Native American Short Stories Novels & Stories

Adrian knew the truth. His mind went back to when he was a child when his Nana would tell him stories of the wolf people that lived in Alaska. According to her the wolf people were kind and caring, they cared for their community and protected the innocent. He had never truly believed her stories, but he knew the truth as he paged through all three books.

She giggled as she pulled out a large pot and began filling it with water. "No, it's not. Honestly I can't even believe we celebrate this stupid holiday after everything they did to us." I told her honestly as I thought about the history of my people. It was no secret in the supernatural world that the werewolf gene was passed through the DNA of the Native Americans. Each of the supernatural species had come from a particular region in the world, except for the witches. Every culture and every continent had its own set of witches. Her giggle pulled me from my thoughts as I watched her begin making the crust for her pumpkin pie. She really was a beauty to watch in the kitchen as she moved aro

Joy was crying out aloud. "Joy. Take a deep breath, Calm down."Christ was holding her daughter’s hands. "Do you still remember the story I told you about the Habitat of Shamans?" "Of course I do. You never stopped talking about it when I was young." For as long as Joy could remember, her father loved to tell her about all kinds of legends about the Habitat of Shamans, an ancient and mysterious wonderland. She recalled that there were also Shamans who could understand cat’s language. Joy looked at her father and turned round to look at Baby, it occurred to her that her bedtime story had come true.

Shamira was waiting to die. "Please," the Native American woman said for the hundredth time that week, her voice tired and full of fear, "talk to me. Shamira, you survived so much. I just felt a small part of it, but I couldn't have . . . I don't know how you did it but you did. You survived, you killed that fucking elf . . . you beat them. Lacroix and Jonas and all of them are going down because you. Don't you want to see that?" Shamira turned her head away. "What does it matter?" she asked with a raspy voice.

The saliva dripped from his teeth, and his shirt bulged as the moon began to change him. His ears took on another form. They curved backward toward me and flipped outward like a wolf's. His ears listened in as I hid behind a tree. I covered my mouth with my hands that night. My breath betrayed me as the smoke of my foggy breath was sniffled in the air by the inhuman nose on his face. His face was becoming dog-like in nature. The Native American tribes described them as the wolf-people. Pop culture would call them by their real name, werewolf. My grandmother told me about the wolf-people and their love for native women. The native women of Saint Maria were lost to the wolf-people clan.

I thought it was Mama waiting for me, but to my surprise, it wasn't her. Contrarily, it was no one. The hallway was empty. I even looked around twice, but no one was there. I retreated back into my room and locked the door this time. Once peaceful, the quite was now eerie. Suddenly, I recollected the stories I heard about these beings called "Skinwalkers." I had a Native friend who (apprehensively) told me about them in middle school. In Navajo legend, they are medicine men or witches who have attained the highest form of priesthood, thus inflicting pain on others with their power by choice. 'Knocking' is one method they use to declare their presence. I thought my friend's explanation was no

~Kiera~ One month later, and the weight of it all hits me like a freight train as I step into the massive stadium in Atlanta. The air is mixed with the tang of sweat from hundreds of athletes warming up. The sun beats down mercilessly, and the crowd's roar is a constant hum in my ears, building to a fever pitch. The Nationals. The holy grail for any college runner. My senior year, my last shot, and I'm not just here to participate—I'm here to dominate.

They worship their ancestral deity here, surrounded by stunning natural beauty. Adeline's curiosity got the better of her. "What's the name of the tribe, Ahmed?" she asked, pen poised over her notebook. Ahmed's expression turned thoughtful. "They're the Awanatchi people. An ancient tribe, steeped in tradition and spirituality." Adeline scribbled notes, her eyes sparkling. "Awanatchi... I've never heard of them. What's their story?" Sebastian leaned in, interested. Ahmed nodded, settling into the tale. "The Awanatchi were once a powerful nation, spanning these lands. They believed the land held sacred energy, and their ancestors communed with the spirits."

“We’re looking for more of the same type of work you’ve already done for us, though you may not have known it at the time.” I waited for a moment for him to continue, which he obliged to do. “Last year, when you were consulted regarding the differences between different Native American tribal traditions regarding skinwalkers, your insight resulted in the capture of one and the saving of many lives of those who would have been its victims.” “The capture of a skinwalker?” I was so incredulous that I caught myself being open-mouthed and shut it, quickly composing myself. This guy seemed serious, completely sincere and straight in his delivery.

Story Note: “Room for One More” is a standalone short from my erotic collectiona mix of intense, sensual, and sometimes forbidden stories that explore the raw edges of desire. Each story introduces new characters, new fantasies, and unapologetically explicit encounters. This particular tale features a taboo dynamic between step-siblings, told with heat, dominance, and no holding back. Reader discretion is advised. *************************************************