Flying Coyote -- flash fiction reprise from 4/15/2014

image from syracuse.com

“Always we remember your great grandfather. His name was Flying Coyote, and he was a very brave man and a fine leader. You are called Little Coyote because your father loved his father, your grandfather called Flying Coyote.”

The old woman stirred the fire and continued her story.

“When he was younger than you your grandfather fell from his father’s pony and hurt his leg very bad. It made him sick and the old ones feared to lose him.” She filled the horn spoon and blew softly across the liquid. “Bear With A Sore Tooth sang prayers for him and his old grandmother boiled willow bark and gave him the water to drink as I do you.”

“It’s not so bad,” he said swallowing. He cuddled the small coyote cub, he called Little Brother, close to him under the robes.

“I have been told it was this time of year – the time of the Full Pink Moon. The little pink flowers bloomed in the grass and the snow and the sun argued over who would have the land. Some mornings The People would wake to a deep blanket of snow, but by afternoon the sun would have eaten it.”

“Like yesterday?” he asked.

“Yes.” She filled the spoon again. “Like yesterday.”

She and the boy were outside the lodge so the rest of the family could sleep. A full moon hung in the black sky, so bright that only a few stars shone near it. The air outside the tipi was cold and still and fresh.

Little Brother squirmed out of the robes. Little Coyote grabbed the struggling whelp and held him tight by one hind foot.

“Little Coyote, you must let him go.” The old woman gently opened the boy’s fist.

They watched the pup caper and scamper around them.

“He’ll get cold and come back,” she said. “You’ll see.”

A red shadow began its slow march across the moon, but the boy did not notice. He watched the coyote pup.

“Your grandfather got weaker and weaker. He did not want to live.” She filled the spoon again and held it to the boy’s lips. “Does your foot still hurt?”

He stretched his leg, testing it. “Not so much.”

“Flying Coyote’s father went out onto the prairie to also pray. He played his prayers on his flute.”

An ember popped out of the fire and Little Brother stopped to sniff it.

“Will it burn him, Grandmother?”

She laughed. “No. His nose can feel the heat. He will be careful.”

She looked up at the moon, slowly being covered with red shadow. Little Coyote followed her gaze.

“What is happening?” Little Coyote asked in alarm.

“I have seen it before,” she said. “Some stories say that a great mountain lion is eating it.” Seeing his concern, she hurried on. “But I do not think that is what is happening. I have seen this before. More than once.”

Little Coyote could not take his eyes away from the changing moon.

She helped the cub back under the robes. “Soon the shadow will move on, and you will see your old friend the rabbit on the moon.”

Satisfied that his grandmother knew about things like mountain lions eating the moon he asked, “Did Flying Coyote get better?”

“Flying Coyote’s father was playing his flute under a moon just like this one. As the red shadow passed away, a bigger shadow flew across him. It was as big as he could reach.” She held out her own arms as far as she could. “And he was a big man.”

Little Coyote’s eyes grew big and round.

“Flying Coyote's father ducked so hard that the next thing he knew he was on his hands and knees. And something landed on the ground right in front of him. A ball of fur dropped from that shadow in the sky.”

Swallowing hard, Little Coyote held his own wiggly cub close under his chin.

“It was like Little Brother – a baby coyote. And its only wound was a broken leg.”

“What did Grandfather's father do with it?”

“His took it home to your grandfather and told him the Owl Spirit had sent it as a gift. And now he must care for the little flying coyote.”

“What happened?”

“Since your father is here and you are here, then of course he got well. And that is how your Grandfather came to be called Flying Coyote.”

On Reading

image from grammarly.com

"If you don't have time to read, you don't have time (or the tools) to write."

                                                                                                -- Steven King

Reading and writing are kinda like the chicken and the egg for me. Not because I wrote before I could read. But I'm sure I told stories before I could read. So the gift of writing just made it possible to tell stories whether or not I had an audience.

