Claudia (short story) by Leanne Dyck

This short story was inspired by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

free library in Sidney, BC

photo by ldyck

Claudia

"How's Claudia?"

"What's Claudia been up to lately?"

"When can we hear from Claudia again?"

Claudia. Claudia. Claudia. That's all she ever heard—day in, day out, each and every day. It was like the entire world was in love with Claudia. Of course, they were attracted to Claudia. Claudia was bold, dramatic, adventurous, and intriguing. She, on the other hand, was dull and boring. Just a writer. Just an author. She lingered in the shadows—overlooked and ignored. But it was her talent that had created it all. If it weren't for her, Claudia wouldn't exist. They all knew that, and yet... Claudia. Claudia. Claudia. 

She was so sick and tired of it. She was so sick of being overlooked that she was hatching a plan. She was going to kill Claudia. One more book, and Claudia, the main character in her bestsellers, would be out of her life forever.

Why Arthur Conan Doyle was Sherlock Holmes' biggest hate, according to an actual historian by El Kuiper

photo by Manon

(I'm tempted to make a comment about turkey neck,

but instead I think I'll reread last Sunday's poem.)

Taken the day Manon and I went to the Street Market in Sidney, BC

On this blog in August

Sunday, August 2

"A Secret Message Everyone Could See" (poem)

A dear memory of a mother's love.

Sunday, August 9

"Loving Lisa" (short story)

Love demands of the lovers to have faith, to trust. And if you lose faith... If trust is gone... What then?

Sunday, August 16

"I Would" (poem)

A fun, tongue-twisting poem and the ancient poem that inspired it.

Sunday, August 23

"I'm A Knitter" (short story)

Knitters have a code. What if you break that code?

Sunday, August 30 

"Jealousy" (short story)

Who is man's best friend? And what happens when another human threatens this friendship?

In My Aunty's Kitchen by Leanne Dyck (short memoir)

Sometimes you need a special place to hide out for a while. Where are your special places? This is a tribute to one of mine.

photo by ldyck

In My Aunty's Kitchen

I climb three stairs to my aunty's sunshine-yellow kitchen. It's my sanctuary in troubled times. Before school, I sit on the floor between the door and the fridge. There is a table. There are chairs. But, in the morning, I always sit on the floor.

I watch my aunty swirl around in her kitchen, puttering here, puttering there. But she's not too busy, never too busy for me. She doesn't talk about idle things—not my aunty Lil. "Leanne, do you believe in heaven?"

Of course, I do. I go to church every Sunday. She knows this. Her question isn't really a question. It's more like an invitation to a discussion. 

"Who gets to go to heaven?"

I answer immediately. "Everyone."

"Everyone?"

"Yes, there's good in everyone. So everyone gets to go."

"It must be rather crowded up there, Leanne. How does everyone fit?"

This question isn't as easy to answer. "They just do. Our bodies don't go. Only our spirit. Spirits don't take up much room."

Aunty Lil doesn't pick easy questions. It's like my brain is a tool she's sharpening.

I'd rather stay sitting on that floor, answering all of Aunty Lil's challenging questions than go to school, but I can't. I have to face being ostracized, being bullied by my classmates. I have to be judged by my teachers. I learn to survive by keeping quiet and learning to be invisible.

I return to the sunshine-yellow kitchen at noon to eat my lunch—on a chair, at the table.

Seven people live in this house—Aunty Lil, Uncle Hazen, and my cousins. Sometimes a cousin pops in and out, but mostly it's just me and Aunty Lil.

"I have never seen anyone eat so fast," Aunty Lil says. It's an observation. She's simply commenting on my eating habits.

At home, her sister, my mom, would say, "Slow down. Don't eat so fast."

But I never hear that here. Is that the difference between a mother and an aunt? An aunt can only comment, not direct. 

