The Island Storyteller on Stage (short story) by Leanne Dyck

This short story celebrates my love for reading my writing to an audience--and thanks all the people who have supported my author journey, people like you.

photo by ldyck

The Island Storyteller on Stage

This chair is supposed to be padded, but it sure doesn't feel like it. I wiggle around trying to get comfortable. Annie Frannie Beau Dannie is a popular singer on Mayne Island, so the Agricultural Society Hall is packed. It's really hard to see over all the heads. On stage, she sings "Country Roads" and ends that song. She begins a long, slow introduction into her next. Boring! But I have a story that I know will entertain. Unfortunately, try as I might, my voice isn't strong enough to reach the entire audience. 

"Leanne." "Leanne," the chant begins. Everyone wants to hear my story.

They mumble other things that sound like "sh-hh" or "be quiet" or... But I must be hearing them wrong, or they're talking to their neighbours. 

"Leanne, would you like to come up here?" Annie asks.

"Give the audience what they want," they always say. So I squeeze past the legs.

Some people wave at me as I pass.

I reach Annie, and she sweeps her hand at the microphone. "Be my guest."

Two hearty breaths into the microphone, and I even have the soundman's attention.

"Like I was saying," I tell the audience, "being in the Ag Hall always reminds me of MILT—Mayne Island Little Theatre. This is where they stage all their theatrical performances.

"In 2014, MILT presented me with a dreamed-of opportunity when they held a playwriting contest. My pen poured words onto the page, and soon my short play was finished. I was blown away when MILT selected my play to be staged. But I needed a director... actors... Georgia Johnson stepped forward and became the director. She interpreted the play for the stage. Mary Crumblehulme, Deb Foote, and Mike Nadeau said yes and became actors. They breathed life into the characters. All of us working together gave our play a happy ending. I'm truly thankful they decided to take that amazing journey with me." I smile to myself, "So when Hollywood comes knocking at my door, I'll remember that MILT said yes first."

The hall erupts with applause. 

My admiring audience.

I look across the stage and notice that Annie has joined me.

"Leanne, are you done?" she asks.

Rude! But all I tell her is, "Almost." To the audience, I say, "I came to Mayne Island directionless and in need of healing. The beauty that surrounded me and the friendship that I was given helped to heal me. The support I've received from islanders such as Eleanor Cocker, Su Everett, Terrill Welch, Pam Withers, David Burrowes, Amber Harvey, Manon Genier, and especially my husband, Byron. And... and... so many others. It took an island.

"How about if I put it like this... Everyone who read or listened to one of my stories—that includes all of you—helped give my life direction. For this, I remain forever grateful."

That said, I return to my chair.

More...

On Stage with the Island Storyteller is the second story I've written about

Island Storyteller (short story) by Leanne Dyck

'trading post--the oldest grocery store on Mayne Island' ldyck

The narrator of this short story doesn't drive and has a sore hip, so how does she get home?

I scanned the row of vehicles parked in front of the grocery store. Some of them looked promising. I ruled out the trucks. They would be too difficult to climb into with my sore hip. I peeked into a navy sedan. A shaggy face looked back. The dog started to bark, so I moved on to the next prospect. A four-door rust-covered Pontiac stood like a relic from a simpler time. The door creaked open. I eased into the passenger seat. The springs were shot. It was like sitting on a gravel road. Next car, the driver came out before I could climb in. The passenger seat of a two-door sports car held a large box. I considered tossing it out but thought better of it. I'm too polite to take such liberties. Last car in the row; last chance for a ride. No dog. No box. I wiggled around in the overstuffed, leather seat. It was comfortable enough to sleep in. My eyelids felt heavy. I leaned back and breathed deeply. A sudden breeze caused me to open my eyes. "You don't mind giving me a—"

"What the?" You jumped away from the car. Almost slammed the door shut.

I had scared you. Me? I had to laugh.

When I caught my breath, I said, "I need a ride. I know you won't mind. We live on a rural island; we help each other. It's just what we do."

"I'm heading south." 

"North, towards the ferry, for me. I'll get out before you run out of road."

You sighed—happy to be behind the steering wheel again, I guess. You slipped a disc into a slot; the engine purred. A guitar, joined by a singer, filled the car.

Music? We didn't need music. I coughed into my fist. "Do you mind?"

You got the hint and turned the music off.

"This island is woven together by an interlocking web," I began. 

"Webs? Oh, you mean roads. Yes, we do—"

"Everyone knows I'm a storyteller. That's what I do. I tell stories. And that's what I'll do for you—if there are no more interruptions." I breathed out slowly, determined to remain calm, and began again...

"the road home" ldyck

"This island is woven together by an interlocking web. Paved roads connect grocery stores to the school, the community centre, and the church. But not all roads are paved."

"Don't I know it. Sometimes you feel like you're not in a car at all." You looked at me. "You know, like you're on a horse." 

I frowned. 

You said, "Oh, sorry. Really, I am listening. Please, go on."

I continued the story. "On a gravel road." I nodded left, directing you to make the turn. "And down an overgrown forest path sits an ancient cabin. It hasn't changed since it was built some hundred years ago. Lovingly restored, tenderly maintained, but not changed." I took a short break, just long enough to say, "Yes, this is the road. Keep going."

You mumbled something. Maybe about the road being so bumpy, but I ignored you.

"Practical in design, the cabin blends into its surroundings. Over the years, the earth has embraced the house—cradling, concealing it in—"

"Which house is yours?"

"Just keep driving; I'll tell you when we get there. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, concealing it in its green bosom. A thick layer of dust covers the life and love that dwells in this house. This house. This is the house. This is where I live. Stop."

"What? Oh." You stop, but not in time. "Oh, sorry."

"Turn around in my neighbour's driveway," I breathed out slowly and reminded myself to stay calm. "The house swaddles and keeps its inhabitant warm through the winter of her soul. Within its walls, she still feels his presence." 

You slowed the car in front of my house like you were expecting me to just get out. But I hadn't finished the story yet. "You should park. You don't want to waste gas." And the story, "Here he lives, breathes. That's all I have so far. What do you think?" I expected a positive review or at least a thank you for sharing. But all you say is, "Are you terribly lonely?" Like that has anything to do with anything.

"Why would I be? My husband only commutes two days a week. The last ferry will bring him home." I crawled out of your car and up my steep driveway. Ah, the life of a storyteller.

"time to come in from the backyard" ldyck

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