The Story of Dial Coyote (Account revival Spring 2026)

Dial coyote is a complex personification of many corners of my mind. I guess the word Dial was inspired by a great time of change in my life. Like an hour glass fulcrum I had held everything I was above like each grain of sand was a life experience that had defined me. Not just my indention or past, but it had shaped my very soul.

So this journal is really a point of connection. This is hard now a days because most people have as equal a need to be heard or be known or simply have their own life matter in their own unique ways. I find that is behind at least a chunk of why people draw, and then when they realize drawing well can earn attention and friends and a feeling of worth; it becomes addictive.

Stories are less so because they take time to read and enjoy. When you write a story it is a message in a bottle and can not truly be written for such instant or known gratification. We never truly know who reads or who enjoys or if people never take the time to share their feelings about what we wrote. But this takes me back to what I said a memento ago. If being born is the hour glass that holds our life, death shatters it and spreads our sands like ashes back to the earth and the beach and the deserts.

This is the inner poet I am and is just the surface visible. So much depth below unseen, unknown, and forgotten once I die or when any of us die some day. That is what makes life precious. So the fulcrum, is the pinch of the hour glass. Though in truth it is rarely just one convergence but our lives sort of pinch the glass in ways that let the sand collect and then slowly sift down below and collect and then sift again and again. If we live long, the chambers of this hour glass tower become chapters of our lives.

But if I simplify, when I created this account and posted that story named “dial coyote” well it was a weird time in my life. I had lost my grandmother and then later that year I went to a convention and was very much inspired. I was slowly changing my fursona and had chosen to divide a coyote and wolf as writer and artist side of me. I don't quite know why but I think the wolf was sort of trying to hold on to the past of me. the nostalgia of the good times I once had.

But too many bad times had piled up and so I guess I wanted to try and create a benchmark. A moment frozen in time to make it endless. And then oddly, this was prolific because I went to a convention after also creating the writing persona, the coyote. I met a coyote fur, who was married to another coyote fur and artist, they both were really friendly. They recommended me a coyote author and well one thing lead to another and I felt inspired.

I had been bogged down as a writer at the time and then felt like I just needed to stop trying to write and just write. So I churned out a rough and unpolished raw format. Just a bit of my soul jumping out of my body and showing a single creative idea. Hence the dial coyote story emerged. Not like it was an origin, just a single idea. Nor was it my actual fursona or self or anything. It just named him dial because it felt natural to do so at the time. In time my real, dial coyote, is vastly unique and different.

But as stated this was not the start but at the top of the fulcrum and the sand below me was about to loosen and fall away and drop me to the pit below. And then I dropped. Almost one year after that convention, the dial coyote story I churned out fast, had inspired a very real professional story. I had been so focused on first, loosing my grandmother, and then this story which revived me. That soon time passed and it was end of summer. There is much more to this story but in short, my dad had a close call medical wise.

This is something I have had years now to weather. It was back in 2014 and now as I write this it is 2026. Years ago. But it still in a way can feel so fresh like yesterday. Like that benchmark really did freeze time in my memory. And time since has felt equally frozen, it moves forward but things that change sort of blend together and I forget what happened in what year. I feel like my life has been in a bit of purgatory but its strange. Not weird, calm almost.

But devoid of purpose and passion was sort of tossed around trying to find a target or bucket to collect in. This is because the very next year after that good con, I went to the same fur con, and it was a very bad con. Sparing details as there was no big reason, just a bunch of small ones. But I tried to write and submit and well that drained my passion fast. Made me feel I could never write among furs or anyone really. Then I returned from the con feeling defeated and a week later my dad died. Again, a big story for some other time, if ever.

But this was like a benchmark that someone else made in my life, not me. But oddly as much as things changed, they also stayed the same. As much as I was living in a new reality, some absence had always been there, some distance always part of my childhood and adult life. So in a way not a lot changed. Pain yes, but I also am strange with death and weather it well. I had abandoned the dial coyote story and then by the time this happened I had no joy for awhile. I put both feet forward and tried to stand up and keep myself walking tall. But then it brings me back to that feeling of falling down under through the fulcrum into the next chamber with the sand now falling on my head trying to bury me in the next stage of my life.

And so wisdom here.

