Judi Blaze is a former print and media journalist and has written dozens of articles for newspapers and magazines, where she worked as a reporter, editor and freelance writer. She has just finished her fifth novel, Sunday at the Social Club, which is being marketed. The novel follows Orchid Island, On Indian Time, an award winner at First Novel Fest, Riding on a Rainbow, and Beach People. Go to the Water is her first collection of short stories. Three of the books are self-published; the others are still being marketed to agents.She has won awards for her short stories, most recently: The Warren Adler short story competition, 1st place in the Willamette Writers Kay Snow awards, and several online competitions. She also had short stories published in anthologies, such as the University of Southern Florida anthology, and an excerpt from her novel, Orchid Island, was selected for the Chick Lit Review.She works as a professional, full time writer and is a member of Seattle Writers, Pacific Northwest Writers, Willamette Writers, and Whidbey Island Writers. She has attended writers’ conferences across the country and has taught courses in writing.

Judi Blaze lives on an island in Puget Sound with her husband and is working on a memoir about growing up a Gypsy called Riding in the Backseat with my Brother.

Everything is running out of fuel around us. A slow drum mingling with the pulsating wind, the echo, the spirit in the breeze, the owl, life without government—that’s what Louis A. Runs-Along thinks is wrong with the world as he lies in bed mulling it all over while watching the dream catcher above his head spin his nightmares in circles, like puny bird wings.First light, and an icy breeze enters unnoticed through the open window. Smells of early morning South Dakota skies, pond water the color of a silver December sky, and crushed and pulverized leaves the color of sunset, are all the things that scatter Louis A’s nightmares across his naked body. It always remains the same though. His nightmares have been spinning for years, or at least for the past three years when his sister Missy, who now lives on the reservation, gave the dream catcher to him—she made the sacred net and adorned it with feathers, a few bones from the red earth, and silver beads for his protection. Louis A. then attached his own sacred embellishments to it: things he’d picked up in the Badlands, little bird bones plucked from the side of a red cliff, and bits of petrified turtle shell that he drilled holes in and strung up with the other stuff.

At one time, the Badlands was Louis’s playground. Once a vast inland sea with layers of volcanic ash, limestone and sandstone, Louis would spend hours there—even days when he got older—roaming the steep canyons and jagged cliffs.

His nightmares begin with drunken fits of sleep, or maybe no sleep, depending on how late he got in, and how and what he drinks in a long evening; he knows the rules, everyone knows the rules. Pulling himself up on one elbow, Louis A. takes a look around his bedroom—that always helps him put the nighttime pieces back together. He can settle up with his cognitive dissonance later, rack it all in like the balls on the pool table last night, which he only slightly remembers—obviously he had a good time.

Dead soldiers, last night’s trophies, are scattered across the floor near his bed—the Coors cans throbbing with yellow from the early morning light. The dull light makes Louis A. wonder why he is awake at this ungodly hour with an ache that hammers the inside of his head, a mouth as dry as flour, and eyes that drool slightly and have an uneven layer of cloud over them. That and a hard-on that throbs, and a bladder about to burst. God knows he’s not young anymore, pushing 60 with a body that looks it too, but a mind that tends to forget he’s much over 30.

Louis A. Runs-Along laughs at his thoughts, the thought of being 30 especially–the same age of some of the women he’s picked up lately, the wild ones who are wild about him and he knows why. He’s maintained that great pumpkin round-face, twisted smile, almond eyes, and a good wink—and, let’s not forget, skin like the silken, dark surface of a baked yam and a soul as pure as the driven snow. Women say he can still break a heart or two and when he does, he doesn’t miss a step.

By the looks of it one of those 30-somethings was here last night: there are too many beer cans, even Louis A. can’t take on that much—well, not when he’s trying to get between the legs of a 30 year-old.

