Spring

Spring comes through my window in many ways... the burst of growth from the potted plants on the lanai, the breezes from the valley don't carry as much chill, insects buzz the flowers with more urgency... The most striking phenomena is the tilt of the Earth's axis now positions the setting sun so that I can enjoy the reflection off the building across the way.

Back to writing

Feeling much better these days. I have energy and motivation to write creatively again. With the help of friends and caregivers, I try to write a couple hours each day. I am working on a new book called, "Broken Spirit."  Its a story that takes place on a reservation in Montana during the early 1960s. I am co writing with my friend, Karen who lives in Montana. We have written 27 Chapters so far. Below I would like to share the first chapter with you. I hope you like it.

Broken Spirit

By Karen Lilly and RK Raker

Chapter 1

"Stay in formation! Keep your eyes open!" The sergeant yelled.

Riding through the Medicine Tail Coulee provided little protection from the Montana summer sun. The sky was a consistent cloudless pale blue. In the ravine, the wind was absent. It was hot and humid. Only the occasional clumps of Cotton Wood trees provided shade. The dust of the trail mixed with the greasy dry smell of tall grass. His dark blue wool coat and pants absorbed the heat. His skin itched from the rough material. The brass buttons on his uniform were hot to the touch. His hat was damp with sweat. He could think of a hundred places he would rather be. Every man and horse of the 7^th US Calvary suffered, but they kept the two columns tight—this was Indian country after all. Custer's scouts had sighted the Indian encampment just across the Little Bighorn River.

Finally, they came to a small ridge overlooking the river and the surrounding meadow. He saw teepees of the Sioux, Cheyenne and Arapahoe tribes in the distance nestled within a stand of trees. This was Sitting Bull's gathering of renegades—natives that refused to stay on the reservation. It was impossible to tell the true size of the camp because of the uneven terrain. He saw the smoke from their fires, the corrals built for their horses, a few men, women and children walking about unaware of the hell that the soldiers were about to bring. An anxious whisper went through the troops, "This will be a quick and decisive victory."

Lieutenant Colonel Custer called for his column to stop. They listened. The troopers heard heavy gunfire in the distance. The battle had begun. Major Reno had engaged the natives from the south, and now Custer's regiment was in position to hit the Indian camp hard from the north. Custer ordered his men to ride four abreast across the river and make contact with the enemy. The bugler sounded the charge.

This is the fun part, he thought. We get to splash through the river and join the fight.

He spurred his horse forward. It was apparent very soon that this was not going to be a usual skirmish. The Indians were standing their ground, even advancing. They were much more numerous than expected, and well armed—many with Spencer and Henry repeating rifles. The usually disorganized savages displayed a confident rage the 7^th Calvary had not previously encountered. The troopers were not slicing through the village as they had done on previous occasions. The assault stalled in the open meadow just across the river. Losses were heavy.

Custer gave the order to retreat. He led his men towards a small hill, ordering the soldiers to remain in formation. Several rings of braves, shouting and yelling from their painted horses, surrounded them. Smoke from their rifles and dust from the horses hooves spiraled into the sky. The noise was deafening. The ranks of soldiers fell into disarray. Chaos and disorder reigned.

"This sucks," he said to the soldier next to him, as they dismounted and let their horses run free.

The white soldier didn't answer. He was too busy kneeling, reloading and firing his rifle.

White asshole, he thought, probably one of the hard-core extras that volunteered out of Billings.

Tank Manygoats knelt beside the other troopers, forming a loose circle around  Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer.  The Colonel barked orders and stomped around flashing his yellow hair and cream-colored buckskin jacket. Smoke billowed from his polished silver Colt pistols. Tank half-heartedly fired a few rounds in the general direction of the Indians that surrounded them. He really didn't care enough to take aim. They all knew this was just a reenactment for the tourists, but some took it more seriously than others.

Tank hated the whole thing. The Reenactment was a new addition to the Warrior Weekend, just another way to attract more tourists. This final massacre really pissed him off. Here it was 1962, eighty-six years after the real battle and Custer’s Last Stand, and this was all the reservation could dredge up to cheer about—pathetic.

