It was wonderful to hear about Susmita Bhattacharya’s unique journey to publication, part of which was an acknowledgement of her equal passions of images and words. This led to Susmita setting a brief which gave writers an opportunity to take inspiration from imagery:
In 300 words, write a short story inspired by Vincent Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night.
And the winners are…
First Place: Smell the Coffee by John K. Miles
Second Place: Arles, 1888, Two Years Before He Dies by Alethea Wiles
Third Place: According To… by Jonathan Plummer
Highly Commended: The Film Composer’s Wife by Peter Duncan
Highly Commended: Black Not Blue by Patrick Clements
First Place: Smell the Coffee by John K. Miles
I loved the circular format of the story. The sadness of living in the past, not remembering the present. I think it was a moving picture of a relationship, past and present, and a photograph that merged the two together. Well done!
Susmita Bhattacharya
A knock at the door. An old lady comes in with a brown paper package under her arm.
She looks like Rose. “Hello Rose,” I say.
“It’s Lauren, dear.”
There’s a sadness in her eyes. She says, “I brought you something to brighten up your room.”
I look at the sterile white walls and nod my head.
“It’s a painting,” she says, ripping off the brown paper packaging. “Of a Cafe in France.”
I look at it and remember. The smell of fresh coffee on a balmy summer evening. Rose is there of course; my love, my one and only. I remember the feeling; a swirling in my gut, like fallen leaves ascending to the sky in a storm.
I nod my head. I have no words, they’ve all been said.
“Thank you Rose.”
“It’s Lauren, dear.”
Rose’s eyes are watering, so I look back at the painting as she places it on my dresser.
The Cafe was called ‘Les Saisons’ and we were young.
I look up at Rose. She’s old and so am I. Life is complex and bittersweet like the glass of Pastis next to my coffee cup. I reach out for it, but find myself grasping fresh air.
“I can’t move my legs anymore, Rose.”
Rose sighs and her eyes water, and I realise that she is remembering too.
“It’s Lauren dear,” she says, this time struggling to say the words.
I look out of the window and when I turn back, Rose is gone. Perhaps she was never there. But there’s a painting on my dresser of a Cafe in France.
I look at it and remember. The smell of fresh coffee on a balmy summer evening. Rose is there of course; my love, my one and only. I remember the feeling; a swirling in my gut, like fallen leaves ascending to the sky in a storm.
Second Place: Arles, 1888, Two Years Before He Dies by Alethea Wiles
I loved the characterisation of the artist character, and how the narrator observed him, even fantasised about him. The imagery of the cafe and the artist’s observation of the scene was done really well. I loved the concept of a scene within a scene.
Susmita Bhattacharya
Jacques and Morin are demanding more absinthe, though they haven’t finished the last round, and I am tired of them.
‘Rachelle!’
I turn and nod at Pierre, raise a finger for him to be patient. Two absinthe, one beer. As I head in I glance over to check if the man is still painting on the corner. He set himself up just as the tabac closed and has been staring at us, his paintbrush furious, for at least three hours.
I go to the bar and give George my order.
‘He still out there?’ he asks, filling glasses with cheap, blinding, shit.
I nod and slide the drinks on to my tray.
‘He better not come in here,’ he mutters.
The painter was here last night, drinking glass after glass of wine, staring at the sky.
He was alone. More than just solitary. I felt sorry for him so I tried to be friendly.
‘What’s up there,’ I said. ‘That has you so spellbound?’
After a long moment he turned to me, his thin face full of hollow wonder.
‘Stars,’ he said. ‘Maybe God.’
His eyes were too bright. I shrugged and left him to his wine.
He couldn’t pay his tab. George pushed him into the gutter, told him not to show his face again.
But here he is, painting us, the cafe, the patrons. It feels like a punishment, or revenge.
Pierre lights his pipe and nods his head, staring in the same direction as me.
‘Your new lover?’ He says.
‘Drink your beer,’ I say. ‘Silly old man.’
But on the way back I imagine myself lying under him, his breath warm with wine, as paint soaks through my dress, filling me with stars, infecting me with loneliness.
Third Place: According To… by Jonathan Plummer
I loved the juxtaposition of the setting – the romantic French reverie to the stark reality of the narrator’s present situation. The dynamics between the two characters was done really well – I could feel their easy-going relationship and how much she meant to him by the way he expressed his love for her. Well done!
Susmita Bhattacharya
The café was nearly deserted. Saint-Remy’s aperitif hour crowd had drifted away for dinner. Ed was glad the bustle had died down. Sitting at his pavement café table he considered the scene: in front of him his glass of Pouilly-Fuisse had been served at exactly the right temperature and, somewhere, softly a radio was playing an accordion tune that came to him gently on the warm night air, seemingly the same way the local night scent of lavender, rosemary and fresh pine reached his nostrils.