He was once a warrior; he fought the moon, he fought the stars, and he picked up star dust in between, and when his people needed him, he was there, a trusty warrior, a help to his Native people. On the Tribal Council, he helped implement programs for the young pregnant girls, and made sure home deliveries were made to shut-ins. Power flowed through his veins, running like the wind across the prairie, strength wound itself into his tight braids, and people admired his honesty and his years of sobriety; he was a good influence on the young ones who faltered on the edge of destruction following their parents or aunties.

Now he visits the Food bank once a week on the far edge of the reservation where tribal housing brushes up against the red earth and in the summer, soft sounds of grasshoppers sweep against the compliant sage. Tinted spires merge with the various grasses in an arid landscape of clay and sandstone.

When he gets to the front of the line at the food bank, he bags up the cans of green beans, beets, and peas, and if he gets corn he fries it up in a black skillet with butter, just like his aunties did with the cob corn, then he mixes it with a can of pre-cooked potatoes and smothers the whole thing in ketchup and eats it right out of the pan.

Too old to do the things he did, too battered with drink to give the tribe his brain, too ashamed to try anymore, Louis Runs-Along is broken like a cheap toy—no winding, gluing, stitching, or molding is going to put him together again. His hands shake while his mind chases the memories of yesterday, recollections he has spent so long trying to forget. Blowing the air through his mouth, he relaxes into the pillow letting his dark body and black braid meld into the stained pillow and ratty surplus Army blanket; sometime during the night, the sheet wrapped around the bedpost and lay limp and knotted at the end of the bed. He closes his eyes and listens to morning. It has a distinct sound.

Not all that many years ago there was a woman with a voice like the breeze and hair hanging to her waist in long strands of black silk and golden arms that could circle the earth protectively and touch him the way no other woman had—the thought brought tears to his eyes. Most of the nightmares in the web are for her. If Louis A. allowed himself to be free to cry, the tears would flood the room, float out into the street and down the narrow dirt road leading to the Trading Post, soon forming a river like the Cheyenne: a river that would run deep into the center of the earth.

Louis A. lets his mind go and the memories swirl inside his head. He met the woman on a bus that came from the east near Billings where the wind takes the snow and sweeps it deep into bones and across the plains to the Crow reservation where some of his enemies live.

When the bus stopped along the side of the road that day to let people on, Louis A. climbed the stairs then walked to the back of the bus where he could look out the broad window and see his uncles and cousins huddled together on a corner passing around a brown paper bag they must have purchased earlier off the reservation. He saw their grins and heard their hoots when a lady with a baby walked by and kicked dirt at them. Soon they were flinging their arms and howling with laughter like a bunch of kids who got away with something. That’s what the drink does, Louis A thinks, knowing full well he was no better than them at one time.

When Louis A. bored of watching his drunken cousins and the wind-swept red earth swirl in circles, he turned around in his seat to see the most beautiful Indian woman sitting in the seat across the aisle from him. He looked out the corner of his eye at her like an eagle ready to pounce. The woman had wisdom, he could tell by the lines folded into the skin on her hands as she rubbed them, and the way she held her body: with confidence and strength. She’s one of those power women I’ve heard about, Louis A. thinks. He can feel the confidence ooze from her. She bent to tuck a scarf into her bag and when she sat up, she was looking directly into his probing eyes.

The woman’s hair hung long and shiny, wound into a braid that slipped across her breast and down onto her stomach. The late afternoon light swathed her and Louis A. felt her glow, an aura that surrounded her, making him want to touch the light and wash his body in it. His eyes rested on her breasts. It wasn’t just her skin and swollen breasts that drew Louis to her, or so he told himself, wondering what else it could be.

It is true what they say about Louis A. Runs-Along; he is a man of few words, except when he used to drink his whiskey with great gusto—then he would become a man of only words. Yes, he can spit the words out, trip on them then let them skitter across his mouth until his eyes bulge with wonder. He can even take a star and rub it across his body and make it his. But there is no whiskey in his life now and his words will be well chosen when, and if, he speaks to her.

When she looks at him again, her beauty pulls him, like reeling in a rainbow trout from the Yellowstone River. His look, he felt, couldn’t have been any more debonair—it was that healthy Indian man look of power and strength. He was a warrior.

