This is my Friday flash for the Vamplit blog this week. This great artwork was done by Giancarlo Brajdic. I probably envisioned a different story than most people would have. Such is the mind of Blaze.
His eyes are closed, and a twisted smile of sorts graces his lips. In reality: more of a controlled grimace than anything else.
The entire room is bathed in a scintillating display of red; not a light but a presence, an illusion of other-worldly microcosms pushing themselves onto him, attempting to surround him with an aura of peace and contentment where none exists.
White . . . yes, white, the color of purification, would have been a better choice. But they fail, as they have failed with so much more that they have tried to do.
The plug in his head: is it real? Perhaps it's a contrived conceptual device to convince him that he is powerless without their intercedence; they being the masters of his destiny. Yet, he fights it. A losing battle? Perhaps. But to bow before them in supplication to their wishes would be an acknowledgement of weakness. They would win then.
Winning is what HE must do!
Fiery sparks break out against the wall, and bring vivid memories back-not those of his own experience but those drilled into his head. Scenes from a by-gone era playing out before him like a badly spliced film, the lines, the connections between scenes not distinct. Blurry, confusing, and distorted, they are woven in this fashion to present an image, the main intent being to plant the seeds in his mind without a concrete base for him to reason it thoroughly.
The smile broadens and becomes real because with each of their attempts to create mindless subterfuge, he is winning. He has won other battles against them, but this time . . . this time the war will be won.
Pictures of the priests flash in and out of his mind. How many times was he herded off to the Catholic church on the reservation? Too many for him to count. He sees the attempted assimilation of his brothers and sisters into the status quo: the land of the white man. His knuckles are still red and swollen from the vicious attacks of the chalk-board pointers delivered by the supposed God-like women they call nuns.
All of the customs of his people were driven from their minds. Or were they?
He laughs. Braves! Braves do not cave in to the wishes of those who enslave them by depriving them of their culture and their memories.
In an instant, he pulls the plug from his brain and tosses it on to the ground. He is done with these people! He is his own man: a man of strength and principles.
The ground outside the building is bare and desolate, testament to those who enslaved them on the reservation, making sure they had the worst soil on which to try to sustain themselves. In time, once they kick the white man off this last vestige of what they had been subjugated to, they will get the land green and fertile again. White men destroyed the Earth Mother. The Red Man did not.
Other braves come out from the former confinement of their indoctrination abodes. The white men arrive, bearing arms, ready to enslave them once more. But they don't get the chance.
On a knoll overlooking the settlement stands a majestic White Buffalo. Young Chief Standing Tall lets out a holler, and before the guards can do anything, he and his comrades attack their despised jailors while they're caught up in the rapture of the moment. Not a one of them is left standing.
Wounded Knee is a painful memory, not far removed. It will not be repeated. No one is to be trusted other than the other Sioux taking up the call to freedom. No promises will be believed. No resettlement will occur. They will make their stand here.
The White Buffalo tells them so.