In the Desert of BonesShe didn't even know where she was.In the Desert of Bones5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
She was lost in so many senses of the word. Lost in direction. In identity. In Life.
She was a dying breed whose name was in a mothertongue she could no longer speak, whose spirit-gods were nowhere to be found, and whose mere appearance in a room summoned fantasies of Noble Savages, painted skin, and the silhouettes of writhing bodies dancing around a campfire. Depending on how racist the room she walked into was, the images could be worse. Her history was not taught in schools. Her people were frail now, beaten down from generations of oppression, given smidgeons of poor land when the entire continent used to belong to them. The children had no grasp of their culture, their language; they sought the mainstream ideals of a world that did not cater to them, but treated them as token characters that appeared every few episodes with some stereotypical insignificant role.
She lived in constant restlessness. Restlessness lived beneath her skin. In her blo