Tag: Creative Writing – Prose

Image: ©Amélie My-Linh Dauban

Author: Amélie My-Linh Dauban

It had been a long time since she had not felt such a peaceful feeling in her heart. In the past weeks – no, in the past months – she had been so disconnected from herself, from the world around. She was walking from place to place, moving from task to task, like a sleepwalker, robotically doing what she was expected to, without even wondering if she liked it. All that mattered was to get the job done. Perform well academically, exercise daily, fake a smile, overwork herself, pretend she was doing fine, that she wasn’t tired, pretend she didn’t care. But maybe that was in fact the problem. Maybe she forgot how to care. She was so caught up in her exhausting routine that she was not seeing the world around. As if she had become empty, soulless, a creature made of void and darkness, barely looking human from afar.

And yet, for the first time, she felt something. At last. She had returned to her hometown, where all her happy memories lie. Her parents’ warmth, her cosy house, her messy room, but above all, above everything, the forest nearby, where she would wander for hours during long walks and runs. The place where her heart truly lies.

She took a long breath. The air was cold, smelling like wet leaves and rain. She let it fill her lungs, then watched it twirl in a foggy cloud of smoke. A little smile stretched her lips. She looked around. No sign of civilisation to be seen. Only a cathedral of trees, throwing their arms towards the sky in a vain attempt to reach the stars. The leaves were playing a soft melody together with the wind, upon which the birds sang. Of all the music in the world, it was her favourite symphony.

Raising her eyes, she gazed at the orange sun disappearing behind treetops, painting the sky in shades of pink, yellow and turquoise. The grass was already covered in frost, even though it was not winter yet. On the floor lay a carpet of brown and golden leaves, resting in peace after a warm and green summer. It was freezing, foggy, mysterious. Light was slowly decreasing, creating quite a spooky atmosphere.

Yet, the girl was not afraid. On the contrary, she had never felt freer than here, alone among the trees. Overwhelmed by a sudden burst of joy, she started to run and jump and dance. Why walk in a straight line at a constant pace? As if life was constant and straightforward. As if the human mind was constant and straightforward. It was not, her heart was a hurricane, and she could not hold it in any longer, she had to let it out, express the winds shaking her, carrying her like a bird flying on hot airstreams.

She felt so lucky to be alive… The forest was her castle, her queendom, her only home. She started running faster, she was one with the wind, she was one with nature, with the world, with herself. For the first time since what seemed to be for her an eternity, she felt like she belonged.

And suddenly, it did not seem to matter to be the strongest, the wittiest, the most knowledgeable in the room, wherever she’d go. All she wanted, all she had ever wanted was to be happy and free. To exist without a purpose, for the simple joy of being there, in the moment. 

Slowing down, she paused a second to recover her breath, ecstatic. The first stars were illuminating the sky, alongside the dazzling moon. Suddenly, she saw something move in the bushes. She held her breath. An animal? Trying hard to not make any noise, she walked closer. Quietly, a red hairy head came out of the leaves. A fox! She could barely contain her excitement. The creature calmly walked by before disappearing again, closely followed by its fluffy tail. It felt like magic, truly.

Full of these forgotten core feelings, the girl started heading back to her house. She better get home before it got dark! Now she knew she was the same as the child who would go on tremendous adventures in these woods, finding wonder behind every trunk, magic in every leaf that falls. She was still the same as the girl who would enjoy a comforting hot chocolate after a hike with her parents, still the same as the little wooden elf she imagined herself to be when she was little. Her heart belonged to the forest, and never had it beaten louder than in this very moment. She knew who she was, and she was by far enough as she was. No need to prove her worth. She was the daughter of the wind, and her fate was to live forever free.

Comments by the jury:

“I admired the protagonist’s bravery and was pleased it was rewarded.”

“The use of several adjectives in a row is, in my opinion, a very lovely way of describing things, and the use of punctuation in general rendered the thinking process quite wonderfully.”

Image: © Erika Castrillón Morales

Author: Erika Castrillón Morales

[Content warning: animal sacrifice]

Every April, we climbed the mango tree. It was on the terrace of the house I grew up in. Green-yellowed leaves decorated its arms, but the mangoes were always late, or they never arrived. We climbed and played in its branches, hoping not to fall. I used to slide my little fingers through the crackered bark to peel the cortex. If you were lucky enough, you could make tiny balls with the tree’s resin to play with. All the kids in the neighborhood loved that tree. Every one of us had a story to tell about it. 

