Zenaschultz Stories

A Native American Multiverse. Dedicated to every Native Girl.

We were born separated by genes but this crazy world erupted us together like a volcano🔥, and I'm the cute one... I'm with stupid. 😉 Kidding! She's my tectonic sister and here's our story. This book is dedicated to my momma. RIP❤

falling UP! Come sit reader shot-gun in our 'Rezz ride! "I can remember my whole entire life mom taking us out for supper. Oh yes, when I close my eyes tight, the smell of fry bread floats around my nose. It's like seeing a unicorn or something. Aye! We searched everywhere for that famous bannock drive through. It seemed like we'd driven forever. Now, like seventeen years later, I'm driving. Right?!!! I'm a natural they say. Natural born fry bread lover! Who says cousins can't be your best friend? Duh. They were always with me. At home, painting our nails. At the powwow, fancy dancing and singing. Seemed like we were always dancing or practicing and they were the best competition for me. We always tried to do our best and love each other hard. No jealousy. Some fighting but we always made up. My best friend, my second cousin, her mom always brought us to every powwow. Her van pulled this huge but old camper and man, those were the best memories. We didn't have to wait in those long lines at the powwow's to get into a portable bathroom. Nah. We could sit on our cousins's throne whenever we needed it. My mom. She's old school Native. My dad... well, he tries his best. I think we all did. Things started to change, some. Slowly. I thought I was born to fancy dance. Winter came. And things changed..."

A Native American story of girl who suffers loss, poverty and true love. Lovely searches for her mom who is missing. She spirals deep into darkness as she discovers the truth of what happened to her mother who worked a the Oil refinery camp. Bad shit follows Lovely too when she finds work at the man camp. She swore she'd never do any of the shit her mom went through. Beautifully Broken was beaten and used by all the men at that camp. She was sold with all the others...

The ship is sinking Fridtjof! Jump! We survive we will fight. We were born for this." Bjarni's voice bellows against the angry, engulfing wind driving the river into mad frenzy rising twenty feet above the bow of their burial boat. Fridtjof cannot move. The arrow that entered his child's chest pierces through his own chest plate. Leaning on the wooden bellow he lifts his head to see who is left of his crew. Not one. His loyal men lie covered with the damned cold river water mixed with the blood of the last Norsemen. The spirits told him "do not go" but he ignored his forefathers and followed the new "God" of his home. He should of never turned his back on his Scandinavian roots. For this he has paid the price--the death of his son. His only son. Eyqwlha, (Ee-quil-tha) translates in English as beautiful. Follow her journey of repatriation, love, healing and more than that... a victorious survival in a brutal world. reference: http://aptnnews.ca/2016/04/25/cree-woman-serving-a-death-sentence-unless-trudeau-government-steps-in/

I salute the light within your eyes where the whole Universe dwells. For when you are at that center within you and I am that place within me, we shall be one. - Crazy Horse, Oglala Lakota Sioux (circa 1840-1877) My father was a healer and a teacher. A healer... well, because he healed himself. He spent time in the institution, sojourning from grade seven to grade twelve at the age of forty, for what seemed eternity and then graduated college as a teacher. He was an incredible man much like his father and his father before. He married a story-teller, she was strong and beautiful ... they were destined to fail. She came from a royal blood line, top of the hierchy of all Indian Nations. He drank his shame away, shame of who he was and shame of the last name given to his grandfather when the white man came to our land. My name is Alexander Christian. This is our story.

A collection of Indigenous stories, authentic, written by an actual Native American!

Just when I was ready to text my boyfriend, he called. And like a moth to a flame, my frail wings fluttered, my lust panted, straight into his black hole. Incarcerated, incinerated was my heart (and my decision making-process), perhaps my conscious was the first to go. I fell in love with the devil. I was powerless. I wanted those familiar welts all over my body. I wanted bruises because at least I could feel. On my knees, I pushed my body back, deep into his chest. His fullness filled me but his rhythm pushed me up into the air and I was lost in complete sexual release. I loved to nibble and bite. I always hid that side of me, thinking it made me a dirty. He always let me explore and fulfill that dark fantasy. My landing. Was. Brutal. He bit me over and over again. Fangs. He ripped my neck apart and left me for dead. The fear and terror kept me alive. I fed on it until I lost consciousness. When I awoke, my body felt cold and shattered into a million pieces. Only my soul existed. It got worse. He left me with an unholy hunger, for blood. Vancouver is well known for the cat sized rats, running the city like a Don. Lying, dying on the concrete floor of a commercial building basement, I cried. And waited for the next rat to crawl over my thirsty body. The thirst that scorched my throat and even my skin, my eyes, every part of my body, was satiated when I shoved that rat into my mouth, gumming it until my baby fangs popped out. And I became night. Fifty Shades of Red is on YouTube @ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UuGWO4zkqVU