The New York Times
Flightby Sherman Alexie
Half Native American and half Irish, fifteen-year-old “Zits” has spent much of his short life alternately abused and ignored as an orphan and ward of the foster care system./b>/i>
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From the National Book Award–winning author of The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, the tale of a troubled boy’s trip through history.
Half Native American and half Irish, fifteen-year-old “Zits” has spent much of his short life alternately abused and ignored as an orphan and ward of the foster care system. Ever since his mother died, he’s felt alienated from everyone, but, thanks to the alcoholic father whom he’s never met, especially disconnected from other Indians.
After he runs away from his latest foster home, he makes a new friend. Handsome, charismatic, and eloquent, Justice soon persuades Zits to unleash his pain and anger on the uncaring world. But picking up a gun leads Zits on an unexpected time-traveling journey through several violent moments in American history, experiencing life as an FBI agent during the civil rights movement, a mute Indian boy during the Battle of Little Bighorn, a nineteenth-century Indian tracker, and a modern-day airplane pilot. When Zits finally returns to his own body, “he begins to understand what it means to be the hero, the villain and the victim. . . . Mr. Alexie succeeds yet again with his ability to pierce to the heart of matters, leaving this reader with tears in her eyes” (The New York Times Book Review).
Sherman Alexie’s acclaimed novels have turned a spotlight on the unique experiences of modern-day Native Americans, and here, the New York Times–bestselling author of The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian takes a bold new turn, combining magical realism with his singular humor and insight.
This ebook features an illustrated biography of Sherman Alexie including rare photos from the author’s personal collection.
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By Sherman Alexie
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIACopyright © 2007 Sherman Alexie
All rights reserved.
CALL ME ZITS.
Everybody calls me Zits.
That's not my real name, of course. My real name isn't important.
This morning, I wake in a room I do not recognize. I often wake in strange rooms. It's what I do. The alarm clock beeps at me. I know I didn't set that thing. I always set alarm clocks to play wake-up music. Something good like the White Stripes or PJ Harvey or Yeah Yeah Yeahs or Kanye West. Something to start your brain, cook your guts, and get you angry and horny at the same time. Sometimes I wake to my mother's favorite music, like Marvin Gaye or Blood, Sweat & Tears.
Yes, there used to be a band called Blood, Sweat & Tears.
Isn't that the most amazing name for a rock band you ever heard? When it comes right down to it, everything in the world is about blood, sweat, and tears. So that name is perfect. No, it's almost perfect. The perfect name would be Blood, Sweat, Tears & Come, but I wonder if people would buy a CD by a band named so graphically.
All of the guys in Blood, Sweat & Tears had long stringy hair and greasy beards and bloodshot eyes. They were ugly. Back in the seventies, all of the rocks stars were ugly. And they were great musicians. Do ugly guys compensate for their ugliness by becoming great guitar players? Or do certain guitars choose their homely players like Excalibur chose Lancelot? I wish I lived back in the seventies. As ugly as I am, I might have been the biggest rock star in the world.
I love Blood, Sweat & Tears because they're ugly and because they rock hard. And because they were my mother's favorite rock band. Her favorite song was the one called "I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know."
She used to sing that to me when I was a baby. I remember her singing it to me. I know I'm not supposed to remember it. But I do.
My memory is strange that way. I often remember people I've never met and events and places I've never seen.
I don't think I'm some mystical bastard. I just think I pay attention to the details.
I remember my mother and father slow-dancing to that Blood, Sweat & Tears song. I remember how my father whisper-sang "I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know" to my mother. I remember how they conceived me that night. Okay, I don't exactly remember it. I can't see my mother and father naked in bed, but I can feel a lightning ball rebound off my soul whenever I think about it.
I figure my father's sperm and my mother's egg were equal parts electricity and water.
So, yes, I was created because of that bloody, sweaty, tearful, and sex-soaked song. And so my mother always sang it to me to celebrate my creation.
My mother loved me more than any of you will ever know.
But I don't like to think about my mother or father. Especially this early in the morning. And my alarm clock isn't playing Blood, Sweat & Tears or any other kind of music, so I punch it quiet, get out of bed, walk into the strange pink bathroom, and pee for three minutes.
I keep trying to figure out where I am, and then I remember: This is my new foster home.