***

In August 1976, Antonia Villalba moved to Barranquilla, a bustling and noisy city like all the ones in the north of Colombia. She was a tall, pale, rounded woman, strong, and bulky. She came from Bogotá, the capital, or ‘la nevera,’^[1]as we called it in the Coast for its cold weather. Too cold for people accustomed to more than 34 degrees Celsius in a tropical country.  Antonia had also lived and worked in the countryside of Santander, for many years. Well accustomed to the hard work, the woman knew how to ride a horse, how to raise a family, and specially, how to cook with gifted hands. After my grandfather died, my thirteen-years-old mom took control of the house. To have an income that could ease the hunger, she began renting out some rooms in the family’s household. Antonia moved in with her three kids and her parents. Her husband, a truck driver, had died in a traffic accident. She decided to move to Barranquilla, where an estranged cousin had settled in the city and also married a truck driver.

Antonia always loved to earn her own money; she juggled between jobs to take care of her family. Having set up a small convenience store in our house, she started selling roasted food.  Antonia bought the goods at the market. Early in the morning, she got on crowded buses, filled with people from various backgrounds: employees, foreigners coming from nearby areas and small villages, domestic workers, salespeople, merchants, and another informal workforce.  Successful businesspeople, public servants and doctors never took the bus, they took taxis or drove their own fancy vehicles. The market was a conglomerate of people coming from all over town. You could find city halls and offices next to hospitals and food stands, decorated with long queues of people waiting to enter any of those buildings. Street sellers offered bracelets and rosaries in the middle of copious fragrances. The odor of smoked fish appealed to those craving a hearty breakfast after running errands for a while. If you were looking for something lighter, you could try a buñuelo with hot coffee. The city was, and still is, a living being in which all citizens acted like organs making the body function. At 9 am, Antonia was back home with big bags of fresh vegetables and groceries to sell. José, her eldest son, had already started serving customers. 

Weekends were special as she set up plastic tables and chairs on the terrace for people to come and eat. The tables were nicely dressed up with floral pattern coverings and embroidered ends. On Fridays, she came from the market with a goat kid. During the afternoon, you could hear the poor animal howling when Antonia killed it. She then made pepitoria^[2] to sell or some roasted goat on Saturdays. She also came with roosters. She plucked the chickens and seasoned them with a red paste made with bell peppers, onions, achiote and salt. She then put the chicken on grills and sold them with salty potatoes. Of all the food she made to sell, she always gave some to my mom. Sometimes Antonia gave even more than what she owed her in rent. In the end, it was a transaction based on solidarity. 

On Sundays, Antonia made a humongous soup pot, a sancocho. She knew her cousin spent Sundays with her husband’s colleagues and their families. Antonia invited them to come around and buy her some soup. They accepted the invitation and were all delighted with the food and friendly time. It then became a tradition to have lunch at our house on Sundays to enjoy the roasted chicken, goat or soup, or any other exquisite dish that Antonia made, thinking about her old Santander. Those dishes included in every stir or cut the traces of nostalgia. 

Antonia’s youngest son was a little boy called Juanito, five years old, and there wasn’t any difference between him and a Tasmanian devil. He looked just like his mom, and he was born just before his father’s passing. He ran around the house, playing in the dirt and driving everyone crazy. That boy was pure chaos, but sometimes, he was lonely. His mother was busy making some money, so she could not watch him all day. His siblings had school or were helping Antonia. The boy’s loneliness and sadness grew more and more evident. Antonia felt guilty about her son, so she came one afternoon with a puppy to keep Juanito company. They called it Zeón. Juanito and the dog were very alike, messy, and dirty. With its tender eyes, the creature captured everyone’s smiles and caresses. 

