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"OBSIDIAN" is a marvelous short story written by award-winning professional short story writer Wayne C. Long of Wisconsin, in memory of his own dog, Abby. Mr. Long chose to make "OBSIDIAN" an American Indian Dog, in keeping with his lifetime love and respect for Indian culture. He hopes to meet an AIDog in person some day.

 

"The author wishes to extend his personal invitation to everyone who loves and owns AIDogs to visit his unique Web site www.LongShortStories.com and to become a subscribing member in his global short story family."

 

___________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

OBSIDIAN

 

Copyright © 2007 by Wayne C. Long

 

aiyana6.jpg

 

 

 

Clarence Kicking Horse had seen it all through those sexagenarian eyes, now glazed over

 

with cataracts. Eyes that had seen things few others had seen. Eyes … windows to the

 

soul some called them. His doctors had diagnosed him as chronically depressed.

 

 

Sitting listlessly askew in his wheelchair at the Red Fork Center for the Elderly, shoulder-length

 

gray hair cascading from his sunset colored forehead, he stared through the dirty

 

window as occasional dust devils and heat mirages whirled and eddied beyond the rear

 

asphalt parking lot. He tried in vain to remember his youth.

 

 

1950’s South Dakota. Days of powwows. Cool nights of counting coup in the back seat

 

of his ‘57 Chevy, partying with eager rez girls. Clarence Kicking Horse had once been as

 

wild as an unbroken sorrel mustang and as prolific as a king salmon.That is, until the

 

excrement-coated pungee sticks of ‘Nam forever pierced his spirit.

 

 

A nurse’s aide popped her head into Clarence’s shabby 8 by 10-foot room, cheerfully

 

announcing: “Ya has a visitor, Mr. Kickin’ Horse!”

 

 

Now who in the hell would wanna see ME? silently queried the despondent old Indian in

 

the sagging wheelchair. Don’t have any relatives. Don’t have any friends either! Betcha

 

it’s just some damn trick to get me into the shower!

 

 

“Go to hell!”

 

 

He continued frowning at some imaginary bit of sagebrush way far in the distance.

 

Focusing was proving harder and harder as one hopeless day wore on into the next.

 

 

Am I seeing things again?

 

 

And then … a faint sound, a kind of soft footfall, as from deerskin moccasins. Something

 

was coming down the well-buffed hallway.

 

 

Wait. Breathing?

 

 

Clarence could sense a presence in his room, not unlike sensing a Spirit Dog in a sweat

 

lodge ceremony. He felt something moist touch the flaccid skin of his forearm resting on

 

his chair.

 

 

What the …? Licking!

 

 

Kicking Horse abruptly withdrew his arm as his hearing aid processed metal chain

 

clinking against pitted chrome wheelchair tubing.

 

 

“Mr. Kickin’ Horse, I’d like ya to meet Obsidian!” invited Shenequa Barnes, the aide.

 

“She’s a therapy dog from a place up in Canada. Calgary, I think!”

 

 

The old man puzzled over what he had just heard and felt.

 

 

Damn eyes! Can’t see for crap!

 

 

Obsidian attempted once again to connect with the patient. Nuzzling her short, dense

 

black coat against Clarence’s gnarled forehand elicited a response from the ancient

 

warrior. What was that fleeting look … a smile?

 

 

Barnes had seen the positive effects of pet therapy before, at other nursing facilities

 

where she had worked. She had pestered Jerry Robinson, Red Fork’s administrator, to at

 

least give it a try. He finally relented.

 

 

This unique canine visitor had been trained to carefully approach the elderly, especially

 

those like Clarence, who suffered severe mental and visual impairments. No barking, no

 

quick, startling movements.

 

aiyanac.JPG

 

 

Obsidian was as black as her namesake, that volcanic glass used for millennia as arrow

 

tips by ancient hunters. She had been raised by a Cree breeder and sold as a sled dog.

 

Creator mercifully intervened after her musher, enraged at losing the Iditarod race, shot

 

her in her hind quarters. She would never race again.

 

 

 

 

That slowly-forming smile on Clarence Kicking Horse’s wrinkled face evolved into a

 

wide grin as he proceeded to stroke the pricked ears of this gentle, loving animal.

