Answering Machine (short story) by Leanne Dyck

A romantic relationship fizzles away--when you finally let go and move on.

photo by ldyck

Answering Machine

He said, "I don't love you anymore," and walked away.

Leaving me in this hollow, soulless void. Leaving me.

No more warm embraces... No more passionate kisses... No more.

When the longing becomes unbearable, I dial the familiar numbers. All I need is his voice.

"This is Micheal Richmond. Wait for the tone, and then give me your name, number, and message."

I never wait. And I don't phone every night—maybe every second. Two sentences and I no longer feel alone.

But tonight I hear, "Heather, I know it's you."

I freeze. I can't breathe. I have no voice.

"Stop phoning me. You need to get a life."

And I know he's right.

Next Post...

Sunday, February 24 at approximately 5 PM PT

Book Review:  
The Saturday Night Ghost Club by Craig Davidson

about a boy's relationship with his uncle

Alone with Him (short story) by Leanne Dyck

(early Tuesday morning -- photo by LDyck)

Readers' Reviews

Your story felt like listening to cascading water, impeded by rocks and rerouted back to its origin

Kinky!

Literature made visceral

Can almost feel his touch

Love this headspace! Now I'm thinking is he on my bookshelf waiting?

Alone with Him

He speaks to me, touches me. A cool hand of longing traces down my body and makes me shiver. Why do I feel this way? What's wrong with me? I should stop.

But I don't; I can't. I'm his. He possesses me. I long to stroke his cheek, kiss his lips, melt in his embrace. So there I sit on my bed—alone with him. My nose buried in the book. I turn each page in eager anticipation. Where will he take me now? My imagination is the world we share. There he lives; he breathes.

I found him in the school library. The book is tattered. It upsets me to think of how many years he waited for me.

But we have found each other. And now that we are together, all I want is him. I find excuses to sneak off.

"I have to brush my hair...make my bed...do my homework."

Last chapter—paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence, word by word—he is slipping away. I'm killing him, us. Still, I can't stop.

The end. I close the book and run a hand tenderly over the cover. My heart calls for him. I feel him in the shadows; he visits me only in my memories. He is gone.

Desperate, I pick up my pen. Imagination fueled by longing, I write. And he returns to me.

Basket Weaving (short story) by Leanne Dyck

I love to play with genre--romances that don't have a happy ending and... In this short story a mystery with a twist. I love twists (you may have noticed)

(photo ldyck)

Basket Weaving

"You're listening to My Island Neighbour; I'm your host, Andrea Whistle." She tries to whistle but fails. "And we're speaking to... Hmm... Er..." Papers rustle. "Please introduce yourself to our listening audience.”

Name, city of residence—that was what was expected, but instead...

“I'll soon be a widow.”

Dead air. Andrea cut it as quickly as possible. “Oh, your husband's off for the weekend. Is he into golf, hockey...?"  More papers rustle.

“No, it's worse than that.”

“Basket weaving. Ah, baskets. Why don't you tell us about the baskets you make for ch—"

“My husband wants to get rid of me—you know, like kill. He's tried more than once. Why, just the other day I was standing too close to the pool, and he tried to push me in. He may have drowned me had I not kept my ground. But it's not going to be me who d—"

More dead air. This time cut by a man's voice. “Mindy can't talk.” Click. The interview was over.



Hey, know what? You just read a micro text. Now why don't you write one.

Why?

Here's a reason...

Emerging authors (and CRD residents) 
enter for a chance to win $500
Deadline:  January 22, 2017

The Malahat Review (literary journal) Poetry and Micro Text contest

or if that's too short why not try this...

Prism International Jacob Zilber Prize for Short Fiction

Deadline:  January 15

(once on the site, scroll down)

Picture Books in Canada

Red Deer Press is a Canadian multi-genre book publisher.
Canadian authors may submit manuscripts by email or mail.
Submission guidelines

Sharing my Author Journey...

Life, the universe is encouraging me to be more focused. I have

Lasting Love (short story) by Leanne Dyck

This short story is dedicated to my parents. Even though it is short, it took many years to write. One reason may be that it was so close to my heart. I was with my mom for a month and a half before she died. I always knew my parents' love was strong, but I didn't know how strong until I witnessed the scene that inspired this story. My parents were private people, but I know think hope they wouldn't mind me sharing this with you.

