(Photo from Pixaba)

The protests entered their 43rd day. The protesting folks were fatigued, frustrated and fraught with disappointment. Their number had also slowly dwindled. As initial enthusiasm gave way to ultimate enervation, a majority of them slithered away with drooping shoulders and demoralised hopes. Yet a handful remained. A rag tag bunch of determined sons and daughters of the soil, steadfast in their purpose of preserving whatever remained of their heritage, philosophy and perhaps, legacy, even.

The war between capitalism and culture has made the front pages of every newspaper and adorned every broadcasting channel of repute, when it first erupted. The gigantic pipeline passing through four states and skirting preserved hunting terrains, frozen lakes and lush forests was touted as the frontispiece of twenty first century progress. Behemoths in the form of Multinational Oil companies had invested their stakes, literally and metaphorically in the venture. To hell with the bleak prospects for salmon fishing and seal hunting that would stare the indigenous people in their faces.

Except pride, passion and a sense of original place in history.  The oil barons grossly underestimated the inherent power of the lady with the beads and feathers.

She would win, as would Mother Nature.

(Word Count: 199)

Written as part of Sunday Photo Fiction. Write a story of around 200 words based on the photo prompt given (above). Hosted by Donna McNicol . For more details visit HERE

To read more of the stories based on this week’s prompt, click HERE

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