Bible Passages (short story: horror) by Leanne Dyck

A scary story for adults--not suitable for children.

This story is sweet and innocent until bam. Watch out for the bam.

photo by ldyck

 Bible Passages

The young minister places his Bible on the pulpit and reads, “From the Song of Solomon, chapter 4, verses 10 and 11. How beautiful your love, dear, dear friend—far more pleasing than a fine, rare wine, your fragrance more exotic than select spices. The kisses of your lips are honey, my love, every syllable you speak a delicacy to savour.” His voice fills the church, filling the ears of each member of his congregation.

All she hears is him. She lingers on each word—especially ‘dear’, especially ‘kisses’. She returns, over and over again, to ‘love’.

That Sunday she makes sure she’s the last person standing in line to shake his hand. Dressed in peach, she feels pretty, and the way he looks at her, she knows she is.

He cups her hand in both of his. You look beautiful, he tells her with his eyes. He pulls her close. “Visit me. Bring your Bible,” he purrs. The corners of his mouth shape a grin. He releases her and walks away.

She waits until supper to tell her parents, “I’m going to Bible study.”

They are pleased. Bible means something to them; something else to her.

The road is long but every step of the way she thinks of him—how he looked at the front of the church; how he spoke with such authority; how his lips shaped each word. Each word. Each word full of passion...longing...devotion…

She turns the corner and there’s the manse. Finally, they will be alone together. Her heart races. What will he say, do? And if he...or...and…? What should she do? Obey? Retreat?

What if he pleads? What if he purrs in her ear?

His voice… Oh, how she longs to hear his voice. His eyes… His l…

She feels her face burn. She doesn’t take another step. All she does is breathe. In. Out. She looks up at the endless sky. She studies the outline of a cloud—watches it transform. She wills herself forward. One foot. Another. A foot on his sidewalk. Another on his stairs. Her knuckles against his door.

Alone. Together. Finally.

“Come in.” That doesn’t sound like him. That’s...a...woman’s voice.

She has a choice to make. Leave or… She pushes the door open and—.

The kitchen is full of women—young, old, slender, overweight. They sit in a circle around the kitchen table with Bibles open in front of them. They stand in front of the fridge taking food out, putting food in. They raise one head, look at her with one set of steel eyes, share one thought, one judgment, one complaint. They aim it at her like a slap to her face. Another woman. Another one. The slap stings and leaves a red bruise.

Looking more closely, she notices that some women are missing body parts—an earlobe, the tip of a finger, a hand, a leg. Of course, they’ve come to him for healing.

“Ah, Ruth, you came,” he says, walking into the kitchen.

What is that red stuff dripping down his chin?

The women move as one—close the fridge, close their Bibles. They gather around him in a tight circle. “You look tired,” they tell him. “You need to eat,” they say.

“I made...” an endless list of baking—cookies and cakes and pies and—. “You need something more, something better.”

“My ear would be delicious.”

“My leg.”

One of the women grabs his hand, pulls him close. “My heart. Cut out my heart.”

He searches a drawer and finds a knife and hand-in-hand he leads her down the hall. Somewhere at the end of the hall, a door closes. Still, a little while later, a voice breaks through the door and pours into the kitchen. “Chew, chew, chew.”

The women pick up the chant. “Chew, chew, chew.”

Ruth must leave now while she’s still strong enough to resist him. At the door, she turns around and faces them. “You don’t have to let him do this to you. Come with m—.”

The women answer with one voice. “Let him? It’s an honour.”

Powerless to save anyone but herself, Ruth leaves the house, walks into the setting sun and lets the increasing darkness consume her.

Her heart finds a new prayer. She speaks to Him who will never fail her, "Please, God... Please guide me home. Amen."

On this blog in November...

Sunday, November 3

Petal's Monster

A children's story about Petal confronting her monster.

Sunday, November 10

An Age

A short memoir for adults about the birthday I celebrated too many candles on my cake.

Sunday, November 17

Not Forgotten

A tribute for adults about a Mayne Island friend.

Sunday, November 24

Carrots

A children's story about Mariam Horse and her bountiful garden.

Sharing My Author Journey...

Whispering Stories (children's story) by Leanne Dyck

 Whispering Stories is a short memoir about my experiences as an elementary school pupil with dyslexia.