 

 

Nurse’s aide Barnes, referring to her trusty notebook, spoke to the hearing aid of the old

 

Indian.

 

 

“Obsidian’s actually a rare breed, an American Indian Dog! Folks thought they was

 

extinct. In olden days, these smart, strong dogs pulled sleds or was even fitted with

 

backpacks for long huntin’ journeys by the tribes. They was ‘specially prized as guard

 

dogs, protectin’ the very young an’ very old.”

 

 

But unbeknown to Barnes or anyone else, Creator had given this particular American

 

Indian Dog a special gift after her gunshot injury. Obsidian had been blessed with the

 

uncanny ability to telepathically speak to the old ones, alive and passed. Obsidian, it

 

seems, was a true “Spirit Dog.”

 

 

Miss Barnes, as her engraved nametag denoted, watched approvingly as those two natural

 

Indian souls communed together like lifelong friends. He, softly mumbling some ancient

 

tribal chant from his youth; Obsidian, her keen ears parabolically aimed at the old man’s

 

mouth, taking in the cosmic meaning of those barely-audible syllables. Man and dog,

 

embracing on a level beyond the physical. Was it primal? Surely as primal as a

 

petroglyph engraved on a shaded rock face in the western buttes.

 

 

What was they sayin’? Barnes puzzled.

 

 

Within the deepest recesses of Clarence’s mind, in that mental zone reserved for just the

 

deepest pain, lurked a darkness that even the finest doctors of psychiatry could not

 

penetrate. But it only took Obsidian a nanosecond to pick up on that telltale synaptic flash

 

as it jumped within Clarence Kicking Horse’s wounded brain.

 

 

What’d she seen? Barnes queried silently.

 

 

“Time ta say ‘bye, now, Mr. Kickin’ Horse!” exclaimed Miss Barnes in a loud voice to

 

her patient’s hearing aid amplifier.

 

 

“Obsidian’s got other folks ta visit taday. She’ll surely come again, if you’re a good

 

boy!” laughed the rotund African-American woman.

 

 

At that very moment, Clarence felt a bipolar tugging inside his head, as the dog licked his

 

trembling hand, to take her leave. Something had just happened in that brief encounter!

 

Something … known only to the Great Spirit.

 

 

Helpless, hapless days wore on into months for the patients at Red Fork.

 

“Many moons have passed,” Clarence repeated to the black nurse’s aide with the jolly

 

disposition, as he rambled on and on about his one brief visit with the therapy dog. He

 

seemed to brighten, recalling that electric feeling as the dog’s energy entered his own

 

body.

 

 

The old Indian had never been much of a spiritual person, at least not in the way of

 

actually attending a washichu church. But, somehow now, a spirit seemed to be moving

 

unseen within the old man’s depression-wracked psyche, a Yuwipi spirit, conjured up

 

from within the bound blanket of Clarence Kicking Horse’s mind.

 

 

During their rounds on the night shift, the Red Fork nurses often heard Clarence crying

 

out in his sleep--bits and pieces of Vietnamese words; truncated recitations of old Indian

 

prayers offered up to ancient relatives; some, two-legged; some, four.

 

That blessed dog! spoke the patient during his Technicolor dreams.

 

 

Obsidian returned several times to visit the ailing warrior, each time gleaning more from

 

deep within the old Indian’s mental cave. And in this spiritual duet, Clarence drew long

 

and hard from the river of knowledge running deep within the Spirit Dog.

 

 

Man and dog. Dog and man. Loyal companions sharing the bleak confines of that nursing

 

home room, if even for just twenty minutes at a session.

 

 

Then, weeks later, on a slate grey autumn day, Obsidian once again padded down the

 

sterile hallway to the Vietnam veteran’s room, for another routine visit.

 

 

Amazingly, both natural beings knew the exact day and hour way beforehand, as if

 

Creator had whispered it into their waiting ears. Clarence beamed with anticipation as the

 

hands of his battered alarm clock wound down atop the bedside table.

 

I’m ready, Spirit Dog!

