Wulf Moon's SUPER SECRETS Workshop & Challenge!

This is a pretty tale with some mysticism to it. Overall, it works. Some problems are understanding punctuation usage, especially around dialogue. If that's going on in your WotF entries, it's likely getting your stories rejected, so fix that. Another issue is sensory details. Even in a Flash, we need them. And this is a story, I think, about wolfish creatures. If so, they would have keen observations about the scents around them. And that's another problem. I'm not quite sure if Scrag is part man, part wolf, and if they are part human, part wolf. Since you call him a coywolf, I can't tell if he's a smaller wolf, a shapeshifter, werewolf, and I wonder the whole time if they are part wolf, since this is fantasy. We need desciptions to clear all of this up.

Thanks for sharing, Sutherland! GREAT job on nailing the prompt. It's a real secret to selling to themed anthologies as well. And well done on doing this in 24 hours and putting it out there. Just remember that doing another pass is important to present a clean story. That's different than rewriting and reworking everything.

Cheers!

Thank You for the critique. I will continue to study punctuation. I am sure errors like the ones in this story slip into my WOTF submissions. Thankfully my critique partners point out most of these errors but I am still working to strengthen my grammar.

As to sensory details and descriptions, this is a critique I have encountered before. This continues to be a problem area for me. I will double my efforts to improve in it.

Green Dreams by AJZach 694 Words [Thanks for sharing. This is hard to read because no offset paragraphs or at least indents on the first line. I trust you're not submitting like this, or it would be an immediate rejection. I'll read it and try to guess where one paragraph ends and new paragraphs begin. I've put some spaces in to help set a few off.]

The witch house was a curiosity of the neighbourhood [<--I'm guessing this is British English] children. Julia [Is she a child or adult? Tall or short? We need something to hang our hat on, not just a name.] felt a special affinity to the burnt crumbling walls, and the glimpses of furniture and decay available through the cracked glass of the windows. The children would go in the evenings, when their parents were tired and wanting peace, and climb through the hole cut in the fence. They would wade their way through the yard overgrown with fern and gooseberry.

The house had been struck in a lightning storm, but no one could say how long ago. With the destruction,[feels a bit abrupt] the disappearance of the witch. Whenever Julia asked [who?] when the event was [replace *was* with *took place*], she would receive another answer. More definitive,[delete comma] were the stories of gold. It was accepted that there was buried treasure, hidden by the legendary witch, but none had ever been found.

The children’s [<--error, strike one in WotF] had long given up on finding the treasure. It seemed a few generations had looked, so they had invented a new past time. The object was to pass by the remains of the house, and touch the great oak tree at the back of the yard. The tree had also been struck, and was charred and black. Jim [Jim who? Her friend? Brother? Schoolmate?] had taken a piece of the tree, and all sought to replicate him [change to *copy him*]. He said it would protect against lightning strikes, although he had not tested that claim.

Julia sought no blackened chip of bark, and when the other children would disappear along the side of the house to cheer on today’s [the day's] champion, Julia would sink down into the ferns inhaling the cool and green. [green is a color, you can't inhale a color. And a temperature is hard to inhale as well. Cool, moist air would be appropriate.]

She dreamed. Sometimes she dreamed of the witch, foul smells and plumes of smoke above a woman,[delete comma] too frightening and beautiful to look upon. Or she dreamed of a man, in many forms shining with athletic strength [<--description doesn't make a lot of sense] who cast the witch down with his shard of light.

All her dreams in her bed of ferns ended the same, with gold. Sometimes it shimmered on the very ferns she lay beneath, or revealed itself as the interior of the gooseberries, a hard crack instead of the juicy snap when she bit. But really, she knew it was the oak tree. She lay every night dreaming, while her fellows approached it, to know more. [Unclear sentence again. If she's dreaming at home in bed, aren't the other kids, too? Or are they doing night raids on the place? It sounded like it was taking place after school.]

