Sheep Choir (short story) by Leanne Dyck

What if the animals in your life could talk? What would they say about you? Those questions inspired this story...

photo by ldyck

Sheep Choir

Hello there. Why are you h--? Oh, I know. You've come to buy yarn. Haven't you? Happy knitters sing the praises of our wool. Soft, they sing. Warm, they sing. Buy a skein or two. You'll be singing its praises too. We grow it ourselves, don't you know. 

Go to the house and talk with Joyce. She'll be happy to help you. She's such a lovely woman, is our Joyce. She keeps us very happy here on the farm. We sleep in sweet, smelly straw. We have a few nibbles of grass. Have you ever tried grass? It's very good for settling the stomach. We like to roll in the clover.  And Joyce doesn't mind one bit, but she does steer us away from anything stinky. She treats us very well indeed, does our Joyce. She's the salt of the earth. To entertain her, we girls have started a choir. It's very casual. All sheep can join, and lambs are more than welcome. Their voices are so sweet and innocent. Our neighbours often hear us practicing out in the field. Hit it, girls...

Baa, baa, black sheep,

Have you any wool...

photo by ldyck

April on this blog...

This month I indulge my--and hopefully your--love of fiction.

April 20

Seashells (short story)

...about an "unexpected" gift

April 27

Finding Her (short story)

When you're lost, sometimes all you need is someone to follow.

Photo by Byron

Without a reader,

A writer's words mean

Nothing

April is Poetry Month

photo by ldyck

poet tea

Community Poetry Reading

Tuesday, April 15

at the Agricultural Society Hall

on Mayne Island

from 3 to 4:30 pm

Sam the Cat (children's story) by Leanne Dyck

One magical night, driven by a desire to be exactly like his human, Sam the cat becomes 

Sam the boy.

"Sam"

photo by ldyck

A Cat Called Sam

All day long, Sam waited and waited and waited for his best friend Amy Sue to come home from school. When she did come home, the fun began. She’d pull a piece of yarn across the floor, and Sam would play chase the mouse. She’d dangle the yarn in the air, and Sam would play catch the bird.

At night, Sam curled up at the foot of Amy Sue’s bed. He’d sing to her in purrs until she was fast asleep. When she was sleeping, Sam snuck out the cat door. He ran past the barking dog. He jumped over the little stream. He ran under the tree where the owl hooted. He ran into the deep, dark forest.

One night, one rare night, one special night, one spectacular night, when the full moon shone through a gap in the trees, Sam ran to the spot where the moonbeam lit a circle on the forest floor. Sam did a strange thing, a weird thing, an odd thing. He walked around the circle three times, and as he walked he cried, “Meow, mrrrw, meow, mrrrw, meow, mrrrw.”

He cast a spell. His tail was gone. He walked on two legs, not four.

Sam jumped into the moonbeam circle and began to dance. He wiggled his bum, waved his arms, and sang, “Amy/Oh, Amy Sue/Amy/Oh, Amy Sue/I’m a human too, Amy Sue.”

He cackled, snorted, and howled with laughter until he was breathless. Sam flopped down on the grass and looked up. He saw a tall tree. Its leaves shimmered in the moonlight. “I like climbing trees,” he said, “I’m going to climb that one.”

He stretched and stretched and stretched. He jumped higher and higher and higher. But he still couldn’t reach the branches.

“That’s okay,” he said, “I don’t need branches. I’ll use my claws...um...er...nails.”

He wrapped his arms around the tree, but his nails wouldn’t sink into the bark.

Woof. Woof. Woof. A dog bounced up to Sam.

“No. No, don’t hurt me,” Sam said and started to run. He ran faster and faster, but the dog was right behind him.

Sam stopped running, turned around and faced the dog. “I can’t outrun you, not on two legs. I can’t climb a tree with nails instead of claws. I’ll have to fight you.”

The dog raced up to him.

Sam closed his eyes. He felt something wet on his hand. His eyes blinked open, and he saw the dog licking him. “Yuck!”

The dog walked away.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. A grey ball of fur scampered past.