 

 

The sixteen-year-old American Indian Dog, so familiar now with those tile floors, sat

 

patiently outside the closed door of room 16. Shenequa Barnes unhooked Obsidian’s

 

beaded leash from its neck chain. Miss Barnes slowly opened the door, her trademark

 

spiral-bound nurse’s aide notebook in her left hand, as the odor of stale urine assaulted

 

her nostrils.

 

 

Lying on top of his bed today, with glazed eyes fixated on some imaginary laser point

 

deep within the dingy plastered ceiling, Clarence awaited those words.

 

 

“Guess who’s here, Mr. Kickin’ Horse?”

 

 

From his nearly mummified appearance on the twin-sized institutional bed, Clarence sat

 

bolt-up with a strange, almost mystical willfulness that Miss Barnes had never witnessed

 

during six years of caring for the elderly Indian. Though his eyes were dim and his voice

 

weak, Clarence Kicking Horse cleared the phlegm from his aged throat and lovingly

 

invited his loyal therapy dog to jump up onto the chenille bedspread.

 

 

“Obsidian! Come here, girl!”

 

 

Miss Barnes lingered in the lonely Naugahyde chair with its threadbare tribal blanket,

 

scanning today’s page in her nursing notebook, alongside her patient and his jet-black

 

visitor.

 

 

All of a sudden the old man cried out.

 

 

“I have something to tell you! Write this down!”

 

 

With a gentle stroke of Obsidian’s flank, Clarence Kicking Horse proceeded to spill his

 

guts to the nurse’s aide and the universe beyond.

 

 

“My mind’s been sick for many moons, the shrinks tell me! I wanna confess why that is!”

 

Startled from her notes, Miss Barnes fired back.

 

 

“Say what?”

 

 

Clarence repeated his wish that she take down what he was about to say, in no uncertain

 

terms. He began …

 

 

“Back in ‘Nam in ‘65, I was a tunnel rat at Cu Chi. I did some terrible things over there.

 

But one thing I did has haunted me ever since …”

 

 

Miss Barnes dutifully copied it all down, as Clarence and his dog visitor exchanged

 

knowing glances atop the bed.

 

 

Rereading what she had thus far written, Barnes looked up and saw Kicking Horse

 

resting his head upon the velvety smooth body of the female dog. Obsidian turned to lick

 

his face.

 

 

Within seconds, the dog lifted her head and let out a series of shuddering howls, so

 

uncharacteristic of her when visiting patients.

 

 

Barnes rose from the chair to see what the fuss was all about, leaning over the bed to

 

check on the old Indian, her hand upon his wrist. No pulse. Obsidian howled forlornly,

 

continually stroking the visage of the old warrior with her paw pads.

 

 

Miss Barnes instinctively jabbed at the electronic call button above the bed to summon

 

help from the nurses’ station, setting in motion a series of well-choreographed moves all

 

those in the building were trained for.

 

 

Head nurse phoned the administrator and summoned the Medical Examiner. Twenty-five

 

minutes later, George Banister, County M.E. efficiently concluded jotting his findings

 

and left for the door.

 

 

Nurse’s aide Barnes stood in stunned silence, glancing out the window of the ambulance

 

service area. Tears welled up again.

 

 

As the official-looking County vehicle slowly made its way down the long driveway of

 

the Red Fork Center for the Elderly, Miss Barnes, trying valiantly to compose herself,

 

couldn’t believe what she saw.

 

 

Obsidian, her beaded leash dragging along the faded asphalt, marched reverently behind

 

the M.E.’s vehicle in a canine funeral cortège. American Indian Dog and

 

Indian Man--linked forevermore.

 

 

Another response to the chain of calls made that day was from the local VFW post in

 

town, which gathered its members to select an honor guard for Clarence’s send-off.

 

Post Commander Dalton Jeffries knew that at least one of them should be an Indian

 

himself, out of respect for their dead brother. Jordan Drum would be a perfect fit, being a

 

Gulf War veteran and an apprentice medicine man from the rez. Drum had that innate

 

sixth sense that only a handful of men, red or white, had.

 

 

 

Donning his dress uniform that Friday morning, Drum gave a quick look at his bathroom

 

mirror before leaving for the funeral out at the edge of town.

 

 

Great Spirit, I call upon you to lift up our dead warrior brother so he may live again at

 

your side!