Hey, he said.

Hey, she answered.

Louis A.’s nightmares sway with the morning breeze while the nasty cold wraps around the dream catcher like gripping paws. Why, he wonders, does a dream catcher trap the nightmares, as everyone says, because in reality the nightmares are still there? When his eyes close, he knows that’s true, he will again be sent back to his old nightmares that have started picking him apart.

What tribe you from? Louis A. asks. Her look said, “Fuck off,” but he knew Indian women were like that at first. Cautious, a little fearful.

Chippewa, she finally said.

He laughed. And when that humble sound—combined with almost non-existent, slanted and smiling eyes—reached her, she put out a welcoming hand.

Marilyn, she said. But they call me More.

Louis A. squeezed her hand and felt the sensual harvest of huckleberries in a mash for jam—a memory his grandmother gave him. Better than the one his mother gave him when he was only four and she walked out the door and never came back. Now Louis wondered what her nickname meant. More. More what?

After chatting back and forth across the aisle, interrupted every time someone walked between them heading to the can to take a piss, Louis and More moved to seats next to each other, and it was then that they learned they had so much in common. They were both left to raise themselves, passed around to aunties, grandmothers and neighbors, and they both left the rez once to go to college, something not many did.

The two of them talked for an hour while golden wheat fields bowed out for the shadowy oranges of darkness, and the clouds made animal shapes across Montana’s Big Sky country. Louis A. felt the shadows and the colors were trying to send him a song, a message from his wolf token, but he wouldn’t listen, his ears were filled with Marilyn.

Louis A. decides to get up since he can’t sleep-in like he usually does. He’ll take a piss and grab a beer, hoping there was one left in the refrigerator, and to his amazement, there were five. Happens rarely, he thinks, while grabbing one and popping it open. After he polished it off, letting it slide down his throat without merely a taste, he grabbed another beer then sat down to think. He needed to get off this rez for awhile, he decided. He was on a nowhere road, heading to the ultimate destruction; his life couldn’t get much lower. But who is he kidding, he laughs. If he can’t get the devil out of his body here, then where? On an island in the Pacific that is only big enough for him? He laughs at his thoughts. Maybe he would think seriously about this trip and invite his cousins to join him.

Where ya headin? Louis A. asks his bus companion.

New Orleans. You? Her words circled his head and made him realize he had no real plan. He just needed to get away and clear his head before he took on more projects at work.

Anywhere that’s not South Dakota or Montana, Louis A. answered, followed by a thick clap of laughter: like thunder it turned the heads of the people in the seat in front of him. While his words continued, floating past the seats and rolling down the aisle, a little girl in the seat in front of him stood up and peered down at him, her hair tangled like a cotton mop, strawberry drool sliding down her chin, and brown eyes as big as walnuts stared down at him—until Louis A. raised his eyebrows glaring at her. She screamed, Mommy, is that a real Indian? Her scream could be heard down the aisle and heads turned.

People in the seat at the rear of the bus were playing loud rap music and laughing, stoned; Louis could tell—he’d taken care of enough young people in the past years. He smoothed his braids and wished the little girl would sit somewhere else. Sit down, the mother yelled, jerking the girl down. Louis A. didn’t wish for her to get punished, but no matter what her mother said, the little girl kept peeking at him and sticking out her tongue. When she peeked over the seat the next time, Louis A. made a high-pitched sound, patting his mouth repeatedly with the palm of his hand—a real war hoop. Both Louis A. and Marilyn laughed like a couple of crazy Indians–the humor of the mother, the grandmother, and the aunties; and at that point they melded, trust surfaced and a bond was made. Or at least in Louis A.’s eyes.

Wanna get off at the next stop and have a beer? The dark beauty asked without hesitation after hearing the bus driver announce a stop at a dot on the side of the road. The bus bounced down the road like a jack rabbit chasing the wind and a little time off the bus was in order.

Louis A. hadn’t had anyone ask him that question in years. At home everyone knew he didn’t drink. But he would have said yes even if she asked him to help out at an alligator fight.