“Oh, a yummy mouse.” Sam licked his lips. “I’m going to eat you.”

He raced after the mouse. Thud! He slammed into a tree. “Ouch!” Sam rubbed his head. “I can’t see anything in the dark with these boys’ eyes. I hate being a boy. I want to be a cat.”

Fizzle, snap, poof! His fingers were paws. He walked on all fours. The spell was broken. He was back to being Sam the cat. He put his tail in the air and wiggled it.

Sam ran under the tree where the owl hooted. He jumped over the little stream. He ran past the barking dog. He snuck through the cat door. He walked into Amy Sue’s bedroom and called, “Mewoo.” He called again, louder this time. “Mewoo!”

Finally, Amy Sue woke up. “Come on up, Sam.”

Sam jumped onto the bed. Safe and warm and once again with his best friend, he curled up into a tight ball and purred until he fell asleep.

"Joey" 

photo by ldyck

When my husband and I moved to Mayne Island, we were animal-less. What a sorry state. Thankfully, our kind landlady found us two cats--Joey and Sam. They had been raised as siblings and so were approximately the same age,  but that's where the similarities ended. 

Joey was a skilled hunter. She brought us a hummingbird and ceremoniously devoured it on our bed. She was a beauty, but didn't share her beauty with visitors; she preferred to hide. Sam enjoyed making friends. But his gregariousness landed him in trouble when he chose to attempt to befriend a raccoon. Unlike his sister, he had no desire to hunt. Joey brought him half-dead mice. He batted the poor creature a little but quickly lost interest. I prefer to think that he had no heart to kill. Or perhaps he simply preferred tinned food. 

"Ticky"

photo by ldyck

When we purchased our home on Mayne Island, Ticky joined our family. He was a solidly built tomcat who loved nothing more than to fight with a neighboring tom. The two of them would square off, fur flying everywhere, and Ticky would return home glowing with pride, albeit battered and bruised. I wrote "Cats Have Servants" about my three cats.

Cats Have Servants

photo by ldyck

April on this blog...

This month I indulge my--and hopefully your--love of fiction.

April 13

Sheep Choir (short story)

As a fledgling knitwear designer, I was blessed to have the support of kind people. This is a tribute to one of them.

April 20

Seashells (short story)

...about an "unexpected" gift

April 27

Finding Her (short story)

When you're lost, sometimes all you need is someone to follow.

Photo by Byron

Without a reader,

A writer's words mean

Nothing

In the mail...

April Fool-ishness: a collection (humour) by Leanne Dyck

a collection of short stories and poems to make you laugh, giggle, chuckle, or grin. Silliness to lighten your day.

photo by ldyck

Authors in a Pub: was inspired by a Monty Python sketch

Island Artist: A humourous look at island life

In Icelandic: inspired by something my Icelandic-Canadian grandma saw on a bus

Still Life with Cats

The Lure of Yarn

Catch It

The Island Storyteller on Stage: celebrates my love of reading my writing to an audience

Irene's Reading: How NOT to act during writing group.

What's Wrong with Michelle?

Offered without apology to the pun lovers among us...

What's in a Name?

Sue was sick and tired of 

being used and abused.

She was going to sue.

Ever since Ted was a

little boy

he'd always slept

with a teddy.

Frank had just one 

character flaw.

He was much too

frank.

Will was very determined.

He was motivated by 

sheer will-power.

Pam didn't use butter

when she baked.

She used Pam.

Russel went for a walk in the woods,

But he stopped walking immediately

When he heard a rustle.

Graham was offered saltine crackers

But he chose Graham wafers.

Bob didn't know how to swim

So he bobbed in the water.

Leanne was never alone

Wherever Lee went

Anne was there as well.

What have I missed? Please, play with me...

Oh, yeah, and...

The List

I found the list

and checked it twice.

He'd judged me naughty

and not very nice.

So I burnt the list.

One last thought...

Holding his wife's hand in the delivery room, George Harrison sings, "Here comes our son, little darling. Here comes our son. And I say, he's okay. Son. Son. Here he comes."

