Visiting B.C (short story) 1/3 by Leanne Dyck

This short story was inspired by a trip I took with a boyfriend to BC. While there (here) we visited Capilano Suspension Bridge  I returned to Manitoba with a ring on my finger.

Photo:  circa 1950s my grandparents--with (possibly) your uncle photo bombing in the background and (possibly) your dog's great grandpa photo bombing in the foreground--on the Capilano Suspension Bridge. 

Visiting B.C. 1/3

The bus jerked to a stop, threw me out and I landed in a snow bank. Winter's icy fingers pinched my flesh—through, it didn't care how many, layers of clothes. My boots couldn't gain traction and so I skated from streetlight to streetlight until I slid into my apartment.

“Cold out?” my boyfriend, Floyd, greeted me with a kiss.

“Too.”

I slowly began to thaw as we watched T.V.

He waited for a commercial and then asked, “Would you like to go to--”

I would have gone anywhere with him.

“B.C.?”

I visualized green grass and heard Hawaiian music. “When?”

“You don't even have to think about it, eh?” Floyd smiled. “We'll spend Christmas with my folks.”

Days, hours, minutes dragged but finally it was time to pack.

“No, Lyndi, it'll be too cold for flip-flops and shorts. B.C. is still part of Canada. It's still winter.”

But I didn't pack my long underwear.

We left our city of snowflakes, flew over Saskatchewan and caught turbulence over Alberta. It felt like shooting rapids as one air current bounced us up and then another slammed us down. I loved every minute of it.

Side-by-side and hand-in-hand, Floyd and I walked from the corridor to the airport. The metal detector didn't kick up a fuss about me. But the same couldn't be said about Floyd. He unthreaded his belt from his pants. But the machine still wasn't pleased. He emptied his pockets--dimes, nickels, pennies. No change. The security guards surrounded him and I began to panic. How well did I know him? Was he a serial killer? Did he carry a gun? I bowed my head and offered a silent prayer for protection.

Laughter. One of the guards slapped Floyd on the back. And he was free.

"Have a romantic holiday," the guard called to me.

I thought that was a rather personal thing to call but just smiled. 

Floyd lead me away from the security area. "Where you worried?"

"Who? Me? Oh, no--not at all," I lied.

There was a woman with glasses and curly brunette hair standing beside the luggage carousel. Floyd steered us right toward her. "Hi, Mom." Floyd gave her a hug. "This is Lyndi."

"Welcome, Lyndi." She greeted me with a smile. "Have you been to B.C. before?"

"Yes, once when I was twelve, but never in the winter."

"Oh, well, you better bundle up. It's minus ten and raining."

"Mom, we just left minus thirty-five and snow. We'll be fine." Floyd's jacket remained folded over his arm.

As we walked through the parking lot, I felt a raindrop on my shoulder. What felt like five minutes later, one landed on an eyelash. 

"Liquid sunshine," Floyd said as we piled into the car. "At least I don't have to shovel it."

Visiting B.C. 2/3

Sharing my author journey...

How long does it take to write a novel, a novella, a short story. Well, my track record is pretty good. I've written a short story in twenty minutes and woken up to one fully formed in my brain. But then there are others that require a little more time. My comment on one such story--that I completed writing last week...

Photo:  a kindhearted neighbour with a green thumb plucked these beauties out of her garden, arranged them in a vase and gave them to me. : ) 

This story was ripped out of a deep place close to my heart. Bringing it onto the page hurt. It took strength and left me exhausted. But now it's complete and I'm free and so proud.