One Sunday, it was the birthday of one of the truck drivers. Antonia woke up early, as she anticipated many people that day. She had promised them to make the best sancocho one had ever tasted. An array of potatoes, sweet, and green plantains, calabaza, yam and cassava.  Gallina criolla and carne salada, a meal which ‘industrial’ could never define.Word about the famous soup spread all over near neighborhoods. At 7 AM, Antonia had already cut all the vegetables for the soup. The meat had been soaking in spices overnight. José started piling firewood in the backyard. Antonia carried the pot and put it in the fire. The smell of the smoke flew around the houses. People passed by in their Sunday best and said hello to Antonia on their way to the Mass. 

That day Juanito was more restless than usual. As a tornado, he ran with the dog from here to there in the house while Antonia kept asking him to stay still. Giving up, she told him to go out and play with the neighbor’s son. Juanito took the dog with him.

José was sitting next to the pot to make sure it wasn’t going to burn. When the soup was ready, José put a lid on it and went to help his mother with another task. It had already been a while when Juanito and the dog came back. They started running and playing around the soup pot. Suddenly, a clattering noise and a pitiful bark resound in the backyard. José heard Juanito’s laugher, and he knew something was wrong. He went running to see what happened. Shocked, José cried for help “¡Mamá, mamá, Juanito tiró el perro en la sopa!”^[3] Luckily, the soup was no longer boiling. Antonia, shaking nervously, hurried up to take the dog out of the soup while menacing Juanito with a beating. Juanito, seeing that his mom was not joking, ran as fast as a runaway puppy. With his short arms and legs, he climbed the mango tree. He then waited at the top, looking at the bottom where Antonia held a heavy belt. We also had stories concerning our mothers’ belt.

Antonia yelled “¡te me bajas inmediatamente de ahí, culicagado!”^[4] She was furious. Her pale face turned red with anger. At the corner of the street, the trucks’ honks were loud. People arrived on foot and some others getting out of taxis and private cars. It was too late to start cooking another soup pot. And how could you explain such a mischief? Antonia gave Juanito a last look. “¡Te bajas, o te bajo, y ya verás!”^[5] The boy got out of the tree. His mother grabbed him by the ears and ordered Teresa, the middle sister, to clean and dress him up. José took the dog and gave it a bath. 

People came into the house and warmly greeted Antonia. Everyone took a seat. Teresa started serving the delicious-looking soup. Plates were passed from hand to hand, with lemon slices and rice. Pepitorias, arepas and some aguapanela were served. They were laughing and making jokes. Through the radios, some Vallenato and Cumbia were heard. Someone took a bottle of aguardiente and made a grimace at its bitter taste. It was a festive and happy Sunday in the Colombian coast. After quick belt strokes, Juanito continued to happily play with the dog. But away from the soup. The guests kept coming for more soup and more rice. What an amazing cook Antonia was! Everyone who attended the party that day kept talking about it for months; years passed, and everyone remembered Sundays at Antonia’s. But no one dared to say: ¡Esta sopa sabe a perro!^[6] 

^[1] Spanish word for fridge. 

^[2] Colombian dish typical of the Santander Department made from the goat’s entrails, blood, and hard-boiled eggs. 

^[3] “Mom, mom, Junito threw the dog into the soup.” 

^[4] “Get down, culicagado” (Colombian slang word for a little kid, usually a mischievous one). 

^[5] “Get down or you will see.”

^[6] This soup has a doggy taste.

Comments by the jury:

“I think it was a lovely rendering of a funny anecdote through adult eyes; it’s very self-aware and socially-driven”

“I appreciated the details of the food, how she made it and what she used in the recipes. … I was thankful that the dog survived its encounter with the soup!”

Image: “Yellow parasol” © Dzejsenka. Source – CC License

Author: Nathalie Hayes

Comments by the jury:

“I also enjoyed the implicit descriptions. We see and feel the black summer dress without needing to be told what it looked like.”

“Very Sally Rooney-esque in the phrasing and atmosphere. … I thought the unconditional love of the lake was a lovely subject.”

Image: © Andreia Abreu Remigio

Author: Andreia Abreu Remigio

The first time he invited me to his house, he purposefully did it when his parents weren’t home. I knew it. That was the plan. Weird parents, he said, it’s better this way. I said, okay. How bad could it be, though? I had brought him home to my family after a week of talking, and we slept in the same bed. I had no idea then of how differently we had been raised. I had no idea then that this topic would trigger most of our fights.

