#Native American Fiction

[mad-rdr]

Firekeeper's Daughter - Angeline Boulley

★ ★ ★ ★/5

While this story started off a bit slow, I was completely hooked by the end. For a debut author, Boulley really knows how to incorporate so many elements into her story. This book follows a young woman named Daunis, an unofficial tribe member despite her ties to her Native American heritage (largely due to the racist beliefs of her white grandmother), and an undercover FBI operation that's targeting the drug trafficking going on in the reservation. This book was as heart-wrenching as it was suspenseful, and the author tackles a lot of deep topics throughout the storyline. My heart breaks for Daunis and her family, their story feels so real. Daunis has to deal with so much that she isn't able to enjoy her freshmen year of college- that older sibling burden is so evident. I was glad when she met Jamie, but of course he had to be an undercover agent (??). That was probably to most unrealistic part of the story- you're telling me this baby-faced 22-year-old is an undercover agent that's already been undercover once?? Nah. Not only that, but he definitely took advantage of Daunis' position and desire to help her community. Like, we never even learn his real name for god's sake. But anyways, this was an enjoyable story, but please check the trigger warnings before reading!

[mylifeinfiction]

The Buffalo Hunter Hunter by Stephen Graham Jones

What I am is the Indian who can’t die. I’m the worst dream America ever had.

Damn… How the hell do I even begin to review this book??

Stephen Graham Jones' The Buffalo Hunter Hunter is a stunningly original piece of vampire literature; a masterpiece of historical-horror that understands and respects the weight of the nightmarish atrocities we as a country committed against the Native American people in the name of expansion.

Furthermore, it's a brilliant exploration of the innate hunger that drives those who’ve been wronged that grasps the mechanics of the genres it so effortlessly utilizes in a manner that allows SGJ to skew genre elements with truly affecting, wholly original results. Whether it’s the hunger for revenge, justice, or the literal hunger for blood, SGJ analyzes these themes throughout this expertly structured tale in a way that's as viscerally creative as it is emotionally destructive as it is brutally unforgiving. Through Good Stab, he transforms the Blackfeet into the blood-hungry monster that America already so wholeheartedly believed them to be. And through his breathtaking use of language, painstaking research and devastating character-work, he allows them to get some much-deserved vengeance against the real monsters of this story.

"You can't stop a country from happening, Good Stab."

Moment after moment straight-up floored me, leaving me speechless in the best, most agonizing ways imaginable. SGJ’s prose is simply stellar, both in the engrossing manner in which he constructs his narrative—the frame story initially left me wanting, but ultimately works so beautifully on a thematic level—and the natural, jaw-dropping dialogue—but especially those moments between Good Stab and Three-Persons leading into Good Stab’s final confession… wow.

All we have left here is rot and decay.

And his two central characters, Good Stab and Three-Persons—whose complexities continuously managed to surprise, enrage, and devastate me—are just immaculate, making both the intimate structure and overarching themes—the fantastic and historic elements—believable and cathartic and overwhelmingly effective, all-around. If The Buffalo Hunter Hunter doesn’t end the year atop My Best of 2025, then 2025 will have proven to be one hell of a year for genre fiction.

This, I believe, is the story of America, told in a forgotten church in the hinterlands, with a choir of the dead mutely witnessing.

10/10

-Timothy Patrick Boyer.

Note: I know, I know… everybody is leading their reviews with that quote. But, c’mon, with a line that’s characteristically, and thematically, as flawless that that one, how the hell can you not lead with it?!? It’s just too damn good!

[matty-stump]

What I'm reading right now.

