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 centre are Mother and the poor old guy. Clearly Mother is now reaping the benefits 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's 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 button-down, baby-blue shirt and beige trousers. His hair is snow-white, and he sports a well-groomed moustache. 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...

Aster's Husband Ch 4 by Leanne Dyck

 Chapter three: A tryst...? Is he playing with fire? Will he get burnt?

photo by ldyck

Chapter four

I’m sitting on a log, digging my bare feet into the sand and scanning the ocean. The ferry schedule worked in my favour, and I got to Mayne Island first. Of course, I can't help singing Cliff Richard's Summer Holiday. Lately, I can’t stop singing. The cause of this joy is out in that ocean, somewhere. And I don’t even know what she looks like or anything about her, really—just what she has told me. She sounds honest, innocent. But these days...

A ferry cuts through the water heading to the dock. I reclaim my beach shoes and make my way to lane 10, where others wait. They let the footies off first, and I scan the crowd, looking for a likely candidate. Yet again, I find myself spinning my wedding ring around on my finger. On the ferry, I pulled it off—that required effort—considered tossing it overboard, but ultimately put it back on. Other women haven’t cared. Hopefully, Darlene won’t either. Dar—

“I don’t know how I knew it was you. I just knew. I just do. It is you, right?”

I jump. A woman who glows with youth, with beauty, is standing right in front of me, laughing.

“Darlene McDonald, I presume.”

“You look like a movie star from the 1950s—like Marlon Brando. No, not Brando. Paul Newman. Warm eyes. Kind, gentle face."

I deposit a—friendly, fatherly kiss... Oh, who am I kidding? She’s just so darn cute. On her hand. “The best gift you can give yourself is the gift of possibility.” My Newman impression is passable—I’ve even had requests at parties.

She giggles. I grin.

“I’m starving,” she informs me.

"The Springwater?"

"It's closed."

"Where—?"

"Give Pizza a Chance. It's under the tree by the Root Seller." 

I drive through the potholes on Village Bay Road. I brace myself for Aster's roars of protest. KJ, drive more carefully! But I am delighted to hear Darlene giggle. I look over and she's smiling. 

I park in front of the library and walk over to— "I guess it closed too."

"No, there it is," Darlene tells me. "Beside the Trading Post."

"The Trading Post harkens back to Mayne Island's storied past as a supply depot for miners on route to the Cariboo gold rush in the late 1850s." Why can't I just—

"I didn't know that. Where was the Cariboo Gold Rush?"

"In the Cariboo mountains." And before I can stop myself, I say, "I'll take you to Barkerville one of those days."

"I'd love to go," she tells me.

I catch wasps of... What smells like perogies and cabbage rolls coming from a nearby food vendor? Yeah, Icelandic-Canadians know Ukrainian food. My Afi (grandfather) told me that it was the new Ukrainian Canadians who introduced vegetables to the new Icelandic Canadians. Few vegetables grow in Iceland. The thought of smoothing perogies with butter makes my mouth water. I follow my nose, but Darlene loops her arm around mine, pulls me close, and I feel her hot breath in my ear. "Pizza." 

Give Pizza a Chance is decorated with old 45 records. I survey the menu and find "Ozzy," "The Hip," and "Ravi."

"Oh, The Living Is Easy sounds good," Darlene says. 

"But, please hold the garlic," I say when I place our order.

"Let's take the pizza to Lighthouse Park," Darlene suggests, and so we do.

Our picnic table offers us a view of the calm sea. In the distance, the sharp-angled silhouettes of buildings create the skyline of Vancouver. And over there, like a cloud in the sky, is Mount Baker.

In response to Darlene's request to learn more about Iceland, I share all I know. “Strange and unusual land formations—high peaks and lava rocks. Natural gas belches out of the ground." Like me when I eat garlic, I think but don't say. "Icelanders put fish on their pizza. The last time I travelled there was shortly after the volcanoes erupted in November 2024. But I was born in Canada.”I adopt a professor's tone. “And, you know, my dear, there’s a marked difference between Icelandic and Icelandic-Canadian culture.” I achieve my goal—Darlene laughs.

“What language do they speak?” A grape tomato falls from her slice of pizza to rest between her breasts. My eyes linger on her cleavage.

“Icelanders speak Icelandic.” I pull my gaze down to the grass. I hear Aster so clearly. Oh, KJ, you go on and on, but nobody cares. No one. “A pretty young woman like you can’t possibly be interested in the dry ramblings of this stale pedagogue.”

“I don’t know what a peggy... a peggy-goo-goo is.”

I have to grin; she grins back.

“But I love to listen to you talk—especially about something you feel passionate about. Iceland is part of who you are. Of course I’m interested.” Our eyes meet, and it feels so intimate. “Do you speak Icelandic?”

“Only a few words.”

“What are they? I want to hear them.”