 

 

Jordan Drum’s spit-shined combat boot hit the bottom of the screen door as he trailed off

 

to his waiting pickup parked outside in the dew of that crisp autumn morning.

 

 

Assembled around a freshly dug grave, the honor guard and the priest made their last-minute

 

adjustments. A bone-chilling katabatic wind blew down from the snow-capped

 

mountain range in the distance, sending barely visible snow devils up to Father Sky’s

 

elevated realm.

 

 

The homily was read; M-16’s fired in unison; the plaintive bugle was blown; then flag-folding.

 

Finally, silence, as the warrior’s coffin slowly descended.

 

 

While the rest of the honor guard and the priest walked silently back to their respective

 

vehicles, apprentice medicine man Drum laid out the makings of a small fire pit beside

 

the gravesite of Clarence Kicking Horse. Reaching into his shamanic bag with one hand

 

while fanning smoldering tinder with his other, he withdrew a bundle of sweetgrass,

 

ignited it and commenced smudging himself as he extended his arms to the mid-morning

 

sky.

 

 

“Set him free, Great Spirit! Set him free!”

 

 

Then, he withdrew something else from his bag. A beaded leash.

 

 

Suddenly, the infant flames of the medicine-fire billowed as the solitary Gulf War vet

 

again beseeched Creator. Was it yet another sharp blast from the katabatic wind stoking

 

that funereal fire … or something else? We washichus will never know.

 

 

But of course Jordan Drum did know, as he chanted to the four directions, dancing in the

 

regalia of a modern warrior. Out of the corner of his eye, Drum next witnessed what few

 

men have ever witnessed.

 

 

Within the curling contrail of the smoky fire pit, Drum beheld the faint, transparent

 

visage of an elderly Indian, shape-shifting as he rose into the sky. And by his side, the

 

ghost of a black dog spun round, shape-shifting as she, too, rose on the heated column of

 

holy smoke.

 

 

Awestruck, Drum sat back on his ceremonial blanket, still as a statue, to catch the show

 

as the two spiraling earth-born friends transformed into each other. Man into dog and dog

 

into man.

 

 

No sooner had they risen than they were gone! Drum blessed Creator again and

 

concluded his solitary vigil at the graveside. A smile crossed his wind-chapped face.

 

 

It was done.

 

 

“That bless’d dog sure loved that ol’ Indian man with her whole heart! That she did,”

 

recounted Miss Barnes when it came her time to reveal the circumstances surrounding the

 

death of Clarence Kicking Horse.

 

 

At the request of the common-law ex-wife of the deceased, an estate hearing was held

 

months after he died in Red Fork. It seems that the ex-spouse learned from a mutual

 

friend that Clarence had died intestate and yet monies were found in several bank

 

accounts in his name, throughout the West. Had he been so cruel during his tortured days

 

on earth that he intentionally hid these funds from her? And if so, for what reason?

 

Maybe … just maybe … he simply lost the will to decide. PTSD can do that to a warrior.

 

 

All in the courtroom sat in awed silence as Barnes read from her notebook the dictation

 

she had taken.

 

 

“ … An’ ol’ Clarence … I mean, Mr. Kickin’ Horse … he tol’ me that he kep’ a big

 

secret from his wife an’ from God hisself! Seems that on one of them missions around the

 

Cu Chi tunnels of Vietnam, him an’ his squad members, all high on weed, found a

 

woman with an infant bound ta her breast with jungle vines. A sergeant began

 

interrogatin’ her.

 

 

‘VC! VC!’ yelled the sergeant in disgust. ‘VC!’

 

 

“That wild-eyed woman with the baby ran screamin’ toward her hootch.

 

‘No VC! No VC!’

 

 

“Trippin’ on a pile of bamboo, she exposed this here trapdoor leadin’ to a tunnel. Next,

 

that whole squad jes ‘sploded!

 

 

‘Waste da bitch!’ yelled one trooper.

 

 

‘Do ‘er, man, do ‘er!’ taunted others.

 

 

“That’s when ol’ Clarence screamed ‘dung lai!’ and runs up on her, rippin’ that baby

 

from its momma’s tremblin’ body. Throwin’ that bawlin’ kid inta da air, shoutin’ like

 

some crazy man, he gets right inta her face, shriekin’: ‘YOU VC!’