Sure, he said, knowing what she was asking him to do: take a drink of the devil juice that took him the last eight years to destroy. All of the twelve steps briefly floated through his head, the detox, the life lost, the sorrow he caused, and the life he destroyed and regained. He knew how to get around this situation, but he couldn’t deny her.

She looked at him demurely and erased any doubt that he was still a drunk. Don’t think I should have a drink she answered, but guess I will this time. I don’t drink often, but this bus is bringing the devil to surface. She laughed and when she did her dark eyes glossed over with secrets, and with her hair now loose of its braid, she took on a wild little-girl-look—the woman of Louis A.’s dreams.

He couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong, but Louis A. knew there had to be something a little off with her to be drawn to the likes of him. Sure he was handsome, but was he good looking enough for a beauty like this? If, however, there was nothing wrong with the way he looked, at least to this woman, then the world was just throwing him a bone. Why not take it, why not make it a perfect world for this Indian?

All he knew is that she was kick-ass beautiful. Louis A.’s dad always told him to stay away from the beautiful ones; they have demons, bad juju, herpes, or any number of bad things. He said to pick an ugly one that you never had to worry about going out on you, pick a stupid one who will never talk back, and pick a fat one who knows how to cook. Those were his dad’s words growing up, but he never listened to any of it.

Marilyn reminded Louis A. of his little cousins who played in the dirt outside their three-room house that was always filled with cousins, uncles, and a grandparent or two— scattered around like seeds in a garden. The cousins were happy when they were young, ran the roads like wild Indians, but when they grew up, most of them lost interest in life—like an onion they grew the layers of hardship, and like a warrior gone wrong, they lost to the sensual pull of alcohol.

Everyone off the bus, the bus driver yelled, standing near the seat his ass had sat in for

the past few hours. There will be a half hour layover. If ya late, I go without ya.

Understand? His tiny frame was covered with loose clothing, disguising his bird-like frame, his hair stuck up like tiny silver wires, and his eyes looked like they had been slightly pulled from the sockets. The passengers lined up and headed down the few steps to the tiny restaurant and bar. Afternoon light had faded to soft blues and oranges of evening, and the smell of rain was in the air.

Louis A. refused to let this beauty know of his weaknesses. He had achieved a lot in his years of sobriety. Built a small house for his mother and the little ones and put new siding on his own. He had become accustomed to attending tribal meetings and keeping in touch with what the tribe needed. He was a man with power who just needed a little time off the rez to see other places and breathe in air that came from somewhere else. He felt stagnant.

When the waitress came to their table, Marilyn ordered a can of Bud and an order of fries. When the waitress looked toward Louis A, he could swear she was saying, you pick your poison big boy, or you can order coffee the way you usually do, and be safe and happy when you get back home.

Fuck it, he thought, then ordered himself an Olympia beer, his favorite of years past. The waitress offered them glasses which they both refused, preferring to drink from the icy cans, touching them and wrapping their hands around the sensuously smooth surface.

After the first beer, Louis felt his head swim and knew he needed to eat. He called the waitress over and ordered himself some fries. He offered to buy Marilyn something more to eat, but she said she never mixed her food with alcohol, just a snack, she said. That way the beer can stand alone, tastes better too, she added, winking, teasing him with her wit and laughing a little too loud. He liked her humor but when she was loud, he felt her wisdom and strength fly right out the window like an eagle soaring off with a small rodent.

The next two beers came with a shot of Tequila tagging along behind, like toilet paper stuck on a shoe: one shot for each of them. A chaser Marilyn said. Her look was playful with drink, but frightening like the coyote when he has a score to settle; playful like kittens in a box, and rough like sand in an ass crack.

When Louis looked into the pool of amber in the small glass that was set before him he saw things he never thought he’d see again; he saw the fighting, the long nights under trees when he was too drunk to make it home, he saw the lady he loved pack her bag and walk out the door, and his mother die while he was God-knows-where. The skeleton of time circled his vision, bones of past, eyes of the future, solid strands of time, and time gone. His mind was wound around the shot glass, stuffed inside, until the voice awoke his brain.

