought in and doused with water and healing herbs.

“My child died in school, Bearpaw. Those responsible must pay.”

“I lost a grandchild as well, but your path leads to darkness and solves nothing. Keep searching, the answer will come.”

From Guest Contributor N.T. Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

Mother

“Mother is upset,” a Wiradjuri tribal elder said. All heads nodded in agreement. Elders from the Ngungawal and Walgaulu tribes had traveled days to be at this meeting of Aboriginal peoples.

“Our sacred trees are gone,” he continued. “Our land is on fire; our mother is on fire.”

“She is hotter every year. More fires burn this year than ever,” a Ngungawal elder said. “We must appease our mother. We have perpetual grief, but the time is to focus on the mother, not us.”

Heads nodded.

Meeting was over and nothing was resolved. The elders returned to their burned-out bush.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

Rebellion

The pale-eyed, reed-thin child had asked a question, timidly, adding a please.

"No, you can't," said a stern voice.

“But why?” inquired the child. Her feeble voice squeaked.

“You needn’t know why. When I said no, it means no,” replied the gruff tones of the elder.

Silence settled down as uncomfortably as the calm before an impending storm. Resentment rose like gushing steam from a kettle and condensed as tears in those little eyes, now shining with indignation.

A rebel was born.

She clenched the stone paperweight tightly in her fist.

The elder, blissfully ignorant, failed to imagine the aftermath.

From Guest Contributor Sayantika Mandal

An avid reader and an aspiring writer, Sayantika Mandal graduated with honors in English from Presidency College, Kolkata and pursued a post-graduate diploma in English Journalism. After a two-year stint as a copy editor in the national daily Hindustan Times, she left to pursue her dream of being a full-time author.

The Grimalkin

Finnegan wasn't the first to discover the cat. His dog was, as Finnegan was pulled forcefully to the brush where the grimalkin was huddled. Close to death it seemed.

His dog didn't know any better. If it hadn't been for the leash, Sam would have mangled the old cat. Dogs only understand their instinct.

Finnegan could see that this was no ordinary cat. This was one of the elders. There had been a time when his kind had ruled this land. That time was no more, however, and now they were mostly refugees.

Finnegan unclasped the leash and walked away.