The Sweater Curse Ch 1 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

WARNING: Chapters One, Three and Fourteen contain themes of suicide that may be triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

Resources

Befrienders Worldwide

International Association for Suicide Prevention

TherapyRoute.com

     Aspiring knitwear designer Gwen Bjarnon is stuck in Purgatory. To escape, she must re-examine her life, journey through her past, and right a wrong.

    But which wrong?

    Young and in love, she works to establish her career, except fate has different plans. One rash act and she looses everything. Never resting, always seeking and yearning for what she can no longer have,     Gwen faces the truth: if she remains, others are destined to die.

    How will she solve the mystery before it is too late?

photo by ldyck

Chapter One

     This isn’t Heaven. It isn’t Hell. And I’m not alive.

    Picture this: a bus stop, tons of people packed into the same small space, all waiting to continue their journey. Many buses stop here. Some passengers get off; others get on. Young children with sickly white complexions huddle together in the shelter. Teenagers with rope burns around their necks get off the bus. Old men with bullet holes climb on.

    Throughout this confusion, the only constant is me. I remain alone.

    Why?

    I must find the reason. I must examine my life to discover the momentary lapse. The wrong I’ve committed. The task I’ve neglected. It’s my only means of escape.

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Two

Surprisingly, Mother did allow my aunt to teach me to knit. 

Go Red for Dyslexia

Governor General's Literary Award (GG books) Finalist Announced October 21

Aster's Husband Ch 1 by Leanne Dyck

Aster's husband needs companionship. Here's how he gets what he needs.

photo by ldyck

 Chapter one

So that’s how she says goodbye—no more kisses, no more parting words. She just slips away like a ghost. I throw back the covers, shower, dress, and make coffee.

    I put the mug in the sink. The clock on the microwave says 8:30 AM. If I leave now, I’ll get there way before any cheery faces do. I pack my laptop and walk to the door. I’m crossing the threshold when...

    B-r-r-ring.

    Who’s phoning the landline? My students only have my cell number.

    B-r-r-ring.

    It’ll go to voicemail.

    I step back into the house.

    B-r-r-ring.

    If it’s important, they’ll try my cell or email me.

    I answer the phone.

    “Good morning.” The voice is like a gentle melody. “You won’t believe it. I got it. I finally bought it.”

    The voice is so infectious, I feel compelled to ask, “It? What it?”

    “You know—the laptop.”

    “Oh, great.” I grin—I still have no idea who this woman is.

    “Yeah, I’m so excited.”

    “Oh, excited is good.”

    “It’s my first one.”

    “Really?”

    “Ye-s. You know... Wait. Who are you?”

     “That depends. Who are you?”

    She laughs, and I want to capture the sound in a bottle.

    “Oh, I’m so sorry. I dialed the wrong number.”

    “Are you sure?” I can be so charming.

    "No. I mean, yes. Oh, I don't know." She laughs again. "Your voice sounds so familiar. Maybe we do know each other."

     “Nah, I couldn’t be that lucky.”

    “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

    “Not at all. Phone back any time.”

    “Good-bye.” She’s still there. I can hear her breathing. This wrong number could lead to something so right. We both want it to. But I can’t step out of line again without paying for it. That’s been made clear.

    “Bye.” I hang up.

photo by ldyck

One innocent phone call, that's all or...

Chapter 2

Two proud Canadians: my husband and I

photo by a kind Canadian

Canada Day 2025 Remembrance...

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby by Leanne Dyck (Ch 1)

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby was inspired by remote island life and Canadian history. 

'I would have loved to have learned more about the relationship between Aster and her husband.'

wrote Debra Purdy Kong on Goodreads.

'I could not put it down. Had to read the whole thing immediately. It was gripping.'

-Kathy Barber

photo by ldyck

Chapter one

After

No sound but the crackle of flames as the fire licked a log in the wood stove in the corner of the living room and the clicking of knitting needles. Purl one, knit one; it's an ancient dance her needles knew well. She rocked back and forth as she knitted—her shoulder-length, spider-web hair swayed.

Thud! Peace was broken.