I'm not here to share or mope or anything. This is just an expression of life and what makes it worth living and so I think about story telling, my passion. I spent the next decade, working towards and building a very serious side project, not furry but furry-adjacent in many ways. My own little urban fantasy universe I hope to some day bring to life so folks can read. May never happen. But something more recent rekindled some urge for flash fictions.

I found even in wring throw away lines, the passion was overflowing and creative. Not in my novel project but simply in fun fur fantasy and fiction ideas. I just wrote one down tonight and then felt inspired by it and then sort of reminded me of the coyote story and where I had thought to take it one day, how it both is similar and also different from my main novel, but even in the flash fiction. And I think maybe I may start just churning out stories again here.

I think I am ready. Some may be weird or dark or twisted. But some may be light and joyful. I think I am ashamed my imagination will be judged, or I will be. If you write one thing, it is like drawing one picture. And equally this can label you. Hell if you meet the wrong furry in real life and get stained by that encounter, it can shape your life in bad ways. This happened to me off-line many times and it killed public desire to partake in this fandom. But I still try to, just in small ways.

Now many people meet me as dial coyote so I am a bit bashful of what I leave public but maybe I should not care. I am so tired of doing nothing because I am stuck in the middle between feeling I am “at times… weird” while knowing I am not this most of the time. Mixed with a feeling I need to be as tame and normal and plain as possible or I will scare folks away. Recently in life I went through autistic testing and registered high functioning so this has oddly echoed a similar journey of fear and acceptance and comfort with myself and who I am.

Mixed with fear of others misunderstanding. Judging or filtering what they know about autism through me which is wrong and highly incorrect. Just how everyone deals with death of a parent different and their own life makes them different, so too is my unique autistic experience and even my unique fandom experience.

At the end of the day this also is how I struggle in life. I am caught between feeling I do not matter at all. Feeling if I try to matter no one will care, and if I fight to matter at least a bit, people will attack and destroy me for daring to try and matter. Self esteem is just part of it. And it is not as simple as everyone has a right to be, or everyone matters in their own way. Sometimes its not so personal and just there are so many people on earth and we cant matter to everyone.

So it matters who chooses us. Who sits by and reads stories or chooses to value us and share their life or time even as strangers. Even a story comment matters. So its not about ego or self importance at all. I see that as a trap many artists risk falling into. But even storytellers can or pop’u’furs. But its never been about that for me. I just want friends but not quite close friends I can trust and confide. I have a few of those. I mean I want friendly faces. And that is very hard on the Internet. If anything I've watched the world since my childhood get darker, more mean and cruel and isolated and divided.

If anything this makes me realize the true value of a story is more important than ever right now. Because it never was about me. Yes my voice matters but you can find that in my stories even without ever knowing who I actuality am or not. I don't need to share me or myself or my life story. I can just bottle some passion and toss it into the ocean, in from of a story. Someone may find and enjoy it and that is all that ever mattered.

These days so many relatives are at risk and even before this age where machines can create too; it was still a vast ocean of content and a food chain fighting for food in the way of attention. I never liked that about the fandom but its just human nature not the fandom. But my desire or idea never can be so I like to just get around that in stories. Do everything from writing simple worlds of peace that cant exist in reality or even express complex dystopian scenario or pain or villains or weird ideas too. I am almost an old man now, and I hope this is wisdom not the ramblings of a passionate flame that cant light the desert even a little. And this kind of is exactly the phrase that inspired a story today which then inspired this journal.

I wonder if I can write a story now (after this journal is posted) and inspire a few of you too. Even if it is showed in my iconic mystery I employ in my main novel. It is bitter sweet but fun to explore. And so I think… sure I will take a moment and write soothing for you … maybe the first of many things for you.

As I have nothing to prove and don't want to break flow with bogging down too many writing needs. These stories will be raw, flawed and will have some errors that may make professional writers cringe. But it is not for them it is for anyone else who stops to smell the roses. I could go on, I could say more, I could share more but I think this message speaks miles and helps wrap up at least some of what I came here to say today.

It makes me think of something my dad once said to me and it is odd it came up now. One of those tiny grains in sand I acquired in life. When I stopped trying to write my life story or have my life matter so much to others, is when I was able to stop, breath, remember, and be inspired by things I had almost forgotten.

