Ghosted (short story) by Leanne Dyck

 I believe in ghosts. Here's why...

"A Halloween ghost story that makes you feel warm."

-Linda 

"Ghostly Mount Baker" photo by ldyck

Ghosted

In the mid-90s, when I was a newlywed, I decided to return to school while still working full-time. This decision meant I spent many hours alone in my study--slumped over textbooks. My studying was only occasionally interrupted by my husband.

One evening, as I was tangled up in a complex passage, I was surprised to feel a warm presence. My husband? I looked up and over at the door. He wasn't there. The presence remained.

Back to the text...

Something struck my eardrum. Listening closely, I heard, "Elsken..." My grandma Olafson? It couldn't be. She was three provinces away in a Manitoba nursing home. My mind was playing a trick on me.

Back to my studying...

"Elsken." My grandma was standing right behind me. "Don't worry." I felt her hand on my shoulder. "Everything will be okay."

The phone rang from the kitchen. "I'm so sorry," My husband's voice drifted down the hall and into my study. "No, it's okay, I'll tell her."

I heard his footsteps. "Leanne?" He entered the room. "Leanne, I have some bad news."

I fought through my tears. "Grandma passed away."

"Yes, but how did you..."

"She was here. She said goodbye."

November on this blog...

photo by ldyck

November begins with a book review and continues with a serialized story. 

Book Review: Rouge by Mona Awad (horror)

"No one knows what's inside grief." (p. 361)

 

Born to an Egyptian father and a French-Canadian mother Mirabelle Nour was raised in Quebec, Canada. At fourteen, she joined her mother in California, USA. She grew up believing that her father's dark features had made her ugly while her mother's red hair and delicate features made her mother beautiful. 

When Mirabelle's sixty-something mother Noelle Des Jardins unexpectedly dies, thirty-something Mirabelle must fly from her home in the Plateau area of Montreal to her mother's home in La Jolla, California and deal with her grief and her mother's legacy (all those many bottles and jars of beauty products).

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall/Who in this land is fairest of all"

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, Little Snow-White

"'Beauty...is a mystery... Here one day, then poof. Gone. Smoke and mirrors.'"

Mona Awad, Rouge

Rouge

Mona Awad

(literary fiction, fantasy, horror)

Hamish Hamilton

an imprint of Penguin Canada

a division of Penguin Random House Canada

2023

369 pages

Rouge by Mona Awad is a many-layered novel.

Rouge is literary fiction...

In Rouge, Mona Awad explains women's reliance on beauty products. To gain social status, women must meet society's standards for beauty. When a woman falls short of these standards, she must hide her flaws with beauty products. To maintain social status, aging women must rely on beauty products.

Rouge is horror...

Did Noelle fall from the cliff to the beach below, or was she pushed? And if she was pushed by who and why? Did something, someone, take possession of her in those final hours? If so, is Mirabelle in danger?

Rouge has elements of magical realism...

Mysterious shiny red shoes take control of those who wear them.

Giant red jellyfish that...

Mirrors that... 

No, I have to stop. There are no spoilers in this review. 

Rouge is an attractive, captivating read--from the fairy-tale-like prologue to the enchanting last paragraph.

Reviews of other books by Mona Awad...

13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl

Bunny

"Autumn magic" photo by ldyck

On this Blog in October...

I'll Fly Away by Leanne Dyck (short story)

 ...because senior citizens deserve happy-ever-after endings too.

"Forest tunnel" photo by ldyck

I'll Fly Away

Once upon a time, there was a woman who lived with her husband in his village in Manitoba.

She admired her husband for being determined, capable, clever.

He told her, "What is wrong with you?" and "Why can't you ever learn?" and "You make me so frustrated!" and "Talking to you is like talking to a brick wall!" and "You're so stu-pid!" Sometimes he would scream, "Stu-pid!"

At night, he would make room for her on his bed. When he required it, he expected her to please him. But when he was tired, he wanted to be left alone.

He wanted her to cook his meals, clean his house, mind his children. 

