Showing posts with label short story by Leanne Dyck. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story by Leanne Dyck. Show all posts

Sunday, August 2, 2020

Maybe Me (short story) (romance--maybe) by Leanne Dyck

photo by ldyck

Maybe Me

Do you remember how we met? I was on stage in the Commodore Ballroom on Granville or was I in the Alix Goolden on Pandora? Can't remember. It's not important. I had a maximum compacity audience--always do. But I sang to the wealthy businessman in the first row, centre seat. I sang directly to you. You were sitting beside some bimbo. I think she may have been your date. I could tell right away, by the way she looked at me, that she hated me. Hated me for my looks and my talent--let's not forget my talent. It turns out, I sang your favourite song--Why Don't You Do Right. And that was it. You were hooked. You bought me flowers; wrote me love letters. At least, that's what my personal assistant told me. I rarely deal with unsolicited correspondence. I guess you knew it would take a grand gesture to get my attention--you bought a cruise for two to Bora Bora. We fell in love. Do you remember? I think that was you. Maybe that was me.

Next Sunday evening...


Book review...


The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens
is a cautionary tale wrapped up in a heart-warming adventure


I'm still here.


photo by ldyck

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Scotiabank Giller Prize
is assembling a list 'of fiction and graphic novels published between October 2019 and September 2020'
And they'd like your help
Here's the link Crazy for Canlit 2020

The Booker Prize 2020

Spelling 'dyslexia' ...

Quiet not Quite
Your not You're
Their not They're

I make these mistakes all the time. 

What happens is similar to mistaking one twin for another. You 

Sunday, July 5, 2020

A Fish on the Hayfield (short story) by Leanne Dyck

A Fish on the Hayfield is a short story about how the places I've lived have influenced my author journey.


'or a starfish on the pavement'
photo by ldyck

A Fish on the Hayfield


I was raised on prairie sunshine. Our community highly valued work--chapped hands, dirty fingernails, sweat on the brow work. Farmer husbands tolled for years over rocked filled land in an unforgiving climate too hot in the summer--too cold in the winter. Farmer wives minded the house, tended the kids, took a part-time job in town and worked beside their men come haying season. Art was a hobby that few had time for. But one day my dad pointed out a local farmer--Ted Stone--and told me he was a writer. I cut Mr. Stone's articles out of our local newspaper. I read Hailstorms and Hoop Snakes*. And I dreamed. Maybe... Someday... Could I use the power of my imagination to add beauty to the world? But no, I knew I was just...

Years passed and this hayseed was blown far from the prairies. When I settled I found myself on a remote island. Strangely, it felt more like home than any place I'd ever been.

"You are an artist," the islanders told me.

"Who me? No, I just like to scribble," I whispered.

"You are a writer," they announced.

And I was a fish in water.

*Hailstorms and Hoop Snakes was short-listed for the Stephen Leacock Award for Humor.







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The story behind the writing and re-writing of 
A Fish on the Hayfield...

Sunday, June 28, 2020

Independence (short story) by Leanne Dyck

A tale of how two brothers gained independence.

This short story was inspired by Canada Day (July 1st) and Independence Day (July 4th).

photo by ldyck

Independence


Elizabeth had two sons Ulysses and Cameron. She loved both of her sons equally.

Finances were merger for the single-parent household. So, in addition to his schoolwork, Ulysses contributed financially first by doing odd jobs around the neighbourhood and then by getting a part-time job at a local fast food joint. He brought every cent home to his mom. Elizabeth, alone, paid the bills and managed the cash flow.

"If I'm old enough to earn it, I'm old enough to manage it," Ulysses told his mom.

"We need to eat not buy new sneakers," Elizabeth told him. 

The two of them fought. It got so bad that one day, Ulysses told his mom, "That's it. I'm out of here." He couldn't stand to think of his little brother being raised by such a control freak so he added, "And Cameron is coming with me."

Fighting back tears, Elizabeth shot back, "Go, but your brother is staying with me."

