Carrots (children's story) by Leanne Dyck

Mariam Horse is an avid gardener who shares what she harvests with her neighbours because she knows she always wins when she shares with friends.

photo by ldyck

Carrots

One sky-blue morning, Victoria Pig visited Mariam Horse’s garden. “My, what a fine crop of carrots you have, Mariam.”

“Yes, there’s nothing like carrots fresh out of the garden. And I have far too many.” As quickly as she could, Mariam Horse picked a basketful for Victoria Pig.

That afternoon, Lilja Squirrel visited Mariam Horse’s garden. “You sure do know how to grow carrots.”

“Would you like some?” Without waiting for an answer, Mariam Horse picked a basketful for Lilja Squirrel.

A few minutes later, Wen Rabbit visited Mariam Horse’s garden. “Wow, I sure do love carrots.”

Mariam Horse picked the remaining carrots and handed the basket to Wen Rabbit.

“I couldn’t take your last ones,” Wen Rabbit said.

“Yes, you can and will. I can always grow more,” Mariam Horse said.

Early the next day, Wen Rabbit returned Mariam Horse’s basket. She left it on the porch with a note that read, “Enjoy!” Mariam Horse looked inside and found a dozen carrot muffins.

That afternoon Lilja Squirrel returned Mariam Horse’s basket. She left it on the porch with a note that read, “For you!” Mariam Horse looked inside and found a carrot cake with creamy icing.

A few minutes later, Victoria Pig knocked on Mariam Horse’s door. “I just wanted to return your basket and as a thank you, I made you some carrot juice.” She handed a jar to Mariam Horse.

“That’s so kind of you,” Mariam Horse said. “Here, let me walk you to the gate.”

On the way to the gate, Mariam Horse led Victoria Pig passed the apple tree.

“My don’t your apples look delicious,” Victoria Pig said.

“Oh, yes, they are and I have far too many.” Mariam Horse ran to get a ladder.

On this blog in December...

Sunday, December 1

How to be a Published Author

I've been published a few times, and I'm working on being published a few more. Next Sunday, I'll try to share all I know about making that happen. Yes. Everything. (or at least most everything)

Sunday, December 8

Do You Write Every Day? (short story)

Dreams help keep me motivated. This short story was inspired by one.

Sunday, December 15 

Playing the Cello (short story)

 The cello stands in the corner, waiting to sing her song. Who will help her sing it? This short story was inspired by a friend's relationship with her cello.

Sunday, December 22

Carry Me Home (children's story)

Mitten happily rests beside his brother in the girl's pocket, but then he falls...  It's cold... It's dark... Who will help Mitten get home?

Sunday, December 24

Alone for Christmas (short story)

During this time of joy, of merriment... When we gather with friends and family, it's important to remember those who are socially isolated. 

Sunday, December 29

Holiday Office Party (short story)

 Especially for spouses, Christmas parties can be challenging. What do you say to people you barely know but who may be important to your husband's career?

Congratulations to...

Not Forgotten (short story) by Leanne Dyck

 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.

photo by ldyck

Not Forgotten

I'd see him out for a long walk on our small island. His long white hair swinging; his bare feet slapping the pavement. He always offered me a warm, "Glorious day!" and a broad smile. I quickly accepted the greeting and exchanged it for one of my own. His love of life was infectious. I looked forward to seeing him--a bright spot even on the darkest days. Because of his appearance, some may have called him a hippie, but I knew him as Gary Curlew--because he lived on Curlew Island, a tiny island that neighbours Mayne Island.

One day, I was surprised to see him in the hall, camera in hand, taking pictures of us-- amateur actors engaged in a dress rehearsal. The way he moved and held his camera he was experienced and skilled. He took a picture of each of the actors. No one was forgotten--not even me. Would I see that picture again? Where?

I did see it again, framed, contained in a plastic shopping bag and hanging on my fence. It's one of the nicest pictures of me. I look so sweet, so innocent.

photo by Gary

Did I thank him? Did I offer him money or at least a smile? I like to think I did. But, in truth, I can't recall.

(I shared this story with my husband. He assured me that I did thank Gary.)

Next Sunday...

Sunday, November 24

Carrots

A children's story about Mariam Horse and her bountiful garden.

I love this...

An Age (short memoir) by Leanne Dyck

How do you feel about growing older? Are there too many candles on your birthday cake? I wrote this for you...

"Twilight" by ldyck

An Age

25, 40, 50, 70. Everybody has their number. The hill that is too difficult to climb. The cake with too many candles.