I cried that night. Because he got me a record player for Christmas and because their apartment was gigantic. I cried because my home, which my parents had saved up for their whole lives and had completely renovated themselves, felt pathetic in comparison. I got him a plush that I had sewn myself. Shit.

Months later, I met his paternal grandparents. How strange it is to be picked up at the train station by his grandpa, a well-dressed gentleman, in a Mercedes. My avô doesn’t own a car. I don’t think he can drive one. He has untreated dementia now and wets his pants regularly. We got out of the car. The house is beautiful, I thought. But I probably didn’t say it out loud. Overwhelmed. I felt stupid. At lunch, we talked about culture and politics. No one asked about my family. I thought about how my grandparents never finished elementary school. His grandparents have paintings of royalty next to their library. Art books. History books. For them, knowledge is a legacy as much as material possessions. Every time I sit down to dinner there, I am invited into conversations about philosophy, art, or politics. They toss around cultural references and memories of family vacations, turning to me occasionally, eyes bright, to draw me in. It is a warm place, really, and they are always gracious. But I find myself sitting straighter, picking my words carefully so as not to betray my own upbringing. I don’t think my avó can read very well. She has never told me about her own life, but I don’t need to ask anyone to confirm that none of my grandparents have ever been on vacation. 

Back at my grandparents’ place, in a small, rural village, the world is different. Their house, humble and creaky, squished between others, has a tin roof and cracked windows that rattle in the wind. Their walls are adorned with simple trinkets—porcelain animals, faded photographs, calendars from years past. For them, the world is close and immediate. My grandparents work with their hands, waking early to tend to a vegetable garden that provides most of their food. Their knuckles are gnarled from years of working with soil, tending to animals, and fixing what breaks. 

They are the same age as my boyfriend’s grandparents, but they look 20 years older. They never finished school, my grandparents. It wasn’t uncommon where they grew up; education was a luxury for people with means, not something available to farming families with seven or eight mouths to feed. They taught themselves what they could, learned through experience, and kept the family afloat. They know everything there is to know about the land, the seasons, and the history of our village. Ask them about the soil, and they’ll tell you what crops it best yields, which fields drain poorly, and how to coax a good harvest in a dry year. But I was born in another country, where my parents migrated to seek better opportunities. I have nothing in common with my grandparents. 

Today, we’re at his maternal grandmother’s house. His grandfather passed away a few years ago; they were very close. He seemed like a wonderful person. He rescued stray cats—my avó cuts the throats of the chickens she raises, and serves them to me on a plate that has never seen a dishwasher. I watch my boyfriend while he gives me a tour of the place and the tangible memories it holds. The legacy he left behind. But the house has changed since he passed and his wife moved away. My boyfriend’s uncle turned it into a guest house. No one would ever want to sleep in either of my grandparent’s houses. I don’t have anything to cherish from my own family, no deep conversation or passed-on wisdom, no pictures or pieces of furniture. Maybe just the practical tools of a life spent working. Maybe. 

But I still have four grandparents, all alive and doing fine. I’ve never felt a deep connection with any of them, and maybe that’s my fault. I see them once a year, and though I don’t miss them in between, I find myself hurting for them now in a way I never did before. They lived lives of hard work and survival, yet none of the comforts or curiosities my boyfriend’s family enjoys. They never had a chance to explore, to grow old with the luxury of knowledge and leisure. And yet, in their way, my parents broke the poverty cycle and have given everything to give me a future. I know this should fill me with pride, but more often, it just leaves me feeling lost—caught between two worlds I don’t fully belong to, aching for people I don’t quite know how to miss.

There’s an ache I feel when I’m at his family’s table. Sometimes I wonder how it will play out, these two lives we’ve each lived that shaped us in ways neither of us can fully undo. But what I do know is that these different worlds have given us something unique, something special to share with one another, right as we’re about to move in together. His family’s history is written in books and intellectual discourse, while mine is carved into the fields and hands of people who had no choice but to endure. I’m learning to appreciate both now, how places shape people, and how people breathe life into the places they call home. 

Comments by the jury:

“Well-told story focusing on questions of class and social relations (Sally Rooney-esque); an effective penultimate paragraph detailing the problem of not knowing how to miss people.”

