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Shine Part 1 COPY

Shine Part 1 COPY

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Published by l myatt

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Published by: l myatt on May 27, 2009
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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Shine Part One Experimental
 All things in the world are two. In our minds we are two, good and evil.With our eyes we see two things, things that are fair and things that are ugly....We have the right hand that strikes and makes for evil, and we have the left hand full of kindness, near the heart. One foot may lead us to an evil way; the other foot may lead usto good. So are all things two, all two. -Eagle Chief (Letakos-Lesa) Pawnee
The Homecoming
The daunting woods, dark and deep, enshrouded in wet sinking clouds, sign tohim that he is not welcome. Anxiously, he makes no effort to quiet his footfalls or conceal his presence. A dire encounter with that which he most fears is as certain as theimpending night. Struggling to stay focused on the ever-changing landscape and resistingthe impulse to panic, he hastens on.It is a solitary boy, no older than fourteen years, making his way through a vastsection of woods unfamiliar. Born of an American Indian father and mother, he is of theminority of youths who carry pure Indian blood. Other than that, one could not say that heis particularly unique. His frame is lean and long, but not exceptionally so, and like manyof his kin, he has a way of keeping his true feelings locked behind an impassive visage.Yet even a practiced appearance can lose its resolve when tested adequately. Such is thetime and season for young Jolon Dasan.1
Like a medieval omen of unrest, dozens of midnight-black crows, silhouettedagainst the darkening sky, are gliding silently just above the treetops southward to somesecret nesting place. As veiled in the language of the wind, phantasmal voices that span amillennium speak as one.
 Remember the brave warriors and the great chiefs! They fought and many died that their families might live in peace. That is why you are here, Jolon
Our people need you now, so do not fear. Remember who you are, and consider your destiny!
The ancients have said that a
 strong warrior 
would come. He knows he is not thatwarrior, for such a one would be experienced in battle. The hope of such a paladinhowever, is all he requires to press on.With a worried expression, the precocious boy is keeping his hurried pace througha grassy space and back again into the trees. His is carrying with him an awareness thatno one his age should have to bear. Trouble never seems to come singularly; evil followsevil and danger follows danger. At the times when the earth seemed at rest, it is merelyholding its breath for the next misfortune. As he is pushing onward, he senses a graveforeboding that something or someone is not far behind.It is in late autumn that our story begins. The leaves have begun to fall and the air is crisp and remarkably cooler. It is the season when northwest winds tease and test thecountryside, searching for pertinent places to put down and then pour out their longawaited showers.Reminiscent of the rain, the dark soul of dread holds no partiality. When itappears, it settles upon humanity as a heavy, unwelcome covering. At first it feels soft and2
light, and then its weight bears down until it becomes near insufferable. Pushed into someresponse, one either surrenders and embraces it as a necessary burden, or resists it withthe hope of liberation.Distressing events come crashing upon us one by one in singular incidents, or appear almost imperceptivity in strings of indistinct clues, sometimes indiscriminatelyand sometimes in discernible arrangement. When faced with clear and present danger,humanity either sinks into unredeemable cowardice, or rises to extraordinary heroism.While the less noble slip away to anonymity, absorbed into the continuous current of timeand events, the valiant become prominent icons of history. Thus the duty of each of us,among other lesser callings, is to identify our own life’s purpose, and to exist spirituallyand meaningfully in nature’s relentless dichotomy.
 All things are two, all two.
Chapter 1
Turbulent floodwaters rush under the green steel bridge a mile south of the littletown of Hopland. On both sides of the river, broken branches and assorted debris cling tothe shore sides; an annual eyesore that seems to somehow disappear during the summer months. On this Thursday afternoon, a black suburban slows to a stop on the wideshoulder of the narrowed highway just north of the bridge. From there lies the wide vistaof the valley.The passenger door opens and a man, tired from travel, steps out and stands for amoment. The air feels hot and wet. He pauses to stretch and watches the never-ending lineof vehicles continue along the sloped two-lane road. They slow as they approach the FelizCreek Bridge and proceed between the dated mismatched storefronts..3

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