This year, the Night of Reading was preparation for a national competition, the Swiss Creative Writing Prize. Initially launched in 2019, it meant to encourage students at Swiss high schools to write in English. This year, the decision was made not to award 1st, 2nd, or 3rd prizes. Instead, up to ten finalists were invited to a workshop in Lucerne in May to meet with the jury. Consequently, there was a shortlist of ten students for short stories and one for poetry. The students of the Advanced Creative Writing class at KSWE participated, as they do every year, and the gratifying result was that six of them were shortlisted for their short stories and seven for their poetry.
KSWE students shortlisted for their short stories:
Alessia Häfliger(G2), A Walk Through Life
Rebecca Scholler (G2), On the Road to Canossa or the Color of a Bruise
Leonie Haag (G4), The Fight,
Kim Baumann (G4), Walk with Me
Vanessa Perlangeli (F3), Clockmakers Apprentice
Eveline Facchetti(G2), Colourless Waves
KSWE students shortlisted for their poems:
Silvan Schibli(G4), Jailhouse rock
Leonie Haag (G4), A child’s dinner
Kim Baumann (G4), Sonata in red
Eveline Facchetti(G2), E.T.
Vanessa Perlangeli (F3), Youth
Nimue Biro (F3), Cnoc na Gréine
Denisa Cristiana Mihailescu (G3), On the Brink of Eighteen
The Swiss Creative Writing Prize always chooses themes for both short stories as well as poetry. While short stories dealt with the topic of journey this year, poetry focussed on the idea of threshold. The following short stories and poems are a small selection of the texts that were read at the Night of Reading and subsequently submitted. All shortlisted for the Swiss Creative Writing Prize.
Walk with Me, Kim B.
“Walk with me?“
He extends his hand towards her. His eyes, translucent, glowing amber of a smouldering fire, shimmer in the evening sun. She takes his hand, soft leather, ochre smoothness from years of grasping and grabbing and this time, holding. Warmth from a hearth.
He makes for a brisk pace. They tread on familiar ground. The damp soil is raised left and right of the pathway by phantoms of travellers before their time. Their boots disturb the loose-leafed underground.
“I’m leaving,” blue is beginning to blanket the horizon. “Father wants to… he’s taking us east.”
“Thrushes. Do you hear them?”
“We’re leaving tomorrow morning—“
“—they’re back this year early.”
“—and then I’ll be gone.”
In front of a crossroads, the youths stand still. A band of vibrant orange slashes across, in warning of final sunlight. She pulls him towards her—the familiar way home, but he resists.
“We need to go home, the sun—“
“Walk with me.”
He points to the path less traveled, but not yet taken over by wilderness’ embrace. The sparse suggestion of a route is flanked by overgrown shrubs and thicket, springtime’s first sprouts. Both knew the path and had walked it before. She knows it’ll converge, and they’ll end up at the village again, albeit with a few minutes’ delay. The suggestion isn’t lost on her. He pulls at her, gently.
“I’ll come with you.”
On the Road to Canossa or the Color of a Bruise, Rebecca S.
For her, there are murky waters that shine with a red hue, as if the color of a maple leaf has bled into the streams, or the sap of the great red pine was mixed into the currents. She sees blood wherever she looks. The crimson drops on the bark of a tree. The small mushrooms that glow in a strange scarlet in the undergrowth. The odd red campions that grow along her path which seem to watch her tread along. The forest is quiet. There is no breeze in the air, and the streams are dark and silent. The trees terrify her. They bend downwards, stretching their spindly branches towards her. Help us, they seem to call to her. But she can’t hear them, only sees their gruesome arms shifting, the bark stretching until it breaks, and dark red rot spilling out from underneath. They sink into themselves, pulsing and contorting, as if an invisible needle tortures them again and again and she can almost hear their wails of pain, but it is still deafeningly quiet. She closes her eyes and passes by.