Photo by Byron

Without a reader,

A writer's words mean

Nothing

photo by ldyck

April on this blog...

This month I indulge my--and hopefully your--love of fiction.

April 6

A Cat Called Sam (children's story)

One magical night, driven by a desire to be precisely like his human, Sam the cat becomes Sam the boy.

April 13

Sheep Choir (short story)

As a fledgling knitwear designer, I was blessed to have the support of kind people. This is a tribute to one of them.

April 20

Seashells (short story)

...about an "unexpected" gift

April 27

Finding Her (short story)

When you're lost, sometimes all you need is someone to follow.

My author journey...

Every sentence ends with a period.

Hamster (short memoir) by Leanne Dyck

I've always loved animals and they've all...most...many...some have loved me. This is a story about the other ones.

photo by ldyck

Hamster

Was it our second date? Or our third? We were heading for the movie theatre in the mall, but we were early. So we roamed from shop to shop. I spotted a pet shop and made a B-line straight for it. "I love animals." A glass box stood by the door. I looked inside at the chubby, fur-ball hamsters. "Oh, they're so cute."

"Be careful." Byron warrened.

"Don't worry. Animals love me."

"Don't touch them," Byron said firmly.

So I waited until his back was turned to shower love on the adorable creatures.

One of them stood up on his hind legs. Clearly, he was enjoying my attention. I gently stroked him and he... And he bit me. He. Bit. Me. "Ouch." I quickly pulled my hand away. My finger stung so I shook it--like that would help.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," I told Byron. "I'm fine." I lead him away from the shop. My finger began to throb. Blobs of crimson blood trickled down my palm. I didn't have a band-aide or even a tissue so I thrust my hand into the pocket of my white blazer.

Byron stared at me. "What's that?" He looked down at my pocket.

"What?" I'm not sure why I thought acting dumb would help.

"All that red--. Is that blood? Did one of those hamsters bite you?"

"No. No! Okay, yes."

"Well, now I must take you to a walk-in clinic."

"What? Why?"

"Because you could have rabies."

"Ra-bies?" I gulped.

"Yes, rabies. I told you not to touch them. When was the last time you had a tenuous shot?"

A needle. I can't... "I don't know." I feel lightheaded. Is that how you feel when you have rabies?

"And we're going to miss the movie. Why couldn't you just leave them alone?"

My vision was fuzzy and it was a little hard to walk. "I'm fine. I'm fine. We don't have to--."

"Yes, we do. Look at your pocket. You're still bleeding."

Byron silently led me back to his car. 

I eased into the bucket seat, but I didn't feel comfortable. "I won't really have to have a--."

"Yes, you will. And the needle is as long as my arm and as thick as my finger. Maybe next time you'll listen to me."

It didn't take him long to find a walk-in clinic. I followed him into the building. He spoke to the receptionist while I found a seat. I tried not to think about a sword-like needle embedded in my arm.

"Leanne Willetts," The receptionist called. "Doctor McDonald will see you now."

"Leanne. Leanne Willetts."

Finally, I woke from my nightmare to face a cold hard reality. As bravely as I could, I walked into Doctor McDonald's office. 

The white-haired Scottish gentleman greeted me with a wide smile. I think he noticed that I wasn't doing well because his expression quickly changed to one of concern. "Here, lass. Sit here." He offered me a padded chair. "What happened, lass?" His soothing voice helped to calm my nerves--a little.

I bite my lip and help out of my finger. "A hamster bit me and my boyfriend told me I need a tenuous shot."

"A hamster, you say?"

"Yes, he was so cute. I saw him at the pet shop."

"Pet shop, ah? Well, I don't think a needle will be necessary, dear." That sentence quickly transformed him from a simple doctor into my hero. He wrapped my finger and gently ushered me out the door.

Byron and I returned to the mall and didn't miss the movie; in fact, we arrived early. 

"Oh, look, the pet shop."

"What? Haven't you--."

written on Wednesday, January 29, 2025.