If he needed a laugh, he laughed at her--all her many flaws. The time she burnt the roast. The many times she served supper late. How many times she'd lost her hairbrush, the car keys, her wallet. The appalling state she kept the house. How his poor children had to learn, too early, to fend for themselves because she wasn't capable. Oh how he would roar with laughter, "You're useless. I'm a saint for putting up with you all these years. Without me where would you be?"

And she knew where. She knew how much she needed him to do for her. And because she needed to she told herself that this reliance on him was love. She loved him. And he...? He kept her fed; he kept her clothed; he kept a roof over her head. This was a type of love. Wasn't it?

She pretended she was loved. She pretended she was happy. Year after year after year.

Until...

He had a stroke. 

This was her chance for freedom. Other wives would have put him in assisted living. They would have walked away and no one would have blamed them. 

She dreamed about doing just that. She dreamed about it but those dreams always turned into nightmares.

What would people think about her? What would people say?

She knew too well what they would say, "He put up with all her strange ways for years and now when he needs her, what does she do? She puts him into an institution."

That's what they would say and she couldn't have that. So she did what she always had done. She tried to live up to expectations. She tried to love him. And he... He was as demanding, as critical, as cruel, as he always had been. Nothing had changed. She continued to endure day after day. That was her life. It was the same life except that he wasn't nearly as clever or as capable as he had been. The stroke had robbed him, had left him dependent. It had left him dependent on her. She had to step up--for both their sakes. She had to step up but do it in a gentle, kind way. She couldn't, wouldn't make him feel small because she knew how that felt and she couldn't inflict that on anyone.

They lived like that until...

He died.

She was sad. She grieved. Of course, she did. All those years, she'd told herself she loved him and she had grown to believe it. And in his way, she knew he'd loved her too. Her life partner had died and part of her had died with him.

Now people told her, "You're seventy-years-old. Your life is over. They'll take care of you in the old folks home. That's where you belong."

But she knew they were wrong. She knew they were because she hadn't lived yet. And oh how she wanted to live. 

She'd carried a secret within her for many years. It buoyed her up when she was so low down that she was dragging her belly on the floor. She dreamed of flight. She dreamed of spreading her wings and flying away. She dreamed of leaving the icy cold existence she'd endured in this place... In this place where she'd always let what everyone thought rule her. She dreamed about flying off to somewhere so warm, somewhere so beautiful. "I'm moving to BC," she started telling people.

But they told her, "Don't be silly. You can't do that. You'll be all alone. No one will know you there. Who will take care of you?"

But it was her dream and she wasn't going to let anyone take it from her. So at seventy years old, she did fly away. She flew all the way to BC. 

Day by day, she learned what she could do by and for herself. 

The people she met in BC told her, "You're so kind" and "You're so caring" and "You're so creative" and "You're so determined" and "I admire your positivity." They gave her compassion, acceptance, understanding. They empowered her. 

And so she learned to love herself. And she lived happily ever after. 

*Written on September 27, 2023

"Autumn magic" photo by ldyck

On this Blog in October...

Great Aunt Margaret's Knitting (short story) by Leanne Dyck

Why did Great Aunt Margaret knit an ugly sweater?

Do you have an ugly sweater? Where did you get it? Did a knitter knit it for you?

"A zucchini--weird?" photo by ldyck

Great Aunt Margaret's Knitting

Andrew was playing a first-person shooter computer game in his bedroom before the knock on his door. After the knock, he permitted his mother to enter and swivelled in his chair to face her.

She was carrying a sweater. And oh what a sweater she was carrying. The arms were too long. The body is too short. The neck is too wide. The stripes were knit in eye-popping, headache-inducing colour combinations. "I found this in the charity box. Don't you want it?"

“That? Hmm. Really, you have to ask?”

"Do you remember who knit it for you?"

"Great Aunt Margaret," they said together.

Great Aunt Margaret was legendary. She’d never married and didn’t have children. Retirement had granted her wings to fly around solving what she viewed as her family problems.

Great Aunt Margaret had appeared on their doorstep mere weeks after Andrew’s dad had left them.

