Flash Fiction Friday #2—Totem Pole

The totem pole was the 7500th stop we'd made that day, or so it seemed. I knew somewhere along the miles of interstate we had driven that this trip had been a colossal mistake.

Was it when he wouldn't stop humming The Proclaimers' "I will walk 500 miles"? Or was it when he belched loudly, yet again, after eating yet another country-fried steak at Cracker Barrel? I shivered slightly, even though the interior of the minivan was stifling. The air-conditioning had given out a hundred miles ago. This trip was like "National Lampoon's Vacation," only without the laughs.

The totem pole was one of the last few carved by the "real" Indians who made them. I was astonished at its size as we pulled into the visitors' center. For a moment, all thoughts of escape left me. The totem loomed, blotting out the sky almost. Once we stopped, the kids (teenagers, natch) jumped out and ran off. I yelled "Meet back here in a hour!" toward their retreating backs. I'm sure they couldn't wait to get away from us--from me.

"Be right back, hon," he told me, heading off toward the restroom sign.

"Sure," I muttered, not taking my eyes off the totem. It seemed to beckon toward me, with its vaguely eagle-shaped head and wings... a thunderbird, I thought, like the phoenix.

A plaque underneath explained about totem poles and the Natives who carved them, once upon a time. My White Guilt started to seep in as I gazed out over the ridge. If I imagined hard enough, I could picture the Natives who had once lived in the valley below.

People milled about, exclaiming over this and that. My eyes were unfocused, unseeing. Not even the other tourists' inane chatter could take away my concentration. I knew what I had to do.

The spirits of place still danced here.

...I joined them.



Prompt from Friday Flash Fiction.

(315 words)