Category Archives: Short Fiction

Shedding Skin 3

We talk of history repeating itself, and I think it’s meant as a negative statement. As in, “when will you learn” NOT to do something. Mistakes happen again and again; heads hit the same wall to no avail. Nations go to war at one end of the spectrum and children rebel against parents at the other end.

When I did or said certain things growing up, I was “just like Heather,” my adventurous, independent 1960s auntie who never married. She told me once, “You can be lonely in a relationship too.” Oddly, I let everyone down when I married and had a child. Now who would they live through vicariously?

History is history.

When the stars realign and the situation seems pretty familiar, it’s actually the present offering new opportunities. Shedding the past to receive a new present. To accept and digest the present–not throw it all over the place in bloody pieces to create more harm. It’s been a privilege to participate in relearning the history of the land that I have always called home.

Shout out to Kaleidoscope Theatre! https://kaleidoscope.bc.ca/shows/frozen-river/

Recently I read the play Frozen River [Nikwatin Sipiy] by Michaela Washburn, Joelle Peters and Carrie Costello … I hope to see it performed locally and won’t spoil the brilliant end. But the character in that play who really caught my attention was Moon. Always there in the background, above the actors, watching, commenting. Cycling through seasons and decades–different each time, but given time, similar. Our shared past no matter how we try to deny it.

It feels like we are at so many intersections that require choices. Frozen River gives hope in so many ways.

My family found a new refrain to replace “Just like Heather.” “Why are you so sensitive?” I always shrugged: It’s what an artist is. It’s what the moon brings to the world–the mystery of seeing into the dark, illuminating it, and coming out with a story.

Will we shed old skin and emerge new and perhaps more vulnerable? That’s how it feels to publish writing. Putting artwork out. Staging plays. Sometimes courage is needed to just to voice compassion in a room where thick skins and sarcasm dampen conservsation.

Home: 10 Short Stories is a collection of stories covering a cycle of seasons. Threads of toughness shimmer through difficult times. It’s a book for the settlers here, that we let our hearts be brave.

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Shedding Skin 2

The turn of the millennium seems, well, a millennium ago! I did so much writing then.

The short stories I wrote in the early 2000s helped me process the new field I was entering, the world of education where it intersected with at risk and vulnerable youth. As an educator, I had to grow beyond my biases and judgements, those fear-based ways of holding on. Like a snake, I stretched my jaw through writing to take in and process amazing stories of resiliency, failure, and the hard snap of systems based on monetary measurables. Thankfully, in those years I was surrounded by amazing support from Youth Opportunities Unlimited and the Boys and Girls Club.

At the turn of the Millennium, there was the Internet, and I was an early adopter. No Facebook, no Instagram or TickTock. The iPhone wasn’t out yet, and Blackberry had its simple, but brilliant, message system (remember BBMS??). The newspaper, gossip, the radio shows and 6 o’clock news on TV were our information highways. We saw the same news at the same time. We could observe our local neighbourhood, our workplace, but we weren’t linked to instant news and entertainment.

The stories I wrote came from observations. The style of telling couldn’t be the usual hero’s journey because there was so much to overcome, and sadly, losses and more losses. All the unanswered prayers.

Most of the stories were told within a short time frame, but formed by a kaleidoscope of views. Me stretching my skin to understand the whole picture, and how to present it? Through dis-connection. In the end, the patterns coalesced, the endings not endings at all. Or writing an “if only.”A skin shed, and the living carry on.

Home: 10 Short Stories is shed, at least in the first layer and available to readers through Amazon. Though that won’t be the end of it.

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Shedding our skin

It’s been a year of work. Family work. Paid work from the heart work. Creative work. Stories written in the past have come back, and darn, I think they are good. The Year of the Snake is coming to a close. Shedding fiction is a fun skin to lose, to observe it separate from oneself.

This fall “Alignment” found its way into the London Writer’s Society anthology. I think I can say that Emma Donoghue has read my work now, and I have certainly have read hers. The LWS group has fearlessly marketed this anthology, asked the authors to participate in all kinds of events. And they have found so many local bookstores to take this anthology in. Tuckey’s Home Hardware is one of my favourite places to see it on display. It takes a village to raise a book!

Shedding a story feels great. It’s not about money or fame, but about having space to renew the craft and bring out new ideas. This year, the short stories are leaving–

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A postcard

Back of She Wanders, 2021, DMC #8 thread and printed postcard, by Laura Wythe

Stitching up a memento to summarize a whole year on the back of a postcard is a challenge even in the best of years. This one is for 2020.

In January 2021, the embroidery guild I belong to invited members to create a postcard to swap. The theme is “What 2020 meant to me.” It’s been a remarkably full year, where babies were born and died, teaching became a technical vocation, friends celebrated decades of life without fanfare, a grant was written, stories collected and this writer/artist learned what self-care really meant.