“Love the title. This is a really immersive story, with the protagonists own memories adding a layer of complexity to the narrative.”

“I found the language particularly beautiful in this one, and the internal point of view is rendered perfectly. The subject is interesting and thought-provoking.”

Image: © Leah Didisheim

Author: Leah Didisheim

Orange. That’s the first colour I think about. But not this bright industrial, lifeless orange. This natural autumnal orange. Then perhaps blue, green and yellow. These are not even my favourite colours. And yet, they have to be the most beautiful colours in the world.

It usually starts on an early Saturday morning. Early for a Saturday that is. The drive to go there is long and the breaks too. Well, it really depends on who’s driving the car. My uncle in his Tesla and with his hatred of the too-many-long-breaks that my dad loves gets there before the rest of us. You see, my dad is kinda like me. Well, mostly in the sense that he likes his rituals, his routine and that he dislikes waking up early and hurrying up. So, usually we aim to leave at eight thirty in the morning to pick my grandma up and leave from her place at around nine. Of course, that’s never before my dad patted himself on the back for being so amazing at putting all the suitcases in the trunk as optimally as he did. And then, when we’re all in the car, when you might think “ok, they’re finally starting the trip!”, of course my dad wants to make the first stop after forty-five minutes to have breakfast in the Grauholz. The others stopped wanting to meet there when the food started to be really bad. They never really wanted to go in the first place, it was way too close from home, and only one break in the middle is better. But for my dad, it’s just part of the holidays, so there really is no going without stopping there. There’s no point arguing, I’ve tried, trust me. I always pretend to be grumpy because it means putting my shoes back on, turning off my music, but really, I think seeing him lighting up just because he’s getting his mediocre croissant, chocolate bar and tasteless coffee – and by the way he agrees with the rest of us on the taste – is adorable.

After that, we’re really gone this time. I usually start to doze off right when it’s time for the next break at around one in the afternoon in Heidiland; a place where we are just getting food that’s too expensive. We join the rest of my family sitting at a table, their plates already empty and about to leave, but they were waiting to say hi. So again it’s just me, my dad and my grandma. We can’t realistically have this lunch without my dad complaining about how his röstis aren’t cooked enough but after he had asked the cook to fry them some more about three times he wasn’t going to ask again. And also, it’s so greasy. And not that good. But I couldn’t resist. I should’ve taken a salad. Next time.

It’s about two-three more hours before my heart races again. And that’s usually not counting the yearly argument I have with my dear father about the correct direction to follow. You see, we go there every year. And we have for about twenty years. So, you’d think my dad would know the way by now. But every time, I want him to put the GPS on just to make sure – and I check on my phone anyway when he says no – and every time he assures me that he knows the way. Of course, that’s overlooking every time we almost ended up in Italy by mistake. But the signs are almost invisible, it’s impossible not to make a mistake. Well, the rest of my family must be exceptional then.

But then, the final mountain pass arrives. I recognise every turn. The larches aren’t orange yet, but they will at the end of the week. Even the grey rocks are beautiful to me. At the top of the mountain, there is this tower, somewhat famous and I smile because I already know the story my grandma is about to tell my dad. Yes, this tower, one time François and I went to see a play there. Really? Well, yes really dad, grandma says it every year. I really just say this last bit in my head, though.

Just thirty more minutes. I can almost see the hotel, no; the castle we’ll be staying in. And the blue lake is still there. And the grass, the rainbow forest. And there, there I finally feel like not everything is lost. There, finally, nature is the main character again. Here, I feel warm despite the dry air that makes your throat cough. In a few days, everything will be gold. And that’s how I know everything is perfect again.

My grandma used to come to the same place when she was a child. They know us so well there, it really feels more like home than like a hotel. That’s where my grandma looks happiest since my grandpa died. And I think that’s where I am too. There are only huge windows all around the living room so that it feels like we’re outside.

In the past, when we were just the three generations and not the four we are now, we used to go do what we call Torées. We’d go to the local supermarket to buy meat, bread and chocolate. And in what felt like the middle of the forest for ten-year-old me, one of my cousins starts grilling the meat while other people from my family walk some more, some draw on notebooks near the water, some read. The sky is shining bright. The larches are multiple shades of greens, oranges, yellows and reds. The lake is its bluest self. And as I sit on the rock, facing all of these colours, the sun on my face, my family talking behind me, the smell of warm food getting ready, I am truly and utterly happy. I just feel at peace in a world that usually gives me so much anxiety. There, I can finally recharge. Here, I can finally breathe.