Out of sight should not mean out of mind. The moment her vision has gone she hears the wailing now, the distant screams of agony replacing birdsong. The stream gurgles, but it’s the sound of a dying soul, drowning in its own blood. The leaves are knives, dragging their tips through one another, sharpening their deadly blades and when they fall, it is swift and quick. The trees are the worst. Look at me, help me, listen to my pain they howl like a prayer that has gone unanswered. Protect me, be there for me, don’t walk away again. Her eyes burn with the effort of keeping them shut.
The world is blurred when she finally sees clearly. She can’t bear it anymore and she cries out, but there is no sound. Stop, she wants to say, stop it. She is powerless to say or do a thing. Small forget-me-nots are slowly wrapping around her ankles, winding up her calves, and they are dripping with suffering and the colors of a fresh bruise. Silent and frozen, she watches as she had in the past, though that had been a choice back then. The trees put on a frightful show, just for her.
There was a bike rack behind her old middle school, under a great oak. The sun never shone there, as if it had turned a blind eye as well. There were tears, she realizes. Tears and bruises that she didn’t want to see, and so she averted her gaze and went home quickly.
I’m sorry, she wants to say now, I’m sorry. Please forgive me for... She hesitates. Not enough, the trees condemn her, rattling their thin branches, scraping them against one another. They crowd and taunt her, but they don’t touch. Time passes slowly in the dark and she is alone as she sinks to the ground.
This time, she stands up. For herself and for them.
Now there is light, and the trees are bare. Gone are the thorns and rot and the festering wounds, leaving silvery scars behind. The last of the blood drips to the ground where white lilies bloom, stained garnet. Some birds sing small and tentative tunes that mingle with the red drops, turned glistening rubies under the sun.
For her, there are murky waters that shine with a red hue, as if the colour of a maple leaf has bled into the streams, or the sap of the great red pine was mixed into the currents. She saw blood wherever she looked. The crimson drops on the bark of a tree. The small mushrooms that glow in a strange scarlet in the undergrowth. The odd red campions that grow along her path, that seem to watch her tread along. The forest is quiet. There is no breeze in the air, and the streams are dark and soundless. The trees terrify her. They bend downwards, stretching their spindly branches towards her. Help us, they seem to call to her. But she can’t hear them, only sees their gruesome shifting, the bark stretching until it breaks, and dark red rot spilling out from underneath. They sink into themselves, pulsing and contorting, as if an invisible needle stings them again and again and she can almost hear their wails of hurt, but it is still deafeningly quiet. She closes her eyes and passes by.
Out of sight should not mean out of mind. The moment her vision has gone she hears the wailing now, the distant screams of agony replacing birdsong. The stream gurgles, but it’s the sound of a dying soul, drowning in its own blood. The leaves are knives, dragging their tips through one another, sharpening their deadly blades and when they fall, it is swift and quick. The trees are the worst. Look at me, Help me, Listen to my pain they howl into her like a prayer that has gone unanswered. Protect me, be there for me, don’t walk away again. Her eyes burn with the effort of keeping them shut.
The world is blurred when she finally sees clearly. She can’t bear it anymore and she cries out, but no sound comes out. Stop, she wants to say, stop it. She is powerless to say or do a thing. Small forget-me-nots are slowly wrapping around her ankles, winding up her calves, and they are dripping in hurt and the colours of a fresh bruise. Silent and frozen, she watches as she had in the past, though that had been a choice back then. The trees put on a frightful show, just for her.
There was a bike rack behind her old middle school, under a great oak. The sun never shone there, as if it had turned a blind eye as well. There were tears, she realizes. Tears and bruises that she didn’t want to see, and so she averted her gaze and went home quickly.
I’m sorry, she wants to say now, I’m sorry. Please forgive me for... She hesitates. Not enough, the trees condemn her, rattling their thin branches, scraping them against one another. They crowd and taunt her, but they don’t touch. Time passes slowly in the dark and she is alone as she sinks to the ground.
Now she stands up and she stays.
Now there is light, and the trees are bare. Gone are the thorns and rot and the festering wounds, leaving silvery scars behind. The last of the blood drips to the ground where white lilies bloom, stained garnet. Some birds sing small and tentative tunes that mingle with the red drops, turned glistening rubies under the sun.
