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 rustled. "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 rustled.

“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

Because She Believed In Me (short story) (2 of 2) by Leanne Dyck

Because She Believed In Me (continued)

At home, away from my classmates' prying eyes, sheltered in my mother's arms, I cry. I don't tell her why.

"Sh-h-h, honey." She tries to comfort me. "Things will get better."

I don't believe her.

One day she tells me, "The teacher says you need special help." She can't hide the disappointment in her eyes.

Recess is no longer a time to run and play--no, not for me. Instead, my "special" teacher and I are squirreled away in the only available classroom--the kindergarten room. There on miniature brightly painted furniture I struggle to catch up.

Catch up, become normal. I wonder if this is possible.

My classmates know.

"Baby, retard," they label me.

And I believe them.

"I can't" and "help me" become my most used phrases.

Despite the opinions of some educators and social workers, my parents continue to believe in the soundness of my intellect. Their challenge is to reveal it to me.

My mother attempts to teach me to cook, to back, to sew, to knit. I greet each invitation with a roar. "No! I can't! I'm too stupid!"

"I can teach her," my grandma says. "I can reach her."

My grandma says, "With tender care, among the thorns grows a rose."

My grandma is a sorceress. She works her magic on everything from seeds to flour to yarn. She chooses me as beneficiary of the secrets of her craft.

Visiting with my grandma is a treat. I love to sit beside her as she spins her magic.

When she begins to teach me to knit, I want to throw the needles, I want to storm away but I can't. I can't act that way in front of Grandma. I have to try.

One tentative stitch leads to others. My inner critical voice slowly begins to be silenced by her kind encouraging words --"You catch on so fast! Your stitches are so even! You're finished already?!"

I am empty -- she fills me.

She teaches me the knitting basics. I learn to cast on, knit, purl, and cast off. I knit a square. I knit more squares and make a doll's blanket.

I am so proud.

Maybe, just maybe, I'm not stupid.

***

One day, my mother asks, "Why don't you join the new 4-H knitting group?"

"I can't..." I begin.

"Grandma would be so pleased to hear that you are continuing to learn to knit," she says, gently pushing.

***

Organized through the school, the first day of 4-H, our regular classrooms take on new purposes. The grade eight room becomes the sewing room. The grade nine room is set aside for knitting. I creep in.

A gang of teenagers confronts me. "What are you doing here? You're too young to learn to knit! Knitting is for teenagers!"

Meekly, I reveal my knitting sample.

"You knit that?" they ask, amazed.

Thanks to Grandma's lessons, I earn my membership in this important group. Through the group, I develop friendships and for the first time in my life, I feel like I belong.

The 4-H year concludes with Achievement Day. It is a day to gain recognition for our new skill. First, second and third prize ribbons are distributed. That first year of 4-H, I am thrilled to discover a first prize ribbon placed beside my garter-stitch scarf and stitch samples.

I am proud to report that the achievements I made in knitting eventually translate into academics and I graduate from High School with an award in Language Arts. After High School, I earn high marks in university English classes. 

Magazine Launch (short story) 4/7 by Leanne Dyck

In 2009, my husband and I left Mayne Island to attend a magazine launch in Victoria so that I could read 'Because She Believed In Me'. This is a short story about that adventure.

Installment 3

Magazine Launch (installment 4)

I read the clock on the dashboard. 7:30. “We’re too early.”

            “Wow. I wonder how that happened?”

            I knew he was mocking me—and I wasn’t amused, but I didn’t want to start a fight. “Maybe we should turn around and—”

            “No, I don’t think so.” I followed him into the building. Plank floor. Pump organ. Stripped banners. The place looked like a Second World War dance-hall  Two twenty-something women stood in the corner by the organ talking. Their clothes had a funky style with accents of vintage. Byron nudged me toward them. They stopped talking; one of them smiled at me.

            “Hello, I’m Leanne Dyck.” I waited for them to recognize my name. When they didn’t, I explained, “I’m one of the authors who’ll be reading their stories tonight.”

            “Oh, it doesn’t start until 8 o’clock.”

            “Yes, I know. Do you mind if we wait here?”

            They shared a look. “No, we don’t mind. But you’d probably be more comfortable waiting at one of the local pubs.” They aimed us in the right direction; and we left.

            We stood on the sidewalk, looked across the street at a pub. It was the first one we’d found. A long line of people blocked the door.

            “Let’s try somewhere else,” Byron said.

            Pub after pub, it was the same story—door blocked by too many waiting people.

            “We could just push our way in,” I said.

            Byron looked at me like I’d suddenly grown two heads. “Let’s check out the shops,” he said and led me into a music store. Black walls. Red lights. Devil heads. Everyone dressed in leather. Byron was drawn to crates of L.P.s in the middle of the store. In a corner, I found a small display of clothing. Hey, those look like the black leather high tops I used to own. I wonder how much they—I knelt to inspect them more closely. Someone touched me. I jumped, turned—Byron.

            “It’s all heavy metal,” he whispered. We left.

            We couldn’t drink; we could shop; we were running out of options.

            “Let’s check out the neighbourhood,” Byron said.

Installment 5

This Summer my husband and I are transforming our front and back yard from an abandoned jungle to...a...well...I'll show you instead of tell you. Today here's my back yard.

I spent three days weeding this section of my back yard.

Then my husband, Byron, used a tapper to level out the yard. 

When we're done, I'll use this section of the back yard to do Tai Chi. After several years I'm still very much a beginner. But I really enjoy this mindful exercise. (And for a dyslexic, the sequencing is especially challenging.) In the meantime, in between time, we continue to work...