“Clearly, you can see it is a cycle of killing. The arrows are death at their own hands as they bowed and surrendered more and more to the white man.” Jenny looks at her Grandfather.
“Honey, it wasn’t that simple. Half the tribes used us to get rid of their rivals. We took land they weren’t using and set up farms and cities.” Grandpa points at the ring with his cane “This is a bone colored ring with a couple of arrows and blood. Hell, you could make something better with some paste and paper.”
“Grandpa! He is a world renowned artist. They brought this here to commemorate the opening of Indian Hills at Columbus Circle. It’s a real piece of art.” Jenny looks at Grandpa like she has seen a holy relic
“It’s a piece of work, all right! But you’re shopping at a place named for the guy who ended the Indians way of life.” Grandpa looks around at the glass enclosures and brightly colored banners. “Yep! Those Indians sure would like all this spread out here.”
Written as part of a challenge called Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, details are available at