“It’s been so long.” My entire married life.

“How would I know if you said them right? I’ve never heard Icelandic before. You can tell me anything, and wrap it with a bow in an accent, I'd buy it.”

“Excellent, that’s encouraging.” I smile. “Okay, so in my made-up Icelandic, Morgunn is morning. Nott is night. Nei is no. Ja is yes. Mjog gott is very good. Taka is take. Takk fyrir is thank you. Kaffi is coffee—the beverage of choice for all Icelanders. And then there’s the name I shall give you—elskan.”

She glows. “El—?”

“Elskan—dear one.”

"Memories are made of this." We sing.

One man, one wife. Without thinking, I glance down at my wedding ring. 

She must notice my glance because she says, "How long have you been..." The moment between that word and the next is suspended in time. "A widower?"

photo by ldyck

The meeting of minds; the meeting of hearts. He is in trouble.

Chapter five

photo by ldyck

I know I'm having too much fun doing what I do every day. Because at any minute, I expect to hear, "Leanne, it's time to put your toys away."

This blog reached 2 million page views on Friday, July 25, at 12:23 PM.

Excuse me, Reporters...

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby by Leanne Dyck (Ch 4)

 Chapter three: It's obvious that Aster is not pleased that she ended up on a remote island. How did she get stuck there? Let's go back to the beginning...

photo by ldyck

Chapter four

Before

From the passenger seat, Aster watched her husband weave his way through the ferry’s car deck. As if following a clearly marked path, he worked his way through the maze of boat-sized trucks. Believing that she could simply follow him, Aster pushed the door o—. The neighbouring truck was too close. Crawling out required Aster to move her body in ways more appropriate for yoga Class: bending, stretching, sliding, pulling. Finally free of the car, she felt a sense of victory, but bumpers, side mirrors, trailer hitches blocked her progress in every direction. Balancing on her toes, Aster searched for her husband. There he went past that truck and that one, never looking back. Clearly, he wasn’t worrying about-- had no thought of her.

“Not very chivalrous, my dear Kenneth James,” Aster grumbled.

Alone, without any possibility of aid, she squeezed her body past a side mirror and around a trailer hitch. She nearly missed colliding with the corner of a truck’s bed. By the time she caught up to her husband, he was slipping through an automated sliding door. The door closed in Aster’s face. She scanned the wall looking for some way to open the door. She was still searching when she heard a thud. She jumped. A man behind her heaved a heavy sigh, and Aster knew he was annoyed at her.

She watched as magically the door began to slowly, ever so slowly, slid open. Aster wanted to thank him but—.

“Tourists!” The man spat, pushing past. A wave of body odour trailed behind him and struck her in the face.

Aster wondered when he had last bathed. She wondered how many other passengers were in a similar state. Concerns about hygiene gave her pause. She opened her purse and pulled out a tissue. After wrapping the tissue around the handrail, she followed the man up the stairs. The tissue slid steadily upward as she ascended the stairs.

Aster had to push, with her arm and shoulder, to open the once-white door that was at the top of the stairs. The door nearly weighed a ton. She almost tripped over a protrusion in the threshold. Its presence and the fact that no one had bothered to mark it—possibly with red tape—annoyed her. How many people had been injured?

To her right, a blue trash can stood against the wall. She used her tissue-wrapped hand to push the lid open. The lid—The entire trash can was in sorry need of a good scrubbing with a disinfectant and a heavy-bristled brush. And the thing stank.

A few feet ahead a large window offered a view of the ocean. At least the ocean was better than the grey, greasy cave she’d just left. To the right of the window was a door to the outside deck. She could clearly see that there was no one standing out there. To her left was a row of bolted-together chairs. They didn’t look comfortable. The first row of chairs faced the front of the ferry. A woman sat in the far corner of the first row. She was knitting while reading the magazine open on her lap. Aster watched the needles coil the yarn and longed to inquire as to what the knitting would yield, but the woman looked like she didn’t wish to be disturbed. The two middle rows faced each other with a gap of about five feet between them. A gang of adolescents slummed in these chairs. Aster quickly walked past without giving them much heed. If she ignored them, she hoped they would ignore her. The last rows faced Vancouver’s ferry terminal. These chairs were empty. Kenneth James wasn’t here. Had he vanished? Past the row of chairs, another door offered her her last opportunity to go outside. Her husband had to be somewhere. Aster pushed the door open and this time wasn’t surprised to discover that it was weighted.

A man smoking a cigarette thoughtlessly sent smoke in her direction but the wind blew it back in his face. Aster suppressed a smile and went back inside. Returning, she discovered another set of stairs. She retrieved another tissue, wrapped it around the handrail, and ascended. There was no door and no protrusion at the top of these stairs. This deck seemed brighter and somehow more cheerful than the last until—

photo by ldyck

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby

Chapter five

Aster has lost her husband on the ferry? Will she ever find him again? Or is that how she ends up on-- ? (I've said--or written--too much.)