When it comes to reading, I think people read according to their need. If you are considering buying a car, you read for information -- collecting facts, comparing them, and considering them. If you are on a spiritual journey, you read with the heart, seeking enlightenment. If you are tired and need to
relax so you can sleep, you read to be taken away from the day that has pushed you and pulled you into such knots and grotesqueries that you do not recognize yourself. Reading frees you to drift into Shakespeare's "Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care."

And then there's assigned reading for a grade in class; reading recommended by a colleague or friend so you can share thoughts and opinions; and, maybe best of all, entertainment -- purely entertainment. To scare you with things that go bump in the night. To thrill you with a high speed chase, with high decibel explosions, with a death-defying leap from a rocky cliff. To break your heart with lost love or failed dreams. To exhilarate you with love found again and dreams realized.

But, if you're a writer, you may have become an analytical reader -- someone who parses formats and language use and rules of style.

Dull! you say. Then you are not a writer. I have in this later part of my life come to enjoy discovering formats and language use and style in those books that I particularly like.

I used never to reread a book. Any book. No matter if I liked it and certainly not if I didn't like it.

First, I learned to watch movies more than once. If the movie was done well, I almost always got caught up in the story the first time I watched. I could not then and cannot now appreciate the structure. Indeed, if it is done well, I can't even see it. I do not hear the words as word choices the writer puts in the actors' mouths. I do not recognize the nuances the directer catches and keeps -- the framing of a scene; the lighting on the main character's hair, sometimes beautiful, sometimes disheveled; the color of a ribbon; the way an actor walks, shoulders upright and proud or collapsed in on them self, defeated. The first time through, I am unaware of all the intentional components used to draw me into the story, to help me experience it as if it were first-hand.

I watch it again looking for those intentional things.

Now I read that way, too. First for the story. Then, if it works, I read it again to see how it's put together. What is it about this book that generates thought, that inspires emotion? What is it that keeps me turning pages and wanting to see how it ends? That makes me care what happens to the characters? These are the elements and strategies I want to employ in my writing.

The hard kind of analytical reading comes when I don't like the book. Whether I like or dislike a book seems not to be dependent on how revered the author is or if it's on The New York Times Best Seller List. And it is the book I don't like that I must explore without the comforts of enthusiasm and admiration. I must identify why I don't like it?

Is it inaccessible? The James Boys come to mind -- James Joyce and Henry James.

Is it the story's premise? Steven King whose books I cannot finish before dark and can't read after dark. Tom Clancy who starts wars in altogether too believable ways. Both, by-the-bye are excellent writers. I just don't like such terrifying stories.

Poorly written books by people I like. I always want to give them the name of my writing teacher and encourage them to hire a good editor -- not just a line editor, but content, too.

These are the books that may very well improve my writing the most. These document the places I do not want to go and the manner I do not want to use to get there. I want to write books people can read reasonably easily. Books that will be exciting enough, but without the danger of nightmares. And books that will not jar them out of the story because of poor craft.

Writing is hard work that requires I study the craft. That's what reading is -- analytical reading is studying the craft.

To the barricades! Into the trenches! I raise my clinched fist and shout, "Read on!"

Signs, Signs -- a rant

Bachelor Elk Herd and tourists July 29, 2015

Sorry, y'all, but this post is a rant. See this glorious view of the Front Range Mountains. My daughter Grace took this picture from the car window as we drove easterly on Trail Ridge Road through Rocky Mountain National Park. As you can see there is a group of elk taking their leisure in the high mountain sunshine and an even larger group of humans endangering themselves, their children, and the fragile tundra plant life to get close to these wild animals. Wild animals, I might add, with full-grown antlers that they very well know how to use.

Signs all along the highway remind people to park only in designated areas. With a rise of more than 4,000 feet to its 12,183 foot high point, its many hair-pin curves, and its abundant unfenced wildlife, the highway is dangerous enough without cars parked hither and yon and people wondering back and forth willy-nilly across it. How can a traveler enjoy the grand vistas while they're worried about running over somebody's poorly supervised four-year-old? Or maybe running over that thoughtless somebody?

The signs warn against approaching wildlife. It's exciting to see marmots and chipmunks and pika and mountain goats and big horned sheep and elk and mountain lions and bear. But even the little critters bite. The big ones can do you much more harm. And if they do, they can be, and too often are, killed by the authorities.