I can hear my new foster family bumping around in the other rooms. I don't care about them. There are more important things to think about, so I look in the mirror and count the zits on my face.
One, two, three, four, all the way up to forty-seven.
Fourteen zits on my forehead. Twenty-one on my left cheek. Six on my right cheek. Five on my chin. A huge North Star zit shines brightly on the end of my nose.
I can't even count the Milky Way on my back. There are billions and billions of those pimple-stars. I bet I could sell the rights to name each of them. Maybe I'll stand at a freeway exit and shout at all of those lonely commuters: "Back zits for sale! Back zits for sale! Yes, you can purchase the rights to name one of my back pimples! Give it as a birthday gift! Buy one for your Valentine! Name one after your clear-skinned and beautiful teenage daughter to remind her how lucky she is!"
The skin doctor tells me I have six months to live. I'm exaggerating. I don't have a skin doctor and you can't actually die of zits. But you can die of shame. And, trust me, my zit-shame is killing me.
I'm dying from about ninety-nine kinds of shame.
I'm ashamed of being fifteen years old. And being tall. And skinny. And ugly.
I'm ashamed that I look like a bag of zits tied to a broomstick.
I wonder if loneliness causes acne. I wonder if being Indian causes acne.
My father was an Indian. From this or that tribe. From this or that reservation. I never knew him, but I have a photograph of his acne-blasted face. I've inherited his ruined complexion and black hair and big Indian nose.
My father was a drunk, too, more in love with beer and vodka than with my mother and me.
He vanished like a cruel magician about two minutes after I was born.
My mother died of breast cancer when I was six. I remember a few things about her. Her voice, her red hair, and the way she raised one eyebrow when she laughed. I sometimes wish she'd died when I was younger so I wouldn't remember her at all.
I remember her green eyes.
She was a white woman. Irish, I guess. I have a photograph of her, too, and she is gorgeous. My eyes are green, like hers, but I'm not pretty. I wish I looked more like her.
Yes, I am Irish and Indian, which would be the coolest blend in the world if my parents were around to teach me how to be Irish and Indian. But they're not here and haven't been for years, so I'm not really Irish or Indian. I'm a blank sky, a human solar eclipse.
A social worker, a woman who wore blue eyeglasses with a green stripe and perfect black pants, once told me that I had never developed a sense of citizenship.
"It's all in the small ceremonies," she said. "For instance, do you know how to knot a necktie?"
"No," I said.
"Do you know how to shine a pair of shoes?"
"No," I said.
"When you walk around this city, how many men do you see wearing neckties and shiny shoes?"
"A lot, I guess."
"Hundreds of men, right?"
"Thousands in Seattle, thousands in other cities, hundreds of thousands in the country."
"So what do you think it means for you?"
She stared at me with sympathy. I hate sympathy.
"This is bullshit," I said.
"What is bullshit?" she said.
I laughed at her. I hate it when social workers curse to prove how connected they are to youth and street culture.
"You're a fucking dreamer," I said to her. "What do you think this is, the nineteen-fifties or something? Do you really think I'd become some kind of asshole citizen if I wore a tie and shiny shoes?"
"It would help," she said.
She leaned close to me. She smelled like cigarettes and cinnamon gum.
"Here's the thing," she said. "You've never learned how to be a fully realized human being."
Jesus, what kind of overeducated bitch says that to a kid?
She made me sound like I was raised by wolves when, in fact, I haven't been raised by anybody.
No, that's not true.
I've been partially raised by too many people.
I've lived in twenty different foster homes and attended twenty-two different schools. I own only two pairs of pants and three shirts and four pairs of underwear and one baseball hat and three pairs of socks and three paperback novels (Grapes of Wrath, Winter in the Blood, and The Dead Zone) and the photographs of my mother and father.
My entire life fits into one small backpack.
I don't know any other Native Americans, except the homeless Indians who wander around downtown Seattle. I like to run away from my foster homes and get drunk with those street Indians. Yeah, I'm a drunk, just like my father. I'm a good drunk, too. Gifted, you might say. I can outdrink any of those homeless Indians and remain on my feet and still tell my stories. Those street Indians enjoy my company. I'm good at begging. I make good coin and buy whiskey and beer for all of us to drink.
Of course, those wandering Indians are not the only Indians in the world, but they're the only ones who pay attention to me.