 

 

“An’ then, without battin’ an eye, that crazy Indian kick’d aside that trapdoor with his

 

boot an’ throwed that poor child inta da tunnel! Soon’s he done it, he yanks da pin off a

 

grenade an’ lobs it onta that poor baby!

 

 

‘Fire in the hole!’ he shouted.

 

 

“Done sent ‘im right over da edge, it did! Couldn’t have no normal relations ‘back in da

 

world’ as he’d say. Saw that dead child everywhere! Couldn’t bring hisself ta havin’ kids

 

with his Indian gal an’ all. Those two jes fell apart. And so did he!” concluded Barnes.

 

 

The black therapy dog never returned to the Red Fork Center for the Elderly. Nor any

 

other nursing home. She was with Clarence Kicking Horse now, in the black robe of

 

heaven.

 

 

But in her place appeared a phoenix-dog, reborn on earth and tasked by Creator with a

 

new mission. She would soon walk the corridors of Veteran’s hospitals, offering her

 

unique brand of consolation to brothers-in-arms. She would also visit children’s wards of

 

hospitals across the country, seeking to repay a debt for the unforgivable; the death of an

 

almond-eyed child down a jungle tunnel in a forgotten land.

 

 

To complete the circle of life, a proud young Indian boy with jet-black hair was seen at

 

the feet of a tribal holy man, learning just what it takes to become a warrior, a protector

 

of the very young and the very old, and an arrowsmith of the highest caliber, working his

 

artistry in that stone of stones … obsidian.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2007 by Wayne C. Long. All rights reserved.

This story may be copied or forwarded only with written permission of the author and as long as the copyright notice and the rest of this paragraph are included.

For permission to publish this story, please contact wayne@longshortstories.com

 

____________________________________________________________________________________

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I read it about five times, while we were preparing to post it for you. When he says "Man into dog, and dog into man..." it gets me every time.

 

It's hard to explain to someone else, what you mean by "Medicine Dogs", but he's captured it here.

 

Coyoté never leaves my side, when I am ill. It's such a comfort in a strange very personal way. He'll run downstairs to greet my husband, when the door opens at the end of the workday, but then up he comes again to take his place by my side. He takes is job seriously.

 

Mr. Long, you are welcome to come and meet my American Indian Dog anytime!

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I wanted to tell everyone, that we have invited the author to come and speak to us, so feel free to post comments and questions.

 

I also have signed up for a year of his short stories, it wasn't much money, and I'm a lover of short stories. I have read two more, already (definitely getting my money's worth), and highly recommend Long Short Stories to all of you.

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Wow what a story!

I raised six service dogs and loved the story until I got to the end where the nurse read the story about what Clarence did in Nam. I could have done without that part. I was going to forward it to the service dog community but don't think its appropriate due to the ending.

 

I think we all know the horrors of war and can only imagine what Clarence went through while serving on the front lines.

 

Just my opinion and hope I didn't offend you Mr.Long!

Todd

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Wow what a story!

I raised six service dogs and loved the story until I got to the end where the nurse read the story about what Clarence did in Nam. I could have done without that part. I was going to forward it to the service dog community but don't think its appropriate due to the ending.

 

I think we all know the horrors of war and can only imagine what Clarence went through while serving on the front lines.

 

Just my opinion and hope I didn't offend you Mr.Long!

Todd

 

 

Hello Todd!

 

Wayne C. Long here. Thank you for reading "OBSIDIAN" and posting your comments here.

 

I admire your work raising six service dogs. So many folks are blessed by these canine helpers and we need to salute those who invest their love and tireless training in these highly intelligent animals. Creator has a special place in His heart for those who foster these dogs.

 

As for my story, my Web site explains that these stories are written for adult readers, and goes on to say that the themes used often come from the edges of real life. Real life, while often beautiful and grand, still suffers at its edges, where most of us either fail to look, or worse, cannot bear to look, for fear of what horrors we might find.

 

Such is the case with war. Recent administrations have sought to hide the truth about wars such as Vietnam and those being fought right now in the Middle East. They have purposely sanitized our view of the real human cost of war, especially of wars fought for the wrong reasons.

