The Only Good Indians

by Stephen Graham Jones

When the whole world hurts, you bite it, don’t you?

“We’re from where we’re from,” she says back. “Scars are part of the deal, aren’t they?”

this, her, it’s home, and it’s not haunted, not even a little. This is where he wants to live forever.

These are the kind of wrong thoughts people have who are spending too much time alone. They start unpacking vast cosmic bullshit from gum wrappers, and then they chew it up, blow a bubble, ride that bubble up into some even stupider place.

If the only good Indian is a dead one, then she’s going to be the worst Indian ever.