The rich and educated Indians don't give a shit about me. They pretend I don't exist. They say, The drunken Indian is just a racist cartoon. They say, The lonely Indian is just a ghost in a ghost story.
I wish I could learn how to hate those rich Indians. I wish I could ignore them. But I want them to pay attention to me. I want everybody to pay attention to me.
So I shoplift candy and food and magazines and cigarettes and books and CDs and anything that can fit in my pockets. The police always catch me and put me in juvenile jail.
I get into arguments and fistfights with everybody.
I get so angry that I go blind and deaf and mute.
I like to start fires. And I'm ashamed that I'm a fire starter.
I'm ashamed of everything, and I'm ashamed of being ashamed.
This morning, as I count my zits in the mirror, I'm ashamed that I can't remember the names of my new foster mother and father.
I've only been living here in this strange house, with its strange pink bathroom, for two days.
I can't remember the names of my new foster parents' two real kids, either, or the names of the other five foster kids.
When it comes to foster parents, there are only two kinds: the good but messy people who are trying to help kids or the absolute welfare vultures who like to cash government checks every month.
It's easy to tell what kind of people my latest foster parents are. Their real kids have new shoes; the foster kids are wearing crap shoes.
But who cares, right? It's not like I'm going to be here much longer. I'm never in any one place long enough to care.
There's this law called the Indian Child Welfare Act that's supposed to protect half-breed orphans like me. I'm only supposed to be placed with Indian foster parents and families. But I'm not an official Indian. My Indian daddy gave me his looks, but he was never legally established as my father.
Since I'm not a legal Indian, the government can put me wherever they want. So they put me with anybody who will take me. Mostly they're white people. I suppose that makes sense. I am half white. And it's not like any of this makes any difference. I've had two Indian foster fathers, and they were bigger jerks than any of my eighteen white foster fathers.
Of course, I assumed those Indian men would automatically be better fathers to me than any white guy, but I was wrong.
I had this one Indian foster daddy, Edgar, who was great at the beginning. He was a jock, a muscular machine. He took me to Seahawks games. We played touch football and oneon-one hoops in the park. He bought me books.
One time, he gave me this amazing remote control airplane, an F-15 fighter jet. I loved that thing. It was the most amazing gift I'd ever received. It must have cost three hundred dollars. Edgar bought one for himself, too, and we drove out to this remote airplane field in the Cascade Mountain foothills.
"I've been racing planes for years," Edgar said. "So don't take it too hard if you lose, okay?"
"Okay," I said, but I didn't plan on losing.
We piloted our planes around this circular course marked by flags and landed them on a grassy runway.
I beat him three races in a row.
"Wow," he said. "Beginner's luck is something else, huh?"
"I guess," I said.
I could tell he was getting mad. And if I were a smarter kid or a diplomat, I would have let him win the next race. But I couldn't do that. Who wants to lose?
"There must be something wrong with my plane," Edgar said.
"You want to switch?" I said.
So we switched planes and I beat him two more times, landing my plane in the grass more quickly and smoothly than he ever would.
"There's something wrong with this plane, too," Edgar said.
"Yeah, the pilot," I said.
Edgar took my remote control out of my hands, taxied my plane down the runway, lifted it into the air, and flew it full speed into a tree.
I ran over to the plane, picked it up, and stared at the damage. One wing was broken; the rudder was bent; the miniature pilot was missing his head. I was scared and sad. But I couldn't show it. I'd always been punished for showing emotion. It's best to stay as remote as those airplanes.
"What do you think of that?" Edgar asked, and lip-pointed at the wreck in my hands.
"This is your plane," I said.
Yes, Edgar had forgotten we'd switched planes. But I suppose it didn't matter because he flew the other plane into a tree, too.
He didn't yell or cuss or get all crazy. Edgar calmly destroyed six hundred dollars' worth of model airplane.
If we'd had twenty airplanes, Edgar would have crashed all of them, too.
So who cares if Edgar was an Indian or not? His Indian identity was completely secondary to his primary identity as a plane-crashing asshole.
Yes, that's my life, a series of cruel bastards and airplane crashes. Twenty little airplane crashes. I am a flaming jet, crashing into each new foster family.