Another day, another strip of bark handed around the school yard.
“Will you come to the tree today Julia? Or are you too scared?”
They often taunted her because she did not stick with the group. They feared the witch house, and they could not understand how Julia could stand be alone in the dreamy overgrown garden. She had been afraid at first. That is why she had stayed among the ferns in the front garden, but her fears had dissolved with the dreams.
The time came,[Why? What made this day different than all others? You need to tell us what changed.] to slip through the fence and along the side of the house. Julia came too,[with who?} this time she brought a shovel. She looked with longing at the waving leaves of the ferns, where she would rather sit, but they had told her all.[define they, because this is all very confusing.] She had wanted to wait, to visit the tree in private, but she had decided that the other children should be there. [Again, why?]
The children were becoming braver, a few of them had their tokens now, to no ill effect. Timmy was already working his way through the rubble towards the tree, glancing back to his friends, and at the gaping windows of the house behind.
Julia ran past him, spade in tow, and approached the tree. She pushed her spade down into the soft earth between the tree’s great roots. The split of the lightning through the trunk pointed right to the spots her dreams had shown her.
The others watched in awe. Julia kept pushing the dirt away until she felt the clunk. A few minutes more and she was acquainted [<--this seems antiquated, like something Victorians would say] with her prize, a heavy little trunk, locked but easily snipped open with someone’s father’s wire cutters.[Try reading that out loud. Better to just have her snap the lock with a good strike or two from her shovel.} Inside was gold: coins, bars and rings. Ancient and covered with bits of soil.
They say a witch used to live in that old burnt down house, but she had buried many secrets, for those who would sleep among the ferns.

AJ: I think you have introduced the setting well. We have good descriptions of the house, the fence, the ferns and gooseberry. It's the characters I have a problem with. Julia needs to be identified with more than simply a name. Her age is important, which is easy if you say what grade of school she is in. I like it that she's different, that she likes to sleep among the ferns, and has visions. But I'm not feeling any danger, any fear the witch might return, that the treasure might be cursed. It's all too easy for her. For a very young child, this story would be fine--they don't need much danger, and you could very well have their attention for an entire story with the thought of discovering buried treasure. But for adults, there's not enough tension.

Plot is driven by tension. A character wants or needs something that somebody else is trying to keep from them. They try hard, get defeated. AND THINGS GET WORSE. They try harder, get defeated. AND THINGS GET WORSE. It's what ratchets up tension and makes us care for your heroine. We should be afraid for her. She's sleeping in a witch's yard and I don't feel she's in danger at all. In fact, everything comes to her so easy, it's like magic. Now that would be interesting, if it was all happening because she had power she didn't realize. As the dreams kept happening, she could start directing them, searching through them, and discover she has a divining power. Lots of ways you could make this more dangerous, or mysterious as she discovers she has powers she wasn't aware of, or character growth as she goes from extremely shy to courageous enough to stand before that tree with a shovel. If it were me, I'd have that tree radiating all kinds of negative energy, and she has to find her own power to face it and push through it. And the reward wouldn't really be the gold, but the understanding of herself. The gold could just be a symbol. Deeper meanings and character growth are vital to good stories.

So if this is a very YA tale, I am sure it would hold their attention. But for adults, we need more. And I'd recommend you try to work the piece toward that, because you will need that in a WotF winning story, too.

So far, everyone has posted visual stories. Sight is only one sense we have. Rich stories employ all the senses. Hearing. Taste. Touch. Smell. To everyone I say: get more of the senses on the page. This shall be a forthcoming Super Secret.

Thanks for sharing!

Beastmaster Moon

I just submitted for Q3 - my first new story in a long time. Thanks Moon for encouraging us to push ourselves with new stories

I've been working on the flash challenge, but I'm not yet certain if this thing I'm writing actually is flash or if I've inadvertently discovered something larger. I'm writing by the seat of my pants, and I'm at 893 words with no concrete idea how to get from where I am to my intended ending. Might be able to trim it down once I figure that out.

But not just yet, because babies call.

So far, everyone has posted visual stories. Sight is only one sense we have. Rich stories employ all the senses. Hearing. Taste. Touch. Smell. To everyone I say: get more of the senses on the page. This shall be a forthcoming Super Secret.

Thanks for sharing!

Beastmaster Moon

This has been an invaluable experience and I am glad a new Super Secret has culminated from it. I am going to implement this feedback immediately. I can already think of a few places in this flash where I could have employed sound smell and touch. I need to do a sensory check on every new story until it becomes habit to WHAM! the audience with smell-o-vision and 4D.

I've been working on the flash challenge, but I'm not yet certain if this thing I'm writing actually is flash or if I've inadvertently discovered something larger. I'm writing by the seat of my pants, and I'm at 893 words with no concrete idea how to get from where I am to my intended ending. Might be able to trim it down once I figure that out.

But not just yet, because babies call.