An apple. A sandwich. I eat fast because I'm always running late. School is only a hop, skip, and jump away. A few houses down, on the same street. But somehow, I'm always running late. Maybe it would make more sense to eat lunch at school, but—. Where would I sit? All the other kids have been eating together for years. They know who sits where. I'd have to figure that out by myself. No one would help me. And I'm not good at figuring that stuff out. If I made a mistake, they wouldn't be kind. And what if someone stole my lunch? I'd starve. No one learns well on an empty stomach. Learning is hard enough for me without hunger pains.

On the wall, above the table, two ceramic smiling sunflowers oversee my meal. Each has a message. The first: Swap a smile. Trade some cheer. The second: Let's be happy while we're here.

Here, at this table, is where I belong. So I have to wolf down my meal.

After school, I venture further into my aunt's home and flick on the TV set. I turn the channel to my favourite show—Hogan's Heroes. I use the Christmas present I got a few months ago, a tape recorder, to record this episode—like all the others. I only have one cassette, so I record over it—over and over again.

Voices drift in from the kitchen. Aunty Lil is talking to... My dad? He must have gotten off early from work.

"Leanne, it's time to go," my dad calls.

"I'm tapping," I reply, but I know he won't wait, and I don't want to ask him to; that would be rude, and I can't make a scene. I don't want to make him look bad—or me. And I don't want to have to walk all the way home. It's still kind of cold out, and it might snow or rain. It doesn't look like it, but it could. So I heave a heavy sigh and switch off my tape recorder and the TV.

In the car, Dad asks, "Do your cousins watch that show with you?"

"I think they have hockey practice."

"Your Uncle Hazen saw active duty in World War Two. The war wasn't and isn't a joke to him."

I know where he's heading, and I try to cut him off. "They don't mind. And besides, Uncle Hazen doesn't come home from work until later."

"From now on, you walk straight home from school."

"Why? They told me I could watch whatever I want."

"Leanne, straight home." By his tone, I know this isn't a discussion. He's giving me direction.

So I'm forced to break my addiction cold turkey. No more Hogan's Heroes. Just like that.

The next morning, I sit on the floor between the door and the fridge in my aunty's sunshine-yellow kitchen. It's my sanctuary in troubled times. It's my oasis from the direction I receive at home and the ostracization and bullying and judgments I receive at school.

Written in May 2026

On this blog in JuLY

Sunday, July 5

My Poem (a poem for children)

Why share? What do you lose? What do you win?

Sunday, July 12

Between and Underneath (children's story)

An unnamed narrator is playing hide-and-seek with their big brother. The narrator believes they have found the perfect hiding spot—between and underneath—until...

Between and Underneath, for children 4 to 8 years of age, examines the themes of directional concepts and childhood anxiety.

Sunday, July 19

All of Me (poem)

This mindfulness poem is about self-compassion.

Sunday, July 26

Claudia

This short story was inspired by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

Spelling Bee (short memoir) by Leanne Dyck

Some children like the challenge of spelling bees. Some children enjoy testing their abilities against others. Some children enjoy spelling bees. Me?

photo by ldyck

Spelling Bee

"Class," my teacher says, "line up in front of the blackboard. We are going to have a spelling bee."

I find my spot at the end of the line. I stand there with my head down. Trying to disappear. 

"Tom, spell..."

Tom easily spells the word.

The teacher smiles.

Tom stands taller.

"Sally spell..."

Student after student is tested and remains standing.

"Leanne, spell..."

My heart pounds in my chest. But I hear the word. The problem isn't with my hearing. My challenge is identifying the letters in the word and putting them in the correct order.

I'm the first...to sit down.

My classmates snicker.

My teacher frowns.

Isn't that fun?

photo by ldyck

On this blog in June

Sunday, June 21

Sharing the Light by Monique Gray Smith (book review)

Sunday, June 28

"My Aunt's Kitchen" (short memoir)

New content is published

each Sunday

at approximately 4:40 PM PT.

