The Sweater Curse Ch 8 by Leanne Dyck

 WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Seven: Artists were invited to our parties

photo by ldyck

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Eight

For our first date, we had planned to go to a movie at a theatre not far from my apartment. These plans changed with a text message. In brief it read, "I’ve been called in to work. Please meet me there." The message ended with directions to a café in Kitsilano, The Starving Artist.

I hopped into my car and drove. My car tires splashing puddles as I drove on that dull, grey day. I parked in front of a large colourful abstract mural that decorated the exterior of the café. I pushed it open and was immersed in a vibrant environment full of inspiration, full of colour. Artistically arranged paintings, sculptures, and pottery decorated the interior. The walls and booths were in muted tones meant to accent, not detract from the art. On stage, a harpist played, adding a touch of elegance .

I found a table and studied the menu. Soup, sandwiches, seafood, burgers, pasta—it was the usual fare. I flipped the menu over and found a black and white photo of the café as seen from the street, and under that was a brief write-up.

“The Kitsilano Artist Collective, established in 1967—” 1967 brought to mind a bunch of long-haired, marijuana-smoking hippies. “—offers established and emerging artists an opportunity to display their work at The Starving Artist. The collectively owned café employs artists both in the kitchen and on the floor. Our future plan is to expand to include a craft boutique/art gallery. We extend an invitation to local artists and artisans to join us.” The current president, Jaron Cardew, signed the write-up. Jaron? Cardew? My Jaron Cardew? Hmm. Wow. Okay. I set the menu on the table and looked around for something else to amuse me. A short, muscular, hairy man strolled slowly, deliberately over to my booth. His bright blue eyes washed over my body. He sat at my booth and slid toward me on the bench, close, tight. He penned me against the wall, and I felt his heart racing.

“Your body.” He kissed his fingertips. “I paint you nude.”

“I’m waiting for Jaron Cardew. Do you know him?”

“Jay?” He acted like I'd just slapped him.

“Yes. We’re—.”

In his haste to vacate, he knocked his knees hard against the table.

A door at the back of the cafe opened. Jay walked out and over to us.

“My friend.” He wrapped Jay in a bear hug.

“Hello, Nilos. I see you’ve met Gwen.”

“Oh, yes, your lovely lady. I must, I must go.” Nilos left quickly.

Jay reached across the table, and I leaned toward him, offering him my hand. “He wants to paint me—nude.”

“I’m not surprised. He has fine taste in women. Would you like to see some of his work?”

I snuggled up close to Jay as he led me from painting to painting. Each captured a young, pretty woman lying on a bearskin rug or draped over a chaise lounge. He wrapped them in rich backgrounds of scarlet red, pastel pinks, and crisp, clear white. After viewing his work, I realized Nilos preferred dark chocolate goddesses. With me, he seemed willing to make an exception.

The Starving Artist held an open mic night each Friday night. For our second-month anniversary, Jay entertained the café with a poem written to honour me.

“My dear, my darling Gwen,

You found me as I found you.

Now our hearts beat as one.

Each second without you is a waste.

I long to touch you.

Hold you,

Kiss you,

I’m yours.”

I was a tad embarrassed but mainly delighted.

Lulu Bell descended upon us as we sipped our espressos. Jay stood to greet her. The flamboyant Amazon wrapped him in a warm embrace.

“How’ve you been, sugar?” She marked his cheek with two bright pink lips. Then she noticed me and held me with her serene eyes. She coiled a handful of lengthy bright pink fingernails and made a clawing motion as she hissed. “Who’s this cupcake?”

“Play nice, Lulu Bell. This is my girlfriend, Gwen.”

I looked closer and noticed Lulu Bell’s Adam’s apple.

“You better treat Jai-nie baby right, or you'll be messing with me, cupcake."

Lulu Bell’s dramatic, vivid geometric paintings graced the café walls. Each sported a hefty price, which admirers were overjoyed to pay, and there were many admirers.

Jay’s friends knew he would always be there for them, night or day. The phone broke the silence of the night, waking him, waking me.

“No, don’t worry. I’ll be right there. Everything will be okay.” He hung up. “Gwen, honey, I have to leave, but I’ll be home soon.” He kissed me before he left.

Where was he going? I speculated. Had Nilos been arrested for stalking? Lulu Bell for indecent exposure? My assumptions were never confirmed or denied.