As a young child I had a reading disorder and struggled and therefor did not like reading anything long and without pictures. Autistic children often struggle, specially in the 1990’s when not diagnosed until I was in my early 40’s. So one day my dad turned to me and well… I cant remember exactly what sparked the topic. But I must have asked him if he read, or saw that he read books? I cant even remember seeing him read but maybe I did and it just got deleted from my permanent memory?

But my father once told me, while I was a child; that his favorite book was called “the dream machine”. I never did look that up, or find out what book it was or what it was about. It sounded like something sort of sci-fi fantasy just but the title alone. And then that stuck with me. How could I remember a title more than anything else? Was it just because my father rarely shared insights like that and I learned something about him and sort of bench-marked that small unimportant info forever in my brain archives? I just remembered this recently. But whenever I did recall it, I liked the titled. It really felt like my autistic brain. A dream machine.

You see my brain is a bit like that blank room in the matrix or a holodeck grid. It is only as good as what is loaded into it but it is capable of anything if I put my mind to it. But it can only process so much at once. While that can be true of any human, an autistic brain is just wired different. But without the long elaborated musing, the point is “I liked the tile”. You see I very much was a real life Calvin and Hobbes situation growing up. Sure many can claim the same.

Its just that Bill Watterson captured essential childhood in a timeless and reliable way. We all see ourselves in his work so its only natural when I was still a young kid I related because I saw my own life prior and going forward. I think I lost something about Calvin I admired. His shameless ability to be himself, however weird. He never cared much about what others thought about him even if he was super weird and day dreamy all the time. I not just saw myself in that, I was that at times.

And so I'm now in my early 40’s life is passing me by and well I may never get my novel out and as its a series… may never happen. Its like my own Calvin and Hobbes people would love some day is trapped in my my brain. And many attempts to complete the dam thing. But in the mean time so many side ideas and inspirations also trapped inside. I'm so afraid to be myself an share my weirdness and do so baldy. So worried about being judged and isolated by furries because my experiences with furs in person off-line were jarring in the past so it made me a hermit of caution. But then that just makes me also afraid to be myself and that is sad.

I have a very bitter sweet past and I think what I may do is write some fiction to cure myself. Direct and indirectly. But do so in a way to entertain. To heck with reality when I can just create a better world with words. Create a life I always wanted to live with folks even in a mundane sense, but the fun is… I can do the things I always wanted to do. Be anthro people. Spirit people away. Or get spirited away myself. Have anthros be real or gods or monsters.

I think some recent storytelling ventures have both inspired me but found some odd therapy. When given choices to just interact with characters of fiction any way I wanted. It was odd how much my natural unplanned flow of imagination and story direction lead back to personal pains or desires or simple thoughts. And I realized such stories could appeal to others similar desires. So its not about my life or story or every truth to others either. Its about a shared experience. Something both of us can connect to, even anonymously so.

Frankly the four reasons why I hesitated were simple.

1) the authors trap of needing to matter as a person and thus want people to know me, when writing is isolating by nature, takes time, and rarely do you get to know who reads or likes your work

2) furry writing has many curve balls, has so much content that floods the ocean with strange fish of every tallest, size, worth, content, or flavor. So I was hesitant to work my ass of or share precious ideas to just have them sink to the bottom and never swim.

3) I realize if I simply encourage people to “exchange with me” if I write and share, ask those who like to please let me know they liked. Its like a purchase, a currency exchange. I create you appreciate if you do at all just let me know. That alone encourages me to keep creating. It is a simpler contract and I was to shy to ask.

4) the very idea my more weird ideas if expressed would chase away people or lead to any sort of judgment of who I actually am which clearly would be very different. And eventually I had to get the heck over that mind frickery. Plenty of FA artists write fetishes porn dark stuff or odd situations. (within community posting rules clearly) but I’m so timid to write or draw such things that I just need to be more like Calvin and be weird with pride. No more closeted furry creativity. It has kept my ideas and stories unwritten for years and that must change NOW. No more pacifying my ideas either out or fear.

So … this is really I think what I had to say today. And I think I did a good job of emoting and expressing and articulating it well enough.

So next I think I will share a fun one I just wrote up and will refine into a better story format.

Thanks for taking a moment to read and get on board the community thought train. I may even try to illustrate some things from these stories if I feel the need.

It is time to become the dream machine…