I will follow the white man's trail. I will make him my friend, but I will not bend my back to his burdens. I will be cunning as a coyote. I will ask him to help me understand his ways, then I will prepare the way for my children. Maybe they will outrun the white man in his own shoes.
There are but two ways for us. One leads to hunger and death, the other leads to where the poor white man lives. Beyond is the happy hunting ground where the white man cannot go.
Many Horses - Oglala Sioux - Found at First People
This is a most interesting site with tons of information on Native American tribes. The problem...search as I might, I can't find a single picture that has any resemblance to those posted yesterday by Skhye Moncrief during her visit here. *lol*
There's no denying that Native Americans are a strong and resilient people...ones to be admired for their bravery, stamina and beliefs. I have a fascination with the Sioux, for reason's I can't explain...perhaps a past life. I always tend to migrate to descriptions that now appear not quite accurate, but what woman doesn't want to fantasize about tall, dark, and handsome? I don't think Many Horses fits the description, do you?
One of the great things about writing Fiction, is that I'm allowed to be creative. My job is to paint an 'appealing' picture in the reader's mind of my hero, and when I dream of him, I know darn well that in real life, someone who looks like my descriptions wouldn't give me the time of day. Imagine you're in a romantic mood and pick up a novel about a woman who has been captured by a fierce tribal chief. Which scene would you prefer:
His piercing ebony eyes sparked with interest when she entered the tepee. She shielded the tear in her dress with crossed arms and tried to deny his appeal. She was, after all, his captive and destined to be with him forever. The doeskin shirt he wore clung to muscular arms and spanned a broad chest. The vee-neck allowed a glimpse of his smooth bronzed skin. He sat cross-legged near the fire pit, his thighs exposed and the fringe from his boots grazing the ground. His angular jaw tightened when she sat across from him. He lowered the chunk of rabbit he ate and licked the grease from his full lips.
OR
His weathered and lined face lit up when she entered the teepee. She shielded the tear in her dress with crossed arms and tried to muster up interest in him. Sadly, she was his captive and doomed to a life with the old fart. The doeskin shirt he wore hung from his undernourished body and sagged into a concave chest. The vee-neck allowed her to glimpse the darkness of his wrinkled skin. He sat cross-legged near the fire pit, his skinny legs exposed and the fringe from his boots grazing the ground. The slack skin about his jaw tightened somewhat when she sat across from him. He lowered the chunk of rabbit he gummed, and washed the grease from his lips with his tongue.
Okay...I know our heroes don't have to be perfect, but it does't hurt to paint a pretty image. If I'm going to be someone's captive, I like a piece of eye candy to stare at. How about you?