Though tons of people just called Cameron "lil bro" and thought the best compliment they could give him was to tell him that he was just like Ulysses, it was plain to Elizabeth how different they were. Cameron was a gentle spirit. Instead of fighting for independence, he choose quiet moments to talk about it with her. And eventually, she did let him move away to attend university but she couldn't stop worrying about him. So she phoned or texted everyday and visited him once a month. She brought care packages, tidied his dorm room and did his laundry.

After work one night, she was waiting for a bus when a skinhead with hate tattoos grabbed her purse. She'd just been paid. It was stupid, but she held onto the straps. He drew a knife.

"Help," she screamed.

Out of the shadows, her baby boy, Cameron leapt to her defense. Just because he choose not to fight didn't mean he couldn't. With a well placed blow, Cameron knocked the knife out of the assailant's hand and saved his mother. 

From that day forward Elizabeth's respect for her youngest son grew. She stepped back more and more to allow Cameron to deal with his own affairs. And in this way, Cameron earned his independence. 

Related articles...

Selected Presidential Quotes on Canada

Canada Day Celebrations

Invade US, Canada


On this blog in July...

Two short stories and two book reviews

July 5
short story:  A Fish on the Hayfield
how I became a writer

July 12
book review:  Room
Emma Donoghue
One of my favourite books

July 19
short story:  Maybe Me (romance)
slightly odd but, you know, isn't love like that

July 26
book review:  My Sister, the Serial Killer
Oyinkan Braithwaite
darkly comic thriller

I'm still here.


photo by ldyck

Follow, follow me...




Sunday, May 24, 2020

Discovery (short story/fantasy) by Leanne Dyck


CVOID 19. Corona virus. CVOID 19. Too early on March 30, my muse danced to the beat of this words. And this short story leaked out of my pen...


photo by ldyck

Discovery


In a deep cave, they found the...being--prone on the floor, chains around its eight legs. They consulted translator after translator and were finally able to read the weathered sign that stood outside the cell. "Caution. Do not wake." 

Despite the beings eight legs and enormous puppy-dog eyes, it looked strangely humanoid and authorities began to think that interaction and perhaps some type of communication might be possible.

They sent the translator with a doctor. As the two approached, the being retreated in the only way it could--by shutting its eyelids. 

"We won't hurt you." The translator told it. "We're here to help." The words seemed to calm the being and they released it from the chains.

Aided by the translator, the doctor began to examine the being's throat, ears, e--.

"No! Don't! Please, don't shine the light into my left eye," was the translation.

But it was too late. Something had switched in the being's brain. And, no longer contained, it began to kill.

More...

Let's Not Go Back by Cheryl Oreglia

12 Classic Novels Coronavirus Lockdown Would Have Absolutely Ruined by Stephen Carlick

Next Sunday Evening... 

Book Review 



Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton was assigned reading in junior high (middle school). I read it again, just recently. What did I think? How has my impression of the book changed--has it changed?
I will reveal all next Sunday.


Spring 2020

This is...

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Spring 2019

still me.


Much thanks to the Mayne Island Quilters Association and Days for Girls for making the lovely and useful masks available free for all Mayne Islanders. 

Recently...

I've been trying to find my next read. Or as I call it auditioning authors. I grabbed two books from my overloaded bookshelf and flipped to the first page. But...

Sunday, April 12, 2020

Be Gentle by Leanne Dyck (short story)

How do you express strength?


photo by ldyck

Be Gentle


We sat around the supper table and before Mom passed the potatoes, we said our prayer to God. When I unfolded my hands, unbowed my head, and opened my eyes, Dad held me in his stern gaze, "Remember, Penny, be nice, be kind, be gentle."

Each night, after my prayers, I recited, "Be nice, be kind, be gentle."

Each morning, before I opened my eyes, "Be nice, be kind, be gentle."

But, at school, she waited for me in the girls' washroom. She stood hidden from the teachers on the other side of the door. "Where do you think you're going?" She demanded. "You. You can pee in your pants."

"Please," I begged.

"No." Hard. "Unless..." Softer. 

My need grew.

She held out her hand. "A quarter."

I gave her money day after day after--. Be nice, be kind, be--.