Photo by Byron

Without a reader,

a writer's words mean

Nothing

On this blog in March...

Sunday, March 30

April Fool(ishness) collection

a collection of silly writing to make you chuckle.

Sharing my author journey...

Sam (short memoir) by Leanne Dyck

Do you remember your first pet? Was it a bunny, a goldfish, a hamster, a cat, or maybe a dog? This is a tribute to my first pet.

Sam and Me

Sam

When I was approximately two years old, my parents gave me an adorable German Shepherd puppy. I named her Samantha—Sam for short—after the lead character in one of my favourite TV shows, Bewitched.

Like Terriers, German Shepherds require a gentle but firm hand. When I was two, all I could offer my puppy was love. That was perfectly fine with Sam. She was born to be an alpha, and we quickly formed a strong bond. We were inseparable until bedtime. Sam had no desire to go inside, which was fine with me—I thought I could fit into her doghouse. My parents worked overtime to convince me this wasn't a feasible plan.

At an early age, Sam took a solemn oath to defend me against all dangers. 

What dangers did I face at two? Well...

It may be hard to believe, but I wasn't always a well-behaved angel. For example, I hated having my hair washed. My mom was willing to try anything to make this task easier. She decided to wash my hair outside. I refused to cooperate and sought a hasty retreat. Mom grabbed me. Sam grabbed Mom. She wrapped her jaw around Mom's wrist. She didn't bare down. No skin was punctured. No bloodshed. Still, the jaw around her wrist was enough for Mom. From then on all hair washing was done inside.

Sam's dedication to my safety continued. She bit the paperboy because he dared hand me the newspaper. She bit--. Well, she bit too many people. It was clear to my parents that something had to be done. 

Dad explained that someone was stealing a farmer's diesel, and said, "I told him about Sam, and he wants her."

But--! But--! Wow, but! "Sam is my dog!"

"Leanne, it's either this or we'll have to put Sam down. She's bit too many people."

Life on a farm or death? What a choice. I chose the farm. Saying goodbye to Sam was like having my heart torn out of my chest. 

When Sam was settled on the farm, the farmer invited us to visit. I was worried. Would Sam remember me? As we reached the farm, I saw a happy dog running free. When she recognized our tan Pontiac, she raced over to greet us. I climbed out of the car, and Sam nearly knocked me over with excitement. We were all so happy to see each other again. She ran back and forth between the farmer and me, unsure of where her heart truly belonged.

"Have you had any more trouble with your diesel?" My dad asked the farmer.

The farmer laughed. "Are you kidding me? They won't dare. Not with Sam on the job." He gave her an affectionate pat.

Too soon, our visit was over, and we climbed into the car—"we" included Sam. She may have believed the farmer was genuinely a nice guy, but deep down, she knew it was time to head home. After some convincing, Sam finally agreed to stay with the farmer, and we decided we wouldn’t revisit her. Our presence was too confusing. 

Sam had a lasting effect on my life. She transformed me into a special kind of person--a dog person. 

written on Wednesday, January 29, 2025.

Photo by Byron

Without a reader,

a writer's words mean

Nothing

Dogs that I was blessed to share my life with...

 Kelly--a mostly golden lab--and me

Trixie--a mostly Beagle

Nugent--a blue heeler, terrier cross

Bim--a malti-poo (Maltese/Minature Poodle cross)

Foster puppies--Shakespeare and Snorri--a mix of small dog breeds

Abby

The animal rescue told us she was a chihuahua mix.

Abby tells us she's a terrier. 

Who's right?

One thing is certain she's a wonderful dog and we love her.

  My dogs didn’t care if I stumbled over my words. They didn’t whisper to other dogs about how strange I was, nor did they laugh at me behind my back. All they offered was love—unconditional love. Through their eyes, I saw myself differently, and my self-esteem received a much-needed boost.

On this blog in March...

Sunday, March 23

Hamster (short memoir)

I've always loved animals and they've all...most...many...some have loved me. This is a story about the other ones.

Sunday, March 30

April Fool(ishness) collection

a collection of silly writing to make you chuckle.

