Archive for January, 2007

For the into to this story please click Here



News travels fast in small towns and when one has a father who attends Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and spills his guts at least twice a week, it’s hard to stay in the closet. My entire hometown knows I am queer thanks to my father ‘sharing’ at an AA meeting. Folks back home who knew me as a child heard all the drama caused by my lifestyle when my lover died. Dad told them all at a meeting. I suppose he needed to talk it out– that sometimes helps. I would start drinking again too if I had a son who called to tell me that he thinks he just caught AIDS. Dad’s big mouth is sometimes justified.

My father thinks it’s cool that I’m queer and does not believe that homosexuality is wrong. He has lived a hard life and tries not to judge anyone. “To each, his own,” he often says. So, when he stood up and ‘shared’ about the problems in his life making him long to drink again, it should not have surprised me that the town found out that I was funny. Dad told the recovering addicts that his son was a rolling stone. I should have never called to tell him that my partner died from AIDS.

“Do you got it too?”

“I don’t know yet, dad.”

My high school English teacher, the woman who taught me how to write, called me because she heard about my past participles through the grapevine. (Her husband goes to the same meetings as my father.)

“How would you like to speak at graduation in June?” she asked.

“Why me?”

“They always have a preacher speak. You know that. It would be nice to hear someone with a little humor,” she tempted.

Of course I accepted the offer. I’m Charlie Taylor. Folks look up to me back home– still. But damn, why did Dad have to ‘out’ me like that? Sure he has lived a little as a ‘bi-sexual’ but that’s no excuse for outing me in that little town. Some of us want to stay hidden and fit in as normal people in life. Not all of us want our literature instructors to know that we are gay.

If I had known at the time that the reason Mrs. Hicks asked me to do that speech was because people at an AA meeting felt sorry for me, I never would have done it. I would have told her to talk to those kids herself.

Why should I care that now they all know what I do in the bedroom? I learned all about dad’s life on the down-low years before I was outed and before I presented my gay speech to the graduating class of 2002. He told me all about the sexually charged gay underworld in rural America and pretty much confessed to being gay too. My gay graduation speech pales in comparison to the things my daddy told me. The lifestyle he experienced when he was a young drunk living in Huntindon was much different than mine. They don’t even have lovers in Pennsylvania according to my dad.

I was the one who took my father in when he was on his last leg. He had two straight sons who could have done more for him than me– but he turned to the gay one when he found himself down in the dumps. He had nowhere else to stay while still living in the bottle. The two months that my pops lived with Anthony and I were stressful times. He drank so much beer. The place reeked of him.

Anyone in their right mind, whether gay or straight, will reach out to their family during times of crisis, even if alcoholism is an issue. Dad owed me one so I called to tell him my woes. A father in recovery can be just as supportive as a dad who still drinks, besides my father has fooled around too. I was too exhausted to beat around the bush and stay hidden when I called dad for guidance. I needed help and emotional support after my lover died. I remembered the stories my father shared with me while staying at my place in Jersey City– he confessed to messing around with a group of dudes in Huntingdon who smoked pot who were all a bunch of ‘wild fuckers.’ He spent several months while in his 20’s living with a vagrant gang of religious zealots– Jesus freaks who participated in sexual orgies and smoked pot all the time. I think they turned dad out and saved him.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that I had just about everyone there was to have in New York. The rural valleys of Pennsylvania and those Jesus freaks that dad knew sounded like a new, alternative lifestyle. Perhaps I should move back there now that Shawn had died. I didn’t want to remain in his big, drafty apartment with the exposed brick wall all alone.

“Why the fuck not, Charlie?” He asked laughing loudly as Anthony scurried into the bedroom, begging not to hear anymore of my father’s outrageously gay stories. “I love getting my dick sucked. I see nothing wrong with this life you have created for yourself. The guys I messed with were fucked- up in the head. You two are not like them.”

“Dad, I don’t want to hear anymore, nor does Anthony, please…”

“That was some weird shit, son. Just imagine all that prayer and all that crazy shit ‘dem guys was up to when we was all stoned off our asses and running around like holy Jesus in a brothel. I see nothing wrong with the life you have with this man. I like him and this is a nice place you got.”

“I know, dad. He likes you too, but listen, you can’t stay here forever.”

“Who’s the girl? You son?” He asked.