The signs advise people to stay on the trails. Above tree-line the ground is not barren. It is covered with beautiful and fragile alpine tundra plants. Now these plants are amazing survivors. They must tolerate extreme weather conditions. They've evolved to survive grazing and trampling by the native animal population. They haven't had time to adapt to the more than three million humans who visit from June through October which is when the highway is clear of snow enough for human travel and the earth is clear enough for these plants' growing season.

These signs are not posted for their artistic qualities nor to provide practice for an apparently reading-challenged tourist population. These signs are to protect lives -- of the tourists, the other animals, and the plants.

Trail Riding with Scott in His Toy

   

                                            Before                                      After

Some while ago my husband Scott decided he wanted a 4-Wheeler. He asked if I might be interested in riding the mountain trails with him. If my answer were "yes," he would buy a side-by-side ATV. If my answer were "no," he would buy the standard motor-cycle style 4-wheeler.

As you can see, I said "Yes." It was a good answer when he asked me to marry him and it was still a good answer for riding with him in an ATV.

When he first got it, it was what you see in the Before picture -- It had four wheels, two seats with seat belts, roll-bars, a flat bed, head lamps, a steering wheel -- the standard stuff. Turn the man loose with his tools and it's got a roof, a windshield, side rails on the bed, heavy-duty front and rear bumpers, a winch, serious back-up lights, overhead spot-lights, and ways and means of attaching everything you could possible need out back of beyond.

In July, he took it for a shake-down run by himself to see how it did. Last Wednesday he took me with him. (I guess to see how I'd do.)

Everything went fine. We took I-70 west through Idaho Springs then turned off on Chicago Creek Road, a road I'm familiar with because we use it to get to Mount Evans, my second favorite 14er. (If it had a restaurant at the top that made high altitude donuts, it would move ahead of Pike's Peak.) That road is a well-maintained, paved, two-lane highway. We were trailering the Toy behind my husband's pickup. And all was going well.

Our goal, however, was Saxon Mountain, so we turned onto Cascade Creek Road. Well-maintained, not paved. And one-lane. It is curvy, with trees and/or the mountain coming right down to the road's edge on my side and the creek at the bottom of a drop-off on his side. "So," I wondered silently. "What do we do if we meet someone coming the other way?" Backing that truck and trailer down a narrow road with no forgiveness on either side could not be a good idea. And there were no lay-bys.

As it turns out, I never found out what we would do, 'cause nobody came the other way.

We unloaded and buckled up. He set the way-point for where we were starting, consulted his map, and entered the coordinates for the first place he wanted to go into his GPS. It was like space travel will be, set the coordinates and go. Of course with space flight, you won't have to worry about switch-backs or mundane obstacles. You know -- falling rock, streams, downed trees. I figured our way would at least be free of rogue asteroids and meteors.

After our first switch-back we came to this abandoned mine.

Gold was discovered here in 1866. After gold, they discovered silver. So Saxon Mountain is pocked with mines. Most of the mines are collapsed and filled-in vertical shafts. This one goes into the mountain horizontally, at least as far as we could see, looking through the gate. The second structure is across the trail. I believe it housed the stamp mill.

   

                                             and this was the miner's home-sweet-home.

While doing a bit of research on mining in Colorado I happened onto the website for Mountain Magazine with an article that includes a first-hand account of mining in Colorado's high country in the 1890's from Carl Fulton. It's not long and it's worth taking the time to read, if you're interested in what life was like back then.

We saw a bachelor herd of Mule Deer. They'll soon be seeking the does for fall breeding season, at least the ones who are old enough. There were several spikes with the more mature bucks. We saw Clark's Nutcrackers. They're Corvidae like crows and jays. And I saw my first grouse in the wild, a Dusky Grouse. And, that old standby, the robin.

There were beaucoup chipmunks and little dark-colored squirrels. Sorry, no photos of wildlife. The ATV on that trail was too energetic to allow photography and when we'd stop, the wildlife fled.