The Fight, Leonie H.
Grey clouds covered the sky, and it started to getdark outside, and inside secretlyI wanted to be deaf. My eyes were searching desperately for a door to open the way into the pages of my book, I wanted to drown in the letters. I wanted anything that could make me disappear, so, I wouldn’t have to listen to their fighting, again. Every day, I was so sick of it.
My parents were hissing at each other in the kitchen. I couldn’t even figure out why, but they didn’t need a particular reason to fight anymore. The other person’s presence was usually enough. They were getting annoyed with each other, and it showed. My mother started shouting, my father shouted back, the sound of rain in the background. A big lump built up in my throat, and my heart started pounding. My dog’s ears went up in caution, ready to interfere, even though he could barely move because of the cancer. We both knew that this was going to get bad. It was even worse. The argument turned into a huge fight, the biggest one yet. My father’s head was all red, my mother’s eyes watery, and I could sense that both were tired from yelling. Still, they didn’t stop, and father lost it entirely, began screaming all sorts of accusations, blaming her for putting him into an institution, the madhouse. It didn’t bother him that it was a rehabilitation centre, that it was the only way for him to recover, and we didn’t even have a choice. My mother tried defending herself, but he went on and on, didn’t stop. His insults got louder and louder, my mom more and more quiet. Oh, I should have stopped him. I should have helped her, I should have stood up for her, I should have done something, anything, but I didn’t. I just sat there on the sofa, soaking the pages of my book with sweat and tears, like a coward, I just sat there and watched as he dragged her into this burning house, ready to fill it with more gasoline. Outside it was pouring, raindrops falling viciously onto the window, hollering, drumming. “LOOK, HERE! THIS IS WHAT I THINK OF YOU!” he roared, waving both of his middle fingers aggressively in front of her face, like a maniac.
And then, silence, unbearably loud. Nobody said anything, the walls were about to tumble down. And I knew it right there. I saw it in the way her expression changed, and how her eyes glazed by sadness stared at him as if he were the monster in her nightmares. And he was, ever since he came back. A monster, her nightmare. A teardrop emerged from the corner of her eye, and I knew. I heard it, in the silence of her words, the breaking and shattering of picture frames. The collection of memories, love, forgiveness she had created and framed, exhibited for and with him over the years. All came crashing down. Glass shards everywhere, digging into her blister covered heart, cutting into the sore surface of mine. I knew it right there: It was over. He went too far, ruined her, and this time she won’t try to forgive him. This time, it was over, because he changed, and things are really never going to be the same again.
"On the brink of Eighteen", Denisa M.
Seventeen stays, quiet and slow,
A fading light, a soft, warm glow.
Half-finished dreams and skies of grey,
A childhood slowly slips away.
The world feels big, yet still unknown,
A place to find, a heart half-grown.
But time moves on, a steady beat—
A voice that pulls you to your feet.
Eighteen waits with an open door,
A path to walk, a little more.
They talk of freedom, sharp and bright,
A spark that glows through day and night.
What will you take as you move on?
Old hopes you keep, or fears now gone?
A heart still soft, yet bold and free—
A future waiting, yours to see.
Seventeen fades like words unspoken,
Eighteen comes with doors wide open.
And in between, you pause and stand—
A brand-new world is in your hand.
“Cnoc na Gréine”, Nimue B.
We’re facing each other through the door
A looming frame between realities ashore
You with a sword and shield in your eyes
Something I never owned in my minds
You invite me inside my average fantasy
Like you did a thousand times already
Longingly I step inside the frigid frame
My old friend welcomes and keeps me with them
The splinters make a merry blue bonfire
To join me in my toxic bubbly ire
You don’t close the door when you abandon me
Joining the others as you flee from me
I don’t blame you for my pain, no worries
It’s nice, luckily not spreading the disease
The frame and I watch you and the others
Maybe someday I can build a cover
To turn into you, or him or her or them
Maybe I can learn to be somebody else then
Somebody that belongs in that room
So that I can finally flee from this tomb