And here I am, for the twenty-first time, crashing into a strange pink bathroom in a strange house in a strange world, and all I can do is count my zits. How lame. The only positive thing I can do is change their name. Maybe I'll start calling them spots, like the British do. That almost makes zits sound harmless, doesn't it?
I can hear my new foster family. I don't want to see them. I wish I could stay in this room forever. I wish I had a television in my bedroom. I've never met any person who is as interesting as a good TV show.
I never understood the people who think that TV is bad for you. I guess they've never seen the Discovery Channel. You can learn science, history, geography, and politics from TV. If you want to find some faith in human beings, just watch one episode of Storm Stories on the Weather Channel, and you'll see heroic people risk their lives to save strangers.
I don't understand human beings. I don't understand the people who risk their lives to save strangers. I wish I knew people like that.
Everything I know about Indians (and I could easily beat 99 percent of the world in a Native American version of Trivial Pursuit) I've learned from television.
I know about famous chiefs, broken treaties, the political activism of the 1960s and 1970s, and the Indian wars of the nineteenth century.
I know all this stuff because it makes me feel more like a real Indian. Maybe I can't live like an Indian, but I can learn how real Indians used to live and how they're supposed to live now.
Jesus, I'm pathetic. I make it sound like I'm just a television addict. But I'm also addicted to books. And I know there has never been a human being or a television show, no matter how great, that could measure up to a great book.
But there are no books in this bathroom or in my bedroom, and I've already read the books in my backpack a hundred times each. So I'm living a new life without new books.
I bet you a million dollars there are less than five books in this whole house. What kind of life can you have in a house without books?
I give up counting my spots, walk into the kitchen, and look at a room full of strangers.
"Good morning," the foster mother says. "Do you want a bowl of cornflakes?"
She's a short fat woman. If this were a fairy tale, she'd be the evil stepmother who eats children. This isn't a fairy tale, so she's just a loser who gorges on food like alcoholics drink booze.
The foster father grunts from behind his newspaper. Foster fathers like to grunt and read newspapers. If I had to describe this guy to a police sketch artist, I'd say he looks like the sports section with a bad haircut.
"Excuse me," the foster mother says to me. "I said good morning."
I don't say anything.
"Hey, young man," the foster mother says. "We have rules around here. And rule number one is be nice."
"Whatever," I say.
The foster father puts down his paper and stares at me like I was a news story about a killer tsunami. He's got one eyebrow and a thick forehead like a caveman.
He's eating cereal flakes, but his breath smells like beer and onions.
"Good morning," he says.
"Whatever," I say again.
The other kids, the real and the fake ones, all stare at me. It's a riot of cold blue eyes. Those kids know what I'm doing. Some of them already hate me for being a jerk. The rest of them are bored. They've seen it all before.
"Good morning," the foster father says again.
He's challenging me. He thinks he's stronger than I am. He's bigger and taller and older, sure, and has a million more muscles than I do, but I am stronger. I am stronger than all of my fathers.
Excerpted from Flight by Sherman Alexie. Copyright © 2007 Sherman Alexie. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Meet the Author
Sherman Alexie is the author of, most recently, Blasphemy, stories, from Grove Press, and Face, poetry, from Hanging Loose Press. He is the winner of the 2010 PEN/Faulkner Award, the 2007 National Book Award for Young People’s Literature, the 2001 PEN/Malamud Award for Excellence in the Short Story, and a Special Citation for the 1994 PEN/Hemingway Award for Best First Fiction. Smoke Signals, the film he wrote and coproduced, won both the Audience Award and the Filmmakers Trophy at the 1998 Sundance Film Festival. Alexie lives with his family in Seattle.
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I was never interested in books, period. When I was 15, I read this book and fell in love with it. This book has inspired me to read way more than I have ever read in my life. Now, I'm currently reading "The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fist-Fight in Heaven" as a senior in high school and it is an amazing book so far...