               

In the mountains, it's all about the light.            And just because we're in the back-

               Still photography doesn't do the Aspens           country, that doesn't mean there's no

               justice. Any little breeze sets the leaves            civilization. There were street signs.
               to fluttering, flashing now silver, now
               green.                                                                                                                               

                               The meadows were still sporting their wild flowers.

  

Indian Paint Brush and Dwarf                       Silvery Lupine        

                              Golden Aster                                                                                  

 

Ahhhh, but the summit. It's over 11,000 feet. That's where the vistas and wildflowers are breathtaking. Down in the valley -- 3,000 feet down, to be more precise -- is I-70 snaking around to the right. And the buildings and things more to the center of the picture is Georgetown.

A Bristlecone Pine

The yellow blooms are Nodding Groundsel and the pale purple are Alpine Daisy

We came down different trails than we used going up. They were even more extreme. We had one scary, near-rollover which my husband handled by going pale and telling me, "Lean that way!" I responded with "I already am!" We held steady tipped like that for three hours or a fraction of a second. He let the Toy settle itself and we went on our merry way.

It was a 20-mile, six hour trip. I got home exhausted, My arms hurt from holding on. At times it was like shooting the rapids on a river. It was thrilling and I know exactly how Rose Sayer felt on the African Queen.

I learned some very important things. The Toy is both powerful and very stable. My husband is a capable, prudent man, and my life is safe in his hands.

There Are Days -- another Essay on Editors

Yep, it was a day just like Alexander had. And I'd been looking forward to it -- nay, anticipating it. It was going to be wonderful. I would win the lottery. I would be the teacher's pet. My editor would congratulate me and tell me I had done it. I had written the most perfect YA short story.

If your mother did not read Judith Viorst's Alexander stories to you when you were little or you did not read them to your children when you were big, I must tell you you must. They are wonderful and true and, without a doubt, they are your stories, too. That morning I did not wake up with chewing gum in my hair. I have only one brother and his name is neither Nick nor Anthony. And he hasn't pushed me down in the mud in many years. But that day I understood Alexander's pain.

My daughter, who is also my editor, has been trying to get me to write something YA for a number of years. For those of you out there who are not writers (bless your hearts) YA stands for Young Adult, probably the most salable genre in fiction today.

Because YA fiction needs to be focused on something and someone young adults can relate to, the most obvious element is a young adult protagonist. The Young Adult Library Services Association defines young adults as being between the ages of twelve and eighteen. Wikipedia states that authors and readers of YA literature more generally accept the age parameters as sixteen to twenty-five. 

This year has been the year for me to expand beyond my comfort zone into nonfiction and now YA fiction. I never thought I'd like nonfiction because it's so limiting. I mean the story has to be, you know, true. And I'm here to tell you I have a long history of embellishing true stories, adding a flourish here or there, maybe a bit of embroidery around the cuff. I mean, with a little imagination you can always make a good story better. But I did it a while back.

On to YA fiction. I've always read what is now called YA fiction -- Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, S. E. Hinton's The Outsiders, Louise Rennison's Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging, etc. But I write in a somewhat understated way. I have to trust my readers to bring their own intensity to my work. I guess I have never trusted young people to have enough life experience to have their own intensity.

Silly me. It's because they don't have enough life experience that they have not lost their intensity. At my age, I know the sun will rise tomorrow. That having survived the dangers of today and yesterday and the day before that that I will be able to meet the challenges of tomorrow. They don't. Every moment is make or break. Every challenge is world-changing either as the greatest victory or the most abject failure. Intensity is what they do best.

Realizing that does not help. How do I write a fitting intensity? Can I do it in my normal low-key style or must I morph into a slam-bang Marvel Comic Book writer?

Then there's the question of topic. High school dating? No. Werewolves and vampires? Impossible! Super powers? Not likely.

Wait a minute. Super powers. Why not?! My character wouldn't have to be faster than a speeding bullet or able to start fires with her mind or foretell the future. I figured out a super power that I could accept as plausible. Well, not really. But close enough. And Grace liked it when I pitched it to her.