I closed my eyes. And it was there. I could no longer contain it. The bully was pushed to the floor. Blood dripped from her nose. After that day the washroom was always free.

I walked home from school every day. He waited for me maybe behind a tree, maybe... It doesn't matter. Wherever. All that is important was that he was suddenly there. He and I were alone. Was school... Was home... Was life hard for him? He took it out on me. He threw my school books in the bushes, my pencil case in the ditch. Day after day after--. Be nice, be kind, be--. I could no longer contain it. The bully got scared and ran away. He never waited for me after that day. 

But at home, Dad looked at me with such disappointment. "Be nice. Be kind," he said with sad eyes. "Be gentle."

I knew he knew what I'd done. I knew word had spread.

"Why!" It wasn't a question. It was an accusation. "I tried to teach you a better way, but you didn't listen. Strength. Real strength isn't in letting it out. It's in finding a peaceful solution to your problems." He held me in his arms. "And now we  have no other choice," he told me. "We have to move. We have to start all over again somewhere else."

It was my fault. I'd been weak. I'd let it out.

If we'd stayed they would have come for us with torches, with pitchforks. And so we fled. We were monsters; we had no choice. 

I wrote this story too early on Tuesday, January 28. It was inspired by thoughts of Easter.

More...

Book suggestion:  


Edited by Derek Newman-Stille

Pays homage to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (Modern Prometheus)


Next Sunday evening...


photo by ldyck

19 Poetry Publishers--Magazines

A list of 19 magazines that publish poetry





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'Abby'

Sharing my author journey...

Out on a walk with Abby and this popped into my head...

Sunday, March 1, 2020

The Pitter-patter of Little Feet by Leanne Dyck (short story)

What do you do when a dream dies?

photo by ldyck



The Pitter-patter of Little Feet


After calculations and re-calculations--aided by both a hand-held and a wall-sized calendar, Sylvia reasoned that a trip to the drugstore was definitely in order. 

Thoughts of her expanded family--we three--accompanied her every step of the way.

She found the pregnancy tests first. A certain brand dominated the shelves. So she chose that one. But she couldn't just put that box on the counter. She hunted for something more:  band-aids, muscle relaxant, double A batteries, aspirin, mouthwash, hair dye to hide her grey.

She joined the queue leading to the checkout counter and her mind filled with thoughts of the baby she and her husband had dreamed of, longed for, tried for, for so many years. She envisioned the spare room transformed into a cozy nursery. The walls painted sunshine yellow.

"Next customer, please," the cashier called.

Sylvia was relieved to see a new woman behind the till. The others could be so chatty, nosey--too familiar.

The cashier slid each item over the scanner. She paused when she came to the pregnancy test. She waved it around in the air.

Sylvia willed her not to comment.

With a smile, the cashier put the box in the bag. "Hey, I know you."

Sylvia gave her debit card to the woman. "No, I don't--."

"Sylvia Simmons. Yeah. You were my grade two teacher."

***

At home, Sylvia peed on the stick, danced around the house, and phoned her husband. "When will you be home?"

"You have my schedule. Why, is something wrong?"

"No, something is so right. I'd rather do this face-to-face, but... Are you sitting down?"

"Behind the steering wheel."

"Pull over."

"Okay, just a sec."

Sylvia waited for her husband to maneuver the semi. When he said, "Shoot." she said, "Do you know how we've been trying?"

He said, "Really!" with so much excitement. Silence.

She worried that he hadn't pulled over... That maybe... Was his truck sideways in the ditch?  "Are you still there?"

"Yeah, I'm here. It's just... Maybe... Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure. A woman knows these things. And I know I am--we are pregnant." It was the first time she'd said that magical word and her heart sang it.

"Have  you seen the doctor?"

"No."

"Well, maybe you should, soon. You know before you--we get our hopes up."

They both knew that their hopes couldn't get any higher.

Sylvia made an appointment.

***

Doctor Lee's office was decorated in a style Sylvia dubbed proud parent:  tons of crayon art on the walls, dried play-dough creations on the shelves. Sylvia usually thought it looked tacky, but not today. Today she thought it was cute.

