A flash fiction about the massacre at Wounded Knee.
The river ran still and stagnant, fuming heavy and metallic across them all, the victims sighing tired under it. They sat down, pulling their hair around them. Birds whistled overhead, throwing wild cries that draped about their brown shoulders. The ghost feet tramped like drums, renewing their breath and drawing them up to reclaim life in a single instant. They glanced up. Green blurred faint over the torn angry earth, the blackened river, the dark and thunderous sky made fluid with falling feathers. Shrieks rang out over them, constantly pulling them out of their hopelessness. The circle went on endless, sharp, smoking ineffably.
A blinding scream rang out, defiling the air, showering ashes down over the hunched up bodies, strong and weary with muscle, fear, bravery. They shot. The world flashed white as everything screamed. The river froze, the sky collapsed, birds disapeared with a final yell. The ghosts stood still to watch the dance end, bodies flung prostrate to fill the chasms surrounding with blood, filling the gap with new fluid, new sacrifice. Their eyes flew open. Barrels lowered and melted into the sky.
It rained, cold water to finish the void, striking us all awake.