She jerked her head back in the direction of the noise and stared at the window. Thud! She saw the glass vibrate. Imagination unnerved her. Fighting it, she grew determined to find the source of the sound. She put her knitting in the tall wicker basket that stood beside her chair. Even in the dim light, she easily located it. She lifted one foot off the horsehair footstool and planted it on the floor in front of her. Then the other. Fingers dug into the fabric armrest; she groaned as she pushed herself up to stand. As if on ice, she navigated the short distance from her chair to the window. Peering out, all she saw was night. 

Thud! Inches away from her nose, the glass vibrated once again. Balancing herself against the wall, she reached over and grabbed the cord, lowering the blind. 

"Plastic armour against the unknown, just like me, it's less than useless." She cursed the night.

Her vision blurred, and she felt dizzy.

Old brittle bones break easily. Be careful. Dr. Frank had warned during her last examination. Use your cane.

And she did when she remembered. She looked across the room and saw the cane hooked over the headrest of a chair. "Oh, you silly, old woman. It would serve you right if you fell."

Both hands clung to the windowsill. Her knuckles grew white as her fingertips pressed into the wood. She had fallen more times than most knew. Purple, green, and tan bruises were hidden under her clothing.

Thud!

She exhaled slowly. Ignore it. It's nothing.

Balance restored, she turned first her shoulders, then her feet, and retraced her journey back to the safety of her easy chair. Within her easy reach, a dark oak end table, adorned by a hand-crocheted doily, held a framed photo, a box of tissues, and a large circular candle that dripped wax into a square ceramic base. 

Thud!

She picked up the chrome-edged frame and cradled it in her hands. Lost in time, he looked at her with confident, friendly eyes. She spoke to his ghost. In this house, he still lived.

Ah, you. You were always happy. I was happy, once—long ago. But happiness isn't easy at any age—especially not here, in this house, on this island.

When I was a few years younger and capable of walking the distance, I'd journey down the old road to the ferry terminal. I'd stand on the sidewalk, hidden by the parked trucks, and peer down at the dock. Concealed, I'd watch as more trucks and cars stopped at the ticket booth and then continued down to park in the ferry lanes. I'd imagine myself walking down to stand in line under the glass-topped canopy with the other foot passengers. I'd wait for the ferry, and when it came, I'd leave—never to return. I wouldn't look back at the houses that farmed the bay. I won't look back at all. But, I wondered, would I look ahead? And, if I did, what would I see? Where would I work, live? What would my future be off this island—without you? Would I have a future? These questions buzzed in my head like a hornet. I couldn't escape them. I felt like a starfish marooned on the beach, unable to swim away. And so reluctantly, I'd trudge back here to this house—and wait for you to rescue me.

Her index finger outlined the man's face, trailing over his cheeks and chin.

A lifetime full of waiting, but you never came back to me.

photo by ldyck

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby

Chapter two

Aster continues to commune with her husband's ghost. She tells him of his sister's "generous" offer.

Callie Ch 1 by Leanne Dyck (inspired by the writing life) "The End is The Beginning"

 One woman's amazing journey to becoming who she was meant to be.

Callie

photo by ldyck

Chapter One

    My boyfriend, Rupert, perched on the edge of the chesterfield—elbows on his knees, leaning toward the TV. His complete focus was swallowed up by the game—soccer, of course. On the opposite side of the chesterfield, I pacified my longing, my desire, with poetry. 

Devotion

She'd never been in love before

She feared it would never come

She feared she would spend her life alone—heart withered and deformed

No eye would fill with the sight of her

No heart would beat for her alone

But then, but then he had found her

He—the sight of him makes her yearn

He comes to her and her pulse races

His velvet voice stirs her blood

He draws her close and they are alone in the universe

The love for which she has sought

For which she feared would never come

Is born, breathes, and engulfs them

Why couldn't I write like that? I'd tried over and over, but my words were dead on the page. I spent days filling recycling bins, endless nights chasing sentence fragments—pointlessly. My biggest problem was that I didn't have anything to write about. Writing magazines suggested that inspiration could come from the news, daily life, and family history. I tried that, but all I got was boring who-cares crap. Twitter provided writing prompts, and I tried to force words onto the screen, but nothing came.