Examinations, tests Doctor Lee did them all. Finally, she was ready to share the findings and Sylvia was eager to hear the good news. 

"How far along am I?" Sylvia thought maybe two months but she wasn't sure.

"Far along?"

"I imagine it's too early to know if I'm carrying a boy or a girl."

"You think you're pregnant."

"I know I am."

Doctor Lee said something about Sylvia's age and menopause. Right about then things started to go blurry for Sylvia. It was like she was having an out of body experience. "But the pregnancy test confirmed that I'm..."

"Those tests aren't foolproof."

Doctor Lee said something that was meant to be uplifting, but the words didn't reach Sylvia's brain. The doctor handed Sylvia a pamphlet on 'The Joy of Ageing.' Sylvia stuffed it into the bottom of her purse.

Summer became autumn, autumn became winter, winter became spring. Sylvia gained weight in her thighs, ankles, and calves--more than around her waist. She had cravings but no morning sickness. 

Knowing her disappointment, her husband was very sweet--massaging her shoulders, rubbing her feet. One day he whispered, "Let's adopt."

Together, hand-in-hand, they went to their local animal rescue shelter. From cage to cage, they stopped in front of a Maltipoo. 

And no dog was ever loved as much.


Next Sunday evening...



Book Review

The Wife
Meg Wolitzer

A novel about being an award-winning author and the price the family must pay told from the spouse's viewpoint.


On Mayne Island...



Books on Mayne grand re-opening

new owner Gail Noonan 
used books, special orders and local interest


My husband and I enjoyed our a recent visit and walked away
with books in hand.




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Sunday, February 23, 2020

The stories of my life (free short story collection) by Leanne Dyck

Since 2010, I've been sharing short stories inspired by my life. This is a list of those stories that received the most page views. That's right,  your page views built this list.

These short stories are about my family and my friends and the music I love and writing and knitting and... 

Click the title the link will take you to the story. Except for Afi--that story is in two parts. So please click on part one and part two to read Afi. (He was always a little challenging. 😀 )

I hope you enjoy reading them.

'face in the trees' photo by ldyck
My husband sees a bear
What do you see?


2010

who taught me to knit? 

2011

a neighbour told me that she wanted a new toque for her husband and I...

2012

who introduced me to Bluegrass music

2013

Remembering Them
I wrote a short story about my dad and my dad wrote a short story about his day and... I shared them both in this post.

2014

The Words Behind the Writing
I write about what writing gives me

2015


2016

about the final days in my mom's life and her relationship with my dad

2017

a childhood memory about crossing a highway to buy rainbow ice cream

2018

My Writer's Desk
what's my writing day like? Well...

2019

about sharing a short story about my afi (grandpa) with my amma (grandma)

2020

From Mom (2 stories)
Before You and After Me


photo by ldyck

On this blog in March...

March 1
short story
The Pitter-patter of Little Feet

What do you do when a dream dies?

March 8
book review
The Wife
Meg Wolitzer

A novel about being a successful author.

March 15
book review
My Canada Read choice

Canada Read March 16 - 19

March 22
guest post
Cozies and Me
by mystery author Benni Chisholm

What's a cozy? Benni will explain.

March 29
book review
Dual Citizens
Alix Ohlin

Does Lark's sister Robin inspire her or hamper her development?




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Sunday, December 8, 2019

Christmas Secrets (short story) by Leanne Dyck

About an adventure that...um, well, I really wasn't supposed to go on. Maybe I wasn't alone. Maybe you went on one of these adventures too?


Magical Christmas Reindeer in the woods photo by ldyck

Christmas Secrets


I knew I would find it if I looked hard enough. Dad was at work. Mom was busy baking shortbread cookies and other Christmas goodies. The coast was clear. As quiet as a mouse, I crept into my parents' bedroom. I searched high--balancing on my tiptoes, climbing on a chair. I searched low--flipping back the bedspread, crawling under the bed. 

And...I...found it.

Unable to suppress my joy, I ran into the kitchen singing, "Mom, do I really have to wait for Christmas to play with that sleepy-time doll?"

