Magdalene College Tower (short story) by Leanne Dyck

(me completing my studies circa the 1980s)

I've never traveled to Britain, but I long to go. And when I do, I hope to visit Magdalene College Tower. In fact, the tower inspired this short story.

That day, the sky was full of sunshine, but rain fell like diamonds, making the world sparkle. "A monkey's wedding" is what her father called it, Violet remembers. 

Chest out, head held high, he led her from one flower bed to the next. "I planted those and those. I'm working there. Watch your step."

Going to work with him was a rare treat.

Her chestnut hair woven into braids, pleated skirt, penny loafers, she walked cautiously with her head down.

"I'm not an educated man. It wasn't mine to have. Working class—that's my station. But you, my girl, things will be different for you." He grabbed her hand, held her in place, and they looked up at Magdalene College's bell tower. "Construction of this tower began in 1492. It was completed in 1509. Many, many years ago. Long before you or I were a mere whisper in the wind. It will continue to exist long after your body has turned to dust. Of this, you can be very sure." 

He made her understand, using more than mere words, that the tower stood for knowledge. Ancient, overpowering, righteous, sacred—her adult mind scrambled to describe what she as a child had barely grasped. 

Now, sixty years later, Professor Violet Green had crossed the ocean to once again—perhaps for the last time—stand on that spot and look up.

Next post:  Sunday, September 16 (at approximately 5 PM PST)
Book review: The Shoe on the Roof by Will Ferguson
I use "book review" rather loosely. It's more a reflection after reading.

'Abby enjoying the dog days of Summer' photo by ldyck

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As writers, we get all wrapped up in our own worlds. It's 

My Career in Journalism (short story) by Leanne Dyck

My Career in Journalism was as brief as Stephen Leacock's career in finance (My Financial Career by Stephen Leacock)--but not as funny.

My Career in Journalism

My parents lead me through the maze of buildings that, together, form Red River Community College. We stand in front of classroom 101-A.

"What if I can't spell or find the right word?" I'm dyslexic. Spelling and vocabulary always cause me problems. 

"You have a dictionary and thesaurus," my parents remind me.

I pat my backpack and walk into the classroom. I choose a desk at the front of the room so I won't be distracted by inventing stories about all the other hopefuls.

(I may not have been a journalist, but I have made the news. 

This article appeared in a rural Manitoba newspaper. 2009)

A man with greying hair closes the door with a thud. He frowns at my books. "Clear your desks. Everything you need should already be in your head." He stands like a mountain in front of me. "If you're going to be a journalist, by now, you should know how to spell."

The room fills with laughter.

I sweep my hand across my desk. The dictionary falls to the floor, followed by the thesaurus.

(This article was published in the magazine Aqua:  Gulf Island Living Winter 2009/10)

The man walks down aisle after aisle, stopping at each desk. "This test." He places a stapled document print side down in front of me. "Consists of short answer questions plus four essay questions." He eases into the chair behind the desk at the front of the room. "You may turn the test over and begin." With that announcement made, he props his legs on the desk and buries his nose in a newspaper.

I skim the first page. What is the name of...? When was the...? Names. Dates. I gulp. I don't know any of this. But who cares? I don't need to know. This is history. I want to write the news. Something will happen; I'll be there; I'll write about it. I sigh. But only if I pass this stupid entrance exam.

The sound of pens on paper and pages being turned is deafening.

The man rustles his newspaper. "Twenty minutes left. And let me stress, in journalism, speed matters."

Applicant after applicant set their pens down, march to the front of the room, and deposit their test.


Well, I don't have to be here for the rest of my life, I tell myself and add my blank test to the pile. My career in journalism is over.

(front page of The Islands Independent 2011)

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What would have happened if I passed that test and others, graduated and became a journalist. Would I still have a job?

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