Reading with a friend

Whispering Stories

Once upon a time, I liked splashing in mud puddles and sleeping in soft grass, running fast and climbing high, rainbow ice cream and peanut butter cookies, and, and… but I loved stories. My mom read me stories every day. My dad read me stories every night. And still, I wanted more. When there was no one there to read, stories whispered to me. Stories whispered when I slept. Stories whispered when I played. Stories whispered when I ate. I told these stories to my puppy, my mom, my dad, and to all my friends.

But when I tried to tell these stories at school the teacher said, “Leanne, it’s not time to talk. It’s time to read.”

My friend Faith read loudly. My friend Ben read quietly. I couldn’t read at all. Letters danced across my page. They twisted, turned and jumped.

“We’re waiting,” the teacher said.

I narrowed my eyes and glared at the letters, but I still couldn’t read. “Once upon a time, a bunny—.”

“Read the words in the book.” The teacher frowned.

The buzzer buzzed. I ran outside to tell my stories, but my friends said, “You can’t read. We don’t want your baby stories.”

The stories kept whispering.

“I can’t read,” I told my teacher, my mom, my dad. “I can’t read,” I told everyone.

“Yes, you can,” a special teacher said, “I’ll teach you.”

We worked hard day after day after day. She showed me how to make the letters stop moving. She showed me how to catch them.

“Tell me a story.” My special teacher had a warm voice and a friendly face.

“I’m trying,” I said.

“No, not the one in the book. I want to hear one of your stories.”

I told her the one about the little boy who climbed the big mountain.

“I really like that story. You should write it down on a piece of paper so you don’t forget it.” She showed me how.

It wasn’t easy but I began to read book after book after book. The more I read. The more I wrote.

Stories whispered and I wrote. I wrote in the morning and in the afternoon. I flicked on the light and wrote late, late at night. I wrote and wrote and wrote until I wrote this story for you.

The End

...of this story, but there are always more.

The Little Boy Who Climbed the Big Mountain

Once upon a time, a little boy lived beside a big mountain. “I’m going to climb that mountain,” he told everyone.

“Are you sure? That mountain is so big and you’re so little,” they said.

“I’m going to climb that mountain all the way to the top,” he said.

Sometimes, he stumbled, sometimes he fell back, sometimes he got really tired, but he just kept climbing. “I’m not going to stop until I get to the top,” he repeated, over and over again.

And he didn’t stop and he kept climbing and he made it all the way to the tip-top of the great, big mountain.

There are many ways to tell a story.

You can act a story like an actor.

You can draw or paint a story like a painter.

You can write a story like a writer.

How can you tell your story?

On this blog next Sunday...

Bible Passages (horror)

A scary story for adults to celebrate Halloween.

Thank you, Pam, for this entertaining, informative, and multifaceted book launch —readings and video—and for signing my copy of your new book. I wish you much success with Cave-In, published by Yellow Dog.

Happening on Mayne Island in November...

Dyslexia and Me--an Evolution (short memoir) by Leanne Dyck

When I was a child I thought something was wrong with my brain. I'm dyslexic. Now I think... Well, now I think differently. Here's why...

photo by ldyck

 Then

It was the 1970s. It was my parents' responsibility to navigate three teenage boys through a changing world--drugs, sex, rock and roll. Fearful that they were losing some of the boys, my parents stopped at nothing to find them. The something they found--Mr. Sanders--came all the way from the city. He had long hair, and sideburns and wore round John Lennon glasses with his striped, tight-fitting jeans, yellow turtle neck and a silver chain.

It didn't take him long to pronounce the teenagers cool and then he turned his attention to me. "How old are you, little Miss?"

In a voice a little louder than a whisper, I told him, "Nine."

"How do you like grade three?"

I spoke to the floor, "I'm still in grade two."

I could see his mind whirling. I knew he was judging me. "You're...still...in--."

"Leanne," Mom told me, "go find your kitten."

My kitten was curled in a tight ball on my bed. She woke when the door closed behind me and we played with a piece of yarn. I could hear mumbling in the kitchen. I knew the adults were talking.

Mr. Sander's voice pounded on my bedroom door and demanded to be heard. "Dyslexia? You'll have to take care of her for the rest of your life."

Those words shoved everything else out of my brain and froze me in time. Mr. Sanders was smart. My parents had turned to him for advice. What he said must be true. Other children would live their lives, have adventures, make their parents proud. But because of my bad brain, I would be a prisoner--a disappointment, forever.