(My parents on their wedding day circa 1940s.)

Defenseless, I lay in this cage of sheets and blankets as cancer prowls, leaps, sinks its teeth into my flesh and devours me—piece by piece. I struggle for life; all I gain is courage.

My husband stands straight, tall, so close to my bed. He is all I see. He is my life. His long, thin, weathered fingers stroke my brow. My life is in his touch.

Our love has endured so much—worry, anger, misunderstanding, longing, pain. Will it endure this?

Others think he is strong, but I see his damp eyes, his quivering Adam's apple, his erratic breathing. I know his fragility. My strongest desire is to keep him safe from sadness, from grief, from loss, from what is happening to me. I want to hold him, and I want to tell him that we've won, that we will be together forever.

But though I fight, I am leaving him—slipping away.

He must withstand this. He must be strong. I will give him strength. I frown at him with soft eyes. Don't let it win. Have faith. Our love is stronger. I tell him with my eyes.

"May I kiss you?" He is always a gentleman.

"If you dare." I grin. He's used to my teasing.

Our lips—our hearts touch.

"Was it worth it?" I ask. "Was it worth your life?"

"Oh." He breathes. "Oh, yes." He forces a smile.

Then I know; I know we've won; I know our love will never die.

My mom passed away in April 1998; my dad was by her side until her very last breath.

(My parents at my wedding circa 1990s.)

Next post: Writing the Story -- I reflect on my writing process.

An apology...

Okay, I don't know how this happened but part of this post was published on Google +. I'm trying not to lose sleep over it. I know it's minor. But I know how I feel when I find a post I want to read and only half of it is there. Frustrating. So please accept my apology. I hope you find that it was worth the wait. 

Sharing my author journey...

I was growing nervous. In fact, I was even preparing excuses. You 

Where's the head? (short story) by Leanne Dyck

Once upon a time, I sat down with a glass of lemonade in a friend's back garden. I wanted to get his opinion on a story I'd just written. After I finished reading it to him I asked, "Well?"

He had a kind face and a warm smile. His words weren't always easy to hear, but they were always helpful. By way of a reply, he said, "A couple of weeks ago, Sharon asked for my opinion on a painting she'd just finished. I knew she'd didn't want false praise; I knew she was worthy of the effort. And I feel the same about you. So I'll tell you what I told her, I can see the body, but where's the head."

"Huh?"

"Stories should always have a point and make it," he said. And his words still echo in my ears.

More (coming soon):  We'll talk about find the point of your story again soon when we tackle the problem of how to find the end of your story. Please stay tuned.

Next Monday:  reviewing Gone Girl (thriller) by Gillian Flynn

Sharing my author journey...

It's an old song. I know it's been sung before--by me and others--but...

How writing short stories can improve your writing by Leanne Dyck

(What is housed in this tent? And why is it good news for my writing?
For the answer, stroll down to the very end of this post.)

'An ordinary day--but with a suitcase it in. -Arleen Pare (Leaving Now)

'There is a story always ahead of you.' -Michael Ondaatje (The Cat's Table)

'They would always go home; they belonged to the place they came from. Other people were destined to keep leaving, over and over again.' -Alix Ohlin (Inside)

'She swung the thick, strong rope of her voice round the words, coming down hard on them, cinching them together. Then she flung the notes bold up in the air, high and hornlike.' -Esi Edugyan (Half Blood Blues)

'It was a wisp of a dream, like trying to catch wind in your hand.' -Will Ferguson (419)

'It was like walking into joy.' -Louise Penny (The Beautiful Mystery)

How do you learn to write like this?

Perhaps by learning how to pick the right word.

And how do you do that?

By chiseling away at your writing so that plot; character development--nothing matters but the words. By writing flash fiction... 

Flash fiction:  a self-contained short story (meaning the story has a beginning, middle, end) with a limited word count (usually under 1,000 words).

As you can imagine, such a reduced word count is extremely limiting. You are limited to one moment in time. Such writing relies on the author's ability to choose the correct word. You don't have the luxury of padding. It's challenging but very enjoyable. And many authors find it to be the perfect counterbalance for working on longer work.