What am I listening to?

Canada Reads 2025

Sharing my author journey...

Well, how did my week go?

Walks with my Friend (children's story) by Leanne Dyck

Walks with my Friend follows two dogs, fearful Abby and confident Reba, as they take their daily walks. Abby explains how Reba helped her become more confident. Walks with My Friend was inspired by the friendship between my dog and a dog from the neighbourhood.

photo by ldyck

 Walks with my Friend

I like going for walks with my friend Reba. I wait patiently while Reba’s leash is clipped on, give her a quick kiss and then off we go.

Walking beside my friend makes me feel big, makes me feel important, makes me feel loved.

Woof. Woof. Woof.

Who’s— Who’s that?

A brown dog charges at us. “Hey, who’s the new kid? What’s her name?”

He’s so big. I put my tail between my legs. Will he bite me? I hide in the tall grass.

Reba’s head is high. “Hi, Buster.” Reba’s tail is fanned out. “This is my friend Abby and we’re going for a walk.” She stands between Buster and me.

I climb out of the grass, fan out my tail and walk beside my friend.

Bang. Crash. Bang. Bang.

What’s—. What’s that?

A large truck barrels down the road right—right at me. I freeze. I can’t move a paw. I can barely breathe.

Reba nudges me to the side of the road. She stands there with her tail fanned out and her head held high. She stands beside me until the truck drives by.

Every day I tell my human, “Now. Now. We need to go now. We need to take Reba for a walk.”

Now when we meet Buster I keep my tail fanned out. I meet his eyes and say, “Hi, Buster. How are you today?”

And when we meet a crash-bang truck I’ve learned to hop to the side of the road and give it room to drive away.

But—. But… One day, Reba tells me. “I have some bad news. I’m moving away.”

We howl together for a while because we’re sad. Then Reba gives me a kiss and says, “I’m so proud of you. You’re a good dog. You’re a brave dog. You’re a good friend.”

“I am?”

Reba looks me in the eyes. “You’re a good dog. You’re a brave dog. You’re a good friend.”

Her words go into my ears and reach my heart. “I am a good dog. I am a brave dog. I am a good friend.”

Now I go for walks without Reba but I’ll never forget the lessons she taught me. I keep my tail fanned out. I keep my head held high. I am a good dog. I am a brave dog. I am a good friend to Buster.

Photo by Byron

Without a reader,

a writer's words mean

Nothing

On this blog in March...

Sunday, March 16

Sam (short memoir)

Do you remember your first pet? Was it a bunny, a goldfish, a hamster, a cat, or maybe a dog? This is a tribute to my first pet.

Sunday, March 23

Hamster (short memoir)

I've always loved animals and they've all...most...many...some have loved me. This is a story about the other ones.

Sunday, March 30

April Fool(ishness) collection

a collection of silly writing to make you chuckle.

Sharing my author journey...

My Writing Beliefs by Leanne Dyck

In response to Mary Ann de Stefano's question--What beliefs do you hold about writing?--I write...

photo by ldyck

-Keep writing fun

-Always be ending

-Know what's next

-Do something every day to support your business

-Treat writing as a business

-Use your assets

-Try something new--experiment with your writing

-Give yourself permission to write garbage

-Keep everything you write (or as much as you can)

-You can't edit a blank page

-Be kind--just not to your characters

-Do something to support the publishing industry

-View other authors as colleagues

-Write to your target reader

-We need many authors, and many books because not all books will speak to all readers

-Marketing is enjoyable and essential. A reader is looking for your writing so you are helping them by telling them about it.

-Develop a thick skin when it comes to your work.

-Working with an editor is like going to a spa. Some of what happens will hurt but the results will be worth the pain.

-Listen to your allies with an open mind.

-Reading your writing is only one way others can support you as an author. Appreciate their help in whatever form it takes.

-An author's journey is a marathon, not a sprint.

-Learn to be okay with being alone.

-Respect yourself.

-Write what you love to read.

-Be concerned about, be aware of, and nurture your mental health.

-Be grateful.

