Saturday Morning Funnies (Volume 4)

Be sure to have something to drink in your hands when you read this because you’ll really, really want to shoot it out your nose when you get to the hero’s name. That’s right. Dude’s name is Fleet Dreamfinder. Tell me that isn’t a whole lot of awesome!? Don’t deny it; you’re right now wishing you’d thought of it first.

On to the adventures of Fleet Dreamfinder copyright (yeah, 'cuz you'd want to steal this if ya could, I just KNOW it) Lyda Morehouse, 1978:

A new sun was rising in the east, but fleetingly he wondered if it would bring calm or turmoil to the day it hailed. The times were changing and Fleet Dreamfinder knew it. How many months would it be until the king turned on his clan? A new mood had come cover the king, once trusted by all. It had happened all too suddenly. King Edward seemed to have changed overnight.

Fleet sighed and turned away from the sunrise. Perhaps it was too much to hope that he [the king?] could change his mind again. He scanned the camp with his deep black eyes. There were only seven of his people left after the great coup. They were a dying race. At one time they had not a simple camp, but a palace of gold. Because of the humans' nearsightedness it was in ruins now, and they were forced to be a nomadic tribe, following the sunset in search of food. The coup had happen thousands of years ago, yet bitterness remained. Not on the part of the humans, no, their shallow minds could not remember the early days. Once again Dreamfinder sighed, turning back to the dawning sun. Perhaps a long memory was not as beneficial as once thought by his comrades. Perhaps, this was, indeed, a time for change.

A bell interrupted his line of thought. The chimes resounded throughout the valley. A counsel was meeting. Fleet hurried to join them, for this would be an important meeting.

He entered the leather bound tent where the meetings were held. Dreamfinder was the last to arrive. The seven sat encircling a glowing fire. The tent was dark, though early morning rays peeked through the tent flap.

"We must choose a path to follow," said Riverfollower, the leader of the clan in her commanding tone. "To turn north, to the forests or to follow the southern swamps."

[This continues for several pages, but the conversation about which way to go is pretty dull. Though I note with some interest that I named the clan's healer "Drought." An attempt at irony? Or was I trying to be "wise" about the nature of some destructive forces of nature? Also, pretty cool that the leader was a woman, especially given tat I wrote this in the late seventies.]