Flight by Sherman Alexie is a very adventurous and touching story about a boy named "Zits" whose real name is Micheal goes through countless amounts of bodies in order to see many individuals lifestyles and to help him to learn from them. Micheal isn't quiet the normal 15-year-old teenager. When he was 7-years-old his mother had passed away and when he was born his father abandoned his mother and him. Ever since Micheal's mother passed away his life fell apart and he came into the life of a young juvenile growing up. One day, Micheal decided to walk into a bank and was suppose to kill everyone in it. However, Something came over him that made him transform into another body, From being a young 15-year-old teenager to an American General who kills Indians, to the body of a Pilot, the body of a father with three beautiful children and a lovely wife, the body of a homeless man and many other countless amounts of bodies. While going through all of these lifestyles in which Micheal had to experience, made him think a lot about his own life as "Zits" and how he can learn from all of these people's bodies that he has been in, to try and become a better person. I think that this book was truly a life changing experience for me and made me think about the young teenagers in the world today who are trapped in the body of juveniles because of abandonment and betrayal, when deep down they are really hiding their feelings and they really are good people. I would definitely recommend this book to a friend and I give it 5 stars! Job well done Sherman Alexie.
Even in high school I was never a big fan of middle school/high school aimed books; finding very few that weren't gushing 'after school specials' or magic. Being in my mid 20's I was hesitant to read this book after reading reviews about it's adolescent nature, but Sherman Alexie's books are the gold in my library treasure so I decided to push reviews aside and give it a go. I found it to be brilliant. I read it in one sitting (it is a particularly easy read) and really portrays real emotion, enough for me to believe in the character. I connected with him. I'm also a history fan, so the scenes of history were also pleasing. While I wouldn't recommend this to a middle schooler due to language, I think a mature adolescent could handle this book. I also believe that adults would love this book if they just approached the book for what it is. Cheers Mr.Alexie!
Published in 2007, "Flight" is one of Sherman Alexie's more recent novels. His critically acclaimed YA debut "The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian" came out a few months after "Flight's" publication. Together these novels illustrate how teen narrators can comfortably inhabit both adult and young adult novels. More about that later. The book starts with a simple request from the narrator: "Call me Zits. Everybody calls me Zits." In other words, the narrator has no name. Given the structure of the novel, this choice actually works. Throughout the story, Zits is rarely called by any kind of name that would be termed as his own. The opening line also tells readers everything they need to know about Zits. Specifically that this fifteen-year-old half-Irish, half-Indian kid doesn't think enough of himself to bother using his own name. Worse, Zits is pretty sure no one else thinks much better of him. Orphaned at six and in foster care since he was ten, Zits has slipped through the cracks and is truly a lost soul. After an unceremonious exit from his twentieth foster home and his latest stint in the kid jail in Seattle's Central District, Zits starts to think that maybe he doesn't really need a family. Maybe what he needs is some kind of revenge. But things don't go as planned. Instead of punishing the white people who are abstractly responsible for his present situation, Zits finds himself on a time-traveling, body-shifting quest for redemption and understanding. Zits' first "stop" is inside the body of a white FBI agent during the civil rights era in Red River, Idaho. From there he moves to the Indian camp at the center of Custer's Last Stand, then a nineteenth century soldier, a modern pilot with his own variety of demons and, finally, Zits finds himself in a body more familiar than he'd like to admit. As many other reviewers are quick to point out, "Flight" is Alexie's first novel in ten years. Unlike previous works, where characters and plots intersected (even in his short stories), this novel remains disjointed. It's the kind of book that could easily be seen as a grouping of short stories. Except that each segment follows Zits' spiritual evolution. For this reason, the novel is obviously much more character driven than plot driven. But Alexie makes it work. Finally, a word on the ending of the novel: It's optimistic. There is some talk that the ending is too up, that things come together a bit too easily. In terms of the plot that could be true although I'm more of a mind that the ending was already in the works from the beginning (the fact that "The wounded always recognize the wounded" and other events support me in this claim). Some have claimed that the happy ending might be reason to suggest that "Flight" is a YA book because only a book written for teens would have such an abrupt ending. That's bogus. This is an adult book that teens can enjoy and the ending doesn't change that. After reading this novel it becomes clear that Zits has been through a lot. Way more than any fifteen-year-old should have to take. For Alexie to end the novel in any other way would have been a slap in the face both for Zits and the readers invested in his fate. "Flight" is a really quick read (I finished it in a day) and entertaining throughout. The novel doesn't have the depth of character found in "Reservation Blues" or
In this captivating novel, Sherman Alexie creatively depicts the struggles of a poor American Indian orphan as he takes the reader on an unforgettable journey. He takes us through time with the main character, Zits, who indwells the bodies of several characters consisting of an FBI agent, a young Indian boy, an Indian tracker, an airplane pilot, and his own, homeless father. When in the bodies of these extremely different characters, he is forced to deal with situations that are out of his control. The overwhelming theme of violence is portrayed in each situation, and creates thought-provoking questions about the morality of murder. These questions cause the reader to contemplate the violent scenarios that Zits is forced to encounter, thereby causing the reader to further develop their own sense of morality. They also give insight to the American Indian struggle through time from the Battle at Little Big Horn, the civil rights movement when the government put many restrictions on Indians, to the present day lives of American Indians. Zits¿s passionate character is developed through these experiences creating a highly entertaining and deeply emotional novel.