Though I asked, his only reply was, “Out helping a friend.”

“This is my girlfriend, Gwen. She’s a very talented artist.” Jay told his friends.

Was it a joke? I didn’t deserve the title. Knitting wasn’t an art. I wasn’t an artist. I didn’t belong in their world. They feigned interest. Their questions bit holes in my façade.

“What are you currently working on?”

“From where do you draw your inspiration?”

“Where may I view your collection?”

“May I read your artist’s statement?” All of their questions were carefully chosen to magnify the bizarre notion that I was an artist. I didn’t belong, and they all knew it. They tolerated me—because I was Jay’s girlfriend. How long would our relationship last?

Sunday, December 14 at approximately 4:40 PM PT

The Sweater Curse

Chapter nine

My conversation with Cleo should have clued me in to the disaster to follow, but no. Foolishly, I followed through with my plan.

photo by ldyck

I was out on a walk with my dog—on Spinnark Drive, Mayne Island—when this striking work of art made me pause. I had to capture it. I had to share it with you.

Sharing my author journey...

Are you inspired by the fading of the year?

The Sweater Curse Ch 7 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Six: I was finally on my own. Yahoo! I could now claim the career path to which students with my eclectic education were entitled...

photo by ldyck

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Seven

    Artists were invited to our parties—sometimes a musician, sometimes a writer.

    The cardinal rule was: Look, but don’t touch. It was understood they were entertainment, not our peers, though perhaps our toys. There was a hierarchy, and thanks to Mother, I was a member of the upper-middle class. The artists were beneath me, beneath us.

    One by one, party after party, the artists came. They fell all over themselves for the attention. Instinctively, they knew their place. They entertained us with their tricks. Mixed and mingled, then left promptly before we, the elite, grew bored with their presence.

    Theirs was a strange existence. Devoted to pursuing what was taught to children, their work was called a hobby by most, not a profession.

    Into this scene, a new artist strode. His head held high, shoulders back. Why all the confidence? Who was he? Was his art somehow nobler than the rest?

    The host introduced him. “This is Jaron Cardew, novelist.”

     A novelist? Worse, he was a self-published fiction author.

    He wore a cheap “suit”—black jeans, a blue shirt, and a black suit jacket. It wasn’t appropriate attire for such a gala. We forgave him; we thought it was the best he could do.

    We waited to judge his work. Was it worthy of our time, our effort to listen?

    Jaron began his pitch with a joke. Something like, “Who still reads books? Guess you do, eh?”

    There was a spattering of pitty snickers.

    He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket, unfolded it, and read. As he continued to read, the room fell silent—no talking, not even a whisper.

Worlds Between

Who was he?

His hair needed a cut, and his face a shave. His clothes were worn. Regardless, wealth surrounded him—kings and queens, mansions and castles.

What was he doing there? Was he a thief?

They observed him and realized, to their surprise, his focus wasn’t on their wealth.

His secret: he possessed a gift their riches could never buy. This gift made acquisition of their tangible wealth unworthy of him. Magic poured forth from his fingertips. He conjured prose and verse. He transformed ink and paper into mystical visions. These creations were portals through which they could glimpse his exotic world. How they longed to remain there forever. They, however, could only visit, and only if he guided them.

    Victorious, Jay drank from his wine glass. He knew we were captivated. “Want to hear more?” It was obvious that we did, but he simply refolded the paper and slipped it back into his pocket. “Well, then, give me money so I can write.”

    It was crude, but effective. Many wrote him cheques; others gave him cash. They were charmed, as was I.

    My dress, knit from a bamboo blend, hugged my curves. It was like hanging a billboard around my neck—this piece of meat is fresh.  I snapped my fingers, and every man in the room jumped, but Jay. He continued to talk with a blue-haired old lady. Yeah, well... Not! I pranced over to him. 

    The old lady was in the middle of some boring monologue.

    I didn't have the time. "I enjoyed listening to your story."

    He spoke to the old lady. 

    I spoke louder, "I'd love to hear more, see more of you." 

    That had the desired effect. He looked at me. I grinned and licked my lips. I knew he had heard everything I had to say, and yet...

    "I'm glad you enjoyed my story," he said in an offhanded way, like he was talking to his kid sister. 

    “Your story had a clear message."

    "Oh, really? What was that?"

    "You wrote it."

    "And you listened. What did you hear?"

