Today we are coming together to bid my sister and my brother in law best wishes on their journey to the north. Elders, wise and aging with stringy gray hair and wrinkling skin, take pride in this young couple. The humility and honor they taught shines bright. As He
Inkpa Duta and Cante Waste Win, my brother in law and sister,ride out of the camp. Young boys and girls gather around, wishing them a safe journey. He Inkpa Duta’s head is held high, confident as he rides by, and eager for their four-day trek.
     A couple days went by, hoping their journey is going well and they’re making good time, I look into the distance. Coming from  the north I see He Inkpa Duta being followed by my sister,his head is hanging on his chest and eyes are low, avoiding contact, as they arrive. Days
  go by, and I notice a change in my sister and brother in law. They’re no longer seen in public together, He Inkpa Duta isn’t one who shies away from the people.
    I go to his tipi, as I approach, Cante Waste Win tells me that she is going to the river to fetch water. She picks up the buffalo bladders, slings them over her shoulder, and walks away singing. 
     The shutters are closed in their tipi, and little light comes through. I see my brother in law is sitting on the ground, crying and looking down, sniffling. I sit and put my arm around my Ciye and ask,
     “What happened to you brother? What is it that troubles you?”
     He Inkpa Duta slowly lifts his head and looks at me. Water builds in his eyes as he tries to  fight back the tears. In a trembling voice he tells me,
     “Brother, I am ashamed.”
    He shakes his head and reflects on emotions,
    “Your sister is the most traditional woman any man can ask for, but what I am going to tell you will trouble you.”
    He takes a deep breath, gasping for air as he fights back hurt emotions.
    “We were riding through the valley by the Crow camp. It was nearing sun down and the people were going back to their camp. We snuck by, by leading our horse on foot. Hoping to be undetected, and as we approached the ridge of the valley, we were spotted by a young Crow
warrior.”
     He stares to the ground, dark, deep, and emotionless. A single tear falls and he continues,
    “As he rode closer to us, I could see the fatigue in his eyes, and he could see it in mine. We were both exhausted, to tired to take each others life so we came to terms to a fist fight, the winner was determined by the last man standing on his feet. We looked at each other, fists
up, and I made the first move. I landed a punch on the right side of his face, and he went down on one knee, but quickly jumped up and tackled me.”
    His head hangs, shaking back and forth,
    “I was to tired to fight back. He sat on top me, driving his fists into my body and face. Slowly I started excepting my defeat. Your sister came running over with a knife, I thought it was in my aid, but handed it to the young man.” 
    He stops, staring at the ground as more painful memories come into his head. Swallowing down lumps of despair and heartbreak, but he continues,
    “She gave it to him and told him to cut my throat.”
    He swallows again and grabs his throat,
     “Both of us quickly rose to our feet, shocked. The young man looked at me while jumping on his horse, his eyes, confused. He shook his head as he rode off. My pride and dignity had gone with him.”
    Sniffling, He Inkpa Duta looks at me, embarrassed, and says,
    “Ever since then, nothing has been the same. I tried to continue on the way we were, but I can’t. I cannot hold my head high, for I now live in shame.”
    My blood begins to boil as I take in the pain and emotions from his story. I storm out of the tipi running towards the river. My heart begins beating fast. I feel the wind blowing pass my ears as I dodge trees, and get hit by branches. My sister is at the bank of the river, and the buffalo bladders are full of Mni. I slowly walk towards her, heart pounding and sweaty, I feel no emotion. I grab the top of her head, but her soft silky hair makes my hand slip. She screams and I start gripping a hand full of hair. I yank her head back. She looks at me, terrified, I grab my knife and put it to her throat. She screams louder, begging for her life. I pull with all my anger and might, the piercing scream stops. I can feel her body go limp. She falls to the ground, lifeless, and covered in blood. Looking at her I do not shed a single tear. I now bear
shame and dishonor.  

Henrie Fogsbhat could not have been more in need of food. It had been more than 8 hours since his last meal and the impact of that fact was just peeking over the hills of his misty mind. Henrie lay upon the ground of his living room, surrounded by mounds of shredded cheese and tacit regret. In his brain Henrie knew it wrong, the life he lived. But after all, he had a wife, and she was good. He had a house and car. They were not so good. But they were there and he could make do. Thus was his disjointed reasoning as he clambered noisily to his strained feet. 