-Always be learning.

-Value your mistakes--it's how you learn.

-Chase your characters up a tree to the edge of a branch, allow them to see help cresting the hill and then throw rocks at them.

-Don't compare your career to another author's. Every journey is different.

-Live with a sense that everything will be okay: keep a positive mindset.

-Your talent is a gift--nurture it.

-Practice, practice, practice before you give an author reading.

-An author reading isn't about you--it is a gift for your audience.

-Read authors who write better than you do--it's one of the best ways to learn.

-When a reader reads your writing you are entering a contract with them. You promise to entertain. The reader promises to keep reading.

-Earn your success

-No one owes you anything.

-Find a way to motivate yourself to write regularly--keep a blog or...

-Start each day by writing morning pages. 

-Read books and magazines about the craft of writing.

-Start each day by constructing a list of tasks you wish to get done.

-Fall in love with the struggle.

-Treat obstacles as opportunities.

-If you need help, ask.

-A reader is paying you an enormous compliment by reading your work--be thankful.

-Not everyone will appreciate everything you write. Not everyone will want to read every part of your work. Accept that.

-Be thankful for those in your life who aren't interested in your writing. You are more than just a writer.

-Your writing may take you to dark places. It's up to you if you go there. 

-Inspiration can come from anywhere. Live your life to find the magic.

-Budget your time and be mindful of where you spend it.

-Read today's best-sellers and award winners so your writing will remain current.

-Don't focus on writing what's trending, it won't be relevant by the time you're finished.

-Write the story that is yours to write.

-Like Steven King said: Write the first draft with the door closed and the next drafts with the door open.

-Find what motivates you and use it.

-Dream

-Celebrate small things.

-Edit while you write as well as after.

-Be prepared to give your stories as much time as they need to be written.

-No writing is a waste.

-Whatever you focus on grows.

-Only concern yourself with what you can control. (Instead of worrying about when or if you will be published, keep writing)

-You are the only one who can end your author journey.

-No one will work as hard as you on your career--nor should they.

-Believe in the power of your words.

-Your method of writing is as valid as any other method.

-Go wide--don't put all your hopes on one story, publishing house, editor or...

-If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all—especially online and about your colleagues’ work.

-Listen to your writing colleagues. They will entertain, inform, inspire, and motivate you.

-When seeking writing advice, consider the source.

And...

This is an evolving list.

Photo by Byron

Without a reader,

a writer's words mean

Nothing

Last week, I had an off-island appointment, allowing me to visit one of my favorite bookstores. Would you like to come too?

photo by ldyck

photo by ldyck

Metis Like Me

by Tasha Hilderman and Risa Hugo

Published by Tundra Books

photo by ldyck

photo by ldyck

I Love Being Your Uncle

Markai Espe and Mari Macias

Library and Archives Canada

On this blog in March...

Grandma's Knitting Needles Sing (children's story) by Leanne Dyck

Grandma's Knitting Needles Sing celebrates the bond between grandparents and grandchildren, introduces the art of knitting, and explains how wool is produced.

photo by ldyck

Lise McLeod, a fibre enthusiast, promotes wool production on Mayne Island. She invites all crafters to participate in Mayne Island's fall fair this August.

Grandma's Knitting Needles Sing

Pearl watched Grandma's knitting needles dance with the yarn, weaving lines that bent and crossed over each other. The clicking sounded like music. “Old McDonald had a farm. E-I-E-I-O. And on his farm, he had a cow,” Pearl sang.

Grandma sang, “Moo. Moo. Moo.”

Pearl sang about pigs, chickens, horses, dogs, and cats and then she said, “Tell me a story, Grandma.”

So Grandma began, “Once upon a time a farmer had a farm.”

“E-I-E-I-O,” Pearl sang.

Grandma's needles went click, click, click. “But this farmer's name wasn't Old McDonald. Her name was Young Ms. Willetts. And on her farm, she had a flock of sheep.”

“Baa. Baa. Baa,” Pearl sang.

Grandma's needles went click, click, click.

“What did the sheep eat, Grandma?”