    “You think our society undervalues artists,” I offered. “And you think this is an unfair judgment.”

    “And what do you think?"

    “I think your assessment is accurate.”

    Conversation flowed easily between us. We talked about what mattered—politics, economics, media, and societal concerns, such as poverty and homelessness. “Your dress is beautiful." So he had noticed it. "Where did you get it?”

    "I... It's m... Hmm."

    “How long have you been a designer?” 

    Me? A designer? I froze. Here, in this place, it was like he was accusing me of a grave social faux pas. But... His words had held no sting. And... my bedroom was full of handknits—closet and bureau. My purse contained car keys, a wallet, lipstick, eye shadow, and a small sketchpad half-full of design ideas. I didn't know when inspiration would strike and wanted to be ready to catch it when it did. But...was...I...a Yes, I was a designer. I just hadn't recognized it. Yet, this man I just met saw me for who I truly was. 

    “I would be happy to show you my collection.”

    “I'm eager to see it."

    "Where are you parked?"

    "I took the bus," he told me.

    And so I drove him home.

    "Just this way." I purred, ushering him into my bedroom. Thankfully, I'd remembered to make my bed and pick up my dirty laundry.

    He eased onto the end of my bed. Like a panther, I prowled up to him. He was my prey, and I was hungry. I--. 

    He gently grabbed my wrist, stopping me. “I came to see your designs.”

    He had some nerve. No man had ever refused my advances before. Haughtily, I threw open my closet doors and pulled open my dresser drawers. 

    He listened attentively and asked questions that revealed a genuine interest. 

    I pointed out details, taking pride in my creativity. “I used seed stitch accenting here. It’s my favourite stitch pattern. It’s so easy, but it can make a dramatic effect.”

    He listened attentively and asked questions that revealed a genuine interest. That just didn't sit well with me. He was so sweet, so encouraging. I thought the least I could do was be honest. “I’m not really a designer, and this isn’t really a collection. I get all these ideas for things to make, so I knit them."

    Then he said an astonishing thing. "Natural talent is what's important, and you're gifted with an abundance of it."

    His words were all I had ever hoped for: someone to believe in me. I felt exposed, vulnerable. Losing control, I began to sob. He comforted me. He held me in his strong arms, stroked my hair, let me cry. Not all guys can deal with emotions, but Jay could.

    I found a home in his arms. I found passion in his lips.

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Eight

The message ended with directions to a café in Kitsilano, The Starving Artist.

Tea Time

In the 1920s, my paternal grandfather opened a dry goods and tea room in my hometown—Eriksdale, Manitoba. My maternal grandmother excelled in all things domestic—including

The Sweater Curse Ch 6 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Five: As I drifted from household to household, I brought my knitting needles

photo by ldyck

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Six

    I was finally on my own. Yahoo! I could now claim the career path to which students with my eclectic education were entitled—teaching English in Japan, shepherding in Iceland, and guiding tourists in Greece. All I need do was learn Nihongo, Icelandic, or Greek. I wasn't interested in further study. Instead, I began my illustrious career in retail. 

    A rapidly aging bottled blonde pulled a pair of jeans off the rack. She wasn't only trying to deceive others but also herself. The image of her squeezing her blubber into those jeans made me want to—. I bit my tongue. “These jeans are sized rather small.” I offered her a size sixteen.

    “Do you think I’m fat? I’m a size eight. I’ve always been a size eight.”

    She was angry. She was also my boss’s mother-in-law. This I learnt immediately before I was told to find a new job. I found one in a local bar. There, old winos fondled me while I served them more alcohol. I kept my job until I arrested one advance by kicking an old guy right where it would hurt him the most. Yeah, my life was a thrill a minute.

    I’m just not cut out to deal with the public, I thought, and found a position as a personal assistant. It was a good job until I discovered what a jerk my boss was. He wanted me to suck up for a wage. I was pretty and smart, a fact he couldn’t handle. When I was forced to point out his idiocy, he didn’t appreciate my honesty.

    “You’re fired,” he snapped, and I began looking for yet another job.

    I’d been paid in quarters, but I had million-dollar tastes. My solution was frequent visits to the gated community of my youth. Elevating me to this socioeconomic status was the one useful gift Mother imparted to me.

    “Welcome home,” they cheered, and the champagne flowed.