Alone in the universe... Why didn't Ru and I have a relationship like that? What was wrong with us? What was wrong with him?

  

I felt the distance between us. It felt like miles.

Something black caught my eye. Our tabby cat Princess pranced into the living room. She jumped into Ru's lap and began to purr as he rubbed her tummy.

"Ru," I purred. I tried again. Louder this time.

"Aurora, I'm watching," he roared at me without looking away from the screen.

When the game was interrupted by a commercial, I slid over to Ru and ran my fingers through his-- 

He jerked his head away. "The game's on."

"No, it's not. There's a commercial. You have time for our cat."

"I still love Princess."

"What do you mean? I don't under—."

"I said I don't love you anymore." It was like he was telling me we were out of milk.

Numb, then crushed, and then enraged, I swung my book back and—.

He caught my wrist. "There's someone else. All you do is read; she knows how to live. She's in. You're out. Go pack."

I stormed out of the living room and slammed the bedroom door. I shoved the closet door aside, and it hit the wall with a satisfying thud. Ru's designer shirts, pants, and jackets all hung in a razor-blade line. He just loved expensive things. I tore his clothes from their hangers and tossed them out of the window. The big twirling ball of colour tumbled in the air. Suit jackets landed on trees, ties on telephone lines, and his shirts and pants landed in the garden. It was spring; there was mud. I felt like cackling.

Feeling somewhat vindicated, I filled a suitcase with my books and another one with my clothes. Before I left our bedroom, I hunted through Ru's top dresser drawer and pulled out a lump of cash. He owed me. 

A gentleman would have helped me navigate my suitcase out of the apartment. He didn't lift a finger. My body was shaking as I navigated the suitcase down the corridor to the elevator and down to the lobby. A set of full-length mirrors by the door in the lobby revealed that my mascara had made raccoon eyes, but I didn't care—well, not that much.

I left the apartment building, heading to...

Some may have turned to their family for support. I didn't. There had been a misunderstanding, a difference of opinion, mistaken assumptions. I'd learned that I couldn't rely on them. I'm sure I disappointed them as well. I promised myself that I would never put myself or them in that situation again. I'm trying to forgive them; I hope they are trying to forgive me. It happened long ago. And I try not to dwell on those memories.

Friends? All of them were Rupert's. I'd worked as his personal assistant. My entire life had been all tangled up in his. He'd defined me. Without him, who was I?

I wrestled with that question as I stepped into the elevator, went down to the lobby, and out onto the street. Rain started to pour. I raced to the bus shelter and slumped on the bench. With no bus in sight, I waited for the next chapter of my life to begin. 

Sunday, July 17

Chapter One: No job... No home... No boyfriend... No life... What would you do? What does Aurora do? 

Read chapter two...

Callie

photo by ldyck

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Sharing my author journey...

On Wednesday, I told a friend, "I finished working on the manuscript I started in 2020."

Is The Reverend Dead? (a mystery inspired by remote island life) Ch 1 by Leanne Dyck

 Is The Reverend Dead? is an unconventional mystery inspired by remote island life. I plan to share a chapter every Sunday and Wednesday until Sunday, April 17--Easter Sunday.

Photo by Jack Lewis

Banners by Jeanne Lewis

Cross by a Mayne Island glass artist

Is The Reverend Dead?

Chapter One

The church looks much the same every Sunday. Two milk-white candles in polished brass candle holders stand on either side of the communion table. It’s the first Sunday in Lent. A purple cloth covers the table.

Everyone likes Christmas, with its tinsel and carols and gift exchanges. But I’ve always preferred Lent. Christmas-Christians delight in filling their heads with sugar plum dreams of what they’re going to get, but my eyes are wide open carefully considering what I’m going to give up for 40 days.

