Indians walk on a narrow trail, the brown dust caught underneath their bitten fingernails just specks of regret, horses carrying the loads of lost souls on their backs look tired and aged with worry. Some of the men suffered from severe frostbite that matched the color of the bruises on their arms, and the women died at the sight of a stream alongside the nests of bugs that ate away their copper skin; some of the children starved, writhing in the dirt, in which their tongues muffled their screams. The ghosts of the families just kept moving, until their eyes were no longer sought out for use of vision, until their legs were just bars of steel linked to their torso, until they found the perfect patch of grass to bury their hearts.
YOU ARE READING
Cherokee Raccoon
Historical FictionWe had to do a project in history about the Trail of Tears and I chose to write a story.