That was the last time I spoke openly with my father about my homosexuality. I pissed him off by refusing to buy him anymore beer so he left. He felt that I betrayed him when I told him he couldn’t stay forever. I considered him too much of an out-loud and proud bi-sexual father. I needed to set limits with him, so I cut him off and never again spoke openly about the details of living life gay until Shawn died from AIDS and I thought I was dying too. That’s why I called him to dump all my problems on him– he’s dumped problems and worries on me too.

Establishing and maintaining a relationship with him over the years was hard, especially when he stopped drinking and turned straight again. The phone call was not easy. However, I was fortunate to have a father who could understand my predicament– that’s why I called him and shared all the details about my life that was probably going to come to an end soon. I knew some Jesus freaks too.

I was in the midst of a spiritual crisis and wanted to be somewhere safe, away from the ghost of my dead lover which seemed to be haunting me, so I called my out father. He knows how to confront gay demons and besides, the thought of hooking up with his old buddies was in the back of my mind for many years.

“Dad, I got to get the fuck out of here. It’s creepy. I want to come home,” I said on my second phone call within the same week. I can’t wait any longer on these test results. I’m going insane. I gotta come home.”

“Sure– when are you coming in?”

“Right away– today probably. I’ll likely stay there until June.” I realized that I had said exactly what my father had said on the phone the day he called me for a place to hide-out.

He remained very silent and pretended he had nothing to do with the call I received from my high school teacher.

“How long do you plan on staying?” he eventually asked.

“Not long– just until graduation in June. I have to do a speech at my old high school.”

“You are going to do what? Give a speech at Southern?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks asked me to.”

He remained silent again. I didn’t immediately make the connection between the AA meetings and Mrs. Hicks’ phone call. I thought I was that good– that they really wanted to hear me speak. Perhaps it is best that I didn’t know it was my dad up to his behind-the-scenes tricks, trying to brighten my day when Mrs. Hicks begged me to give that graduation speech.

I had actually considered it– jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge. I was just too tired to climb all the way out to the edge of those metal beams to do it.

I was ready to go out in a swan dive but suddenly I remembered the speech I had to deliver. I remembered what I promised Mrs. Hicks as I was standing in the strong winds up on that bridge while still in a slumber from taking too much Ambian. I was walking around like a zombie drugged out on sleeping pills, but for the life of me could not go to sleep and I wanted to die.

I remembered what I promised Mrs. Hicks before I even started to make the move to the edge– that graduation speech for the Class of 2002 had to get done first. I had to get back to the house and write it– what the fuck was I doing up there? Certainly, there was an evil force after me– something wanted me to end it. I needed to get home to my father.

I made it safely back to the house and after writing the speech that forever changed the homophobic culture of Huntingdon, Pennsylvania I called him again.

A promise is a promise.

“Dad, the guy I was dating, the one who died from AIDS; his family is swooping in to claim everything, even my stuff. They are driving me nuts. And my boss– that fucking bitch I told you about– Mary D. Redd– well she told me that I have to come back to work on Monday or I’m going to get fired. Everything is crashing in all at once, dad. I need to come home for a while.”

“What about your job?”

“I don’t care about my job at Steinway, Dad. I need to breathe. I can’t breathe right now. Can I come home?”

“Jan will meet you at the train station. I’ll be at work if you get here today. Just call her when you get in. Are you alright?”

“I don’t think so.”

Continued Here


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Please click here for Act I, Scene I…  https://charlestaylor.wordpress.com/2007/01/30/kundalini-awakening/

chaz teddy

The stereo turned on automatically at 3 a.m. A strange sensation between my thighs woke me up two minutes before it went off. I remember opening up my eyes and reading ‘2:58 a.m.’ with foggy vision. It was either a ghost, or those crabs making a come-back because it’s not easy to wake up while medicated with Ambian. I remember it all clearly now, years later following the hospitalization and withdrawing from those God forsaken anti-psychotic medications.

I was dreaming but awake in my own imagination yet conscious enough to know that I could do whatever I wanted inside my own dreamworld. It’s not as glamorous or exciting as it may sound– reaching the Christ Consciousness and being ‘one with the Father’. There’s a big question that God asks us when we meet him ‘face to face’ in that special place of bliss that makes all the difference in the world– it’s a test of real love, and most fail it, but I didn’t. That’s why I’m back here writing about it.