'The challenge of flash fiction is to tell a complete story in which every word is absolutely essential.' -Jason Gurley

For sale:  baby shoes, never worn.
This six word story by Ernest Hemingway's is an extreme example of flash fiction.
More about this story

Here is one of my attempts at extreme flash fiction...

One sunny day a worm went for a wiggle. He meets a robin.

1,500...1,000...500...20...6? How low will you go?

More tips...

Stories in your pocket:  how to write flash fiction



Sharing my author journey...

What do you feed a writer?
Good books, of course.
Where do you get good books at a price a writer who is establishing 

Like Magic (short story) by Leanne Dyck

I have many happy memories of caring for children in daycare centres. One of these memories inspired me to write this short story...

Like Magic

(revisions made in 2020)

It was a crisp, cool, sunny day in mid-March. My shift at the Suntime Day Care was winding down. I'd bundled up the kids, and we were outside playing. I knew the parents would be thankful that they wouldn't have to struggle with jacket zippers, mittens, and toques. Soon only one child remained. I held the swing so Alison could climb on and sail into the cloudless blue sky. Instead of asking the question that was on the tip of my tongue—where is your mother? —She asked, "Do you believe in leprechauns?"

Saint Patrick's Day was that week's theme. "Oh, yes, of course. A friend of mine is a leprechaun."

Her eyes widened. "What's his name?"

"Michael O'Neal. He's the king of the leprechauns."

"What does he look like?"

"His clothes are green, his long beard red, his leather boots black, and he's as big as a minute." I measured his height with my thumb and index finger.

"Really?"

I nodded. "You know, sometimes he plays tricks on me."

"What kind of tricks?"

"He's so silly. He hides things." She giggled, and I continued. "I set down my pen, my brush, or my glass, and then puff--like magic--it's gone."

"Gone. Forever?"

"No, he usually returns what he's taken. Leaving them in unusual places, my glass in my bedroom, my pen in the fridge."

"What does he like to eat?"

"Anything green—cucumbers, broccoli, peas, green beans."

"Hey, I like peas."

"Maybe you're a leprechaun."

"No, I'm much too big." She laughed. "What else does he like to do?"

"He sits on my shoulder and tells me tall tales about his long journeys to the end of the rainbow and his pot of gold."

"He's rich?"

"Oh, yes, all leprechauns are."

"I'd like to meet a leprechaun."

"Someday maybe you will." The iron gate made a clicking sound. I turned to look. "Hey, who's here?" I slowed the swing.

Alison planted her feet on the ground. "Mom!" She sang with irrepressible joy and bounced into her mom's arms. Then, like magic, Alison was gone.

Like Magic 

New work from my favourite poet

The spring in trees is to my mind

So full of colors too much to find

A name for each and every one

As in rainbows after rain in sun

by Byron Dyck (my husband)

Sharing my author journey

It Was Nothing (short story) by Leanne Dyck

Petal's mother insists she sleep in her own bed like a big girl and then... 

I wrote this short story to increase the understanding of children with anxiety (I was one of those children).

It Was Nothing

In pink flannel footie pajamas, Petal crept onto her mother’s bed, eased back the covers, and curled up. 

Click. 

The lamplight cut the darkness. 

“What’s the matter, Honey?” her mother asked.

“I want to… I want to sleep with you.”

“Oh, Petal, we’ve been over and over this. You’re a big girl. You have your own room.”

“No, I can’t. It’s under my bed.”

“I’m sure there’s nothing there, but I’ll go with you, and we’ll look.”

Armed with a flashlight, Petal's mom led Petal back into her bedroom.  

Petal prayed silently for protection as her mother scanned the area under her bed.

The beam of light hit something. It moved. 

“There. It’s there. It’s right there.” Petal covered her eyes.

“Open your eyes. It's nothing.” Petal's mom held something in her cupped hand. Petal stared at the dust bunny.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

“What? What’s that?” Petal wrapped her arms around her mother’s leg.

The flashlight’s beam fell on the window. “It's just a tree branch hitting the window.” Her mother frowned. “Now, please, it’s late. We both need to get to sleep." 

Reluctantly, Petal crawled into her bed. 