Flare for writing (short story) by Leanne Dyck

What did your parent think about your plans to become a writer?

photo by ldyck

 Flare for writing

A fashion magazine lay on our kitchen table. I reached for Flare, and something fell out.

"What's that?" Mom asked.

I kept my eyes on the magazine, on the dresses, and on other distractions. "I don't know."

"It's a career planner," Mom told me. "Occupations for the women of today, along with the education you require to obtain them."

What I was going to do after grade school weighed heavy in my seventeen-year-old brain. It crushed me.

"This is what you should do." She spread the pamphlet out in front of me.

"Writer? I can't be a writer."

"I would believe you if I didn't know that you write all the time."

"What publisher is going to want a writer who can't spell and doesn't know the rules about grammar or punctuation or—"

"Well, something in the publishing industry then."

"Yeah, I could be an editor and teach everyone how to spell the dyslexic way—backward and upside down."

Mom didn't laugh. She didn't even argue. She was stuck in my fantastical future.

But I knew better. I knew that some dreams, no matter how alluring, will never come true.

photo by ldyck

On this blog in June

Sunday, June 14

"Spelling Bee" (short memoir)

Sunday, June 21

Sharing the Light by Monique Gray Smith (book review)

Sunday, June 28

"My Aunt's Kitchen" (short memoir)

New content is published

each Sunday

at approximately 4:40 PM PT.

Pregnant (short story) by Leanne Dyck

This story was inspired by imagining what it was like when my 35-year-old mother told my 42-year-old father she suspected she was pregnant. 

photo by a nurse (I'm guessing)

'Dad, Mom and me (I'm five days old)'

Pregnant

Before he left for work, she gave him his customary two kisses along with "I'm late" and "Next month, I turn thirty-four. It could be the change or..." Pregnant passed between them in a smile. He'd left with that smile, and it remained with him for most of the day—like lyrics from a favourite song.

His youngest son was seven. His oldest twelve. He thought the months of diaper changes and early morning feedings were behind him. Still, he filled out forms, sorted mail, sold stamps with an extra supply of glee. He whistled while he worked.

"You're happy today, Jim." His assistant Lorna caught herself in time to add. "Not that you're usually grumpy." She chuckled. "Oh, you know what I mean."

He wanted so badly to tell her, to share the joy, but it was too early. They didn't know yet. It could be the change. But what if she was pregnant and there was something wrong with the baby? What if...? 34? The older the mother, the higher the risk. That had begun the spring blizzard of worry. That's why he had decided to take the long way home. He couldn't bring the worry home to Ollie. So he was driving through the back roads of Eriksdale looking for early signs of spring. His car's tires crunched melting snow, dug up the slush, and showered it into the ditch. The melting snow, the slush cheered him, but the worry didn't release him. It countered with four kids on your salary. Four mouths to feed. Four bodies to dress.

We'll manage. Ollie's calm, clear voice. We'll manage. It was like she was in the car with him.

And he knew she was right. Together they could conquer the world. He pointed the nose of the car towards home. 

written on February 16, 2026

Have you seen the film

What Is Dyslexia?

I highly recommend it!

On this blog in May

Sunday, May 17

"Like Him" (memoir)

As a dyslexic student in the 1960s, school definitely had its challenges. Some were academic. Others were interpersonal.

Sunday, May 24

"CGIT"

Groups have shaped many aspects of my life. I had a fourteen-year career as an Early Childhood Educator caring for groups of children. In my twenties, I became a Katimavik participant and volunteered in three eastern Canadian provinces. And when I was twelve, I joined CGIT. What's CGIT? Well...

Sunday, May 24

"Don't Worry"

Written with much thanks to a friend who helped me believe in "happy ever after" endings.