[holley4734]

The Lost Journals of Sacajewea: #bookreview

@Magpiecap @Milkweed_Books #bookbloggers #booklovers #bookish #booktwt #BookTwitter @BloggersHut @_TeamBlogger

“In my seventh winter, when my head only reached my Appe’s rib, a White Man came into camp. Bare trees scratched sky. Cold was endless. He moved through trees like strikes of sunlight. My Bia said he came with bad intentions, like a Water Baby’s cry.”  Sacajewea, The Lost Journals of Sacajewea The Lost Journals of Sacajewea by Debra Magpie Earling tells a more accurate story of Sacajewea that…

[its-suanneschafer-author]

BOOK REVIEW: #DreamWheels by #RichardWagamese. An extraordinary story, cowboys and Indians with a twist. Gorgeous prose. 

[cryingoflot49]

[lichenritual]

https://gofundme.com/f/gravity-loop-the-speculative-fiction-anthology We are working to preserve Moribund Languages, especially Native American Languages, and request Funds to aid in Our Efforts.

visit FUND.GRAVITYLOOP.ORG a full statement on plans to publish translations in Indigenous, Moribund, and Endangered languages

[pickledpascal]

Hold Me Like Water Masterlist

Hugh Jackman x Maya Imik

Hugh Jackman Masterlist

Fic on AO3

Summary: Maya and Hugh have been friends for nearly ten years. After divorcing his now ex, Maya is there to comfort him. And maybe become something else.

General Warnings: reminder that the fmc is a trans woman !!! she has a girl dick !!! kinda slow burn moment. smut. but just a little bit. it's a friends to lovers story guys, they gotta take their time. i will be talking about hughs divorce which will be purely speculation so obviously don't take anything i say as truth. age gap!! fic starts with maya being 23 and hugh is 44.

A/N: this is gonna be a long one, so buckle in hughlovers

ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR. FIVE. SIX. SEVEN. EIGHT. NINE. TEN. ELEVEN. TWELVE. THIRTEEN. FOURTEEN. FIFTEEN. SIXTEEN. SEVENTEEN. EIGHTEEN.

[skylessknights]

GET TO KNOW ME: ♡ favourite underrated tv show - Trickster

There was a time when we were all family. Witches, Ancient, Tricksters. Cycle and balance...harmony. You're called ancients? Why do you want my son? Your son? The son of a trickster and a witch. I've never seen that before.

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Summary: Kate is not immune to the dangers of the land. No matter how much she loved it, the land will never love her back.

Ao3 Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.8 Ch.9 Ch.10

Trigger Warning: Graphic depictions of violence and disturbing imagery. If you do not like depictions of war and torture please proceed with caution. I did heavy research for this chapter, but please know it is entirely FICTIONAL. The characters are not real, but the events are based on real American history. Tags: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character, Widowed, Original Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Ch 7 - The Sun Can Never Dip So Low

1890

I knew I was going to die. 

If the arrow in my side does not take me, then the man who rides the horse I lay across surely will. 

I felt no pain. Perhaps it was the fever of the fight. But it didn’t hurt. I thought of screaming and thrashing, but I thought better of it. As my father would say, ‘The one good thing about problems, is they’ll still be problems later. Don’t need to deal with them right away.’

Either way, I was still going to die. 

If only my father had taught me how to survive the frontier. I know now that you must learn to recognize those who won’t survive, and be wary of their doomed decisions. They are to be avoided at all costs. Because their fear is tragedy’s closest cousin. And tragedy is contagious in this place.

My mind was snuffed by a white blanket of fear, but somehow I prayed, and prayed, and prayed. But God had already abandoned me, perhaps he never loved me at all. My life had been an endless cycle of taking, why would it stop taking now. 

I had no idea where the man was taking me. I did not speak his language. I had heard stories about the wars between the Indians and Englishman. But I did not have a way to tell them I’m not a part of it, but I knew somehow if I could it would not matter. War will turn men into predators, and women into prey. 

Only days ago I felt like I was drowning under a waterfall, but now I see this is the real river of death.

The adrenaline had begun to leak out of my body along with the blood from the arrow. I watched in a blurred haze as the droplets disappeared into the ground as the horse took us swiftly through the dark forests. The pain began creeping in along with the darkness as I blacked out. 

