It Was Nothing (short story) by Leanne Dyck

Petal's mother insists she sleep in her own bed like a big girl and then... 

I wrote this short story to increase the understanding of children with anxiety (I was one of those children).

It Was Nothing

In pink flannel footie pajamas, Petal crept onto her mother’s bed, eased back the covers, and curled up. 

Click. 

The lamplight cut the darkness. 

“What’s the matter, Honey?” her mother asked.

“I want to… I want to sleep with you.”

“Oh, Petal, we’ve been over and over this. You’re a big girl. You have your own room.”

“No, I can’t. It’s under my bed.”

“I’m sure there’s nothing there, but I’ll go with you, and we’ll look.”

Armed with a flashlight, Petal's mom led Petal back into her bedroom.  

Petal prayed silently for protection as her mother scanned the area under her bed.

The beam of light hit something. It moved. 

“There. It’s there. It’s right there.” Petal covered her eyes.

“Open your eyes. It's nothing.” Petal's mom held something in her cupped hand. Petal stared at the dust bunny.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

“What? What’s that?” Petal wrapped her arms around her mother’s leg.

The flashlight’s beam fell on the window. “It's just a tree branch hitting the window.” Her mother frowned. “Now, please, it’s late. We both need to get to sleep." 

Reluctantly, Petal crawled into her bed. 

Petal's mom left the door open a crack.  "Now, don't wake me again!"

Clutching her teddy bear, Petal laid her head on her pillow, pulled the covers up to her chin, and forced her eyes shut. It’s nothing. It’s nothing.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

"Mommy says you're just a tree branch. But you sound so close. Like you’re under my bed."

“I’m going to get you.” 

"Mommy says you’re nothing—just my imagination. But I can hear you breathing, talking, waiting."

A furry, brown arm reached out from under the bed.

The next morning, Petal’s mom called, “It’s breakfast time.” 

Walking into the bedroom, Petal's mom flicked on the light. Petal wasn’t asleep on her bed. She wasn’t in the bathroom, living room, or outside playing on the lawn. She was gone. 

Barely breathing, hoping, and praying, Petal's mom returned to Petal's bedroom, but all she saw was the abandoned teddy bear. Her face wet with tears, she cradled the toy in her arms. “But it was nothing.”

A Love Letter (short story) by Leanne Dyck

A Love Letter

We have always had a special relationship. When we meet you woed me with your clever tricks. You were never the same way twice. Sometimes your "b" looked like a "d". Sometimes your "p" looked like a "q". I was surprised to hear that you didn't entertain everyone in this manner.

Later our relationship grew and I learnt that you could be collected into a group. I was informed that this group was read as a word.

Ah, how your words danced before your eyes. Sometimes "w-a-s" danced. How it waltzed. How it jigged. How it jived. Watch it now as it twists into "s-a-w". Amazing! Thrilling! Yet you only danced for me.

Your behavior does make our relationship challenging.

Words dance before my eyes...unclaimed. Sometimes I am forced to guess at your intent. You are always a puzzle, a surprise. You intrigue me. You entertain me. You embarrass me.

Do you remember the time I was reading you to a group of children? I thought we were having a merry old time until one of the children stopped me. It seems you had fooled me yet again but you hadn't fooled the child. Never mind, it was long ago, and I have forgiven you.

It doesn't matter to me that your relationship with others is easier and more harmonious. 

My passion for you grows stronger every day.

About this story...

For many years I felt that dyslexia was an obstacle I had to overcome in order to become an author. In fact, I used it to keep myself in a comfortable nest. Safe and warm, I had an excuse not to shot for the stars--not to attempt to become an author.

But the wind blew and my nest rocked when I heard of authors such as Jules Verne and Agatha Christie. They didn't let dyslexia stop them, I was forced to realize.

And, then, I lost every last twig from my nest when I watched a documentary called Journey into Dyslexia. I sat transfixed as those interviewed helped me see some common misconceptions regarding dyslexia. The major one being that it is a limitation.

Dyslexics are driven to create. Our inner lives are deep pools of inspiration. Now I'm beginning to value my mind for the amazing tool it is.

***

Work in progress

I'm on a little bit of a high this week. My clever muse has led me down a path that is so brilliant. I can't wait to share it with you. In fact, if I could you know I would. But, sadly, we all must wait. But know this, I'm having tons of fun writing.

Word count:  22, 162 words

***

Next post:  There will be no guest post this Friday. I will be away from my computer.

Where will I be?

I could be at Arleen Pare's book reading

'On Friday, August 17th from 4:00 - 5:00 p.m. Arleen Pare will be reading from her new book Leaving Now. Leaving Now is a beautifully written story of a young mother who must leave her two sons to follow her heart.' (quoted from the MayneLiner)

I could be at the Mayne Island Fall Fair

Who wouldn't be? It's tons of fun.
Go to the Mayne News blog, for more info. Scroll down to '87th Annual Mayne Island Fall Fair'

I could be here Writers' Festival -in my dreams, I am. : )
'August 16 - 19, 2012 -- Sechelt, BC
Join Canada's longest running summer gathering of Canadian writers and readers' (quote from their web site)

But where will I be? 

There lies the mystery.

I will be back:  Monday, August 20th

How I write by Leanne Dyck

(photo taken by Byron Dyck)

I think one of the best pieces of advice I’ve received regarding creating is to remain open to inspiration. On Monday, my friend and artist Terrill Welch wrote a blog post she entitled:  Sold! Art and other adventures... After recounting her full-time painting and photography adventure since March 17, 2010, she asked, what is your personnel practice when engaging on a new creative learning curve?

I set out to write a reply but discovered I was writing a blog post. Here it is…

Thank you for the wonderful account of your adventure—in words and paintings.

To answer, I begin to write a story by focusing on the beginning and end. I then develop a point-by-point plot outline. With my tightrope constructed, I start my death-defying journey.

My muse calls to me, from the ground below, “Do a leap.”

“Really? Here? I don’t think I…”

“Come on. You can do it. It’s fun.” Or, more forcefully, “Do it. Now. It’ll be much more interesting. Don’t bore me or I’ll leave and you’ll be on your own. You don’t want to be on your own. Do you?”

I don’t—so I do. And, I find, to my delight, I gain more confidence and my writing skills are sharpened. Soon, I find, to my amazement, that I’m doing jumps, flips, somersaults—all without looking down.

Sure, occasionally I do fall. But the net catches me and I climb back up the ladder.

Even though I’ve crossed the tightrope many times, in many ways, each crossing feels much like the first. Each holds its own challenges and triumphs. I still get goose bumps. I still wonder if I’ll ever get safely to the other side.

“Look at me. Look at me.” I call, waving my arms. “I’m crossing now.”

Author J.L. Murray wrote about her writing process in a post titled Ode to Writing