Flight is an amazingly reminiscent tale of growing up and into a family. The story of a troubled youth sent on a wild journey through time which brings to him the understanding of what his life is really worth, and his need for a family troubled his mind. Flight brings readers back to their youth, a time when time travel and happily-ever-afters are as possible as macaroni and cheese. The startlingly relatable character Zits tells his story in language understandable to today's teenagers. His honest, funny, and heart breaking approach to growing up in a society that challenges his situation is refreshing and original. Zits's ability to capture the problems of every teenager- acne, relationships, and family- and to explain the situation of his background and his final understanding of this is punctuated by his clear and direct description of his thoughts and feelings. I recommend this book to readers who would like to be reminded of imagination and still learn about a current social issue concerning our society today.
Sherman Alexie¿s novel Flight is more than just a story it serves to instruct as well as to entertain. It is wonderful to see that there are still those who understand that to teach through stories is one of the best methods of teaching. While instructional, the book does not lose its entertaining and gripping quality. The events of the book somewhat resemble a sort of science fiction in their improbability of occurrence with current technology levels, and yet future technology cannot explain the events satisfactorily either. This serves to keep the reader wondering and interested. The writing style seems similar to that of a book in the young adult reading level, but the subject matter, and the message of the book almost require, and will certainly speak to, older readers. That is the one reservation to a recommendation of the book, that portions of it may not be appropriate for younger audiences. That aside, the book is an excellent example of an instructional story, in a time in which it seems fewer stories are being written to teach.
Just do. He started to talk to me one night.
I decided to pick this up after reading 'What You Pawn I will Redeem,' a short story of Alexie's which is great. I think this book would be great for middle schoolers, perhaps. The book has an agenda and it's loud and clear. I saw Alexie reusing material from the one and only short story of his I read before which was a little disappointing. It was good the first time, but seeing it reused wasn't amusing. I feel writers need to put more effort into their writing than I feel Alexie did here. I read the book in one day, so that goes to say it's short.
"Sherman Alexie is America's wooden cigar store Indian." - unknown A quote I found on the internet I once hated and now believe. Mr. Alexie you used to be about something. The last time I heard you speak was in 2000 and it was remarkable. I've read most of your earlier books and have enjoyed them very much. And now in these past couple of years it's turned into this absurd eff this and eff that garbage every other sentence. You are not Bill Hicks. You are not Sam Kinison. You are Sherman Alexie. You've disappointed me. During those years of being away since Ten little Indians what happened to you? What would make you conjure up such a phony eff the world act. What sort of crap did you see, hear, or read in that time. It doesn't fit the Sherman Alexie I once heard all those years ago. What could it be? You've disappointed me. "I'm worried about young writers. I'm worried about new writers. I'm worried about the native kids out there that need my stories. And for just thirty dollars a book they too can escape the reservation of their minds." - Sherman A. Mr. Alexie. You used to be someone I could be proud of. And now. Your just America's wooden cigar store Indian.
Comes in and grabs a vodka bottle-
He nodded. "I can relate to that..." he mumbled. In more ways than one... he thought.
Fireheat arrived, out of breath. Sandstorm dashed to him. "Fireheart, what happened? And where is Bluestar?" "N-nothing." Said Fireheart and left. The next day, Sandstorm and Fireheart mated. The day after that, Cinderpelt lept on High Rock and called the clan. As soon as Fireheart arrived, she asked, "Fireheart, tell us." Fireheart took a deep breath and said, " Bluestar and I went on a border patrol. We came to a shallow creek....and....Bluestar slipped...and died." Gtg Now. Part in the afternoon.