“So, here you are Charlie Taylor– it’s what you have always prayed for– why you always tried so hard to be good– it’s the Kingdom of God– at your disposal or for your pleasure. Remember, you are asleep now but you are in heaven and quite aware of that fact,” the Father said to me, not by voice, but by suggestion in my dream. “Go ahead, go inside a few other dreams of those sinners out here. Have whoever you want, I really don’t care what you do Charlie Taylor, I love you that much.”

“What the fuck?”

The funny thing about God is that he never really talks or speaks as we think he or she should. He’s part of us– his spirit is that element of the consciousness that makes even the most sane talk to themselves from time to time. Just wait until you meet God. You’ll see.

“What about them?” I asked God. That’s what did it for My Lord– how he knew I was the real thing. He sent me right out of that dream, back to my bed with the sensation of a ghost rubbing my thighs. “Oh, I get it. Ha! Ha! Fishers of men– I see what all that scripture was about. You didn’t have to be so literal,” I prayed.

I had an erection. It felt so good. What was it? Why did it feel like something was fucking my brains out yet nothing was there but what was inside my own imagination. I played along and pulled down my underwear and let that ghost take over me. I turned on my knees and simulated that I was getting plowed from behind. I was so close to having an orgasm, but didn’t want to, and then, the stereo popped on, waking me from the edge between sleep and consciousness.

What was I to do? It all seemed to be part of the scene– a play. Just moments ago I was sleeping and dreaming thanks to the help of Ambian and I hade finally made it to heaven. Let me tell you, it’s not mansions that we live in over there, but rather a trailer park. I saw it in my dream, that place where those have died now live. What the hell? I didn’t want to go there yet if that’s all there was too. That’s why Shawn is still here, why he chooses to stay here with me and not go into the trailer park light.

I didn’t set the clock radio– it must have been Shawn tinkering with the high-tech device. Perhaps he set the alarm on purpose, knowing he would be dead by 3 a.m. and wanting to send me forget-me-nots from beyond. Whatever the case, it worked. He woke me up before he had to go– he was trying to tell me something from beyond. Perhaps the message was in the music being played on the radio in the wee hours of the morning.

I danced in my nudeness and ran through the apartment totally convinced that I had it all figured out and already was ‘saved’. That song on the radio brought it all into perspective. It all is part of a greater plan. How smart it was of Shawn to think of setting the stereo alarm like that to wake me at that very moment when he would be here, in the now– the dream world, still making love to me.

“Do you feel that Ecstasy, baby? Do you feel those waves? That’s what death is like sexy– there’s nothing to be afraid of– it’s all like this moment on E– pure bliss,” he said to me only weeks before, in the height of passion. How did he know what death felt like, I questioned at that moment, not realizing that he obviously knew he would die soon.

There is no heaven or what we imagine in the end. It’s just like that place in our dreams where we go on and on and on and every corner is filled with endless possibilities and new plots. It’s a big book out there, filled with the dreams of us all. The winners are those who are saved, those who knew what to write in it as they passed along its pages. The losers are the poor spellers who know nothing about faith and compassion for others.

Suddenly, I was so afraid– alone in the apartment. Bette, my orange tabby jumped from the bed with a big busy tail and hissed at a shadow on the wall. There was no doubt in our minds that the spirit of my dead lover or something else was still lurking around– pissed off at something. Was I really that bad in bed with ghosts? Why did it stop so soon? I wanted more of it. It felt so good for a moment there.

I had to get out of the apartment. It was all really starting to freak me out.

“Don’t tease me like that. Come on? I was into that…who is that? Shawn was that you fucking me? Answer me baby!”

My dick went limp and I headed for the Brooklyn Bridge at 4 a.m. and was prepared to jump to my death. I wanted to be over there again. It really sucked being left behind in a two bedroom in Bedford-Stuyvesant which I could not afford on my own salary.

I knew Shawn was sleeping with someone else over there in heaven– that big gang-bang in sky. But I wasn’t sleeping any longer. The Ambian stopped working. I wanted more sex with God. This wasn’t fair!

He was calling to me– “Come on, sexy. Do it. Come on…I can’t wait for you much longer. I’m having too much fun over here. Wait ‘til you see this, you are not going to believe it!”