When I woke I found myself laying on the dirt of a fort, the sound of Englishmen talking with the Indians brought me out of my haze. I thought I had been saved, I wanted to yell and scream for help. But the conversation did not sound pleasant, I could barely make out the figure of a man who must be a general and another who must have been the chief. To my surprise, I saw a young Indian woman standing behind the general, her wrists bound. She looked my age, but deathly beaten and ill. My throat closed in. 

The chief's voice rose in anger and I watched him point at me, then at the woman. After a moment the general waved his hands, and the girl was unbound and brought to the chief, he swiftly lifted and cradled her. I knew then it was his daughter. At the same time one of the general's men came walking in my direction and I realized I wasn’t being rescued, but traded. One woman for another, and eye for an eye. 

I thought death was better than being a prisoner, as my mind raced with panic. I almost begged the Indians to turn back and kill me. 

There must be a heaven, because that night I knew I had entered the gates of hell. Crawling on my hands and knees into the belly of the beast as he took me in his bed. Night after endless night. 

My days had turned into nights, and I no longer saw the point in living. Like my eyes had become devoid of color, and the world turned black and gray. Instead of praying to be rescued, I prayed my injury would kill me. 

There were other prisoners in the fort, mostly Lakota men. I bore no hatred for their people, but entirely my own. Their greed so suffocating they took the daughter of the chief, an innocent girl who had no part in their war. And turned her into a shell of herself. All in the name of greed. It was always greed. 

I thought my life couldn’t have any more surprises for me, that it must end here. But my life was about to change yet again. 

I noticed one of the other prisoners began watching me, then leaving behind extra food and water for me. After a few days, he approached me. 

“What is your name?” he asked, his accent thick. Like my language did not fit right in his mouth. Unlike his own.

“Kate,” I answered. Surprised to hear my own voice after days of torture, “what’s yours?” 

“Egwani,” he said, “or in your language little river. That wound in your belly is going to get infected.” River nodded at the small purple wound on my stomach . The general's men had cauterized it, but my body had been rising with a fever for the past two days. 

“It’s already infected.” And I hoped it would kill me quickly. 

River shook his head, “I can help you.” 

“Why would you help me?” Not that there was any hope for me anyways. Even if he stopped the infection, I was still stuck in this hell. 

“That woman the white man traded you for, she is my wife.” 

A chill ran down my spine. I did not want to think about what they did to her infront of him. 

“You gave your life to save hers. So I will save yours.” He said sincerely. Not that I had a choice in the matter, but still. If one woman came out of this alive, then I guess my death would have some meaning to it. 

“Even if you stop the infection, these men will kill me. There’s nothing you can do, I’m going to die here.” My voice betrays my thoughts. Desperation creeping its way into the cracks. Inside I wanted the pain to end, I wanted my suffering to cease. But I was still terrified, beneath it all I longed to return home. Pretend none of it happened. Return to my old life with my family. But that version of me no longer exists. 

River chuckled softly. 

“Is something funny?” The last thing I needed was to be shown kindness and then mocked. Like the general’s men had not degraded me enough. 

“You are stubborn like the Amicalola,” he smiled. Why was he smiling? Had he not suffered just as much as I had? He must have seen his wife beaten nearly within an inch of her life, and he could do nothing, yet he was smiling at me now. 

The pain in my body made my words come out bitter and sharp, “I don’t know what that means.”

“My people’s word for waterfall. You are strong like one too. It is a good name.” 

I scoffed, how incredibly wrong he was. 

“I’m not,” I stated with a groan. My head throbbed from the fever and my body was cold from the chills as the infection raged through my insides. 

“I can give you medicine. And when my people return in a few weeks, I will escape and take you with me.” He explained. 

“I think I’d rather you just kill me now,” I said, closing my eyes. The world around me was spinning in a dark haze, gravity pulling my body down with my thoughts. 

