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Coyote in Ireland

The plane landed in Shannon where daffodils crowd the tarmac and sheep stand like clouds in the distant fields. As I looked for the bus to Ennis, Coyote appeared. “How did you get here?” I said. He gave me an incredulous look, one I’m certain he practices in a mirror, and said, “Demigod, remember?” “Oh yeah,” I said. He picks up my concertina case in his teeth and trots toward the bus. “Where are we staying?” he asks. “With Nuala,” I respond. “Excellent,” he says. “The bairns are big enough to be fun, last time they just wanted to chew on my tail. Is it near the edge of town?” “I think so, I reply. “She said they have a nice view of the green fields, all dotted with sheep.” Oh good,” he said innocently. “Oh dear,” I said.

Coyote and I are working on the next book, well one of us is working… We are confident it will be done long before George R R Martin finishes the Game of Thrones books. Here is another sample of Going Along… Conversations with Coyote.

Coyote in Winter

It was the winter of 1983 up in Sherman Township. We celebrated any day the temperature staggered over zero, twenty degrees was balmy. Bourbon in your coffee was a sensible precaution, and the Muscovy duck spent her time sitting in the sun on the threshold of the front door. Her deposits made for a swift slide to an uncertain landing. On such cold nights, you might think my friend Coyote would have been a welcome companion, curled around my feet as we sit before the fire. You would be wrong. He sent me one postcard… from Bermuda. I burned it in the wood stove.