“I didn’t exactly welcome her in our lives,” Andrew said. “I didn’t think it was any of her business, but she thought it was. She bulldozed her way in. Before I knew it she had me dusting walls, beating rugs. She had me doing all that while she... While she knit that sweater. And you... You made me wear it.”

“You looked so cute in it.”

“Sure...”

“It made her so happy to see you wearing it.”

"Yeah, I know. Too happy. I think she knit that thing on purpose. I think it was all part of her master plan," Andrew said with a twinkle in his eye.

They burst out laughing.

Only Great Aunt Margaret knew that they were all in on the joke. And she’d taken that knowledge to her grave.

  I wrote this short story. Then I read The Spoon Stealer. Then I revised the story, and it became this... I think Great Aunt Margaret's Knitting is a much better story. What do you think?

Happy Anniversary! On October 10, 2010, I created this blog. From those humble beginnings, good things grew--with your help. Thank you for reading and sharing my writing. I can't continue blogging without you.

"Autumn magic" photo by ldyck

On this Blog in October...

An Ancient Tune (short story) by Leanne Dyck

How do you rise above adversity? Do you believe in happy endings?

photo by ldyck

An Ancient Tune

A benevolent royal family had reigned over the small island nation for centuries but one night rebel forces stormed the castle. The next day in Market Square, the horrified subjects watched as first their beloved king and then the entire royal family were beheaded. Blood stained the cobblestones.

Overcome by fear, the people shrived in the dark as the oppressive dictator drunk with power built shrines to his ego. They clung together comforted by one hope. Rumour held that the royal family wasn't dead. A child, the youngest son, had escaped sailing over the sea, safely, to a foreign land.

"Have faith," the people whispered in the dark, "He will return to us."

They had shared this hope for over forty years.

Yesterday, word had quickly spread that the ailing dictator had finally died. His regime was over.

The people gathered in Market Square under an ocean of blue sky. In the centre of the square, a teenage girl placed her violin case on the cobblestones. Feeling fearful, the dictator had treated entertainers harshly—seeing them as a threat, she pulled her bow tentatively over the strings, but she saw no soldiers rushing her, heard no commands to stop, so she began to play an ancient tune her grandfather had taught her. She was joined by another violinist and another and another. Soon an orchestra of strings filled the square with music. Nearby, an old man started to sing—accompanying the tune. It had been so long since their lives had been filled with such joyful sounds that the people stopped immediately to listen.

In a far corner of the square, a twenty-something woman in faded jeans and a souvenir tee stepped onto a small wooden box.

My dad worked hard. This I knew. This I could see.

 

A few people listened—out of a sense of hospitality, rather than any real interest. By her dress, they knew she was a tourist.

His navy overalls had two black stains on the knees and I wondered, did he kneel in dirt? His overalls smelled of rot. But he never slouched or grunted like the other fathers. he always carried himself proudly, with an air of nobility.

More people joined the small crowd that had gathered around her.

Though he had the long, slender fingers of a pianist, they were covered by small cuts.

After work, he spent what seemed like hours scrubbing his hands. But when he was done, it was time to play. He'd cross his legs and stick out a foot. I'd climb on and he would bounce me up and down.

"You are a prince riding a coal-black stallion," he told me—in his thick accent.

Where there had been no more than ten people listening, there were now twenty.

He served me tea in little cups. "One cube of square or two, my lady?" He'd ask.

At bedtime, he'd spin yarns so grand about a little prince disguised in rags.

The old man stopped singing and joined the crowd.

Our neighbours would cut through my dreams with their yelling, roaring car engines, and loud music, but my bedtime stories were always about the little prince.

Her voice filled the square.

I never dreamed my dad was reminiscing about his boyhood on this beautiful island. I never dreamed that he was a member of your royal family. But before he...

Her voice choked.

My dad told me... It took all his strength, but he told me.

She straightened her back and held her head high.

I am your queen.

And, oh, how the people cheered.

"Autumn magic" photo by ldyck

On this Blog in October...