“Green grass.”

“And the green grass grew all around, all around. And the green grass grew all around,” Pearl sang.

Grandma's needles went click, click, click. “The green grass grew and the sheep ate the grass.”

Pearl closed her eyes and saw sheep that looked like fluffy, white clouds.

“But then the north wind blew,” Grandma said.

Pearl stretched her arms above her head and swayed back and forth. “Oh-h-h.”

“Yes, just like that,” Grandma said, “And all the leaves on the trees turned from green to red and yellow and gold.”

“Then all the leaves came tumbling down, tumbling down, tumbling down. All the leaves came tumbling down. High-ho-the-diary-oh,” Pearl sang.

Grandma's needles went click, click, click. “The trees stood bare and snow came to cover the ground.”

“What did the sheep eat then, poor things?” Pearl looked worried.

“Young Ms. Willetts fed them lots and lots of grain.”

“Were the sheep cold?”

“Oh, no. They had warm winter coats.”

Pearl closed her eyes and saw the sheep. Some of them wore purple parkas; others wore blue snowsuits. One even had a pink toque and four striped mittens. All of the sheep looked toasty warm.

“Winter didn't last long. Soon the birds started to sing and the sun smiled on the farm.”

“And the sheep got warmer and warmer,” Pearl said.

“Until they got too warm. Then Young Ms. Willetts phoned her friend the sheep sheerer. He came with big razors.”

“Like Daddy uses to shave?”

“Like your Daddy uses to shave. And the sheep sheerer shaved off all the sheep's winter coats. And after their coats were picked clean of grass, twigs and dirt, they were washed and made into...”

“Into? Into what?”

The knitting needles stopped clicking. “Into wool,” Grandma whispered.

“Into wool,” Pearl sang.

Grandma put her knitting on the coffee table. “I bought the wool.” She dug through her knitting basket, pushing aside needles, yarn, and other odds and ends. “I knit the wool.” Grandma smiled and hid something in her hand. “And I made something special...” Grandma slipped something into Pearl's hand. “For you.”

The something wasn't pink, blue or purple. It had two black eyes, one black nose and two floppy brown ears.

Pearl hugged Grandma, put the something on her finger and sang, “Baa. Baa. Baa.”

Photo by Byron

Without a reader,

a writer's words mean

Nothing

On this blog in March...

Two Paths (short story) by Leanne Dyck

Inspiration for this story came from two sources--a quote by Ella Winter "Don't you know you can't go home again?" and Robert Frost's poem The Road Not Taken

photo by ldyck

Two Paths

When we started our journey, we were more or less together. You--a little ways ahead. Me--a little ways behind. But together. Seeing the same trees. Smelling the same flowers. Feeling the same breeze.

The path forked. You continued on the same path. but I thought--. I thought maybe I could try this new path. This path took me over hills and past mountains. I saw the ocean and explored sandy beaches. It was very different in this new place, yet it felt like home. I felt more myself there than anywhere I'd ever lived. I grew. I changed. But I didn't forget the old path. Though I saw arbutus trees; I remembered birch and maple. Though I tasted blackberries; I remembered the smell of lilac bushes. I can always go back is what I thought.

One day I retraced the steps I'd taken so long ago. With each step I took I told myself that it would be nice to see maple trees, smell lilacs and see you again. I thought you, everything would have waited for me unchanged like in a time capsule.

But... A thick weaving of weeds obscured the path. I tripped over the vines. The thorns scrapped my hands and I bleed. Though I tried very hard I couldn't get through. I'd waited too long to go home. And this realization hurt.

Now when I think of you I know I'm flipping back pages. I know I'm remembering what was then but isn't now. 

But what I've come to realize is that these changes don't diminish the happy times we once shared. Once upon a time... is a magical place.

photo by ldyck

Photo by Byron

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February on this blog

Sunday, February 23

Grandma's Knitting Needles Sing (children's story)

This children's story celebrates the bond between grandparents and grandchildren, introduces the art of knitting, and explains how wool is produced.

Please excuse me for getting political...