Continued here…


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Prior to my Kundalini awakening, I didn’t know who my primary care physician was. I was healthy for years and had no need to go to the doctor. When I caught a bad case of the crabs near my lower chakra, it wasn’t necessary to obtain a prescription of Permethrin, a body lice lotion. I used RID, the same ointment used to clear the little critters from the scalp. I had a knack for self-diagnosis and considered myself to be a witch doctor who could cure myself of almost any illness or infestation.

My physician’s name was typed conveniently on my Aetna insurance card– Nina McGowin, MD/ Village Primary Care. I never met the woman face to face. I picked her out as my primary care physician from a long list in a provider directory. My finger stopped halfway down the panel of highly credentialed individuals and there she was, slicking out like a little crab clinging onto the skin at the base of my pubic hair. The address was in Chelsea, so I figured she would at least be gay friendly. I needed an AIDS test right away– so her office scheduled something for me the next day. I didn’t have to suffer through the typical two- week waiting period for an appointment with my primary care doctor. There were other options for testing at the time. I could have gone to Gay Men’s Health Crisis for a free- screening, but I had insurance and wanted a little bit of dignity and secrecy. With my luck, if I had gone to GMHC for the test, half of of men I have had sex with over the years would have been there too that day– waiting to hear if their fates had been sealed as well.

The ordeal of having to get an AIDS test was too stressful. I was already in a somewhat psychotic state following the death of my lover. My doctor could do this for me– there was no need to go to a place like GMHC just to be tested with the masses.

A few months earlier, I made an appointment with Dr. McGowin for a pain in my left heel. “It’s a heel-spur,” a fill-in nurse practictioner diagnosed on my first and only trip to Village Primary Care. “Take some Alieve– that’s about all we can do for you unless you prefer to have an injection of Cortisone. Let’s try the Alieve first. If it does not work, perhaps we can give you a referral to a podiatrist. Here Mr. Taylor– it’s an article from the ‘New York Times’ Health Section on the heel-spur and what causes it,” the nurse advised.

I knew what was causing it– all the running on the treadmill I was doing– at least three miles a day, at 7.0 on a steep incline. I read that article. That’s why I went to see the doctor in the first place. It’s a shame the ‘Times’ didn’t mention that Alieve works so well on arthritic ailments, I could have saved a $25 co-pay but that’s just how the ‘New York Times’ is with their health coverage articles.

“You must be kidding,” I said. “It’s as easy as that– Alieve? What makes the blue pill different from the Tylenol I’ve been taking?”

“It’s an anti-inflammatory. It’s much different. Give it a try.”

“The ‘Times’ clearly states the horrific pains associated with this type of internal injury,” I said in a very sophisticated and intelligent manner. “I read that story last Sunday. I know all about the pain of a heel-spur already. I showed her my puppy dog eyes, hoping that she should pull out a triplicate prescription pad and offer something strong for my pain.

I didn’t actually get to meet Dr. McGowin but the advice the nurse gave me was true. Alieve cured my heel-spur.

On my second visit to my primary care doctor’s office, I wasn’t sure what to expect. There’s a huge difference between catching a heel-spur and HIV. I hoped that Dr. McGowin was a lesbian, at least then she would understand my predicament and offer compassion. I hoped she wasn’t a straight woman who would shake her stethoscope and give me that ‘see what happens to queers’ look of condescension.

“I see here you are requesting an HIV antibodies test,” she read from my chart. I studied her up and down. She had a bobbed haircut with sandy hair secured behind her ears. Her skin was slightly freckled and her demeanor was quite feminine. If she was gay, she didn’t show it. I figured she was one of those cool straight people who live and do business in Chelsea, so I trusted her with my demons.

“Yes. I’ve just found out that a partner is positive, or was positive. Well, he died, you see.”

“Oh! That’s sad. I’m sorry. Let’s get you tested,” she insisted while putting on a pair of rubber gloves she pulled from a box similar to a carton of Kleenex.

She was too calm with that needle. What was I, just one of many who have come through her doors in this state— ready to get the news, ready to face the facts, prepared for the inevitable?

“Relax, Charlie,” I said to myself as she stepped out the office after ordering me to roll up the sleeves on my dress shirt, “They have good drugs now. It’s not the end,” I whispered while thinking about all the tongue depressors inside a glass carafe sitting next to the blood pressure contraption.

I hate that blood pressure machine and how it grabs at the arm like a lover clinging for his life in an emergency room. I had a flashback of Shawn when he died and that look on his face as he screamed “No momma, no— I cannot see the light”.

