Coyote Gunnyon
Bio
Coyote grew up on the Yakama Reservation in central Washington. He is a descendent of the Yakama Nation and an enrolled member of the Chippewa Band of Turtle Mountain Indians. Coyote is a writer, poet, and dreamer.
Stories (14/0)
Ghosts of the Interstate
My family and I recently drove from our home in Zillah Washington to Los Angeles California. We drove straight there (and when I write “we,” I mean, I drove, and everyone else watched [or slept]). Talk about liminal space. That is the longest corridor of freeway I have ever been down in my whole entire life (sorta true; minus the hiatus to Casper Wyoming).
By Coyote Gunnyon2 years ago in Wander
Starkillers
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. The void is the unknown. The darkest of secrets, quite literally. Relic neutrinos make up the background radiation of the universe. Dust from ancient astroids circle Saturn. Ice from aeon comets melt in the burning rays of the Sun. A giant object comes into the orbit of the earth. We don’t know what it is or where it came from. Yet, it was there, out of nowhere.
By Coyote Gunnyon2 years ago in Fiction
The Engineman
I was deep in the abyssal recesses of a dream before my eyes opened to the mystery. In my dream there was a sprawling green petulant ocean. It was covered in thick clouds of darkness that smashed together causing the heavens to boom, and the earth to shake under my feet. Lightning tore across the sky as if it was Xalish herself—the destroyer of worlds, devouring the moon, and extinguishing the sun.
By Coyote Gunnyon2 years ago in Fiction
Where You Raised Me
To my dearest mother, You lay in that bed, covered with two blankets all the way up to your chin. You look like a babe, waiting to be put to sleep. But you are not. You are sick. I know this. But does everyone else? Everyone wants to hang on as long as they can. The others, they think we can all survive somehow. We can’t. That is the saddest part, knowing that you are ready to pass. You are tired of your pain, of this constant struggle.
By Coyote Gunnyon2 years ago in Confessions
The Happy Tattoo Parlor
The Place Somewhere deep in The Emerald City of Washington State, there is what is called "The Devil's Hole." It leads to the deepest cavern, in the deepest part of the known world. Yet, no one has ever traversed it. No one has ever found it. The fae have hidden—out of sight and out of mind. It is a portal to their world, and they will do anything to hide it from humans.
By Coyote Gunnyon3 years ago in Fiction
The Cafe Window
The rain came down sideways hitting the thin glass. It sounded like little gun shots echoing on the inside of the café where I sat and sipped my coffee. Rain and coffee go together for some reason. Like biscuits and gravy, or peanut butter and jelly. At least that is my line of reasoning. People often struggle with how I think, but I feel the same way with them. That’s why I’m alone a lot, sitting in this dirty white washed cafe that looked like something yellow was leaking out of the ceiling. It was also a good place to sit and write poetry.
By Coyote Gunnyon3 years ago in Fiction
The Devil's Barn
It was out in the middle of a dead cornfield. It looked like a lone survivor of some terrible pestilence. The dead cornstalks all hung towards the old barn like sullen figures with their heads slung low in some kind of worship. At least, that is what Jeb mused when he looked outside.
By Coyote Gunnyon3 years ago in Fiction