“You could have killed yourself days ago,” River began, “you could have taken a rope to your throat, or a knife to your heart. But you did not,” I opened my eyes again and looked at him, “that is how I know you are strong. Your will to live is burning through you right now with a fever.” 

My eyes filled with tears, and my throat suddenly felt thick. For the first time in what felt like forever, my heart began to fill with hope. River closed the gap between us and placed a gentle palm on my forehead, feeling the heat of my skin. 

“I have watched you turn towards the pain as it tears into you. I have seen the way you survive, these men think they have taken everything from you. But you have not let them devour your soul.”

“I could do nothing to stop them,” I croaked. Hot tears spilling down my cheeks like water through a dry creek bed. 

“Sometimes, there is strength in surrendering. But you have surrendered nothing to the pain. I see your tears, but you do not weep,” he brushed a thumb over my wet face, “you are a warrior.” 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

True to his word, River’s men showed up exactly two weeks later. But before that, he had given me a salve mixed from honey and sage and rubbed it over my arrow wound, as well as the numerous others I had accumulated in my time here. He also gave me an herbal tea for the infection, and by some miracle it was working. Each day I felt my strength returning to me. 

River took beatings for me, when I could not walk or do chores. Or simply when the men felt like taking their frustrations out on another human being. And I felt incredibly guilty for it. But he always assured me that I needed to save my strength for the real fight, when his people came. Yet nothing could have prepared me for what was about to unfold. 

They came under the cover of night, and used the forest and mountains to their advantage. They brought the fire, as the fort was made entirely out of wood and before long it became a fiery prison from hell. I knew our escape would not be easy, even with the help of Rivers' men. I had my strength back, but no knowledge of how to actually fight. I was lucky enough to escape with just a burn on my calf. 

It had been a bloody massacre, and the men fought savagely. The Lakota people came with arrows and tomahawks and spears, and I watched as they made the men of the fort suffer. It brought a sickening joy to my heart, to see the men who had raped me have their skulls crushed and insides ripped apart. It felt like justice. 

We lost people on our side, too many. None of the other prisoners had made it out alive. And I grieved for the other girls of the camp who did not make it like I had, it felt unfair. But we managed to escape. After hours of blazing rage, River swiftly lifted me onto the back of a horse, and together we rode far away from the fort. Only a few of his people escaped alongside us, as we left behind their final resting place. The numbing shock of war is behind me now, and hope has taken its place.

His men had informed us that his tribe had moved to the bottom of the Tennessee river, to escape the constant attacks and find refuge further west. So that is where our journey took us. As if life had still granted me the irony of continuing west, despite all the horrors I had faced to get there. 

It took us nearly three months. We traveled through the Appalachian trails and the journey was not easy. We lived rough, and we lived hard. I felt like a burden most days, as I knew I was slowing down their journey. I was still not entirely healed, and some days I felt I did not have the strength to travel at all. But River was patient, and never made me feel like it was my fault. 

He taught me how to hunt, how to fish, and how to set traps and skin animals. He even taught me some of his language, but most importantly he taught me how to survive. 

“When we kill an animal we must use all parts of it, to honor it. These creatures are innocent, and when we kill an innocent we become a little less of a man, and a little more of an animal.” He told me as he demonstrated how to properly skin a rabbit. 

Death is something we share with all creatures; rabbits, birds, horses and trees. It's everywhere, and eventually it will take everyone. Just as it had taken everyone who had loved me. Even as the stars die, we cannot run from it. 

Despite his people running from war, they could not escape death either. We arrived at River’s tribal camp, along the bank of the Tennessee river, and it had been reduced to ash. We were too late, or perhaps we were lucky, this could have been our fate too. River, and the men who came to rescue us, were the last of his people. I saw something dark enter him that day, as he held the charred bones of his wife and child. The woman whom I gave my life for, all for nought. As I stood there, living and breathing, and she did not. Their entire family history, wiped clean from the earth. 