Callie Ch 4 by Leanne Dyck (inspired the writing life) "Finding Callie"

 Chapter Three: Aurora hears a voice telling her a story. Where do you think the voice is coming from? Why do you think the voice has chosen Aurora?

                                                                    photo by ldyck

Callie

Chapter Four

The following morning, I slipped the necklace around my neck, hopeful that it would bring me luck on my job hunt. Between interviews, I made time to visit my local library.

A gentle spring breeze escorted me through the electronic doors. Inside fluorescent lights met the flash of computer screens, and book spines painted the walls with colour.

At a wall of bookshelves, a bearded man wearing khaki shorts with wool socks in well-worn hiking boots knelt to claim a copy of Finding the Mother Tree by Suzanne Simard. 

Turning left, I entered an area dominated by several rows of cubicles. Air vibrated with the click of fingers on keyboards. I found an unoccupied computer, logged onto a search engine, and typed ‘image: two snakes twisted around a pin’.

‘The Asclepius, Calliope’s symbol, is often confused with the symbol for the medical profession... Calliope it the eldest of the Greek Muses. She presides over eloquence and epic poetry.’

At the end of the erudite article, I was tempted to comment, "And Callie loves to entertain her victims with stories, far too late at night."

On the way out of the library, I passed a group of teenagers gathered around a rectangular table. One of them, in a denim button-down under a pink cable cardigan, read aloud to the others from a black binder.

Her First Crush

(click the link to listen and read this story)

When she was done reading, her friends giggled, and she blushed. She adjusted the pendant that hung from her necklace before she closed her binder.

I feigned interest in a box of fifty-cent paperbacks so I could continue to listen.

A muddle of chatter spread over the table. All grew quiet when a girl dressed in black, sitting on the opposite side of the table, pulled a piece of paper out of the back pocket of her jeans. One hand held onto the pendant on her necklace as she read.

Be Gentle

(click the link to listen and read this story)

I headed for the door before they caught me standing there. As I passed the table, I noticed that every one of the girls wore a necklace with the pendant. Did Callie visit all of them? 

 So the necklace is a vessel in which Calliope, a Greek Muse, communicates with writers. Knowing this, would you wear the necklace? What does Aurora do? 

Read Chapter Five

Are you following me?

Facebook

Twitter

Linked In

     photo by ldyck

Sharing my author journey...

I believe that we--authors and publishers and librarians and...--are all in this publishing

Is the Reverend Dead? Ch 4 (a mystery inspired by remote island life) by Leanne Dyck

chapter three: Confident that the Reverend is not only dead but was murdered, Mrs. Hazelton phones the police. And they ask her to phone back.

 photo by ldyck 

Is the Reverend Dead?

Chapter Four

I phone back. “I’d like to report a murder.”

“A what?” a man asks.

“A murder.”

“Oh.”

It isn’t the reaction I’m looking for so I drive down to the police station.

I’m not being a nuisance, I remind myself in the car. I have to report this murder.

Stores and offices are grouped together in two strip malls on our island. Plumper Island Police Station is located between a gym and bakery.

I push open the door. One policeman stands in the corner putting folders into a filing cabinet. Another fills the small room with taps from his computer keyboard. He doesn’t look away from the screen when I walk up to the counter.

“Excuse me,” I say.

He pushes the swivel chair away from his desk and turns to face me. His greying hair is cut short and his stomach spills over his belt. A badge clipped to his uniform identifies him as Officer Bluebottom. Bluebottom? I fight back a chuckle.

“Yes, how can I help you?” Officer Bluebottom asks.

“My name is Mrs. Hazelton and I’m here to report a murder.”

“You witnessed a murder on Plumper Island?”

“Yes. That is, I think so.”

He looks more annoyed than surprised. “You think so?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Hazelton, do you know how many murders have been committed on Plumper Island?” He doesn’t wait for me to hazard a guess. “One. Do you know how many have been reported?” Once again he doesn’t wait. “Ten, in this month, alone, and the month is only half over.”

“Ten? But...how can that...be?”

“Many creative people reside on Plumper Island. Are you a creative person Mrs. Hazelton?”

Like many of my friends, I enjoy photography, painting, quilting, knitting. But I know he doesn’t care about any of that. He wants to know if I see things that aren’t there. And I’m sure everyone who was at church would tell him that I do. But I square my shoulders. “I’m not making this up. I witnessed a murder.”

He returns to his computer.

If he thinks I’m just going to go away, he’s wrong. “You are going to investigate.”

Office Bluebottom keeps his eyes trained on the screen. “Corporal Boyd.”

Officer Boyd closes the filing cabinet. “Ma’am.” He has short red hair and freckles. I wonder if he shaves his baby face. “Shall we return to the scene of the crime, Ma’am?”