You in a hurry to get to where you’re heading? She asked, reaching over to touch Louis A.’s ribbon shirt. Her fingers smoothed the ribbons, like touching the long staff of human flesh, and her touch sent lightning through his body. He felt the stiffness in his groin and grabbed her hand before she made it worse. When their hands touched, he felt her sorrow, her missing parts, and her needs.

New Orleans is a long way off, she said, her mouth pouty as though pleading with Louis A. to keep her company. Too many pouty lips like hers had begged him on before. Too many brown eyes had scattered the earth before they ever met him or urged him on, egged him on, much like this.

Louis A. was the keeper of pouty lips and loves gone bad, giving a dry shoulder to wipe women’s eyes while they seeped moisture into a new, white shirt he had purchased two weeks earlier at the JC Penny’s that’s been going out of business for years; people who used to rush to a first-day sale now sauntered through the store with hands in pockets and a step as slow as grandma’s. Oh those times.

A loud voice put Louis A. back to his normal size and made Marilyn aware of where she was.

Bus is leaving in five minutes, the driver yelled, looking around the bar and diner, casting a crooked eye in Louis A.’s direction.

The alcohol stirred Louis A’s brain, like gravy in a pot, folding it into a circle of sorts, he felt the change. He saw his life in flight with the Bald Eagle, the warrior’s blessing of what was, and the sweet smell of auntie’s heavy caramel rolls. His eyes took on doubles and the driver swayed from right to left like a willow in the wind, a flag blowing south. Another minute and he might be on the floor licking someone’s shoes.

Oh, God, had he done the right thing? A deep breath, squinty eyes focusing on one thing, then paying total attention to his feet, Louis A. found the table top where greasy paper plates of fries sat and empty glasses huddled in a circle.

Ey, Louis A. said, his words tangled with his tongue, plopping out strangled words in whatever order they felt like plopping. This was a new thing for Louis A. because he had become accustomed to picking his words selectively, putting them in a sentence that would make him well understood. He had become the words, the voice for his people and he was good at it. Now he couldn’t make a full sentence.

Ey, Marilyn answered, not much better off at putting her words in a chain. Jesus, we need to go, she continued. The bus driver is shouting. What are you doing Louis? Do you want to go?

Louis A. Runs-Along snapped to attention when he heard her words and saw the circle of confusion surrounding him and this woman, and he wanted nothing more than to be done with it all. Life that had become so negligible—so trite and unadorned just the other day, in fact for quite some time, was now complicated and full of shit—as his cousins would say before they took up the bottle once again.

The beautiful woman swirled in his vision: her smile as big as the moon, her eyes a flash in the night on a long ago ship at sea, her words garbled, but her glow as bright as the smile of a Cheshire cat. And the words, he knew—those simple little adjectives and nouns, coming from a mouth the shape of a heart and the fullness of the moon—was what made it all safe once again. First there was the literature…do you know Wallace Stegner? Do you know Wally Lamb? Then jokes of the sixties bounced back and forth, followed by an evening of stories about kids and grandkids in a motel called The End of the Line.

Once in the room—a slanted building sitting out in the middle of nowhere, but for a bus stop—Louis knew there was a reason he was not meant to be sober. More pulled out a bottle of whiskey from her large cotton bag and they took turns splashing shots into their glasses.

There was no reason he should not be free and able to do the things he used to do—the things he wanted to do. But the things he loved to do were right here, right now, and he proved it was true. In two days he would be in New Orleans, a place he’d never been, with a woman he didn’t know, and a head the size of a beach ball.

Louis A. crawled back in bed with a full can of beer. Those memories took a lot out of him and he told himself to forget them. When More left him in New Orleans—leaving with a man she apparently knew—his childhood flooded him. It took months for him to make it back home, and most of the trip was a drunken blur of women and bars.

The dream catcher twisted in the breeze. Louis A. Runs-Along saw his nightmares twist and turn, reminding him it wasn’t over yet.