    I floated into these parties, knowing I could have anyone I wanted. Men were drawn to me like cat hair to black yarn.

    “Hey, sexy. You’re looking hot tonight.” They smiled. I tried not to notice the drool.

    I selected the charismatic and the intriguing, not always the richest. Their age and marital status weren’t important. I happily overlooked the grooved ring fingers, the wedding photos. In fact, it was a relief. It meant they didn’t hear the wedding march each time they looked at me.

    The wives, however, didn’t share my joy.

    “He’s my man. Get your grubby paws off him,” they hissed at me, venom dripping from their fangs.

    I knew how to play because they had introduced me to the game. I followed the rules they had taught. But when I played with their men, they took it personally. They insisted that I stop, but I couldn’t. I enjoyed the game too much. Unable to stop me, they tried steering me in a different direction. “He’s Matthew Brown,” my hostess, the wife of Judge Reginald Masterson, whispered in my ear as I watched a handsome brunette. “A hardworking corporate lawyer on his way to making partner.”

    “Oh, juicy.” I couldn’t hide it—I was interested.

    I don’t know what happened. Did she give him the signal? Whatever it was, he was suddenly there, beside me, drink in hand.

    “Hi, I’m Matthew.” He didn't look me in the eye. He was far more interested in my other body parts.

    “I’m Gwen.” And the rest of me is up here, I was tempted to point out.

    “Nice to meet you, Gwen.” He told my body.

    “You’re a corporate lawyer.”

    “Oh, yes, honey, but let’s not pretend you’d be able to understand anything about my career. Let’s pick a topic you’ll enjoy, like… I don’t know… What soap opera do you watch? I hate to see you go, but...” 

    He wasn't original, but he was determined. He showered me with luxurious gifts—furs, jewellery, furniture, cars. When I milked him dry, I moved on to Devin and Stephen and Philip and... There was no end to the guys who thought they could do what others couldn't—trap me permanently. 

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Seven

Artists were invited to our parties.

While on a walk with my dog Abby, we turned onto Dalton Street and reached the ferry terminal parking lot. I looked right and feasted my eyes on this beautiful billboard...

photo by ldyck

My favourite show...

The Sweater Curse Ch 5 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Four: She didn't mourn. She moved on.

photo by ldyck

(the rock art was still standing after this photo was taken.)

 Chapter Five

In 2002, after I completed the eighth grade, Mother moved us from Manitoba to BC.

Our new home was a gated community. We, the advantaged, were protected behind tall walls. Except for ours, they were all male-led households. The men were doctors, lawyers, corporate executives, and engineers. They were all successful professionals whose occupations allowed them the privilege of minimal family involvement. Domestics minded the mundane so those left at home could indulge. The abandoned wives amused themselves by painting their nails, sunbathing, and engaging in extramarital affairs. The neglected children experimented with fast cars, narcotics, and sex.

I divorced my family and squeezed myself into other households. Sometimes I stayed in a guest bedroom with its colour TV and walk-in closet. Others offered their pool house. I never stayed longer than three weeks. There was no need; I was constantly offered invitations.

“You can do what you want to do. Say what you want to say. Go wherever you want to go. You’re so cool.” My peers admired my independence.

Their mothers took me under their wings. They taught me how to walk in high heels, apply makeup, mix a martini, and seduce a man. “Remember, dear, don’t give in too quickly. Make him fight for it, and he’ll be putty in your hands. Keep him interested by giving him a little taste of what he’ll want more of. Make him drool long and dream of you.”

 As I drifted from household to household, I brought my knitting needles—like a two-year-old drags a blankie or a Catholic carries rosary beads. This was a tumultuous time, and the local yarn shop became my oasis. I stepped over the threshold and entered a world of directed meditation. I was drawn to shades and hues of every description—lipstick lava, Chinatown apple, gothic rose, potting soil, grape jelly, porcelain green, sea foam, tea rose, pumpkin, lullaby purple, maple sugar, lemon peel, cinder, birch, baton rouge. I cradled the skeins in my hands, and their textures—from coarse to fuzzy to silky—seduced me.

Yes, I built my stash, but I didn’t purchase a single pattern. Why would I follow someone else’s rules? I was a rebel.

I knit wool sweaters in the winter, cotton tops in the summer. I used novelty yarn to accent the collar and cuffs of one design and created a Chanel-inspired cardigan. It received compliments each time I wore it. I gained notoriety as a fashionista.

