My mother was a children's librarian. I remember when traditional stories were revised for modern audiences until they bore only a nodding acquaintance with the originals, but were released as 'authentic Indian stories' when they were, in fact, nothing of the kind.
Patricia BriggsA second floor window opened, and Kyle stuck his head and shoulders out so he could look down at us. โIf you two are finished playing Cowboy and Indian out there, some of us would like to get their beauty sleep.โ I looked at Warren. โYou heard โum Kemo Sabe. Me go to my little wigwam and get โum shut-eye.โ โHow come you always get to play the Indian?โ whined Warren, deadpan. โCause sheโs the Indian, white boy,โ said Kyle.
Patricia BriggsShe open her eyes and met his. The impact was so strong he was amazed that his figures continued playing with out pause.
Patricia BriggsBen rubbed his muzzle over Kyleโs shoulder in a way that I think was supposed to be reassuring. Kyle sucked in a breath. Either it hurt, or the reminder that the werewolf was big enough to rub his shoulder without much effort wasnโt exactly reassuring. โBen, when was the last time you brushed your teeth?โ asked Kyle. Or else Benโs breath was really bad.
Patricia BriggsIt was Adam, but he was too late. He couldnโt love me anymore. He would be so angry with me. I had to hide. He didnโt love me so he might hurt me when he was angry. When he calmed down, that would hurt him. I didnโt want him hurting because of me. There was nowhere for a person to hide. So I wouldnโt be a person. My eyes fell on the shelves that lined the far back corner. A coyote could hide there.
Patricia Briggs