Then a situation that a YA reader could relate to. Yep, got that, too. And I could relate to it. Else how could I write it?

And I wrote it. It was great. Intense. Suspenseful. Engaged all the senses. (Not smell, but teens don't seem to have an effective sense of smell anyway. Think about the gallons of scent teen boys slather themselves with. And it doesn't seem to dissuade teen girls from hanging out with them.)

I was so pleased with myself. I emailed it to my editor and waited for her response. Of course she has a life, so she couldn't read it fast enough. I mean she did it when she could which was not fast enough. But she did. Finally. And called.

"It's not YA," she said. 

Nobody loves me.

Then she added, "It's a good story. Well written. Clean. Flows well."

Everybody hates me.

"If you were reading this story, who would you say was the main character?" she asked.

I didn't have to guess. It was the father.

Think I'll go eat worms.

"The daughter should be the main character," she said.

Editors! Who needs 'em?! 

Obviously I do. Not just to check my spelling and punctuation. Not just identifying continuity problems or pointing out the use of the same action verb too many times. Or passive verbs that should be action verbs. Or eliminating expository writing. Or avoiding non sequiturs. Etc., etc., etc.

I needed her to point out the most painfully obvious error. The daughter should be the main character in a YA short story.

Okay.

I don't like worms.

I am a writer. I can do this. Rewrite!

My New Hometown

Main Reservoir

On Tuesdays and Thursdays I walk with a group of people I met in a Silver Sneakers exercise class at Carmody Rec Center in my beautiful hometown of Lakewood, Colorado. Main Reservoir is where our walking group walked today. It is 1.9 miles from my house. If you look really closely that's Green Mountain on the horizon.

I wasn't born here and I wasn't raised here, but this is my hometown. I don't have to go anywhere to be in vacation country. The skies are almost always blue. The snow melt water is clear where it's shallow and blue where it's deep.

Where I was born and raised the water was red -- Oklahoma Red Earth red. You can see those red ponds and lakes and creeks and rivers from high in the sky. Now, don't get me wrong. Oklahoma is beautiful, too. In its own way.

Oklahoma's most beautiful feature is its sky. In an Oklahoma wheat field if you lie down on the ground and look straight up, you'll see nothing but sky. No hills. No trees. You can hear red-winged black birds whistling to each other. And if the wheat is ripe enough, you can hear the wind rattle the grains as it sweeps across the field.

Thunder and lightning and gust fronts can bring you rain in Oklahoma. Or not. If there is rain, you can smell it before it falls on you. And in a hot, dry summer, that is the most glorious scent in the world.

If you live in Oklahoma, you go some-where-else when you go on vacation. When I was growing up we went either to Galveston on the Texas Gulf Coast or to the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. Now I live year-round in the middle of a vacation.

Kountz Lake in Belmar Park

My walking group walked here last Thursday. That's an island out in the middle, favored nesting grounds for Double Crested Cormorants, Snowy Egrets, and Blue Herons. This property was once part of the Bonfils family's estate. They were the Denver Post Bonfils.

The Tuesday before that we were at the Stone House.

                                                       

                          Chickory Plant                                                           Bear Creek.
               It grows wild at Stone House.                       Bear Creek runs through the park at  

               It's identified as a Noxious Weed,                Stone House. The creek heads up near

               but grind its roots and brew with                  Mt. Evans the highest of the Chicago     

               strong coffee, serve with beignets                 Peaks in the Front Range. Those are
               and you have the taste of New Orleans.        the mountains you can see from Denver.

                                                   
All this with easy access to an international airport, an excellent ballet company, a Level I trauma hospital, more professional sports teams than I ever imagined possible, the Denver Museum of Science and Nature, nice people who've moved here from all over the world, Starbucks that will soon be serving beer and wine, The Tattered Cover (my second favorite independent bookstore,) and my favorite husband.

What more could I ask for?!

A Post without a Point

The doorway into Tiffany's flagship store
New York City

Here's the situation -- I'm a writer, but writing is not enough. A writer has to promote her work and that, somehow, includes promoting herself. According to them -- that is the them that speak at writing conferences and write books about writing -- writers should be on at least three platforms.