What will it be this year? Eating chocolate? Playing cards? Listening to music? My mind drifts from one possibility to the other until Reverend Paulson leaves the vestry, slamming the door behind him—signaling the organist to stop playing. Like a squirrel gathering nuts, he draws my attention. He paces back and forth in front of the communion table, and I know he means business. The candle flames dance in the breeze, and I pray there won’t be a fire. I visualize flames catching hold of his robe and snaking up until— I shove that sinful thought out of my mind.

As I’m going deaf in my left ear, I’ve been forced to move from my usual pew by the door to a pew directly in front of the pulpit.

Reverend Paulson wraps his fingers around the lip of the pulpit, leans forward, and peers at us, his parishioners. From the look on his face, I know he isn’t pleased by what he sees. He is God’s bloodhound, sniffing out sin. They try to hide in their Sunday best. It doesn’t matter. Reverend Paulson can’t be fooled. He’ll track down the sinful, drag them to the sacred fire, and purify them.

“Sinner.” Reverend Paulson points his index finger like a gun. Despite his advancing years, he’s still an imposing man. “Sinner!” He roars again. He hammers a fist onto the pulpit. Over the years his fist has beaten a groove into the oak pulpit’s smooth surface. “Why have you come to his sacred place?”

“For mercy,” the chant begins. “Save us.”

“God is eternally powerful. He uplifts the righteous and crushes the sinful under his heel.” Bang down goes his fist. “Why should He spare you?” Reverend Paulson sips from his glass. He carefully sets it back down beside his open weathered leather-bound Bible.

“Over and over again he calls to you. Time and again he offers you His sacred Word.” Bang.

“Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your Savior? He is calling to you. Will you answer him? Sinner, will you repent?" Bang. "He is hanging, bleeding on the cross. Sinner, do you feel regret for what you have done?" He raises his arm, fist coiled, swings back, but his voice falls to a whisper, “Sin—” His fist misses its mark. He teeters back and disappears behind the wall-like pulpit. We all hear him fall. I leap from my pew. As quickly as I can with my sore hip, I race to his side. Black robe rumpled, white hair tousled, motionless, he lies on the floor. Fearing the worst, I search for a pulse. He’s… He’s… De… Has he been poisoned? I find his glass by his Bible and sniff. Oh, the smell. It has to be poison. I search for a suspect but only find worried face after worried face.

photo by ldyck

Chapter Two

Can we reclaim the term 'literary fiction'

--An interview between Roz Morris and Imogen Clark

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The Other Side (short fiction) Ch. 1 by Leanne Dyck

The Other Side was inspired by a house my husband and I lived in on BC's Mainland, our move from the Mainland to a remote island, and my love of the 1960s.

photo by ldyck

The Other Side

Chapter one

There were tons of things I would have rather watched: Seinfeld, Frasier, and Home Improvement. My husband Owen held the TV remote, and so we watched the news. The live-action camera focused on a split-level rancher. It had red clay roofing, white stucco, and a carved archway. The lawn looked like a putting green. As I continued to watch, three police officers ran at the front door with a bright orange battering ram. "What's he going to do with that?" 

"Launch an attack for Reagan's war on drugs," Owen said. "That's a grow op."

"Drug dealers live there and...and..." Our small apartment was jammed full of furniture. "They live like kings and we live like caged rats."

As if to underscore my discomfort, Bruce Dickinson sang from the neighbouring apartment, "Run to the hills"—and oh, I wanted to.

"More news at 11," the announcer said. 

That was my cue, and I dived right in. "Honey, I...um...er, I don't like living here. In this apartment, I mean. In fact, I really don't want to live in an apartment building period."

"We can't afford to buy a house."

Looking at him with bedroom eyes, I added, "Becky said we could move in with them. She says there's lots of room in their basement."

"In the basement...? Like a couple of college kids."

"It'll be fun. You enjoy working with Tom."

"Tom works in the office. I work from home. We send emails back and forth. We barely even talk to each other."

I walked over to the walk-in closet he called his home office. "You can't continue to work in this tiny, teeny space. You need—you deserve better."

"We can't afford better."

"Becky says their basement is huge."

On the other side of our paper-thin walls, a toilet flushed. 

"Fine. We'll move in with them, but just remember it was your idea."

photo by ldyck

Chapter two