My new favourite activity though – since we stopped the Torées, I had to find a new one – is the horse-drawn carriage. I shamelessly endorsed the role of the paparazzi with my grandma in front of me and my baby cousins that I keep photographing on both my sides. We always ride it to go to the best röstis restaurant higher in the mountain. The rest of my family walks there but I just love the carriage too much to ever stop. This road is right in the middle of the colourful trees with the blue sky right above us. Even the smell of the horses I look forward to.

Finally, I guess my last favourite thing, other than drinking warm tea and eating cake while reading a good book at one of the window tables of the gigantic living room, with classical music in the background, other than debating on what food we’re going to choose from the menu this evening with my uncle, and even other than working for university in the hotel library, is the minigolf we do right behind the hotel, under the trees. I never win and I probably never will, but in the cold nature right here, resting on my golf club – while my cousin shoots her minigolf ball, while my dad and my aunt argue because my dad moved the leaves on the minigolf course after everyone else shot their minigolf ball with the leaves on, which is just so unfair of you frankly. And you always do this. Either we change it for everyone before, or no one changes a thing. Alright, alright, I’ll stop doing it – while the needle-like leaves fall gently from the trees to the rhythm of the wind on my cheeks, I know I won something so much more precious.

I could tell you about everything else. About how when we come back home, so it doesn’t feel like we’ve really left just yet, we have Bolognese spaghettis all together at my uncle’s house. Or about the bird path we go to with the children to feed the birds. Or about how they offer painting lessons there and every Thursday evening the children present their pieces in the corridor that goes to the dining room to show everyone which brightens my heart when I look at my baby cousins’ paintings, just like my parents used to look at my ones when I was little. Or about how my grandpa’s birthday was always close to that week, so we’ve often celebrated his birthday here, including one of his last ones. But in the end, all of these memories, all of these natural colours will always be right here, in these mountains. And that’s really all I need, writing this from my desk at home, with the cold grey rain pouring just outside.

Comments by the jury:

“This was a lovely cozy autumn read! … I thought that the use of internal language and the mixing of indirect speech was so well done and contributed to the feeling of an event known by heart, in which you find safety.”

“The writer beautifully articulates the joy and frustrations of family holidays. It’s a story infused with nostalgia, and a familiar one to every reader.”

Image: © H.S

Author: H.S

In my life I’ve seen many peoples and have been to many places, but I’ve never been to a place with as many people as the Fête des vendanges in Neuchâtel.
I must try and carefully chose my words, and hope through telepathic shock & excitement you see in your mind the exact ekphrasis of it:
From far away, from my white 2000s apartment complex which dominates the city scraping the black sky at night up above, you can hear in the thick coarse foggy night the festival calling.
The city becomes unrecognizable – the entire old city center, pedestrian, gets swallowed in a black mass of people like black petals of chocolate in dough – stands are erected, tents, stages for music, food stands of all nationalities vying for the odorous control of the streets –

The stands!
Each political party has their stand selling the ever-present democratic beer – you can see the left & right wing and the drunks who made it their civic duty to go back & forth trying to decide politically who’s got the best beer – the results of these great inebriated deambulations will influence the next election.
The green stand of the UDC Green-clad in their traditional Swiss clothing, blue jeaned & behatted, but too expensively wrist-watched and smelling of expensive cologne, making them seem like insurers and accountants mascarading as working class.
The blue-clad liberals looking like economics & business students, just slightly too neat for the bacchanal of the streets before them.
The socialists, red-clad motley crew with colorful posters all over the wall of the stand – Tattooed cool cats and the only women serving.
The communists not here this year. But I remember once in La-Chaux-de-Fonds they served Sagres or SuperBock which are THE working-class Portuguese beer.
And you have to shout to order because of the insane tittle-tattle of speakers –

