Sunday, July 24, 2022

Callie Ch 3 by Leanne Dyck (inspired by the writing life) "The Voice"

 Chapter Two: Why did the bookseller give Aurora that necklace? Why did he insist she take it? What is the strangest gift you've been given? Read chapter three...

Callie

photo by ldyck

Chapter Three

 That night, outside my apartment building, traffic roared like ocean waves with a steady swish, swish, swish. 

Inside? Inside all was quiet, until...

Loving Lisa

It's hard to breathe, think, move. It feels like one of my vital organs is missing--a liver, a kidney, a lung, my heart.

I didn't have a TV or radio. My computer wasn't on. Still, I heard the voice...

I knew it would help if I could cry, but I'm beyond tears. I'm numb--my brain's valiant effort to protect me from the truth.

But what is the truth?

I roll the gold band around and around on my ring finger. I walk over to the fireplace and take our wedding photo off the mantel.

Who is this young couple? They look so happy, so much in love--joined together by a promise. Has he broken that promise?

I figured that the voice must have been coming from one of the neighbouring apartments. I stepped out into the corridor. Though I listened carefully, I couldn't hear a thing.

I returned to my apartment and...

I replace the photo and find myself in the kitchen. Coffee mug in hand, I sit at the table and peer out the window to where his car should be.

I don't want to think I feel abandoned. I feel the distance between us.

But we've always been of different worlds. Me constantly in my head--analyzing, dissecting, categorizing, creating. I sit at my easel for hours. Paint splashes across the white canvas. He's always in motion--pumping weights, jogging, swimming, kayaking. He's a ray of light bouncing around the earth.

The coffee is hot against my tongue.

How he hates my dark moods.

"You should talk with someone," he often tells me, pushing me to treatment. I know what he thinks--fix yourself, you're broken. I'm not allowed to be negative, ever. He expects me to be perpetually happy. Well, that's not normal. It's fake. He takes my sadness as a personal insult.

He proudly hangs my paintings of sunshine and sweet things, but my darker, moodier creations are relegated to my studio.

"Why did you paint that?" He asks--judging, trying to censor me. 

"You have no right," I tell him and we fight.

Did I drive him away?

It may sound odd, but I'd like to think that I was at least partially responsible. It gives me a sense of control. I'd rather believe that than...

Is someone else involved?

He's a good-looking man. I see how other women leer at him. They lick their lips like he's chocolate. Lately, I've noticed one of his students--a sweet, young thing. What's her name? Oh, yes, Lisa. I see how Lisa swallows him up with her eyes, then quickly looks away.

Where is he right now? Are they twisted together in silk sheets? Is he loving Lisa? What's the truth?

Even in my sleep-deprived state, it didn't take long to figure out that the voice was in my apartment. Was it a ghost? Was my apartment haunted? Or was it...the...necklace?


Chapter Four

Aurora hears a voice telling her a story. Where do you think the voice is coming from? Why do you think the voice has chosen Aurora?



Are you following me?






photo by ldyck

A tribute to a dear friend...

God bless the cheerleaders in our lives. Cheerleaders who go that extra mile to support our dreams.

I wrote a play for Mayne Island Little Theatre's 2014 playwriting contest. When envisioning my cast, I knew immediately who I wanted to play Kate--a role that represented Mayne Island's heart.

I knew what a talented actor Mary was. I'd seen her in several plays--including rolling with laughter as she drove backwards across the stage. 

I knew what a wise, compassionate woman Mary was. I'd been fortunate to share heartfelt conversations with her. 

I had my Kate, but would Mary accept the part?

Did she?

She brought Kate to life on stage. In Mary's capable hands, she enriched the part--supplying better lines for Kate--all the while telling people what a wonderful play I'd written. She continued to sing my praises for years after.

When introducing me to friends, she'd say, "Leanne's an author. You should have heard the wonderful play she wrote."

The only one who dropped the ball was me. On the last night, my play was to be staged, I wanted to sit beside my husband as he saw it for the first time. So I told myself that my cast didn't need my help. However, I failed to tell anyone about the secret signal the lighting manager and I had devised to ensure that Mary was lit for her final scene of the play--her address to the audience, her summation, her assurance of a happy ending. As a result, Mary didn't receive the spotlight she deserved. 

If it had been me, I would have thought, no spotlight--no dialogue. 

Not Mary.

On a dark stage, Mary delivered her lines.

On our darkest nights may we continue to hear Mary's kind, encouraging words. 

Mary Crumblehulme was Mayne Island's heart. Mary passed away on Friday, July 15. She will be dearly missed by all who knew and loved her.