Tank Manygoats looked for his brother—Chase was one of the marauding braves. He really looked the part of a Sioux Warrior. Chase was the tallest in his family, almost six feet. His hair was jet black. His dark complexion and athletic build made him the perfect image of a native warrior. Just what the audience had come to see. He had even let his hair grow into long black braids.

Things came easily to Chase in life. Their mother had given him the honorable name of Chaska, which meant Oldest Son. She had probably loved Chaska. Everyone now called him Chase. He was clearly the favorite son of the Manygoats' family. All women wanted to be with him and cheered when he competed in the Iron Warrior Challenge every year.

Their mother had not given her second son such a grand name. She called him Tatanka Ptecila, which means Short Bull, and then deserted them both when it became known on the reservation that he was half-white. Now he answered to Tank. He had grown into his name. He was short and stocky, and generally angry. The Manygoats brothers never knew their fathers, and they were left to grow up with their maternal grandfather, George Manygoats. The three now shared a small, unkempt trailer on the edge of the reservation.

Just because I'm half white, I have to be one of the soldiers. There's plenty of full blood natives to be the warriors. Look at them, they're actually having fun. They get to ride around in nothing but breeches, wear war paint, ride the best horses, and flirt with the girls... fuck this. Most of those braves have a western saddle under their Indian blanket. They can’t even ride bareback anymore. It’s all just a show.

Tank spotted his brother, Chase, riding with the other braves circling the small band of soldiers that were still alive. Soon, someone would come into the circle to scalp him. They both raised their rifles at the same time, smiled at each other as only rival brothers can do. Then they fired.

kabang! kabang!

tzing! Something hit the ground next to him.

That's weird... he thought.

Tank reloaded his vintage Springfield rifle, aimed again and fired another blank round. He felt the kickback at his shoulder. His brother, smiled from his mount, took aim and returned fire with his Spencer rifle. It fired seven bullets to Tank's one.

Damn unfair—

WHAM! Tank felt hot lead pierce his ribs.

He fell backwards. His rifle dropped to the ground. His hat rolled in the dirt. He twisted left and then right, searching for air and gasping for breath.

What the—

There was no pain. He couldn't speak. He knew he was dying.

This is NOT a good day to die, he thought.

A brave with red war paint and a fake feather headdress came running up to him yelling his best war cry. He lifted him off the ground and pretended to take his scalp. In all of the excitement he didn't notice the blood, or he didn't care. He dropped Tank to the ground and ran off to join the fray. The great yellow hair, George Armstrong Custer had been defeated. The celebration began.

Hundreds of spectators were seated on the wooden bleachers, enthralled with the action. They had gathered from big cities and little towns across America for the event. Many were cheering—everyone was applauding the action. The victorious braves paraded in front of the audience. The defeated soldiers gathered their horses and prepared for the next part of the show.

No one took notice as the lifeblood drained from Tank's body.

The big sky winked at him just before everything went black.

The hamster and the gecko – a survivors story

Preface

I was watching NHK news a few days after the March 11 earthquake and tsunami. The coverage of the tragic and unfolding events in Japan was unprecedented – there had never been so much technology available to record a natural disaster of this magnitude. The raw footage was shocking and the 24-hour media coverage of the aftermath was mesmerizing. Like so many, I was glued to the television – I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.

An older man was shown walking through the rubble of one of the devastated towns. The camera, of course, was following, waiting for that one shot or one quote that would make the evening news. He walked in a steady fashion; strong Japanese legs carried him through the mud and over the remnants of his neighborhood. We learned that he was a volunteer firefighter who had left his family at home when the tsunami warnings came over the sirens. It was his job to secure the first line of defense near the harbor.

He stopped suddenly and turned towards a house that had been flipped on its side and dumped near a gray stone wall. The reporter shoved a microphone in his face and asked him a question off-camera. Tears welled up in his eyes and his face wrinkled with emotion. With a cracked voice he said, “There is nothing to say.”

The moment hit me so hard. I was stunned and shocked all over again by the enormity of the tragedy. I could feel this man's despair through his silence.

I thought, “Yes, there is nothing that can be said in such a situation,” but somehow, all of us who were not there have to say something. Each one of us has to decide what we can say and how loud and far that voice can go. We have to speak for those who cannot.

The following short story is my message of hope – the words are my voice.