The following stories were inspired by two sentences (of which I used as the beginning and the end of the stories).
Starting sentence: I wasn’t a Tlingit Indian.
Ending sentence: “When my dad uses a belt on me, I know he’s trying to hurt me”
I wasn’t a Tlingit Indian, I was an American. Born to a family of weak-minded natives, sent to a worthy school to study English and everything useful in the world. I was proud to stick out my chest and call myself an American. I might have only been sixteen, but I sure knew where I came from. The greatest county in the world, and damn proud of it.. At school, there were several Tlingit children who took their families philosophies seriously. I tried to tell them how stupid they were being, wasting their lives on impossible thoughts of God and nature’s beauty. They would always tap their nose and shake their head at me. During a particularly heated argument, one boy shoved me backwards and demanded to know why I boasted being American so much. I slapped him, pushed him down, and spat on his Ameyeta, or his ‘holy’ scarf that has been passed though each generation. The rest of the boys stared at me in shock. I began to turn around when the boy I had knocked down rose and ran at me, drawing his Stlickin (‘holy’ knife). I ducked under it and powered forward, taking his legs from under him. He collapsed face-first, his Stlickin falling from his hand. My hand shot out and grabbed it. I rolled him over and held the knife to his throat, growling. The boys surrounding us scattered. He looked at me with a steely expression.
“I can see it in your soul. You don’t have the courage to cut me.”
I pressed the knife into his throat a bit harder, leaning over him. “Says who?
His eyes dropped. He spoke sincerely. “You’re different. You don’t want to hurt me.
Deep down, I knew he was right. I relaxed the knife.
He continued, “You’re different. You’re trying to scare me, not hurt me. See, when my dad uses a belt on me, I know he’s trying to hurt me.”
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Starting sentence: He stared back into the crackling, red-hot flames.
Ending sentence: “Suit yourself, You’re the one working.”
He stared back into the crackling, red-hot flames, the glee rushing through him. He’d done it! That’s idiot, that moron, that imbecile of a tattletale doesn’t have a home anymore! He could hear the squeals of some animal as it burned alive inside. Or maybe that was one of his parents! He could imagine that guy’s mom filing out a divorce application, the dad dead drunk in he basement, both of them looking up to the greatest surprise ever. How dare that kid tell on him! How dare he talk about the break in! How dare that guy tell the story of the looting, the destroying, and the getting away clean! That kid just happened to overhear me telling my friends about it, and told the entire world. Well, he does not have a home any more, so that’s that! He couldn’t imagine the cost of rebuilding the home, every dollar another spike of glee for him. He threw his head back and let out a cannon of a laugh, drowned out by the sounds of approaching sirens. He gave a single-finger salute to the house and began to walk down the alleyway. He saw some firemen arriving, in full suits and gear. They didn’t need it, didn’t need to break down the door and go inside the house. The house was done for. he grinned to himself and muttered “Suit yourself, You’re the one working.”