“Yer tea!”
Mack slapped down a chipped mug of industrial strength tea on the Formica topped table and Ed, his reverie abruptly ended, realised he was not outside the Café Bouffon nearly forty years ago, but was, instead, in Mack’s Caff on the High Street. At his left the condensation coated window kept the dreary November morning at bay. The table was decorated not with a glass of white wine and a Pernod branded ashtray, but a red plastic tomato shaped ketchup dispenser, greasy salt and pepper pots and two plates of fried eggs on toast flanked by cheap, dulled cutlery.
“That’s better.”
Back from what was optimistically called “The Ladies”, Joan slipped onto the green plastic covered seat opposite Ed and smoothed her zip up fleece.
“I’m thinking of learning to play the accordion”, he said.
“Oh really,” she replied, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, really.”
Joan pulled a piece of paper and a pen from her handbag and made a note.
“What are you writing?”
“Oh”, said Joan, “Just adding ear plugs to my shopping list.”
Joan smiled slyly at him, Ed laughed.
Sitting at a cafe table drinking wine in Southern France on a warm summer’s evening was one thing, but anytime, anywhere with Joan was better.
Highly Commended: The Film Composer’s Wife by Peter Duncan
I loved the references to real people, the witty conversation and loved the way the cold was described with the senses of taste and the poor dog from Martinique shivering under the table.
Susmita Bhattacharya
I was puzzling over my dog-eared copy of Paris Pratique at the top of Rue du Mont Cenis as darkness slowly descended on Montmartre. Were these long flights of steps trailing down to murky streets below the ones appearing in that famous black-and-white photograph? I recalled its cobbles and line of streetlamps melting into vague bright early morning light but still had no clue if I was looking at them now.
‘Brassai, huh?’
Her voice startled me. ‘That photograph…’
‘Yep. These aren’t the steps, though. The Brassai ones are by the funicular. Easy mistake. Everything around here seems like it’s from a goddammed picture.’ She looked at me carefully. ‘Don’t you think?’
She was tall and thin. Scarves muffled her face. At her feet was a tiny dog. She said it had been rescued from Martinique. I felt a stab of sympathy for the mutt, plucked from tropical sunshine to trail the soiled sidewalks of Paris. Surely its Caribbean life was never so bad?
I followed her gaze along the cobbled street to a square. Tables were set beneath a long yellow awning.
‘Wrong again.’ She smiled through all those scarves. ‘Van Gogh’s café was in Arles. But I could definitely use a drink.’
We sat in bitter cold. I sipped my wine, nearly gasping in shock at its icy chill. She told me her husband was a film music composer. At dinner parties in their apartment overlooking the steps that weren’t Brassai’s, the guests were other composers: Alexandre Desplat, Philippe Sarde, Hans Zimmer.
City light clouded the night sky. Soundtracks echoed in my mind. She asked where I was staying. Hope bubbled within me.
‘Okay, I’ll walk you to the funicular. At least you can see those goddammed steps before you leave.’
Beneath the table, the dog shivered.
Highly Commended: Black Not Blue by Patrick Clements
I thought this was quite fun in the way there was a twist in the end – I did not see that coming. I thought the sharp observations were very well done.
Susmita Bhattacharya
That’s the picture I want them to see. Stars in a blue sky, warm yellow light. Colour and romance. The café has yellow canopies and white-topped tables still, but a century has passed. The sky is black, not blue. Of course. But sure – live that dream. Let art replace reality.
Americans are best, preferably women. Seeking a life-saving colour transfusion.
And there’s a likely prospect. Fifty, her hair dyed yellow, blue eyes, wedding ring, aspirationally romantic hat. Furtively comparing a postcard picture to reality. And oh, so obviously American.
“Still charming, is it not?” And so am I.
“Sometimes I think I feel his spirit here.” My furrowed brow.
“Though I never can seem to hold it.” My rueful half grin. “How about you?”
She smiles. We talk. Charlotte from Chicago. Escaping a tour group this evening to find the real France. Of course. What soul! Our eyes meet.
An absinthe in the café. One must do that, Charlotte, and I cannot drink alone.
She comes along nicely. Time to consider options. Jewellery and credit cards are profitable, but photographs in my hotel room give a better income stream, and I have substances with me to make it easy. Absinthe covers any taste.
She knows about pouring absinthe through sugar, and I let her do it. We drink to Vincent and enchantment.
She seems somehow familiar now. But I’m tired, my mind is wandering. Charlotte touches her eyes, and now they are black, not blue. Reality has replaced art. My tongue is numb. She puts on glasses and a dark scarf over her head, and I remember her.
“Yes,” she says. “Contacts and a little work, and Annie becomes Charlotte. You destroyed me. Turnabout is fair play.”
The colours are dimming.
The absinthe. Of course.
Now there is only black.