    It was a pleasant morning, for sure, as Henrie Fogsbhat rolled forth from his flat at 421 C Baker Street. The mission was clear: to obtain other kinds of food, because damn it all if cheese wasn’t getting boring! 
     “Hey there, Billius!” he called exuberantly, sweaty faced.  
     It was several moments before the answer was expelled from his neighbor’s bathroom window. It came in the form of a bottle of shampoo, hurled with such force that it burst upon impact with Henrie’s massive stomach. 
    He must remember to ponder sometime on his own inadequacies and how they affected his development of self and his relations to others. But for now he decided that it must be put aside in light of more important things. Those things being the local grocery store. It was 10 minutes and 2 blocks later that Fogsbhat remembered to check his pockets to make sure he had sufficient funds for the purchase. He did not. But rather than return to his home (because he deemed it too much work) he ascertained that he must get it from the next person to cross his path. In London, he rationed, this should not be difficult to accomplish. 
    At last! A woman on which to exercise his charm! Henrie sucked in his gut and adjusted his face to as friendly a setting as it would allow. As the moment of suave request descended upon the duo, Henrie felt an uncontrollable urge to burst into song. What song he knew not, but he felt the need to herald this woman’s beauty. He was within feet of her, but in his genuine focus he neglected to notice the small yellow object in his path. He opened his mouth to begin the
serenade, however, in accordance with his typical luck, just at that moment his left heel caught upon the slippery surface of a rogue banana peel. Jowls a’flappin’, howling in displeasure, he went down. His glorious tribute quashed by something resembling a dying bumblebee. The woman, so radiant in her features, proved equally as graceful in personality. She exuded a small squeak of surprise before offering her hand to the lumbering beast on the ground. He
took it, clasped it in both of his own and nearly pulled her over in his struggle to gain a standing posture. 
    “I’m so sorry sir, I—I fear I distracted you when it would have been better to concentrate on the road ahead…” She said, looking abashed and very, very shaken. In the commotion she had sunk her hands into her pockets out of reflex. It looked as though she was ready to disburse something from them. She also did not look at all ready for him to speak, but speak he did. 
    “Henrie Fogsbhat, madam, that’s my name, and don’t you worry I’m quite alright!” She opened her mouth as if to reply but in the end she seemed to decide it was best not to say anything. She simply nodded and began to go on her way. “Er.. Was nice to meet you madam! Eh, I wanted to—“ But by this point she had already rounded the nearest corner, and Henrie was left with a sore posterior and the thought that he had meant to ask for something. 
    At length he sauntered into Nettles’general store and went straight to the correct aisle where he picked out a Toblerone bar. Next he began his journey towards the cashier who looked decidedly displeased at his coming. When asked to pay the 1.26 pounds required for the purchase, he found that the woman had planted a pound on him, he happily thanked her in his memory and proceeded to bring forth the less than savory completing sum of the payment from his back pocket. 
    With a grimace that made Henrie feel less than optimal, the man took the money in exchange for the candy, shaking his head as Fogsbhat executed his exit out into the streets of London. Perhaps someday he would change, but not today, that would be too hard… probably.

    What a bunch of idiots. These people I surround myself with are total morons. One of them literally thinks up is down. He is a twisted fellow. He spends most of his time one is head, so I guess in all reality he is right. We call him Lance. 
    My next cuckoo friend would be Darla. She talks to birds, only eats food with two syllables in the name, and calls everyone Sport. The Good Doc doesn’t really like her, and I like to take her feelings into consideration, especially during our one-on-one conference calls in the social corridor. 
     I almost forgot about Shmitty! He is an old sailor, weary with war wounds and as foul as the ocean’s depths. He really likes to get the rest of us into trouble. He always finds a way or roping us into teasing the white-coated servants, or stealing things from out neighbors in the hall. 
    It is not really fair that there are four of us in this cramped room when everyone else gets their own. I think we got the short end of the stick when it came to leases. The Good Doc just renewed us for another six months. 
    What a bunch of idiots I live with. I eat, sleep, and breathe these buffoons. Sometimes the Good Doc tells me I should leave them, get some alone time for myself, but I ignore her. She is smart, but not so bright in the head. I always get a kick from watching those three play cards.
    We were all sitting in my room one day. Lance was in the corning, propping his sorry self up against the wall. Darla was eating her carrots and pancakes. And Shmitty was contemplating all the uses for the word fuck. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. It seemed I was the only one to hear it. 
     I wonder if it is a new friend.