That machined scared the hell out of me and reminded me of how he clung to my arm when he started to die. I hoped Dr. McGowin didn’t want to take my pressure in addition to my blood. I didn’t have the patience for her to count the beats of my heart while holding onto my wrist.

“She must look at so many tongues,” I said out loud– laughing a little while sitting atop white paper on a black leather exam table, waiting to have my life-expectancy evaluated.

She returned with a smile and the little containers for my blood. I couldn’t hold it inside any longer. I had to tell someone. That’s why I really came there– the Kundalini. I was having my awakening and knew it.  I explained my own diagnosis to her the best that I could–

“I’m having some issues. I don’t know what’s going on with me, but something weird is happening inside. I need the test, sure. It will answer a lot of questions. I think I’m experiencing a Kundalini awakening, Dr. McGowin.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Taylor?”

“My lover died on Friday and he had AIDS. I didn’t know that— and well, well, I think there’s a good chance I may have it too. But it’s more than just that.”

“Explain, Mr. Taylor.”

“I feel like I’m being haunted by him or something. I don’t know, I sense his presence here still. There’s something happening to me– something inside, it’s more spiritual than medical. I’m freaking out. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s weird. It’s an energy.  I’m so full of so much energy right now. It’s like I’m in heaven with him. I haven’t slept in almost a week. I don’t feel like I have to, but I want to.”

“I can give you something for that. It’s understandable that you are under extreme stress right now.”

“I probably have AIDS too, right? I mean, we never had protected sex– so silly of me, I know. Rules are rules, right? What kind of game was I playing? I should have known better. I must have known he was sick.”

“It’s okay. You don’t know that for sure. HIV does not always infect everyone, Mr. Taylor. You look quite healthy to me.

“Well, thank you. Thank you very much. What about my hair color, does it look good? I just had it done yesterday.”

We laughed, she wrote out a prescription for Ambian, gave me a hug and told me to relax and not jump to conclusions until the test results were in.

“What about this energy?” I asked, assuming she would immediately recognize the symptoms that health professionals from the Far East have embraced as a natural physical phenomena.

“Just take the Ambien and get some rest,” she suggested.

I popped those pills on the train ride home. I needed sleep. Lots of sleep. I couldn’t wait to get some sleep. I was too tired to care if I was going to die or not. I needed sleep.

That’s when it happened, an hour after I popped those pills I fell onto my bed into the dark underworld known as full-blown psychosis– the waking dream– reality fused with the dream world.

I was in it….

My spiritual baptism had begun.

Continued here…


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Soda Pop

 Shirley lived along Back Ridge Road. Her double-wide trailer was parked in a pine thicket. It was 1972, times were changing. She was a single woman who didn’t need a husband to feel secure in her mobile home. She had the place all to herself.

My father explained her right to live in sin just out the road from our ranch. “She’s one of them flower girls– a hippy chick– a peace activist. They love the country– them kinds of girls.”

Her hair sparkled in the sun, like hay in June. She had some ‘big jugs’ according to dad but she was ‘wet behind the ears’ and mom wasn’t too fond of her ways. She drove out the lane fast and stirred up dust and dirtied the sheets my mother had hanging outside on a clothesline.

Dad got a twinkle in his eyes when she sped by while beeping her horn. That dirt road looked like a cattle stampede. Dust was everywhere. Mom sucked her teeth.

“Oh, he’s so cute,” Shirley said to my father one afternoon to start a conversation with him. We were in the produce section at the Country Garden Market and were supposed to pick up a loaf of bread and ‘get our asses right back home.’ Mom wanted us back right away. Dad rubbed my head like a hand kneading a ball of dough when Shirley complimented me.

“I’m Barry,” my father said nervously. “And this is my son.”

Even though I was only five, I knew something smelled fishy. I went into bars with dad all the time. I knew all the moves that hippie chicks like Shirley used on guys. I knew what she was after– pop.

Most women in town drank pop in 1972. Dad bought girls soft drinks all the time when he went drinking at the bars. Most women in town thought I was cute. They liked rubbing my hair as I sat in a booth all by myself with a personal jukebox to play with. It was like I was their kid or something. Because I still had tendencies of wetting my bed, I was permitted only one pop at the bars. Girls like Shirley got as many was they wanted.