I solve this problem by figuring out my opening first. A story opens with 1. a character 2. in a setting 3. with a problem. When I figure that out--and honestly, I figure out my title first because that's my theme--I then decide on my promise line. A story's promise is your promise to your reader. It goes like this: If you read this story, I promise I will deliver X by the end. Or at least by the end will make you pleasantly surprised it wasn't X, it was Y, which I promise will be even better!

Once you have that promise in mind, you can figure out how you're going to deliver on it. Figure it out first, or you end up wandering. Wandering aimlessly through the shrubbery does not make for an interesting tale. This is why I figure out my ending before writing the middle stuff, the try/fail/things get worse cycles. How can you amp up if you don't know what's your top frequency? Many, many times I don't just have the ending in mind, I actually write it. With that, I have my destination. Now I just have to chart my course there. It makes for logical sequences, reduces rambling, and creates a tight story that knows exactly where it's going.

Of course, everyone's system is different. Mine works for me. But you might be able to steal something from my method and add it to your own. Or somebody else can. At 17,000 views, I figure we are not alone...

All the beast!

Beastmaster Moon

I just submitted for Q3 - my first new story in a long time. Thanks Moon for encouraging us to push ourselves with new stories

Well done, Thomas! Like I've said, some have won reworking the same story year after year after year, raising it up the ranks from rejection to a win. You can become a great editor doing that. You might even create your magnum opus doing that, like FLOWERS FOR ALGERNON. But you will soon find you have nothing else to show for your years and years of efforts, and if you want to be a writer, you need to write fresh stories. Might as well start now. We grow through the writing process. It's where we build our writing muscles.

Glad the encouragement to write fresh stories has helped. I hope it helps many others to push forward and grow.

All the beast!

Wulf Moon

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So far, everyone has posted visual stories. Sight is only one sense we have. Rich stories employ all the senses. Hearing. Taste. Touch. Smell. To everyone I say: get more of the senses on the page. This shall be a forthcoming Super Secret.

Thanks for sharing!

Beastmaster Moon

This has been an invaluable experience and I am glad a new Super Secret has culminated from it. I am going to implement this feedback immediately. I can already think of a few places in this flash where I could have employed sound smell and touch. I need to do a sensory check on every new story until it becomes habit to WHAM! the audience with smell-o-vision and 4D.

There is a method to my madness, as you shall see if you continue on with the next phases of the lesson. But I'm also doing it to make sure anyone that signed up for the challenge can get a critique if they like, by submitting to the exercise. And everyone watching can figure out if they are making the same mistakes I call out, and then fix them so their stories will improve. Finding our blind spot and fixing it can take us toward the win. Which is writing professionally, whether or not you win this contest.

It is very true new writers neglect to employ all five senses. New writers' stories are normally entirely visual. And they tell, they don't show, they don't smell, they don't feel, they don't taste. A good storyteller makes their character and world REAL. That takes accurately placed sensory details. I would add another sense new writers neglect--emotion. How their protagonist feels in any given situation, any environment. Without that, we have cardboard cutouts moving across a cardboard box stage.

I recommend writing six senses down on a notecard and putting it by your monitor and reviewing it regularly, since several have told you your writing is weak in this area. Six senses, you say? I thought there were only five? I'm adding the sixth. Emotion. How do all the sensory experiences make your protagonist feel? The environment you create should be stirring feelings within your hero. We'll sense those feelings as well, and if we like your hero, we'll share in those feelings.

I hope this helps.

Cheers! And Phase Two of this exercise will be posted tonight! So be sure to tune in. Same bat time! Same batty channel!

Beastmaster Moon

Last call to our SUPER SECRET Challenge Beasts! If you enrolled in this challenge, this is the way to be sure you get a critique before it ends. I've critiqued many of your stories, but simply can't do critiques for all. This exercise gave everyone that entered an opportunity to get a critique from me (and your fellow challenge beasts if they desired to add in) if they wished it. But after today, I must move on. Get it while it's hot! Phase One of the exercise closes today! Deadlines are DEAD LINES. Don't paste me something tomorrow, I won't read it. : )

Give Becky a cookie, with extra chocolate chips! She is correct. Flash is challenging. Telling a meaningul story in under a thousand words is tough. It makes you think about the lessons. It makes you think about word choice. It makes you think about how you can get from point A to point D swiftly, in and out. Master it, and your longer pieces will have similar energy and tighter cohesion.

Okay. Last call!

Beastmaster Moon

Hey Wulf. I sent you a pm.

Hey Wulf. I sent you a pm.

Hey, Storysinger, I got nada! Sorry! Did you send it in here? Send to me in Messenger. It's more reliable.