I fight my impulse to ask if he wants me to drive and follow him outside.

“Where...” Officer Boyd leads me to the police car. “Did you...” He holds the passenger door open and I ease into the seat. “Last see...” He runs around the car. He must have run because he’s in the driver’s sit by two shakes of a lamb’s tail. “Um… Um…?”

“Reverend Paulson. At church on Sunday,” I tell him.

He flips open a black coiled notebook. The kind you always see policemen use on television. “Reverend Paulson.” His pen moves quickly across the page. “Church. Sunday. Check.” He pockets the notebook and starts the car. “And what was he doing at the time of the...the...”

“You mean when he was murdered? He was giving a sermon.”

“Sorry?” He looks from the road to me. “Giving a what?”

“A sermon.”

“Oh-h-h, people still go to church?”

We pass the Trading Post grocery store and head for the tree that bears the plaque commemorating King George the Sixth’s visit.

“We congregate every Sunday. It’s a time of fellowship. We sing hymns and I especially enjoy the sermons.” We reach the long, winding driveway that will eventually take us to the church. I say a silent prayer for Officer Boyd’s non-church attending soul. Though there really isn’t much hope. “Pull in here.”

Officer Boyd is halfway across the parking lot before I climb out of the car. “Huh? I always thought this was a museum.” His words trail behind him like a flag.

He’s standing on the porch, waiting when I catch up to him.

I turn the doorknob and the door opens. “The church provides sanctuary. It’s never locked.”

“Sounds like an unnecessary risk to me.” We step inside. “Sure looks like a museum—ancient furniture, relics on the wall. Wow, that ceiling’s high.”

“It’s built like a ship,” I tell him. “Noah’s Ark.”

“Noah? Does he go to church?” He chuckles as he marches down the aisle to the pulpit. I follow reluctantly. I don’t want to see poor Reverend Paulson again.

Officer Boyd looks down at the floor and then down the aisle at me. “Where is he?”

“What do you mean?” I reach the pulpit. “Right here.” But the Reverend isn’t there.

“Is he invisible?”

“I don’t understand. This is where he fell. He should be here.”

“Maybe he was feeling better and decided to go for a walk.”

“No, he couldn’t just have walked away. He’s dead, I tell you. Dead. Dead men can’t get up and walk away.”

“You’d be surprised at how many have on this island.”

“Someone must have moved him.” And there is only one person that can have done that—young Ms. Matthews.

“Now, Mrs. Hazelton, calm yourself. Sometimes when we get older our mind gets a little—.”

That annoys me. “I’m not fanciful. I saw what I saw. Reverend Paulson is dead. Dead. Please you have to believe me.”

“Of course, I believe you, Mrs. Hazelton.”

Does he? It’s doubtful. He’s probably only trying to calm me.

“Now what happens?” I ask Officer Boyd in the car as we head back to the station. “Will you investigate further?”

"We don't have a body. You said that there were other people in the church but no one has reported this murder, just you. What exactly would you like me to investigate?"

"Please, I know you think I'm some batty old lady." He tries to discount that statement but I don't listen. "But please, I need your help. I saw what I saw. Please look into it a little more. Make some phone calls. And I don't know, nose around a little."

He promises me he will.

photo by ldyck

Chapter Five

The Other Side (short fiction) Ch. 4 by Leanne Dyck

 Ch. 3 Becky, a basket of laundry in arms, invades Mara and Owen's basement apartment while Owen is still sleeping. Mara tries but is unable to keep Becky at bay.

And now... The story continues...

photo by ldyck

The Other Side

Chapter four

I work in a padded cell in the complaints department of a major telephone company. I've done the best I can to make the cubicle homey--pinning rainbows and unicorns to the walls. I tried to focus on those happy pictures as I listened to yet another irate customer.

"You disconnected my phone but I paid my bill."

Maybe her cheque was lost in the mail. Maybe she has a strained back or a broken leg. Because of what we've done she was alone--cut off from family and friends. She couldn't even order a pizza. "I'm so sorry, Mrs.--." I read the customer information on my computer screen. "Um...er...I mean Ms...." I continued to apologize until her voice softened. 

I kept a large bottle of Tums beside my keyboard. I popped a pill and washed it down with a gulp of water. 

Next customer: "There are numbers on my bill that I didn't phone."

"I'm sorry." Another pill.

I'd been working, apologizing, for two weeks. My co-workers assured me that it would get easier. I hoped that would happen soon--before I got an ulcer.

Next customer: "You said you'd install my phone. I waited all day but you didn't show up."

"I'm sorry." Another pill. I tossed the empty bottle in the garbage, opened a desk drawer, and put a new bottle by my keyboard.

Chapter five

Ensure you don't miss a chapter, follow me on Twitter, Linked In, and Facebook.