Shirley picked over a pile of green peppers and threw one into her shopping basket while explaining to my father that she was our new neighbor and that she had just moved out the road from our place.

“Yes, I know,” Dad replied. “I see you driving by all the time but I’m married,” he said while pointing his finger at the top of my head, giving her the same look he gave to flirting girls at the bars.

I knew what they were up to.

“Hey pap, I’m going to tell mom that we went into a bar today and that you are talking to women again,” I said cute and casually. Shirley took her fingers out of my hair that moment. Her face turned bright red and she quickly ran her fingers through her own hair. I could smell the strawberry conditioner as she fluffed her locks in our direction.

Shirley bought me a six pack of Coca-Cola to try and cover her dusty tracks.

Dad looked petrified as Shirley followed us home, out Back Ridge Road.

When we got back to the house I told my mother that Shirley was having stuffed peppers for supper and I wanted to know if I could eat at her house that night.

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Hazel or Green Eyes?





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Strong Beaver

strong beaver

Yellow Tail slept inside a large tepee on the south side of a mountain nestled among a thick growth of blue spruce trees. She rested nights snuggled alongside her mother and two sisters and they shared ground under the canvas with another woman and her three children. Red coals of a fire burned into the late hours of the night at the center of the dwelling. The embers glowed red like the sun in Autumn.. With a hickory stick, Yellow Tail stirred the coals encircled by a ring of blackened stones to warm things up before stepping outside into the snow to relieve herself from the water she drank from a cold stream earlier that day.

The feast of the white tails was a glorious time for the tribe. She was exhausted from a long day of butchering. Her belly was full from eating lots of freshly roasted red meat from the speared animals. She did not want to get up to relieve herself and tried holding the water inside her belly. Eventually she thought she would burst and got up to go outside.

The men had been away for almost a moon and brought back plenty of deer to prepare and store for the long cold winter ahead. The entire community spent the day butchering and smoking the harvested animals. Some of the larger chunks of animal flesh were stored under the ground with large pieces of ice carved from a nearby lake.

The job of pulling the soft, slippery fur from the beasts made Yellow Tail sweat despite how cold it was outside. That was her job along with the other young women in the community. She did not like the blood and flesh under her nails and went to a nearby stream several times during the day for drinks of refreshingly cold mountain water and to wash off her hands.

Strong Beaver was at the stream too but she didn’t notice him spying on her as she gulped handfuls of water several times that day. None of the leaders or even the medicine man noticed during the slaughtering that he was also sneaking away from the hard work to relax along the refreshing shores of the stream from time to time. He went there just to watch Yellow Tail. He hid behind a large Elm tree and was careful not to move or make a sound. The handsome young man with long braided hair along the sides of his chiseled face feasted on glances of her strong, slender body. It was time for Strong Beaver to make his choice for the mother of his sons and daughters. His heart was glowing with attraction for Yellow Tail and the young woman’s mysteriously shy ways.

December nights were bitterly cold in the Susquehanna Valley. Snow was piled high on the skins of the shelter. Yellow Tail carefully removed a large bear hide from her body and exited the tent without allowing any cold air inside. Snow slid off the indian home as she readjusted and secured the doorway from the outside.

The moon was silver in the night sky. A white, glowing ring encircled the goddess of the night sky. Yellow Tail knew what that sign represented– lots of snow to come. Her friend, the old medicine man showed her how to read that message in the sky. She hoped the winter would not be too cold that year as the sky seemed to suggest.

She quickly allowed the spirit of the deer and water to pass through and out of her. After quickly tying her leather garment with a string made from twisted corn stalks, she started to run back to the shelter. That was when she stumbled upon Strong Beaver, standing outside his small tiny shelter made with only three long poles and hides from small rabbits. He was smoking his long peace pipe and the red glow from the pipe reminded her of the hot coals inside her home.

He called for her, like a horned owl.

“Who! Who,” was the sound he made with his hands curled together over his full lips.

Yellow Tail knew Strong Beaver had no mother or father and slept alone in his own space, not too far from the larger tent filled with women.

It was a very cold night and she felt sorry for him and how cold it must be not to have a fire inside his cone shaped home.

She saw the smoke still rising from the teepee where her mother and sisters were sleeping and knew it would be alright to slip away with Strong Beaver for a while– to dance under the glow of a full moon with a sign of snow.

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Another Sketch


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