Now

April 16, 2023

As a child, I was educated to believe that the challenges I faced were due to my dyslexia—my disability. This assumption had the effect of silencing and diminishing me. And it made it hard for me to identify my talents and find a venue to share them.

I carry a lot of baggage (language—such as overcoming dyslexia) with me from that time.

But it is a brave new world. Thanks to Succeed with Dyslexia and Made by Dyslexia, I’m beginning to understand who I am as an adult with dyslexia. I’m beginning to understand that dyslexia is part of me. It makes me me. Dyslexia isn’t the problem. It’s the way my brain works. The problem lies in the space that was made for me, the support given to me, and the expectations demanded of me by the normative world.

I’ve come to believe that when we are allowed and encouraged to be our true selves, the world grows richer.

The world's attitude towards dyslexia is changing from a disability to an ability. As Kate Griggs, founder and CEO at Made by Dyslexia, wrote on March 31, 2022...

"Today is a Huge moment for dyslexics everywhere, and I couldn't be prouder to share the news [...]

From today, "Dyslexic Thinking" will be recognized as a vital skill by LinkedIn [...]

In another incredible step forward, Dyslexic Thinking will enter the dictionary as a valuable and vital skill set--as dictionary.com confirms it will add it as an official term [...]

Dyslexic Thinking matches with skills needed for the future as defined by the World Economic Forum." 

Kate Griggs, "Dyslexic Thinking is now officially recognized as a valuable skill", LinkedIn, March 31, 2022

Dictionary.com defines Dyslexic Thinking as...

"an approach to problem solving, assessing information, and learning, often used by people with dyslexia, that involves pattern recognition, spatial reasoning, lateral thinking, and interpersonal communication."

 

 October is Dyslexia Awareness Month

Why do we still need a Dyslexia Awareness Month -Scanning Pens 

 Dyslexia Canada

 Check out the "Wall of love for Dyslexia"

Go Red for Dyslexia

Succeed with Dyslexia

Dyslexic Thinking University

 

 Oh, yeah, and Mr. Sanders if you're out there..

 I graduated with honours from high school

I volunteered in three Canadian provinces for the government-run youth group Katimavik

I attended university and completed an 18-month certificate program in Early Childhood Education

I cared for children in daycare centres as an Early Childhood Educator for 14 years

I trained myself to be a knitwear designer and sold patterns to a global community of knitters

I am building an author career

So, I gues you were...ah...WRONG!

On this blog in October...

Sunday, October 20 

Whispering Stories (children's story)

Whispering Stories is a short memoir about my experiences as an elementary school pupil with dyslexia. 

Sunday, October 27

Bible Passages (short story, horror)

A scary story for adults.

Sharing my Author Journey...

Reviewing Year 14

Lean on a Gulf Islander (play) by Leanne Dyck Act VII

 Question: Does Aster adjust to island life?

The actors involved in the first staging of this play wanted a happy ending. And so, with their help, I added one. Thank you, Georgia, Deb, Mike, and especially to Mary.

photo by ldyck

Act VII

Stage direction: Two chairs on stage. Aster sitting in one of the chairs. Another woman with a suitcase standing beside her.

ASTER: Place your suitcase in the trunk of my car. I'll escort you to your destination. Please use caution to avoid nicking my vehicle.

(The woman puts the suitcase behind the chairs. Then sits down beside Aster)

ASTER: Do you often holiday on our fine island?

WOMAN (nods): And now I'm moving h--.

ASTER: Oh, that's such lovely news. You'll thrive in our supportive community. 

My name is Aster Walburn, but everyone calls me Ash. Ash. It's the perfect name. Do you know the legend of the Phoenix? Out of the ashes he flew. There's been a lot of ashes in my life--especially recently, but now it's my time to fly. Mayne Island has a way of changing people. You'll see.

Do you partake of the heavenly beverage espresso?

WOMAN (nods) I--.

ASTER: You are cordially invited to join me at our next social gathering of coffee connoisseurs. We meet every...

Thank you for reading

Lean on a Gulf Islander

Next Sunday...

Dyslexia and Me--an Evolution (short story)

This short story examines how attitudes towards dyslexic thinking have evolved over my lifetime.

October is Dyslexia Awareness Month.

Sharing my Author Journey...