Western short stories Bio. of Mary Scriver
Mary Strachan Scriver grew up in Portland, OR, took a BS in Speech (truly) at Northwestern University (61) and an MA in Religious Studies at the University of Chicago (1981). Her M. Div degree was from Meadville/Lombard Theological School. She taught high school English for a total of ten years and was a Unitarian Universalist minister for ten years. Through the Sixties she was with Bob Scriver, the well-known Western sculptor, in Browning, Montana, which is the capital of the Blackfeet Reservation.
Mary self-publishes books on www.lulu.com/prairiemary. Mostly they are historical references useful for studying the Blackfeet. Her biography of Bob Scriver was published by the University of Calgary Press.
Mary writes 1,000 words daily for prairiemary.blogspot.com on whatever comes to mind. However, scriverart.blogspot.com is more focused on Western art and information about Bob Scriver.
Now she lives in the little village of Valier, Montana, at the edge of the Blackfeet Reservation.
Here's a link to Mary's "Lead" blog. (She has several) She did make a point to tell me that "It's not confined to western subjects and you might find it shocking."
At first the horseback Indian thought that the patch of yellow on the prairie was just flowers, but it wasn’t quite the right season for that size and color of flowers, so he went a little closer in order to investigate -- though not close enough for the patch to be dangerous. It was some kind of garment. Sprawled. No sign of a person. Had it been discarded?
Was it a trap?... Read More of Yellow Coat
The Winter that Killed Horses
The winter had been long, harsh and cold beyond memory. Snow was deep; the wind did not blow to clear the ridges so horses could get at the grass. Instead there were occasional hard bright days that made an ice crust on top so the horses’ fetlocks left red on the snow...Read More of The Winter That Killed Horses
There was a buffalo carcass on the prairie. Small piles of internal organs, appearing to have been sorted, lay alongside in the grass. No sign of a person.
Then the carcass began to rock slightly and out crawled a small Indian woman. She was red from head to toe, but her grin when she saw him was white as bone. Francois thought he’d seen everything but as he sat there on his horse -- which was as braced as he was -- he was staring like a transfixed prairie chicken. “La femme rouge!” he exclaimed...Read More of LaFemme Rouge
Sheila Moira May O'Hara
Sheila Moira May O’Hara stood in her saloon with her hands on her hips, stood there right under the painting of a very pink and voluptuous nude. Probably some people thought it was her, but it was not. It was her mother. But it was an understandable mistake since the background looked quite a bit like her saloon, which she had carefully modeled after that of her mother, who had been dead these many years. Sheila Moira May O’Hara was no spring chicken but she was in much better shape than her mother had ever been...Read more of Sheila Moira May O’Hara
The Joy Boy
He had no idea at all how he’d gotten to be so old. Maybe he just lucked out. It sure wasn’t skill or good looks. He’d never expected to see the backside of forty and here he was over fifty, kinda reaching for sixty. Of course, he had no home, no family, no one to miss him if he did die, so probably it was Fate playing her nasty little games with people’s lives. Read the full story HERE>>