We are currently in another tight lock down, making the swap idea a very appealing way to connect. The postcard has a physicality that needs time to make, send, receive and savour. And perhaps bring love and a smile to someone.

The size is small, though honestly, it just means I stitch smaller! Like many, I searched through what I have at home for inspiration. There was enough left of a fat quarter with a street print, a place I’d love to walk. As well, I have a bunch of postcards for The Bones designed by Chazza. Using one seemed very appropriate as we hear of the pandemic coming and going in waves.

This postcard goes to an unknown guild member, but if you are interested in a swap, let me know.

She Wanders,
2021, floss on printed cotton, cotton fill on printed postcard, by Laura Wythe
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The Bones Illustrated 12

Drawn into Catherine’s Orbit by Laura Wythe

“His life, it was too short, so short.”  Catherine closed the file, waved it in the air, as if she could conjure him back. He wished she had that magic, to bring back lives just as she brought life back to her artifacts. “He was the dearest soul I know, and never had a chance.” She looked to Thomas, and snuffed with her emotions. Clem and Thomas curled like brackets on either side of her, handing out tissues, murmuring kind words. Under her lashes, she looked his way, and TinTin knew she wasn’t looking for comfort. Like him, she was looking for those bits of Pi that she could carry forward. His work, his life, his thoughts—curated and alive because she bothered, and knew he would too. Shit, he’d finally been drawn into Catherine’s orbit, and from the looks of it, his first job was to rescue her.

“Look,” TinTin said, “you guys are staying for the night, so let’s forget this until the morning. The project is good. I say we order in beer and Chinese food and work our way through the vintage games. Pi would like that.”

Catherine lifted her head. “Vintage games?”

“Yes.”

Thomas laughed out loud. “He means video games.”

“There are vintage video games? I love them already.”

The Bones: Crossing, Chapter 7 by Laura Wythe (available on Amazon)

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The Bones Illustrated 10

Woven into the Fabric of Chatham County by Laura Wythe

“The town hates me.”

“It would be the same if I went to live with you in Gaza. A newcomer waltzes in and they think she wants a share of the pie she hasn’t earned yet. I will spend my life fitting you into my arms, my heart, my life. But the town has to work you among the many into its fabric until you’re seamless. Only recently has Dad been that pliable, or willing to spend the time.”

“Your parents do realize that the whole area is sunk after the bicentennial.”

“Mom says there’s some kind of programming that makes her return like a spawning salmon and that’s why she won’t give it up easily.”

Clem sighed and pretended to scoop up sunlight by the handsful, let it trickle through her fingers onto the covers.

“The fabric of Catherine’s childhood is unravelling,” TinTin said, sighing, as Clem rubbed her warm hands on his arm. “This social fabric of which you are a thread, would it perhaps be another kind of Net worth studying?”

“I think it’s been studied enough. There’s never been a culture more documented and headstrong than my mother’s.”

The Bones: Crossing, Chapter 7 by Laura Wythe (available on Amazon)

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The Bones Illustrated 9

Indian Territory, 1774 by Laura Wythe

He didn’t think the town was racist. They had their way of sorting people, of keeping them honest. The Wests had Indian blood from the frontier days and the genes popped up in random generations–two in a row with his dad and his sister. It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t something the town let them forget. Even with his fair colour, he got his share of teasing. Rebecca, well, she got teased about everything and maybe the link to Tecumseh was just the last straw. The Galloways, they’d climbed the social ladder and right on up into the early government. The link to Tecumseh stuck but the family had always taken a hard line that nothing happened between old Rebekah and the Shawnee. None of their generations had come out brown-skinned like his father and his sister, so maybe it was true. In the end, Miles believed what mattered most was how people treated one another.

The Bones: The Crossing, Chapter 3 by Laura Wythe (Available on Amazon)

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The Bones Illustrated 8

Rain Whisperer by Laura Wythe

People all over the world claimed to be in touch with the rain, but Clem believed the whisperers who gathered the most media buzz were liars. Sure, small miracles did happen. Some prayers were answered, how many out of millions? The genuine survivors told how it felt like they’d died and only when they had given up all hope and struggle, only then, had the water, or the weather itself, carried them to safety. They had submitted.

Clem stopped asking for data. She surrendered to the rain.

The Bones, Wooing, Chapter 19 by Laura Wythe (available on Amazon)

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Prayer for St. Paulinus

This short story is part of a series I wrote while working in literacy settings with vulnerable people. In this one, the venerable tea-leaf reading Allegra works the system to get a new toilet for her house.

It’s been published today on a great site called Commuter Lit, out of Toronto, and it’s purpose is to entertain on the morning (or evening) commute. Read it for free!

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