The Indian on the Mountain
I was running up hill through a mountain village. This mountain village was old and underdeveloped. The roads were mud and the houses were boards nailed together. The roofs were straw and logs woven together in an age old tradition. The fences were tin and other pieces of junk put together in a ramshackle way. The village was colored in nature; browns and blues. It was situated in a forest on a steep hill. It wasn’t meant for cars and I never saw any. I was young, maybe 10 years old and I had long black hair with dirty red skin. I was running for my life. A white man with a mustache wearing plaid was chasing me, trying to find me. I was hiding and scrambling through ever nook and cranny to avoid him. He wanted me dead. I hid on roofs, behind fenses, and under beds but he found me. He confronted me in an empty cabin room and then I woke up.