Listen! the whole of Latin-America blasting their enchiladas with decibels which I assume adds flavor – giving the tortillas tinnitus.
Greasy American grub, and here and there the gentrified hipster vegan burger that coast 25 bucks with no fries which costs extra.
Afro-beats ringing in backstreets, for they have the worst locations – but shoulder-to-shoulder they dance, the drunk red-faced Swiss passers-by and the black Swiss busting out moves for their families and friends.
All of this just under windows of the old city center – old crones crowned above waiting at their balconies for 10pm sharp – they shout that the music should stop but they keep pushing it to later and later but the police is coming! A stampede on those backstreets broke my nose one year!
Rock bands playing live at big venues which blocks the arteries of streets like cholesterol does the heart of man.
Jazz joints at the periphery, near wooden temporary chalets in which you get local absinthe, the green gold whose drops are mined from the Val-De-Travers – the green fairy, who watches over all of us in this canton and we love her.
Chiller atmosphere there, more mature – the jazz bands are playing for 50 years old dads and moms who let their children roam around the crazy night.
The rap stage! Usually the main plaza is home to the buzz of buses, busy bees yellow-painted in my memories and following their comrades through the streets, but this weekend is the festival’s and so the buses must go.
So the rap stage in the middle of it and DJ blasting the latest American trends – and if you wanna see fights you go there.
Once I saw a woman dragging another by the hair while she herself was getting hammer-punched in the face repeatedly by another dude – that’s where you go to get punched in the face.
And the main stage and stand – in the middle of the middle of the heart of the heart of the center of the center of the city – right by the public library unrecognizable and unseen behind the huge stage that’s in fact three smaller stages linked together and interrupted by bars, and that’s where they blast (quote) classic (unquote) tunes that everybody knows and in drunken revelries sings with no effort put in harmonies or pronunciation or in fact volume.
Everyone SCREAMING not singing – arms interlocked and dancing a mad cadenza – songs by groups like Indochineeverybody singing the lyrics –
The bar underneath the stage besieged between tunes – and the DJ expertly doing whatever, here a classic, then a pop-song, then reggaeton, back to known tunes, and so on and so forth – the music blasting everywhere at everyone, your chest vibrates from the bass, your heart feels trapped in its cage as the ribs shake and shatter and you feel the music physically booming in your heart.

And the funfair! while the west and center of the old town are blackened and moisten by beer-&-wine drinkers & pukers, in the east you have the funfair –
The colorful light bulbs dotting the attractions which get lost in the air and bedazzles the water during the night –
The funfair is just above the harbor so you see the dark mass of the lake interrupted by fog which makes it a sea of darkness, but before the wall of clouds that darkens the night you have the many-jeweled water and its rainbow reflection of the funfair –
The water in the dark, slimy and gooey, captures the light voraciously.
The funfair with its unimpressed and bored looking Romani people talking French with impenetrable accents, nodding their head “no” to 8 yrs old children when they ask if they can still get a small prize if they missed the target by so little?
Grimy, dirty, colorful, gaudy – good fun but watch your pockets!
Churros covered in Nutella passing by in children’s hands, you just smell the fragrance and you go get one too –
Couples trying to win the big unicorn or dolphin plushy at a rifle stand –
The clerk is surrounded by the terrible beasts of the jungle, all fuzzy and cute –
The teenagers drunk on Smirnoff ice and Malibu screaming obscenities and being boisterous at the boxing arcade machine, challenging each other to punch harder that the last –
one of them hits the bag with his head and they scream laughing –
Another uses his elbow –
“Wow I got 8000 points” “Ah yeah? Well, I just got 8200, pussy!” “Ah yeah? I’ll show you!” and they spend coin after coin trying to beat each other.
Cotton candy flying in the wind as children lose control of it, or lose it to the drizzle that diminished the calm.
I had great sad dates after the Fête des vendanges had ended at the funfair, when everyone is gone and the weather is gray and the wind is blowing and the sad reflection on the thick puddles breaks your heart but you heal it with grease and cinnamon.

