Island Stories (short story collection) by Leanne Dyck

The rain stopped, the sun broke through the clouds and I knew. I just knew. I'd never been there before but I told my husband, "This is it. This is our new home."

"Don't you think we should finish docking and, I don't know, look around a little first."

He took more convincing, but for me it was love at first sight and the love affair has lasted twenty-six years. 

photo by ldyck

 Inspired by this love, I've written short stories, novellas and even a mystery. Each of the short stories in this collection has earned over 1000 page views. Your page views encourage me to keep writing so thank you for your interest and support.

Island Artist

A humorous look at island life--and a cautionary note to respect an artist's privacy.

Island Storyteller

What's so funny about getting a ride home? Well...

Island Storyteller on Stage

celebrates my love for reading my writing to an audience—and thanks all the people who have supported my author journey, people like you.

Not Forgotten

 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.

Galiano Island Ablaze

When you live on a remote island there's an ever-present danger that tourists may not be aware of--but should be. This short story explains.

Sheep Choir

was inspired by an island sheep farmer

Still Life with Cats

 As a new islander, I benefitted greatly from my relationship with seasoned islanders--especially Sammy, Joey and Ticky.

Ethan's Ferry Trip (children's story)

introduces children to the joys of travelling by ferry.

Go Red for Dyslexia

Sunday, October 5 to Saturday, October 11

Banned Books Week

Monday, October 6

Giller shortlist announced

On this blog on...

Sunday, October 12

Thank you, Mrs. Danielson (short memoir)

Written with heartfelt thanks for a teacher who taught with heart and inspired me to write.

Sunday, October 19 to Sunday, February 8, 2026

The Sweater Curse (psychological thriller)

October 2 on Mayne Island...

photo by ldyck

To a standing-room-only audience of Mayne Islanders, Pam Withers

Island Storyteller (short story) by Leanne Dyck

'trading post--the oldest grocery store on Mayne Island' ldyck

The narrator of this short story doesn't drive and has a sore hip, so how does she get home?

I scanned the row of vehicles parked in front of the grocery store. Some of them looked promising. I ruled out the trucks. They would be too difficult to climb into with my sore hip. I peeked into a navy sedan. A shaggy face looked back. The dog started to bark, so I moved on to the next prospect. A four-door rust-covered Pontiac stood like a relic from a simpler time. The door creaked open. I eased into the passenger seat. The springs were shot. It was like sitting on a gravel road. Next car, the driver came out before I could climb in. The passenger seat of a two-door sports car held a large box. I considered tossing it out but thought better of it. I'm too polite to take such liberties. Last car in the row; last chance for a ride. No dog. No box. I wiggled around in the overstuffed, leather seat. It was comfortable enough to sleep in. My eyelids felt heavy. I leaned back and breathed deeply. A sudden breeze caused me to open my eyes. "You don't mind giving me a—"

"What the?" You jumped away from the car. Almost slammed the door shut.

I had scared you. Me? I had to laugh.

When I caught my breath, I said, "I need a ride. I know you won't mind. We live on a rural island; we help each other. It's just what we do."

"I'm heading south." 

"North, towards the ferry, for me. I'll get out before you run out of road."

You sighed—happy to be behind the steering wheel again, I guess. You slipped a disc into a slot; the engine purred. A guitar, joined by a singer, filled the car.

Music? We didn't need music. I coughed into my fist. "Do you mind?"

You got the hint and turned the music off.

"This island is woven together by an interlocking web," I began. 

"Webs? Oh, you mean roads. Yes, we do—"

"Everyone knows I'm a storyteller. That's what I do. I tell stories. And that's what I'll do for you—if there are no more interruptions." I breathed out slowly, determined to remain calm, and began again...

"the road home" ldyck

"This island is woven together by an interlocking web. Paved roads connect grocery stores to the school, the community centre, and the church. But not all roads are paved."

"Don't I know it. Sometimes you feel like you're not in a car at all." You looked at me. "You know, like you're on a horse." 

I frowned. 

You said, "Oh, sorry. Really, I am listening. Please, go on."

I continued the story. "On a gravel road." I nodded left, directing you to make the turn. "And down an overgrown forest path sits an ancient cabin. It hasn't changed since it was built some hundred years ago. Lovingly restored, tenderly maintained, but not changed." I took a short break, just long enough to say, "Yes, this is the road. Keep going."

You mumbled something. Maybe about the road being so bumpy, but I ignored you.

"Practical in design, the cabin blends into its surroundings. Over the years, the earth has embraced the house—cradling, concealing it in—"

"Which house is yours?"

"Just keep driving; I'll tell you when we get there. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, concealing it in its green bosom. A thick layer of dust covers the life and love that dwells in this house. This house. This is the house. This is where I live. Stop."

"What? Oh." You stop, but not in time. "Oh, sorry."

"Turn around in my neighbour's driveway," I breathed out slowly and reminded myself to stay calm. "The house swaddles and keeps its inhabitant warm through the winter of her soul. Within its walls, she still feels his presence." 

You slowed the car in front of my house like you were expecting me to just get out. But I hadn't finished the story yet. "You should park. You don't want to waste gas." And the story, "Here he lives, breathes. That's all I have so far. What do you think?" I expected a positive review or at least a thank you for sharing. But all you say is, "Are you terribly lonely?" Like that has anything to do with anything.

"Why would I be? My husband only commutes two days a week. The last ferry will bring him home." I crawled out of your car and up my steep driveway. Ah, the life of a storyteller.

"time to come in from the backyard" ldyck

Sharing my author journey...

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