Petal's mom left the door open a crack.  "Now, don't wake me again!"

Clutching her teddy bear, Petal laid her head on her pillow, pulled the covers up to her chin, and forced her eyes shut. It’s nothing. It’s nothing.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

"Mommy says you're just a tree branch. But you sound so close. Like you’re under my bed."

“I’m going to get you.” 

"Mommy says you’re nothing—just my imagination. But I can hear you breathing, talking, waiting."

A furry, brown arm reached out from under the bed.

The next morning, Petal’s mom called, “It’s breakfast time.” 

Walking into the bedroom, Petal's mom flicked on the light. Petal wasn’t asleep on her bed. She wasn’t in the bathroom, living room, or outside playing on the lawn. She was gone. 

Barely breathing, hoping, and praying, Petal's mom returned to Petal's bedroom, but all she saw was the abandoned teddy bear. Her face wet with tears, she cradled the toy in her arms. “But it was nothing.”

A Slave To Her Muse (short story) by Leanne Dyck

Debbie Newton slept but not peacefully. One minute she lay on her stomach, the next she flipped like a pancake onto her back. She kicked at the blankets and mashed her head into the pillow. Longing for a soothing island oasis, she found a violent storm. The wind raged—tossing her like a kite. A rope. Yes, that's what I need. A thick climber's rope appeared in her hands. She looped one end around a tree and the other around her waist. There, she thought—confident she'd won. Red-handled scissors materialized. One cut and she sailed into the air.

"No fair!" she screamed, pounding her mattress.

Soaring over rooftops, she looked down and saw in bold black lettering on a green metal roof, 'W-R-I-T-E.' She gave up, woke up, turned on her bedside lamp, grabbed a pen, and was a slave to her muse.

Why write short stories

As a teenager, I wrote endless stories all with no final scene. As an aspiring author, fearful of this outcome I reduced the word count. Instead of novels, I wrote articles for craft magazines, flash fiction for literary journals and creative non-fiction for magazines. As an emerging author, I write short novels as well as continuing to write short stories. My most recently completed short is entitled Liquefied. Inspiration for this story was the Canada Writes contest. I entered for a chance to win $1, 000.

Why write short stories?

-To find an end
-To sharpen your writing tools
-To have an opportunity to work with an editor
-To gain a readership
-To gain validation (i.e. "Yes, I am a writer--my article appeared in this magazine.")
-To build your author platform. Many book publishers advise aspiring and emerging authors to submit to literary journals
-To win a prize

Remember to celebrate your win each day you continue to work toward your goal.

His Toque (short story) by Leanne Dyck

His Toque

One of my island neighbours knit her husband a toque. Many years later, he still wears it. She tells him that it has become ugly with age—he still wears it. She explains that the yarn has become piled—he still wears it. She says the colours have faded—he still wears it.

"Maybe if I could knit another exactly like it, he'd let me throw that ugly old thing out. But I no longer have that pattern," she tells me.

“I can design a toque to match that one.”

“Really? Well, that would be lovely, dear." She hands me the toque and a bag of yarn. 

Arriving home, I set to work. The toque is a clever design. There are a few things I would change, but I resist the impulse. Casting on leads to casting off. I sew the seam and weave in the ends. I put the new toque with the old into the bag of unused yarn, and I return to my neighbour's. She is pleased to see me and inquires about my progress.

“I’m finished.” I hand her the bag.

She fishes out the new toque and hands the bag back. "You've done a lovely job, dear."

Her husband walks into the room. "Is that my new toque?" He takes it out of his wife's hands and pulls it on. "It fits." He kisses his wife and waves to me. “I’m going for a walk.” 

Later—with the old toque as my muse, I made alterations and produced a pattern. One toque leads to another and another and another. I've knit the toque for men, women, and children. The toque has been enjoyed by all. 

Scene On A City Bus (short story) by Leanne Dyck

Scene On A City Bus

They saw me before I saw them. Haggard and worn from a day's worth of work, my mind was pondering another sad weekend spent in my apartment all alone. Dressed to attract in black pants, a white shirt, and a tie, the gallant peacocks approached. My heart yearned for romance. They smiled and offered a pamphlet. I read the headline, Jesus saves!