“Your sweaters are so beautiful, dear. I would like you to knit me one,” a middle-aged woman, one of the mothers, requested. She grinned as if she were doing me a favour.

 “Ah, no. I only knit for myself,” I informed her and everyone who inquired.

“Could you teach me to knit?” one of my classmates asked.

“You? If you think you can learn, I’ll teach you.” Using bulky yarn and size ten needles, I cast on twelve stitches. “This is one of the two basic stitch patterns,” I explained.

“Two stitch patterns? Just two?”

“Knit and purl. This is the knit, or garter, stitch. Watch closely.” I worked one row very slowly.

“Ah, that's easy.”

“It is easy. If you learn it and the purl stitch, you’ll be able to make anything you want,” I promised.

I began to knit faster and faster; the yarn flew.

“When can I try?”

“How about now?” I finished the row and handed her the needles.

 “What do I do?”

“Weren’t you watching?” I asked sternly. “Put the needle in your right hand into the loop, wrap the yarn around, and then pull the old stitch off. Not like that. What’s wrong? I thought you said it looked easy.”

“It did look easy when you were doing it, but it’s not easy for me. I can’t seem to… I’m having trouble… This is impossible.”

“Fine, then don’t learn. It doesn’t matter to me.”

 "No, I'll try harder,” she promised, but the yarn was soon a tangled mess.

I had very little patience with ineptitude and soon abandoned her. Still the requests kept coming. Teach me to knit… Teach me to knit… It was nauseating.

Anyway...

After my dad died, my official address remained unchanged. My school and other governing bodies believed I still cohabited with Mother. They didn’t know about our severed relationship. Periodically, I would visit my old residence when I knew she wasn’t there. I didn’t break in. I had a key. An envelope waited for me there on the kitchen table. It held a lump of bills and a note. I rolled the unread note into a joint. It relaxed me to see “Love, Mother” go up in flames as I puffed. I would suck in Mary Jane’s sweet breath and poke it out on Mother’s curtains, walls, and rugs. Just one of the many ways I would let her know I still cared.

During a clandestine visit, Mother and Grandpapa trapped me. It still hurts to think those two were able to outsmart me.

They had a message, which Mother delivered as Grandpapa glared. “We’ve allowed you to muddle through to the eleventh grade, but this is where the muddling ends.”

I don’t know what they were worried about. I was going to school—at least twice a week. I was late—but there.

“We’re going to talk some sense into you.”

Sense? Those two wouldn’t know sense, even if it bit them on the ass.

“We’re not going to allow you to waste your life. McNamaras are university graduates. Pillars of society.”

 I’m a Bjarnson, not a McNamara! I wanted to scream, but didn’t. Why light a fire? They were already boiling.

“Improve your grades and enroll in university.”

What could I do? I needed Mother’s cash donations. I matriculated, but not into med school. I wasted a few years wandering from program to program seeking fun. I found cute guys and wild parties. Inevitably, I dropped out.

Mother and Grandpapa were ecstatic. She celebrated by moving and not giving me her new address. He stopped leaving curt voicemail messages. In fact, I never heard from him again. I periodically heard about him when I watched the news. Former doctor, now affluent businessman, supported this charity or was honoured and given this award. I was tempted to phone or send a note of congratulations. Yeah, right, just as soon as I stopped buying yarn.

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Six

I was finally on my own. Yahoo! I could finally claim the career path to which students with my eclectic education were entitled...

November 17

The Giller prize winner announced

This year's shortlist...

We Love You, Bunny by Mona Awad, published by Scribner Canada

The Tiger and the Cosmonaut by Eddy Boudel Tan, published by Viking Canada

The Paris Express by Emma Donoghue, published by Harper Avenue

The Life Cycle of the Common Octopus by Emma Knight, published by Viking Canada

Pick a Colour by Souvankham Thammavongsa, published by Knopf Canada

Learn about the Finalists

November 19

CBC Poetry Prize winner announced

shortlist

Last Sunday (November 9th), my husband took me on Mayne Island's studio tour. A highlight was our visit to Ravendale Farm, where I found this beautiful display of knitting...

photo by ldyck

Who won?...

The Sweater Curse Ch 4 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Three: Is reuniting with Mother the task I must perform?

photo by ldyck

Chapter Four

    I examine my surroundings and realize I’m in a lecture hall. All the students are draped over their desks as if they want to get as close as possible to the lecturer. Who has captured their attention?

