The red dirt of the plains was baked into his hands, making rivers of the creases in his palm, flowing off the low hills into the grasslands of his wrist. A summer of post-setting had left his hands as hard as brick, and just as red.
“You’re an honorary red person,” Matt at the Lov’n’Stop had said, sarcastically. “I’m gonna call you Gomda from now on, ‘cause you’re gonna blow out of here like the wind.”
He didn’t though, and he wasn’t. He’d been born in the dust of La Fave, and he’d likely die here, no more Native American than half of Oklahoma.

“Minstrel Boy Howling at the Moon”

About the story: Fantasy and fable in red dirt country.
Inspired by a Jimmy La Fave song.