Platform? Platform? Like the platform a politician runs on? Like the one that supports your waterbed? Maybe the one that gives you a place to stand on scaffolding? "What kind of platform?" you may well ask. As do I.

Those How-To folks in the writing business mention Facebook, Twitter, Linkedin, Pinterest, Goodreads, blogging, ad infinitum. Facebook I use to keep up with my family and the friends I really care about keeping up with. Twitter I'm trying, but I take a really engaging photo with my phone then forget to attach it to the corresponding tweet so the tweet makes no sense at all. I keep getting requests from Linkedin and I always honor them, but I don't have the vaguest what to do with them or what they're doing with me. Pinterest is dangerous. It's like YouTube. If I click on it, pretty soon it's dinner time and I haven't written a word or washed the dishes. Goodreads. Now this one I understand. Well, not how it will help promote my writing, but it adds to my already very long list of books I want to read.

That brings us to blogging. This platform I actually like. It gives me a place I can put my flash fiction out there for people to read. And, yes, like most writers, that's why I write -- for people to read. BUT when you put something on your blog it's considered published so you cannot then submit it to most publications or contests.

And I've been busy writing for submission so I haven't had much time to do my blog. I'm trying some travelogues because of the bloggers I admire who do that sort of thing -- Anabel's Travel Blog and my cousin's wife Debbie's blog about their full-time RV living.

You'd think I wouldn't have to tax my writing brain for these. After all I'm just showing and telling. Right? Wrong! Telling, I can do. It's the showing that takes me way too long. I haven't figured out how to get the pictures on the blog page like I want them. Maybe I'm unreasonable in my aspirations or maybe I'm just inept.

But that's not what I come here to talk about.

I read a book once. Actually I've read lots of books and some of them more than once. Anyway -- this book was a travelogue about bathrooms. I tried to look it up on Amazon, but that was a long time ago and it may not have seen a very large distribution.

The Ladies' in that book that stuck in my mind was the one at Tiffany's in New York. (Hence the photo at the top of this post.) The book described an elegant Ladies' Room complete with comfortable couches, elegant mirrors, and an attendant in an anteroom quite separate from the necessaries. Needless to say that Ladies' is on my bucket list, right along side the Aurora Borealis and the Statue of Liberty. Oh, yes, and the Lions out front of the Metropolitan Library in NYC.

Since reading that book I have made a semi-serious study of public facilities. And today, I visited the best one so far in the Denver area.

I took my daughter Grace to the dentist this morning. Any trip to the dentist triggers an uncontrollable urge for chocolate and coffee. The French Press was the best possible outcome for such a morning. Not only do they have wonderful filled chocolate cupcakes and mocha coffee, but their Ladies' is great. It's actually two largish rooms for either gender. They have a changing table for those little ones and grab bars for us older ones. They are clean and have paper products. Two things you expect, but are too often disappointed by their absence.

All this inspired reflections on bathrooms we have known.

Grace remembered the Ladies' Room at the Masonic Temple in Guthrie, Oklahoma. It had an anteroom with comfortable seating, lovely mirrors, and a baby grand piano.

My all-time favorite was the Ladies' at the Magnolia Cafe, a Creole restaurant in Oklahoma City. Unfortunately no longer there. But the memories! The Ladies' Room was a destination in and of itself. There was a huge mural on one wall. A photograph of a bicycle race. Naked men in a bicycle race. Now if that won't make you laugh out loud and bring you back to show your friends, I don't know what will.

Then we both thought of the City Bites burger joints in the Oklahoma City area. Maybe they have them elsewhere. Their Ladies' had one wall that was a one-way window into the restaurant. Those in the dining area couldn't see into the facilities, but those in the facilities had an unobstructed view into the dining area. Talk about a shy bladder! And to be honest. I don't remember noticing if it was clean or not. I only went in there once and I didn't stay.

Hmmmm. I'm not sure this will promote my writing, but I had fun. Now for some lunch and then I'll get back to work. I've got a short story and a book to finish.