    Though time has changed her, I would recognize her anywhere. Mother.

    Blah, blah, blah. On she drones, but the young minds sucked it up like sweet honey.

    Now she’s at the bedside of an elderly woman. Starry-eyed, her patient rests easy in her care.

    Accompanying her from one adoring patient to another is a small clutch of students. They hang on her every word.

    I follow Mother down a long corridor to her sterile office. There waiting for her is a pile of paperwork. She attacks the mound—document after document.

    I didn’t notice it before, but there’s a ring on her finger. How did I overlook it? The diamond is enormous. I guess she’s remarried.

    I scan the room and am immediately drawn to a group of photographs decorating a feature wall. There’s one of Mother and her latest victim on their wedding day. It’s a garden shot. The ancient bride and groom have turned to face each other. He towers over her. They look like a couple of sideshow freaks. I wonder if it’s just for the camera, or if they truly mean all they are saying with their eyes.

    The other pictures feature three women as they graduate from university, then marry. The final photo is larger than the rest and includes the entire family. The subjects range in age from toddler to senior. Everyone is carefully arranged on a large wooden deck of a summer cabin. Front and center are Mother and the poor old guy. Clearly Mother is now reaping the benefit of another mother’s devotion.

    Someone knocks.

    “Yes,” Mother calls without looking up from her paperwork.

    The door opens a crack, and a youngish woman fills the gap. “Excuse me, Ms. McNamara. I don’t know if you remember me, but—” 

    Mother beams at the woman. “Of course, I do. Well, hello…”

    “I was one of your students,” the woman supplies. “Joy—” 

    “Of course, Joyce Givings.”

    “Bridgeweight.”

    “Of course, Joyce Bridgeweight.”

    “Well, Lam now.”

    “Class of ’99.”

    “2007,” Joyce corrects yet again.

    It’s clear Mother doesn’t remember this woman.

    “Joyce. Please, do come in.”

    Firmly, in one hand, Joyce grips a baby carrier.

    Mother peeks in. “Who’s this?”

    “This is Hannah.”

    Mother pats a chubby little hand. “Well, hello, Hannah.”

    Baby Hannah responds with a yawn. Apparently, Mother’s charms do have their limits.

    “I named her after you.”

    “Well, I’m… I’m honoured.”

    My visit isn’t over. Mother slips into the leather driver seat of a red convertible Mustang. It’s a cloudless autumn day; she drives with the top down. The car turns onto a long driveway. At the end of this tree-lined lane stands an architect’s masterpiece. The house—should I call it a mansion—dominates the land.

    Young elementary-aged children—three boys and four girls—run all over the manicured lawn. The appearance of the car gives their running direction. “Grandma Hannah,” they cheer.

    Car parked and vacated, she bends to greet the children, and they run into her arms. There's much smiling and even giggling. 

    Merrily, the group parades into the house.

    “Grandma’s home, Grandma’s home,” the children sing to a gaggle of adults.

    One of the adults—the poor, old guy, her new husband—is the first to greet her. “Welcome home, darling. I missed you.” He wears a buttoned-down, baby-blue shirt and beige trousers. His hair is snow-white, and he sports a well-groomed mustache. He draws her close, and they share a kiss.

    “Oh, you two are such lovebirds,” one of the younger women coos.

    Oh, look! She’s pregnant.

    Mother rubs the swollen tummy. “How are you feeling, dear?”

    “Oh, much better. Thank you for your advice.”

    They share a smile.

    Oh, how sweet. I’ve seen enough.

    Mother appears to have changed. She’s mellowed, retracted her claws, and no longer sharpens her fangs by gnawing on young flesh. Her life is full, happy, successful. Well, hurray for her. It makes me sick.

    There isn’t a scrap of evidence of Dad’s and my existence. No pictures in her office or anywhere in her house. I wonder if she’s ever even uttered our names. Does she even think about us? She didn’t mourn. She moved on.

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Five

As I drifted from household to household, I brought my knitting needles...

November 

11 Remembrance Day

13 Atwood Gibson Writers' Trust Fiction Prize

World Kindness Day: "Spread the warmth..."

My week...

New on Mayne Island—at least to me.

While walking with my dog down Dalton Bay Road on Mayne Island, I found...

Scroll down for a closer look...