Beware the Island Storyteller (short story) by Leanne Dyck

Grace is new to the island, but she knows what she needs to do to keep her fellow islanders safe—and she is determined to take action. She has to act now, before it's too late.

photo by ldyck

 

Beware the Island Storyteller

The next day, Grace boarded the ferry, ignited by a clear mission—to warn her fellow Mayne Islanders. She marched up the steps to the passenger deck. A woman she'd seen shopping at True Value occupied a bench across from a man she'd met at Mary Magdalene Church. She didn't remember their names. Ever since she'd moved to the island a few months ago, she'd been bombarded by name after name. Across the aisle, around a table, were other people who also looked like Mayne Islanders. As Grace approached, the woman moved her purse to make room on the bench. They also made room for her in their conversation, and Grace seized the moment. "I opened my car door. But I wasn't alone. This strange old woman was sitting in the passenger seat. She was just there, acting like being there in my car without my permission was totally normal. She asked me to—sorry, she didn't ask. She ordered me to drive her home. I explained that I lived on the opposite side of the island. But she convinced me to drive her home—all the way home, right to her doorstep. And—and she insisted that I park my car and wait for her to finish telling me this story that went absolutely no where." (You can read about that occurrence here: Island Storyteller)

The woman dived in with "Her stories are so...so..."

The table of Mayne Islanders overheard her comment and supplied, "Weird. Strange. Bizarre."

The man who sat on the bench across from Grace coughed into his fist. "And juvenile and morally questionable and..." 

A hush fell over the group. No one dared speak. They all just waited. Somehow they all knew he wasn't finished. The bold took a sip of water from their water bottle. The sip didn't rest easy in their mouth. It threatened to explode out in a spray, but they forced it down. Was it that swallow that prompted him to break the silence? 

"I was at the Ag Hall listening to my favourite Mayne Island musician when the Island Storyteller—" 

"Island Storyteller?" Grace asked.

"That's what we all call her," the woman explained.

"She's been telling her stories for years," someone at the table added.

"When the Island Storyteller charged onto the stage," the man continued, "we all tried to stop her, but it was of no use. She hijacked the stage, ostensibly to thank us for listening to her stories, as if she ever gave us a choice, but it became a speech full of visions of grandeur. At one point, she even told us that she foresaw a time when Hollywood would be interested in her stories. As if that would ever happen." (You can read about that concert here: Island Storyteller on Stage)

"Tomorrow," someone at the table said and laughed.

Someone else at the table said, "I stood in line at the bakery for half an hour while she read one of her stories. Read. It. Out loud to. Everyone. Like she was doing us a favour." (You can read about what happened at the bakery here: Island Storyteller and the ice cream cone)

"She'll never change. She'll always tell her stories to anyone who will listen," someone said, and they all agreed, and Grace was caught in thought. Anyone? Anyone? So there's nothing special about me? I'm just a set of ears. She felt so deflated. 

written on February 4, 2026

On Mayne Island...

Actually, it's more like what fell on Mayne Island.

On Tuesday, March 24, I turned off my computer and turned on the TV for a short break before making supper. I was enjoying the show and then... At approximately 4pm, the screen went black. Some may have wondered what was up, but I've lived on this rural island long enough to realize what was up had come down. The BC Hydro website told the tale—a tree on the wires. We lived without power for approximately 24 hours—no TV, no computer, no nothing. I warmed my soup on the wood stove. I read a book. I wrote in my journal. What did I write? This...

Mother Nature tells us

"You think I am weak.

You think you can ravage me,

use me for your gain.

You think that you are strong

and I am weak.

You think.

Ha!

You think."

With a wave of her hand, she sends her best knight, the wind, to cut us down where we are weakest. She knows too well our fragility.

We bend.

We fall.

We are lost to her might.

We are lost in her.

We are forever hers.

Generator at the BC Ferries terminal on Mayne Island

photo by ldyck

"What was up. Came down."

photo by ldyck

On this blog in April

New content is added to this blog 

every Sunday 

at approximately 4:40pm (Pacific Time). 

April is poetry month.

So I will be sharing 

one of my poems

 every Sunday

to celebrate.

Items of interest for writers and readers...