So many things I’ve not talked about!
The way the evangelical church on the street that leads to the train station tries to evangelize the drunkard rats of the night by giving them orange juice and sandwiches –
The way you see so much blood, vomit, sperm, shit, and all other human fluids spilling in the streets but everybody wallows in pig-like happiness –
The way you lose your wallet –
The way your ears ring –
The way you’d make out with four people you don’t know (with tongue) just because they liked the way you danced –
The way you’d be drunk one night to the point of not remembering and still go the next morning to get a caramel crepe –
The way that on Saturday night people from other cantons come and that’s when you can see knife fights by the fog-lost lake –
The way you see children, as young as thirteen binging for the first time and staggering along with their friends one on each side – getting their first binge first kiss first love first heartbreak first puke and first pickpocket –

The way you see & lose everybody there every hour or so, going to a stand with one group of friends, seeing your parents on the way, losing your friends, seeing your high-school sweetheart with her friends and hanging out with them, meeting a bunch of cool Frenchmen and dance, losing them too, meeting a girl and making out, losing her to the great sea of people, seeing your initial friends finally at 2 AM by the kebab stand eating and going back to do it all over again!

THAT’S IT! The Fête des vendanges, but you have to live it with wine in your belly, music in your feet, beer in your hand, and stars in your eyes.

Comments by the jury:

“The writer brings the Fête des vendanges to life on the page. The reader feels a little drunk by the end, is pleased not to have been punched and, with ears ringing, would also appreciate a kebab.”

“Very beautiful use of language, I think it renders the atmosphere really nicely in an almost oneiric way, and the depiction of all the different people and things was done in a very level-headed manner, which I thought was nice.”

Author: N.R.

It was a warm autumn day as I made my way through the bustling streets. Humming a slow tune, I saunter towards my next stop. 

How long has it been since we last came here together, hand in hand? The laughter we once shared, echoes in my ear as I push the door open. The strong yet welcoming scent of ground coffee beans fills my nostrils. I find myself gravitating towards a well-lit display of carefully curated delights. 

The owner greets me from his place behind the counter.

“It’s good to see you again! Did life get busy?” he asks. 

“Yes. Things just have a way of building up in such a short time. Had to take some time off.” I offer as an answer. 

As we continued to make small talk, I could not help but feel a twinge of sadness. It wasn’t long ago that we were here sharing desserts and sipping on drinks.  Now here I am. Alone. 

I make my order and head for an empty table. I watch as people trickle into the café, laughing amongst themselves. At a nearby table, friends are passionately talking about the places they plan to visit. As their chatter continues, my mind starts to drift, as it often does these days. 

Floating through clouds, I find myself remembering our last few discussions. Unlike before, your eyes now held the look of someone who had given up. No longer were we sharing the same goal of reaching destinations we once gushed about.

Refusing to let the delays fill my heart with despair, I strapped myself in, determined to fight for both our dreams. I would have done anything to keep hope afloat. If your air mask malfunctioned, I would have given you mine without a thought. I wanted to be the one to bring you to safety.

We made it through several turbulences before our final plane made a sudden drop in altitude, forcing me to come to terms with my worst fear. The denial was spilling through the cracks of my foundation. 

It took our last transit for me to understand that nothing could keep you from making the wrong turn. You kept adding luggage that could not be repacked and continuously refused assistance from help counters along the way. 

I had lost sight of my own plans and itinerary. Standing at that terminal, I made up my mind. 

It was time for me to put myself first and book a flight of my own. Like any other passenger, I deserved a trip where my choices were not restricted or forced to compromise. 

It took several errors and frozen screens, but I made it to my new boarding gate. 

There was no looking back. No last calls to make. 

Suddenly, my ears feel a popping sensation as I hear my name being called. I stand up and make my way to the front. The owner, having wrapped everything nicely, gave me my to-go bag. 

“Don’t wait too long to come back! Why don’t you bring that friend of yours with you next time!” a courteous smile on his face. 

“I will! Have a nice day!” I replied. A few seconds later, I was on my way. I pondered over my plans for the afternoon. 

With no surprise, I reorganized my thoughts back to a few minutes ago. Will there be a time when we visit the café together, like before? How soon could that be? 

Probably not right away. It’s too late to take a return flight to your side. For now, there are no more connections to make, given that the borders are to remain on lockdown.

Perhaps it was for the best that we ended up at different terminals. 

It leaves the possibility of finding a different way, back to each other. After all, we all started off as strangers.

Nothing is stopping us from creating a new and improved flight connection together. Till then…

                                                          –     Ready for Take Off      –