Hmmm. No more challenge members submitting a Flash piece? Well, the day isn't over yet. But here's an observation. Remember: our prompt was A TOUGH CHOICE. Many thanks to all that did the work and risked life and limb to put their story on the chopping block. Well done. That said, on some that were submitted, it wasn't super-duper clear the protagonist had options to choose from. More than one didn't seem to require any choice at all--these heroes or antiheroes headed straight to their destinations without a moment's pondering, perhaps because it wasn't apparent any choices were set before them. Which means as we are writing, we forget what we are supposed to be writing about. It's wonderful to get caught up in the story, but not if we forget why we came to the stage and what our play was supposed to be about. When we open a story, we make a promise. Often, that promise is in the title. We say, "This is what my story is about, this is what my protagonist desires, and I promise by the end I shall deliver!"

Why is this important? Readers get upset when you promise them one thing, and then deliver another. They feel cheated. Lied to. This has caused many a book to be thrown against a wall. Or a judge to push R on submission #1382. A story is a promise. Deliver on your promise. One day, an editor might say, "Hey, successful writer, I'm doing an anthology called A TOUGH CHOICE. Want to send me something?" And you say, "Hey, pro editor, I shall deliver! Thank you for the invite!" And if you send your friendly editor a story about stone garden gnomes and their exciting life of standing motionless all day long in the hot sun, the editor is going to scratch their head, reject the story, and probably never reach out to you again.

Okay, I see no more Flash entries. As the deadline approaches, it's my turn.

I have a story I'm trying to send to you. An email attachment is the easiest way. What's up? I don't want to post it on the forum.

(Feel free to critique as you see fit. I separate paragraphs by a blank line for this place only. Word count: exactly 999. Normally you don't put copyright notice on your manuscript, but this is a public forum.)

Last Words by Wulf Moon. Copyright 2019

I sat in a hard plastic hospital chair, fingers touching the book inside my jacket while I watched my father die. Dad rested in bed, eyes closed, eyelids twitching, lips grayish-blue. The room’s window was etched in frost, streetlights glowing upon the crystals, illuminating patterns like stained glass in a chapel. The air smelled of pine solvent and rubbing alcohol, and the divider curtain was drawn, giving the illusion of privacy.

I ran my fingers along the binding of the tome, felt the impression of stamped letters. My book. The latest collection of poems. My lifelong secret. My last chance to let Dad know. Becoming a poet had always been his dream, and I didn’t know if I could tell him.

Dad had known success. He’d won Realtor of the Year for Century 21 in Minnesota, had the view office in Stillwater overlooking the St. Croix River, yachts cruising past like fat swans. Everyone in town knew Dad, but it wasn’t his successful career that gave him joy.

Just writing those damnable sing-songy poems.

When I’d stop to visit at his office, he’d have me pull up a chair, ask his assistant to bring me some coffee. Awful stuff, tasted like brewed charcoal briquettes. We’d talk about his new listings and pending closings, about how I was doing after the divorce, how my teaching was going at Carleton, how the girls were doing in school. And every time, before we’d head for ribs at Brian’s Meat Market, he’d reach in a drawer and toss me that worn leather binder.

“Penned some new ones, kid. Try these on for size.”

I’d give up the view of the yachts, lean back in my chair and read his poems, sweating to find something good I could comment on. Then I’d smile, because, hey, they were from his heart.

“Hmmm. "Snowfall" is good. I like this verse: The snow falls in time with memories of my mind as I chew on the rind of forsaken mankind. Reminds me of Frost.” It did remind me of Robert Frost. Thought a lot of his works were sing-songy too, repetitive rhyme and meter, but that didn’t seem to harm his career. Success is hard to argue with.

Dad always smiled when I likened his work to famous poets. “Damn right it’s good. But do you think the Poetry Society of America would think so?” He’d flash the latest. “Form rejection. Not even personal.”

“Do not go gentle into that good night. Proud of you for not giving up. There’s something to be said for our stubborn German blood.”

“Jawohl,” he’d say, thumping his fist against the desk. “You hungry? Let’s go eat.”

I remembered Dad’s comments on my works when I was a kid. I’d be lying in bed, staring at the glittering bits in the ceiling texture, words pouring into my mind like songs from seductive sirens. No way they’d grant me sleep unless I rose to their call and danced. I’d hunch over a typewriter in the basement until two or three in the morning. As the night flowed on, the keys striking the platen would sound like volleys of thunder. I’d set a pillow under the base, wrap a towel around the sides, hope Dad wouldn't hear, and immerse myself in verse again.