Don't Listen (short story) by Leanne Dyck

Do you believe what they say about them?

 photo by ldyck

Don't Listen

The big blob had a message, and we all listened. "I'm so very proud of this side. I truly am. I'm blessed to be on this side. That's how I feel. I feel blessed. Our side is the best side. We're the brightest. The most capable. The kindest. The nicest. Our side is the right side. Thank God for our side. Thank God. Because let me tell you, something is wrong with the other side. It's wrong. It's just not right. It's wrong. They're greedy. They're selfish. They're mean. They're cruel. And they're jealous of us. They have every right to be. Let's face it, they do. I mean, why won't they be jealous? They would. Because we have it all. The sun shines brighter over here. The air is fresher. Life is purer. Everything is just better on our side. And what do they have? Nothing. That's what they have. Nothing. And that's why... That's why they want to harm us. They want to hurt us. They want to kill us. So we have to protect ourselves, protect what we have. We must do whatever it takes because if we don't... If we don't, it will all be gone. Taken away. Just like that. All of it. Gone. So kick. Bite. Scratch. Kill. Death. Kill. Murder. Death. Kill. Murder. Death. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill."

We. All. Listened. We didn't set one foot on the other side. We were too scared to.

On the other side... Knittens purred. Puppies licked. Children giggled. Lovers kissed. On the other side. 

We had so much in common. But we never knew. How could we?

Written on January 16, 2026.

'if [we] truly understand history [we] will be able to acknowledge the mistakes that were made, recognize prejudice when it is being repeated, stop messages of fear and bias from spreading, and have the courage to stand up for what is right.' (p. 350)—Danielle R. Graham (All We Left Behind)

On this blog in March

New content is added to this blog 

every Sunday 

at approximately 4:40pm (Pacific Time). 

Sunday, March 29

Beware the Island Storyteller (short story)

On Mayne Island

Jessandra Phillips (from Canada) and Bea (from New Zealand) are sisters. Each time they get together, they like to do something special. The special thing this time was an exhibition of fibre arts. 

The list of co-organizers also includes Amy Zimmerman 

and Abbie Hain.

Amy Zimmerman

Spinner

Fibre producer

Amy is a co-owner of The 44

Lorrie Miller

Lorrie is a UBC professor who teaches university students to knit. 

She told me that she likes to learn crafts that are fading into history. (my wording)

And... and I actually got to watch Lorrie nalbind—be still my Viking heart.

Shanti McDougall

Weaver, knitter, and co-owner of Farm Gate.

Kim Rowley

Kim told me amazing stories about vintage quilts—one of the quilts was made of flour sacks during the 1930s, and another quilt was made on Mayne Island from men's ties. The one she is sitting beside is from the 1800s. Kim also told me that she is in search of a home for these quilts. Though I would have happily taken most, if not all, of them home, I think they need to find a home where they can be displayed and admired by the public. 

Bea

Heke Upcycled Eco-Fashion made in New Zealand

Jessandra Phillips

Fibre producer

Water Edge Silver

Abigail "Abbie" Hain

Missing from this collection of inspiring, creative women is a photo of Sandra Sandvik.

My sincere apologizes for this oversight, Sandra.

This is a new group of textile enthusiasts, and I look forward to attending more of their events.

Much thanks to Jody Waldie for helping me with this brief review. 

Items of interest for writers and readers...

Island Stories (short story collection) by Leanne Dyck

The rain stopped, the sun broke through the clouds and I knew. I just knew. I'd never been there before but I told my husband, "This is it. This is our new home."

"Don't you think we should finish docking and, I don't know, look around a little first."

He took more convincing, but for me it was love at first sight and the love affair has lasted twenty-six years. 

photo by ldyck

 Inspired by this love, I've written short stories, novellas and even a mystery. Each of the short stories in this collection has earned over 1000 page views. Your page views encourage me to keep writing so thank you for your interest and support.