Mine was 50, and I felt it every year. And what did I have to show for them? ...not much.

I felt like crawling under my bed and disappearing but...

I could have felt sorry for myself but what would that have accomplished? 50 was more than just a number. It demanded to be acknowledged. Could I... Could I celebrate it?

I needed help. I made a list of friends who handled their age well and told them I was turning 50. I told them I was becoming a 'wise woman' and invited them to join me at the community labyrinth. "Birthday presents aren't necessary. Please bring a word I can carry with me through the next part of my life."

The day was sun-filled. At the entrance to the labyrinth, I handed them a copy of my poem...

Mother, May I

Mother Mary

Mother Goddess

Mother Gaia

Mother, may you

Create me, hold me, transform me

From child to mother to elder

Blessed Mother

Mother Creator

Mother Nurturer

Mother, may I

Create, hold, transform

From child to mother to elder

The divine love

The power of three

We chanted as we walked.

When we reached the middle of the labyrinth, I thanked them for coming and invited them to share their words. They gave me wisdom and magic and believe and truth and...

And a simple celebration with trusted friends, helped me conquer my number; helped me see that I am blessed.

Photo by Crystal Favel

On Reaching Forty

Maya Angelou

Other acquainted years

sidle

with modest

decorum

across the scrim of toughened

tears and to a stage

planked with laughter boards

and waxed with rueful loss

But forty

with the authorized

brazenness of a uniformed

cop stomps

non-knocking

into the script

bumps a funky grind on the 

shabby curtain of youth

and delays the action

Unless you have the inborn

wisdom

and grace

and are clever enough 

to die at

thirty-nine.

Every year...

on the 11th month

on the 11th day

on the 11th hour

I will remember them.

As I meditated on Remembrance Day this year, I solemnly pledged to seek peace within myself and the world.

On this blog in November...

Sunday, November 17

Not Forgotten

A tribute for adults about a Mayne Island friend.

Sunday, November 24

Carrots

A children's story about Mariam Horse and her bountiful garden.

Sharing my author journey...

Be cautious...

Before submitting my work, I conduct thorough research on

Petal's Monster (children's story) by Leanne Dyck

As a child, I had anxiety due to PTSD. As a child, I would have benefited from reading this story—that's why I wrote it.

photo by ldyck

Petal's Monster

Petal crept into her Mom's bedroom, silently she crawled onto her Mom's bed and--.

Click. Lamplight cut through the dark.

"Not again." Mom signed. "We've been over and over this. You're a big girl. You need to sleep in your own bed."

"No, I can't. It's under my bed," Petal said.

"There's nothing there. Come with me. I'll show you." Mom picked up a flashlight and led Petal back to her room.

Mom shone the flashlight under the bed. The beam of light hit something. It moved.

Petal tugged on her Mom's arm. "The monster! We need to get out of here. Now!"

Mom bent over and scooped something up in her hand. She showed it to Petal. "See. It's just a ball of dust."

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

"I can hear it moving." Petal wrapped her arms around her mom's leg.

Mom shone the flashlight at the window. "It's a tree branch." Mom frowned. "It's late. We both need to get to sleep. Don't wake me again."

Petal crawled into her bed.

"Remember, it's nothing. Just your imagination playing tricks on you." Mom left the door open a crack. 

Petal heard Mom go down the hall and into her bedroom. She heard Mom close her door. Petal was all alone. Bravely, she pulled the covers up to her chin and squeezed her eyes closed. "It's nothing," she said, over and over again.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

Petal's eyes popped open. "Mom says you're just a tree branch, but you sound so close. Like you're under my bed."

"I'm going to get you," the monster said.

"But Mom said--."

A fluffy arm reached out from under the bed. It caught hold of Petal's pajama pant leg. It grabbed Petal's ankle. It kept pulling and pulling. "You're coming with me," the monster said, and pulled her off the b--.

Petal coiled her fingers into fists. "No, I'm not."

"You're not?"

"No, I'm not. Stop pulling me."

The monster stopped pulling.

"Let go of me."

The monster let go.

"You're not a monster."

"I'm not?"

"No, you're not. You're nothing. You're not even here."

Fizzle, snap, poof. Nothing was under her bed. The monster was gone.

All Petal saw was her fluffy teddy bear, Sunny. She picked him up and climbed back into bed.

"It's time to go to sleep," Petal told Sunny, "but don't be afraid, I'm right here."

Petal closed her eyes and fell asleep.

with Perky

I Read Canadian Day November 6th

Sharing my Author Journey...