 

Hence, we never see the sight of planeload after planeload of flag-draped coffins being loaded for the final journey home. Over 4000 of our most precious assets. Over 4000 of our sons and daughters. Over 4000 of well-intentioned young people who, once in-country, began to experience the corrosive moral conflict within themselves that eventually leads to their full-blown PTSD, the scourge of our society.

 

"OBSIDIAN" is my gift to those who suffer in silence from war, who need our deep love and understanding, and above all, our complete forgiveness for their having to do the unthinkable as soldiers.

 

We citizens who have been left behind at home can all become "OBSIDIAN" in our own special way, nurturing those who have been called to defend us as our country's warriors.

The Indians , in their infinite wisdom, knew full well, that they must help their warriors readjust to everyday life after great and costly battles. Special camps were set aside for these returning defenders to allow them to shake off the horrors they had witnessed firsthand in combat. Much prayer and fasting was part of their reintegration back into what we today would call the "new normal." Their dogs were a vital part of their healing journey.

 

Todd, thank you for your comments. It is my great honor to meet you and to share your love for AIDogs.

 

Regards,

 

Wayne C. Long

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Hi Wayne,

 

Thank you for your kind words!

 

I re read your story after reading your reply and understand your message in a much clearer way. Yes most of us don't like looking at the edges of life if it reminds us of the wicked ways of the world. Never the less I can understand that ignoring the problems doesn't make them go away.

 

Here's what I took away from your story.

Clarence had experienced horrible things in Nam and as a result had imprisoned himself and detached from society. As many warriors suffering from PTSD have done. Obsidian who is a messenger of love and light was able to penetrate the darkness that lived in Clarence and let him see the light and feel the love that he lost. Allowing Clarence to finally clear his head and release the horrors that he kept to himself all those years. What a relief he must have felt in telling his story for the first time. Obsidian's magic was more powerful than even an old close minded Clarence could ever imagine. A therapy dog was able to do what doctors could not.

 

Yes I agree there needs to be more "OBSIDIAN" in the world!!

 

You have a way with words that I admire. I look forward to reading more of your stories!

 

Thanks!

Todd

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I had meant to post these photos a while ago, but forgot until I read that great story about Obsidian. Cassie is quite the adventurous dog. I was very hesitant to let her climb around this obsidian dome out in the Medicine Lake Highlands (NE California), but she insisted. It's like you are walking on broken glass! Amazingly enough, she didn't cut her paws (I've cut my hands on this stuff), not even a scratch that I could tell.

cassie_obsidian1.jpg

cassie_obsidian2.jpg

cassie_obsidian3.jpg

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What made her want to climb around on it, I wonder?

 

BTW, I'm curious, now that Danza seems to be done growing. How big is Cassie? Danza didn't get very big - she seems tiny to me. 32 lbs.

 

Karen

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What made her want to climb around on it, I wonder?

 

BTW, I'm curious, now that Danza seems to be done growing. How big is Cassie? Danza didn't get very big - she seems tiny to me. 32 lbs.

 

Karen

 

She has always loved to climb rocks, logs, etc...the same has been said about me so maybe it's a "like owner, like dog" kind of thing!

 

Last I weighed Cassie she was about 37 pounds, plus or minus a couple. She was slightly bigger than her mom when I saw them together, but her dad was a little on the large side. Personally I am glad she isn't any bigger, she's strong enough as it is!

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Those are amazing photos--a whole hillside of black glass! Is it the side of a volcano?

 

Did you try to make an arrowhead?

 

I see the shiny blackness of Aiyana was the right choice for Wayne Long's story, "Obsidian".

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Those are amazing photos--a whole hillside of black glass! Is it the side of a volcano?

 

Did you try to make an arrowhead?

 

I see the shiny blackness of Aiyana was the right choice for Wayne Long's story, "Obsidian".

 

It's actually within the caldera of a large shield volcano. There are 2 obsidian domes, the one pictured here and another smaller one composed mostly of snowflake obsidian. Apparently the native peoples used the one pictured because they couldn't make good arrowheads out of the snowflake obsidian found on the other one. I have yet to try to make an arrowhead, but that would be a fun project!

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