“A Different Kind of Indian” was published in Eleventh Transmission, issue 1, Feb. 2015.
“A Different Kind of Indian” opening paragraphs:
Some kids sell tacos after school. I make arrows. Four of them a day, because that’s a sacred number. I haft them to shafts of white aspen harvested from the spirit-mountains somewhere in Montana. I fletch the shafts with wing feathers of the red-backed hawk—that’s Crazy Horse’s spirit bird. Mom sells them for a hundred bucks apiece on the Internet.
The flint is real, but everything else is as phony as my website name. In cyber-space I’m Joseph Little Wolf, a cool old dude whose great-great grandpa was the Cheyenne Chief who kicked Custer’s butt.
You can find issue 1 of Eleventh Transmission here.
Evita’s picture displayed on a popcorn stand.
Evita (little Eva) Peron’s beginnings were about as humble as a person could get in Argentina. Her father, Juan Duarte, was a rancher who already had a wife and children. He took Evita’s mother, Juana Ibarguaren, as his mistress and started a second illegitimate family that he kept on the edge of poverty in the little town of Junin. Continue reading
“Unk” was first published in Disturbed Digest, issue 1, Alban Lake Press, June, 2013. It was subsequently published as a reprint by A Murder of Storytellers in Beyond the Nightlight in December, 2014.
“Unk” opening paragraphs:
The Oklahoma City Family Medicine Center might not be a good place to meet guys, but I see a really hot one the moment I walk out the door. Good looking. Tall and dark. Native American. He’s just my type, so I check my watch and pretend I haven’t been inside for anything important.
He likes my hair. Who can blame him? I spent a lot of time mixing in the eight long, thin, highlighted braids with tiny glass beads whipped at the ends. I toss my head so he won’t notice if my smile is a little crooked. It probably is because my lower lip is partly numb. Doctor Martha Singleton says the feeling might come back in time. Continue reading
“I 35” was published in Phoenix Photo & Fiction vol. 1, December, 2014. http://waxpoetryart.com/phoenix/issues/001/johnbiggs.html
“I 35” Opening paragraphs:
“Them red ants are the worst. There’s millions of them, like the Red Army that gobbled up half of Europe back in the war.” Dad pointed his pipe stem at the line of ants marching through my my green plastic soldiers, looking for bits of Lorna Doone cookie I dropped on the World War II battlefield in our living room.
Baby Doll growled at them from a distance. She barked when I pinched a commie ant between my thumb and finger and dropped her on her comrades. They tore the body into thirds and carried them away. Continue reading
“Tell people you are a writer.” My publisher gave me this advice, so did my wife and about a hundred of my closest friends. That statement is the foundation of a platform (don’t you hate that word). Things should move on logically from there.
Strangers are supposed to ask, “What are your your books about?” So I’m ready with an ultra short synopsis or two. One thing leads to another and pretty soon they’re asking for my cards looking for my Amazon Author Page on their smart phones and promising to tell all their friends, who happen to be intensely interested in books exactly like mine. Continue reading
I wrote a little story entitled, “I 35” mostly in my head on my way to visit my sister in law in Bisbee, Arizona. By the time I got there I had the plot worked out, a couple of catchy lines and knew all there was to know about the characters. It was pretty easy. The story actually happened almost like I planned to tell it in the living room of my 1950’s childhood home. Continue reading