His rage became the oil to my flame, I felt his anger mix with my own deep in my soul. All this death we had endured. Intertwined our fates like loops on a chain that bound us like shackles. But it was our grief that kept us on a tight leash. River sought revenge and justice, while I yearned to take from the world what it had taken from me. Together, we would instill fear into the heart of every man who crossed the land.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate McCanon died the day I met River. What stood before him now was the Amicalola, the waterfall. I became a woman unrecognizable. 

Like many rivers, their journeys start with quiet beginnings, but as they are nourished by the waters of experience, they gather strength, flowing swiftly and deeply towards their desired path. If you follow their course and witness where they converge — they become a creature of beauty as well as fury. I became the waterfall: untamed and unbridled, sweeping away all in my path with wild abandon.

River made me into a warrior, and with each life I took, the world felt my turmoil. Anger guided my blade, for the world had stolen my family—my husband, and my daughter. It robbed me of myself, leaving me with nothing to lose. 

“Our purpose is to ensure our enemies' fear is greater than their greed,” he told me. We hunted poachers, bandits, and thieves. But his rage was never satisfied. 

He taught me how to kill, how to torture. How to fight with weapons capable of horrific fatalities. And I welcomed it with open arms. We fought and killed together for several years before I would begin to lose myself to the bloodshed. 

We were hunting a group of poachers, when we came upon what we believed to be their camp. River was the first to drag a man from his tent, a knife already in his side. He would ask questions, and then kill him slowly. His fate sealed the moment we found their tracks. The man claimed to know nothing, but we were not convinced. And it wouldn't matter anyways, we would kill everyone in the camp. Just for the sake of it.

“What you take from the land will be taken from you. Know that I am the land, and the land is killing you.” River spoke in his native tongue as he slit the man's throat. Sickeningly slow. He would choke to death in his own blood. 

A sound came from the man's tent and a figure emerged, I drew my bow, ready to release it as they stepped out. The moment a child appeared, I wished then that I had the strength to kill myself back at the fort. I had turned into a monster. 

My heart was in my stomach as a little girl cried for her father. What have I done? I had almost killed a child. And we just killed her father, I realized we had been at the wrong camp. And I had just doomed a mother to be a widow, and a childhood to be ruined. I might as well have handed my fate over to them.

River stood before me, his face shadowed and his eyes vacant. The man who once filled my heart with hope now dwelled in darkness himself. At that moment, I knew I had to leave. I could no longer fight alongside him; our path led to a place from which I could not return. Like Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, yet born under the light of Spring, I too would journey down the river Styx.

He did not resist my departure. River assured me I would always be welcomed among his people, and if I desired, he would take me as his wife. For years, River had been my strength, and I his, but now I was leaving him—to salvage what little I had left of myself. 