Island Artist

A humorous look at island life--and a cautionary note to respect an artist's privacy.

Island Storyteller

What's so funny about getting a ride home? Well...

Island Storyteller on Stage

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

Not Forgotten

 How many angels have you met in your life? Angels: people who come into your life--for a short time--to teach you something.

A tribute to one of my favourite island neighbours.

Galiano Island Ablaze

When you live on a remote island there's an ever-present danger that tourists may not be aware of--but should be. This short story explains.

Sheep Choir

was inspired by an island sheep farmer

Still Life with Cats

 As a new islander, I benefitted greatly from my relationship with seasoned islanders--especially Sammy, Joey and Ticky.

Ethan's Ferry Trip (children's story)

introduces children to the joys of travelling by ferry.

Go Red for Dyslexia

Sunday, October 5 to Saturday, October 11

Banned Books Week

Monday, October 6

Giller shortlist announced

On this blog on...

Sunday, October 12

Thank you, Mrs. Danielson (short memoir)

Written with heartfelt thanks for a teacher who taught with heart and inspired me to write.

Sunday, October 19 to Sunday, February 8, 2026

The Sweater Curse (psychological thriller)

October 2 on Mayne Island...

photo by ldyck

To a standing-room-only audience of Mayne Islanders, Pam Withers

Stranger (short memoir) by Leanne Dyck

 A strange encounter with a stranger inspired this short memoir.

A stranger is just a friend you haven't meet yet. -William Butler Yeats

Or...

"The 'problem" with [this] quote lies in its idealized nature, which ignores the potential risks of interacting with strangers, the fear and hesitation people experience, and the fact that not all strangers become friends, often leading a simplistic view of human relationships and societal safety... In essence, while the quote serves as a gentle reminder to be open to new connections, its oversimplification overlooks the necessary caution and discernment required when navigating social interactions." AI Overview

photo by ldyck

"art by a stranger"

Stranger

The hour-and-a-half bus ride had taken me from my cozy home in rural Manitoba and dropped me off in the intimidating city of Winnipeg. Tomorrow I will begin my studies at the University of Winnipeg, but tonight, I felt too overwhelmed to do anything but walk the short distance from the bus station to a mall. I found a bench on the second floor and watched...nothing. I was the only "ghost" that lingered. Down below, a janitor's cart rolled across the floor as the mop danced in the janitor's skilled hands. And then, a few feet away from my bench, the elevator door opened and... He stepped out of the pages of GQ, wearing a long camel coat that accentuated his shiny black hair. One word dominated my thoughts—handsome. The clock struck 9 PM, and I was mesmerized—my eyes glued on him. He headed my way. Me? I wore a sparkling gown and glass—nope, my mother's Skidoo pants and my faded corduroy parka. 

Really?

Yup, sad but true.

He offered a charming grin. "May I sit?" His voice was thick with an accent I couldn't quite place.

I'm not sure how it happened, but one thing led to another, and he asked if I would like to go to a movie with him. Hmm, of course!

The theatre marquee presented several options, and I chose "Steel Magnolias."

"No, I pay," he insisted, taking responsibility for both tickets.

"Steel Magnolias is about...?" he asked as we walked into the theatre.

"Friendship among women," I replied.

"In this country, do men go to such movies?" he inquired.

We brushed elbows in the dark.

"Some," I whispered.

On this blog in September...

is dedicated to stories for and an article about children

Sunday, September 7

Your Favourite Children's Stories written by Leanne Dyck

Each story in this list had a history of earning over 1,000 page views.

Sunday, September 14

Marion, My Day Friend (children's story) by Leanne Dyck

was inspired by career in infant care

Sunday, September 21

Baby, Come Back (children's story) by Leanne Dyck

can be chanted during playtime or sung during naptime

Sunday, September 28

Home Children: Canadian History (article) by Leanne Dyck

September 28 is Home Children Day. Why? What's a "Home Child"?

Read this article to find the answer to these questions.