It didn’t work. Inevitably, Dad would hear and come lumbering down the stairs. I’d swim up from the hazy depths, float on the surface of the muse as Dad drew up alongside, scratching the stubble on his chin. He’d stand there in his sagging underwear in a silence as long as the sea. He didn’t have to speak—I knew what his verdict would be.

“Rhythm seems off. Doesn’t flow. Good ideas, son, but you won’t make money at it. Trust me, I’ve tried. You’d make a great Realtor though—got my name to carry you in town. Get to bed now, you’ve got school in the morning.”

I started winning awards in national student contests. Now he’d be proud. Now Dad would know the fire burning in my heart was true. But every time I’d show him a certificate, he’d ask to see the poem, make some comment about how it didn't rhyme or the metaphors were off, and his words would rip the wind from my sails. I quit telling him about them. And as I’d head to bed after he’d finish his spiel about my wonderful future in real estate, I’d think, yeah, just what I want in life, to wear a baby-crap-yellow jacket to work every day.

Years later—many rejection slips later—when the New Yorker took my first poem, it was published under a pseudonym. I never told him. Then the Atlantic. Then some chapbooks through good university presses. Then St. Martin’s Press bought my collection. I never told him. I had sold. He hadn’t.

And now here I was, sitting by his side, holding his blue-veined hand, oxygen hissing like serpents through pale green tubes at his nose. The air was winter dry, and the chair had a deep slant that forced me to balance on the edge of the seat. The book in my coat felt heavy as a brick as I mulled over the best way to tell him.

I jerked as Dad sat up. “Michael, it’s you. Good. Want you to do something for me.”

“Sure, Dad. Just sit back.”

“Hell with the doctors! Listen to me, kid.”

I leaned forward.

“All my life, only thing besides family that meant anything to me were my poems.”

My throat caught. “I know, Dad.”

“Only thing I didn’t succeed in, getting published.” He coughed furiously. “Take my stuff. You’re the only one who understands. Keep sending them out for me.”

I rubbed his weathered hand, my stomach twisting like a ball of baler twine. “I will.”

“They were good, weren’t they?”

A hot tear wandered down my cheek. I shifted my coat, tugged the zipper a little higher.

“They were great, Dad.”

finis

I am partaking in the current Flash Challenge, but please forgive me. I will be holding mine close to the vest. It might be the underpinning for my next short story.

I guess what's complicating things from my end is writing on a computer not connected to the internet. I put the story on a thumb drive and take it to my other computer so I can email it away.

I am partaking in the current Flash Challenge, but please forgive me. I will be holding mine close to the vest. It might be the underpinning for my next short story.

Nothing to forgive, Julia! It's wonderful if you come up with an idea from these you can send to WotF or elsewhere. And anyone can still participate on the side! It's worth it!

I'm trying to participate.

I'm trying to participate.

It's supposed to be posted in here, Storysinger. I'll see it when you do. Cheers!

Oh, my mistake. I thought we had the option of sending it to you for a private viewing.
Regardless of how it works out I wrote a story that stayed within your guidelines (except for posting on a public forum) which I choose not to do.

I thank you for helping me learn and grow into the writer I will be. If you would like to read it then let me know.

I went back and forth about whether to post this here or try to publish it elsewhere, but I've been wanting something new to post on my website and I think this will fit the bill. (Sidenote: I generally don't use interobangs, but the one in this story seemed to fit better than italics because of how many italics surrounded it.)

Cousin Coyote Meets Mother Torment
by M. Elizabeth Ticknor
999 words, copyright 2019

Coyote slipped into Sheriff Mallory’s skin as the man traversed the arroyo colloquially known as Devil’s Creek. Boots squelched deliciously through the thick, russet-red clay accumulated in the creek bed from recent rains. Coyote reveled in the honeyed scent of acacia blossoms. Wind sang through the catclaw bushes that tangled the creek banks.

Coyote missed having a body of his own. The best part of being soulbound with a human was the sensation bleed.

Mallory shivered and tugged at the rim of his battered Stetson. “You’re supposed to ask before entering my body.” He traced two fingers over a massive ursine paw-print embedded in the creek bed. The caress of mud against Mallory’s fingers sent a shiver of delight to Coyote’s core.

And you’re supposed to invite me whenever you go on a hunt. What are we after?