After calming the child, I made a solemn vow to reunite her with her mother. This marked the beginning of my journey to break the cycle, and seek redemption for what I had done. It would also mark the end of my journey as a warrior. As we parted ways,  he whispered a message into the wind. I could not tell if it was a goodbye, or a promise, or a warning. In his tongue he told me “follow the rivers, and they will take you to the waterfall.” 

~~~

AN: I seriously appreciate all the love you guys are showing for this story. It motivates me to write more, and I'm truly having so much fun with it. Thank you! <3

[rockislandadultreads]

November is... Native American Heritage Month!

Celebrate Nation American Heritage Month with us by checking out these fiction recommendations!

Indian Burial Ground by Nick Medina

All Noemi Broussard wanted was a fresh start. With a new boyfriend who actually treats her right and a plan to move from the reservation she grew up on - just like her beloved Uncle Louie before her - things are finally looking up for Noemi. Until the news of her boyfriend’s apparent suicide brings her world crumbling down. But the facts about Roddy’s death just don’t add up, and Noemi isn’t the only one who suspects that something menacing might be lurking within their tribal lands.

Blood Sisters by Vanessa Lillie

As an archeologist for the Bureau of Indian Affairs, Syd Walker spends her days in Rhode Island trying to protect the land's indigenous past, even as she’s escaping her own. While Syd is dedicated to her job, she’s haunted by a night of violence she barely escaped in her Oklahoma hometown fifteen years ago. Though she swore she’d never go back, the past soon comes calling. When her sister, Emma Lou, vanishes, Syd knows she must return home. 

The Berry Pickers by Amanda Peters

July 1962. A Mi’kmaq family from Nova Scotia arrives in Maine to pick blueberries for the summer. Weeks later, four-year-old Ruthie, the family’s youngest child, vanishes. She is last seen by her six-year-old brother, Joe, who will remain distraught by his sister’s disappearance for years to come. Meanwhile, in Maine a young girl named Norma grows up as the only child of an affluent family. Norma is often troubled by recurring dreams and visions and, when she realizes her parents are keeping something from her, she attempts to uncover her family's secret. 

The Truth According to Ember by Danica Nava

After getting rejected for the 37th time, Ember Lee takes her job search into her own hands. She gets “creative” and answers the ethnicity question on applications with a lie - no one wanted Native American Ember, but white Ember has just landed her dream job. Not only does she thrive in corporate life, she also hits things off with the IT guy and fellow Native who caught her eye on her first day. But when they’re caught in a compromising position, a colleague blackmails Ember and threatens to expose their relationship.

[thoughtportal]

In the 1960s, Ursula K. le Guin represented a changing of the guard in science fiction literature. She was part of a generation of novelists who questioned the colonist mindset which had influenced American sci-fi for most of the 20th century. Le Guin came to this understanding not just as a moral stance or an intellectual exercise. Issues of racism and colonialism were personal to her. This episode, originally titled "The Word For Man Is Ishi,” comes from the podcast The Last Archive from Pushkin Industries hosted by Jill Lepore and Ben Naddaff-Hafrey.

[autumngracy]

Literature recommendations for the coming days (Pt 41)

[holley4734]

A Council of Dolls: #bookreview

@MarinerBooks @NetGalley #monasusanpower #NativeAmericanfiction #acouncilofdolls #netgalley #bookblog #bookreview #BookTwitter @bibliophileRT @BlazedRTs @bloggershut #BloggersHutRT #biblioblog @_TeamBlogger #booktwt #bookstagram

From the mid-century metropolis of Chicago to the windswept ancestral lands of the Dakota people, to the bleak and brutal Indian boarding schools, A Council of Dolls is the story of three women, told in part through the stories of the dolls they carried… A Council of Dolls by Mona Susan Power follows three generations of Yanktonai Dakota women and their dolls in three different settings. The…

[stone-cold-groove]

An illustrated page selection from The Little Indian Weaver. Grosset & Dunlap - 1928.

[whilereadingandwalking]

Never Whistle at Night: An Indigenous Dark Fiction anthology was a good Halloween read. It had many genuine scares. I did find myself wishing that editors Shane Hawk and Theodore C. Van Alst Jr. had been stricter with how many stories got into the anthology; the quality went very up and down throughout.

But the highlights made it well worth reading. In Mathilda Zeller's "Kashtuka," the main character is warned of violent doubles who can impersonate you; in Cherie Dimaline's "Tick Talk," a terrifying tick grows on a body in a play on resentment and grief. Characters wrestle with traumatic histories and real-life monstrousness (from residential schools to sexual assault to missing women) and with the horrors of indigenous folklore and belief, from the Weshtigo to ancient curses to uncanny doubles to creatures whose eyes flash red. They deal with Get Out–like monsters as well, whether in Rebecca Roanhorse's story about a woman willing to do near-anything to be accepted into a rich, white family, to people who collect indigenous bodies like trophies in stories by Conley Lyons and Amber Blaeser-Wardzala.

Content warnings for forced abortion, neglect/abuse, sexual assault/rape, violence/gore.