 Did you do that too? Or am I the only one?

Next Sunday evening... 




Book Review:  The Little Paris Bookshop by Nina George (contemporary romance)
After 20 years of hiding, a middle-aged man learns how to live and love again.

Sharing my author's journey...

This week I worked on my 'Planning my success' binder.

Sunday, November 17, 2019

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 a 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 Everet, Terrill Welch, Pam Withers, David Burrowes, Amber Harvey 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--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

Sunday, October 20, 2019

The Craftsman (short story) by Leanne Dyck

Many years ago, when I was in elementary school, a story I wrote was published in my rural community newspaper--The Interlake Spectator. My first published story... I thought it was gone. I was grieving its loss. But too early one morning, the plot shook off layers and layers of dust, stood up and said, "Don't be sad. I'm still here."

All that was left for me to do was to write the story.


photo by ldyck

The Craftsman


Early one October morning, Mary watched her husband John put his knife and flint into his possibles bag and strap his gun to his horse. 

She kissed him.

"Be safe," she whispered, like a blessing.

Mary held baby Anna so John could kiss her cheek.

Looking at her husband, she forced a smile--We'll be fine. Go. Go.

"Ho," John called and his horse's hoofs struck the ground like a drum.

A breeze chilled Mary's blood as she watched John ride away, disappearing into the woods. She was a lone sentinel on the vast prairie, facing the wildness of the place.

***
"Bye, baby Bunting/Daddy's gone a-hunting." The bottom of Mary's calico dress dusted the log cabin's dirt floor as she paced, Anna in arms. "Gone to get a rabbit skin/To wrap the Baby Bunting in." Verse by verse, Mary persisted until she lulled Anna to sleep and placed her in the crib. Peace.

A sound... Just outside the cabin. An animal? John? Visualizing pelts strung across his back, she threw open the door.

Buckskin fringe. Long black hair.

Mary recoiled; her heartbeats raced.

He smelled like wild like a bear.

She searched the cabin, looking for... The rifle was propped in the far corner of the room--more than an arms reach away.

Looking back, she saw the savage fall to the ground. Then she noticed the blood.  Had he been the victim of a bear? Wolves?

Fighting through fear, Mary helped the wounded creature to the quilt she'd spread on the floor.  She pulled up his blood-stained tunic and found the inflamed cuts that crossed his belly. She dipped a clean rag into the water bucket and used it to wash his wound. The rag was soon soaked with blood. She used another rag and another. The blood wouldn't stop. She cut a long strip from... What? A bed sheet. She made a thick pad with more rags and applied that to the wound. Helping him to sit, she put his hand on the rags on his belly and pressed down so he knew to keep it there. She wrapped the long strip over the pad of rags and around his torso. After securing the bandage, she helped him to lay back down. His body went limp. Was he resting or had he passed out from pain?

***
Arms full of firewood, Mary made her way back to the cabin. She pushed the door open to... The savage stood over her sleeping baby--knife in hand.

Mary shrieked, dropped the wood and reached for the rifle. She turned back around to shot...

He'd slipped away like a ghost.

A woman alone in a cabin could be easy prey for a band of savages. Mary pushed the thought away--over and over again. That night she slept with the loaded rifle under her bed.

***
On her way to get more firewood, Mary noticed a bundle wrapped in buckskin. Bringing it inside, she unwrapped the bundle and found beaded moccasins. She slipped them on her baby's feet and they fit perfectly.

Gratitude for kindness exchanged for kindness, transformed this story into a family legend about a skilled craftsman. 

After my short story was published, a friend's mom asked, "So that was a story about your dad's mom?"

Feeling a little ashamed for fooling her, I softly said, "I made that story up."

She didn't say anything and I thought she might be angry at me. But then she said, "Oh, that's good. That's a very good story." And she smiled like maybe I'd impressed her.

More...






photo by ldyck
Next Sunday evening...

Published in 1890, the British Press condemned The Picture of Dorian Gray as "vulgar", "unclean" and "poisonous". But I thought...