“It tracks like a bear, but it's too big. Harmon Ellis says the thing’s been eating his cattle. Says it damn near ate him when he tried to chase it off.”

They picked up the pace, tracking the beast in mutual silence--Coyote’s due to eagerness of the hunt, Mallory’s due to trepidation for where that hunt might lead. They caught up with the creature as the dawning sun crested the horizon. A black bear, once the size of a small pony, now stood twenty hands tall with shoulders broad as a carriage. Small patches of fur clung to cancerous knots of raw flesh. Spurs of bone jutted out from every joint. The beast’s eyes burned like living coals, red-hot ingots sunken into a face twisted in a rictus of perpetual agony. One of its hind legs was little more than a ruined stump.

Coyote let out a mad cackle even as the blood drained from Mallory's face. Oh, this will be fun. It looks like our cuddly little friend is being consumed by a spirit of pain.

Mallory gritted his teeth and whispered, "You have a bizarre definition of the word 'fun'. How do we stop it?"

Exorcism, most likely.

"You want me... to exorcise... a bear the size of a clydesdale."

All we have to do is incapacitate it and--

"How?!"

Don't worry. I'm sure you'll think of something. Coyote poured himself into every crack and crevice of Mallory’s being. Raw energy burned through the body and reforged it, pushing fresh strength into every fiber of muscle. In that moment, Coyote felt truly alive.

Perhaps too alive.

He searched through Mallory’s mind, but found no traces of consciousness to compliment his own. He must have pushed too hard, too quickly, and knocked the sheriff out.

“Well, that makes things interesting.” Coyote ran his tongue along suddenly-sharp teeth and giggled as blood flecked in his mouth. The salty, metallic tang invigorated him.

The wind shifted, sending his scent straight toward the beast. It lumbered around to face him, sniffing the air.

No point in hiding, then. Coyote approached, his mouth stretched into a face-splitting grin. “Noble spirit! You may call me Cousin Coyote.” He scoured Mallory’s memories for knowledge of the rituals and objects needed to perform an exorcism. He’d witnessed Mallory do such things before, but had never willingly involved himself in the execution.

The bear gave a respectful nod. “I am Mother Torment.”

“Why have you claimed this sorry creature? I’m certain it’s done nothing to deserve such torture.”

“It fell victim to a hunter’s trap and gave itself over to me in order to escape. I grow fond of this body. lt suits me well.”

“Not for much longer. You’ve already burned it half away.”

“Consumption of flesh prevents decay.”

“Slows, yes. Prevents, no. I’d guess you’ve got a week at best, even at peak efficiency. That’s what happens when you run your host ragged.”

Mother Torment tilted her head to the side. “How do you keep your host so pristine?”

“What, this old thing?” Coyote tipped his cowboy hat and took a playful bow. “I take a gentler approach. Mutual symbiosis with a touch of light possession.”

Mother Torment growled. “A simple haunt. Not the same. This body, it feels things. Reminds me of when I was human.”

Coyote shuddered. All spirits had been human once, but the older they got the more likely they were to lose old memories to the new. Coyote’s memories of humanity were ancient and weather-worn, rocks eroded by the rivers of time. Most of what was left related in some way to his current existence--the thrill of the hunt, the word games that taught him how to lie, the first time he’d seen the world through an animal’s eyes. He’d had parents, siblings, even a wife and children, but their names and faces had long since evaporated like fog in sunlight.

Gods, he wanted to live again.

Mother Torment paced around him, eyes blazing. “You miss it too. I can feel your pain.” She licked her lips. “Join me. We can burn together. A short life, but a powerful one.”

Coyote shook his head. “If you keep this up, it’s like an addiction. You’ll want another body, and another, and on and on until you lose so much of yourself in your hosts that you’ll burn away too. You’re a grand old monster. You deserve a better end. Let go. Return home.”

Mother Torment fell silent for a long moment, then let out a mournful sigh. “This one had cubs. That is why she gave herself to me. If you see them safe, I can let her go.”

“Show me the den. I’ll ensure their survival.”

That evening, surrounded by trilling bear cubs, the pull to live was so strong Coyote’s soul ached. He yearned to steal Mallory’s body with every fiber of his being.

But, no. Not yet. Mallory had become more attuned to Coyote’s spirit through repeated visitations, but even now he was only resilient enough to play host for a month before his body burned away.

There would be other hunts. Coyote simply needed to bide his time.

I copied your list a few days ago for my own reference and added the latest ones.

Thank you, Helge and R!