Tag Archives: Indian

Flash Fiction… Mike Tyson’s Carrot

images (9) A while back I was interviewed for the inaugural issue of the online magazine Write Mag. During the interview, Anthony Vernon asked if I could write a good flash fictionimagesCACEJK1Z story that could make Mike Tyson eating a carrot seem interesting:  Here’s the result.   For the rest of the interview of more info on Write Mag, click here.  Enjoy!

Q- If I forced you to write a story about Mike Tyson eating a carrot do you think it would be a good story?

A-     Why don’t I write one and you be the judge?  This is off the top of my head, so let’s hope it makes sense.

“Eh, is that Mike Tyson walking down the street?” Yellowfeather, asked.

“Where?”  Tom Hawk asked.

“Are you blind?  Right there,” Yellowfeather said pointing with his chin across the street.  And he’s munching on a carrot.”

“Nah, you’re crazy. That ain’t Mike Tyson. And that’s no carrot, now, is it?  It’s George Foreman and he’s smoking a cigar.

“Caw, you can’t smoke a carrot.”

“You can’t eat a cigar,” Tom Hawk insisted.

“He’s getting away!  HEY MIKE! MIKE TYSON! WHERE YA GOING?” Yellowfeather shouted.

The man across the street kept walking, either not hearing or ignoring the voice calling after him.

“You fool, I told you that wasn’t Mike Tyson, it’s George Foreman.  Watch and learn.”  Cupping his hands about his mouth, Tom Hawk bellowed: “MR. FOREMAN, HEY MR. FOREMAN.  I imagesCAK7WA1BLOVE YOUR GRILL. MY MOM COOKS ON IT ALL THE TIME.”

The man seemed to not hear Tom Hawk’s cries and slipped inside a bar. Being too young to drink, even too young to go inside, they sat outside the bar and waited. Every time the door open the two friends jumped up only to be disappointed.  Soon the sun dropped lower in the sky, and a chill settled over the town.

“Hey,” Yellowfeather asked a drunk stumbling out of the bar. “Is Mike Tyson in there?”

“Huh? Oh yeah, sure kid.  And he’s belting ‘em down.”

“See, I told you,” Yellowfeather told his friend.

“Naw,  you gonna believe a drunk?  Let’s ask the next guy.  I still say it’s the grill guy,” Tom Hawk insisted.  Just then, the front door swung open. “Hey mister, is George Foreman inside?”

The drunk laughed. “Yeah, he’s in the kitchen flipping burgers like a champ.”

The boys bantered back and forth until the sun sunk beneath the hills and the chill turned cold. Soon their teeth were clacking louder than their voices.  Yellowfeather spoke up: “Hey listen, I’m getting cold. I don’t really care if it was Tyson or Foreman, I want to go home, how about it, eh?”imagesCA9CT7GZ

“But what about finding out?”  Tom Hawk asked.

“Let’s flip on it.”  Yellowfeather said.


“Heads it was Tyson, tails it was Foreman.”

“But was it a carrot or a cigar?” Tom Hawk asked.

“We’ll flip on that, too?”

“You have a quarter?”

“Nope.  How about you?”

“Nah, don’t have one.”
“Man, now we’ll never know,” Yellowfeather complained.

“What do you mean, I’m telling you, it was George Foreman,” Tom Hawk insisted as the boy’s shadows slipped from the streetlight’s glow.

When I Grow Up! Guest Post by Heather Huffman

When I Grow Up

I often say that Neena Allen, the main character in my novel Jailbird, is my hero. She has a lot of traits I love: wit, perseverance and resourcefulness to name a few.

In the opening chapters of the book, she finds herself starting a new life with nothing to her name – even the clothes on her back have been swiped from a stranger’s clothesline. When she settles into a sleepy Arkansas town, her only other possession besides those ill-fitting clothes is a pocket knife, which she’s used for everything from cutting her hair to digging up roots to eat.

Neena isn’t the kind of person to worry about what she doesn’t have; she simply does a mental inventory of the situation and what’s around and then turns it into something useful or positive — Kind of like a female MacGyver. A scrappy, Native American MacGyver, anyway.

Neena’s resourcefulness is something I aspire to in my own life, although my attempts seldom work out as well as hers. My chicken coop is a working example of how reality differs from fantasy – it’s made from recycled parts and, while functional, it looks more like modern art than a working coop. I’d include a picture, but I’m getting ready to dismantle the entire thing so I can rebuild it into something that’s both functional and aesthetic. I’m sure the chickens are hoping I succeed; I have my doubts.

Maybe I’ll never reach my character’s level of resourcefulness, but I can still aspire to be just like Neena when I grow up.



About Heather

Heather was born and spent her early childhood in Florida, but now calls the beautiful state of Missouri home. Her greatest joy, aside from writing, is to hit the road with her three boys for adventure unknown.

Heather is the author of Throwaway, Ties that Bind, Jailbird, Ring of Fire, Suddenly a Spy, Tumbleweed and Devil in Disguise. You can find out more about her writing and charitable work on www.heatherhuffman.net.

A Vowel Movement with the High Colonics

The first and third Wednesday of the month arrives with anticipation. A group of us, unofficially called the High Colonics, get together and have Vowel Movements. During these meetings one of our esteemed group is charged with a writing exercise. The results are scattered as a shotgun blast.

Tonight’s exercise was challenging, thanks to Brooke, the unofficial leader. Our assignment:  Make up a word and in a brief story use the word without defining it. The reader must get the gist of the word.  You have ten minutes, go!

The following drivel is my attempt:

We waited hours before another rig came along. We were stuck on the Road of Bones. It stopped, the occupants staring us down. I had a bad feeling. The Russians stepped out. The driver swaggered towards us, a Tomakov hanging from his belt. My buddy, drunk on vodka crossed his arms at shoulder level and said “Hi, how are you, Hi how are you.” The driver grabbed the Tomakov and threw it, wedging it into his forehead.

My Russian is shitty, but I think he said: “How’s your splitting headache you rat bastard.”  I shook the Russian’s hand. My buddy was a pain in the ass. For two bottles of Vodka he pulled me from the mud and helped me bury my friend.

It is fascinating where inspiration and subsequent words come from.  I immediately spliced known words and wasted time with chestnuts unmentionable here. A couple of minutes in, an image of a documentary about the Road of Bones followed by an Indian brave flashed in my head and then I connected the dots.  Someone very close to me jokes: Pressure is good, insertion is bad.  That idiom proved true in this case. The pressure forced the muse’s hand, the insertion caused a fatal headache.

One wonders what the next Vowel Movement will bring?