Eva's Bridge - By Marquen Carstens

Written By: Marquen Carstens

Category: Short story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the realm of evocative storytelling, Marquen Carstens presents "Eva's Bridge," a compelling short story that takes readers on a journey through memory and emotion. Submitted as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this narrative captures the essence of resilience and the complexities of familial bonds. Set against the backdrop of South Africa's Boesmanland and Springbok, the story navigates life's metaphorical and literal bridges with grace and depth.

About the Work

"Eva's Bridge" beautifully intertwines themes of love, sacrifice, and identity. Carstens crafts a narrative rich in imagery and emotion, exploring the protagonist's journey from childhood, through personal trials, to a poignant understanding of motherhood. The story's mood oscillates between nostalgia and melancholy, offering readers a glimpse into the protagonist's inner world and the enduring strength found in unexpected places.

Eva's Bridge

Original Submission by Marquen Carstens

Eva's Bridge

I do not remember my mother first. I remember the bridge.

It stretched across the Orange River a few kilometres from our home in Boesmanland, suspended between two banks of red earth like a question nobody could answer. Every morning before sunrise I crossed it on my way to the cotton fields, and every evening I crossed it again carrying dust in my shoes, exhaustion in my bones, and a little less of myself than I had taken with me. Even now, after all these years, when memory begins its slow walk through the rooms of my life, it always starts there, on that bridge, with the wind pressing against my face and the river moving beneath me in the dark.

I was thirteen when childhood ended. Nobody announced it. There was no ceremony, no moment when one life ended and another began. One day I was a girl and the next I was labour. Cotton looked beautiful from a distance. The fields shimmered beneath the heat like pieces of cloud scattered across the earth. But cotton was a liar. Up close it cut your fingers until they bled. It taught you how to keep working through pain because hunger cared very little about comfort. There were five daughters in our house and I was the eldest. My mother carried enough worries for several lifetimes, and so she handed some of them to me. Carry the water. Carry the sacks. Carry your sisters. Carry on. Looking back, I think that was the year I learned that strength and breaking often wear the same face.

Boesmanland was a hard place to grow up, but it was beautiful too. The land seemed endless. The sky stretched so wide that it made a person feel small. Rain arrived rarely and was greeted like a visiting relative. Dust settled over everything we owned. It lived in our clothes, our food, our lungs. Yet there were evenings when the sun painted the hills gold and the world seemed briefly forgiven. My mother would sing while she cooked, and for a few moments I could imagine a future that looked different from the one waiting for me. Then morning would come, and the bridge would be there again.

The bridge became the shape of my life. Every crossing felt uncertain. The wooden planks shifted beneath my feet and the wind whispered through the cables. Sometimes I imagined falling. Sometimes I imagined simply letting go. But I always crossed. Years later, when people spoke about faith, I realised they were talking about the same thing. Faith is not a church. It is not a sermon. Faith is placing your foot where no promise has been made and trusting the ground will appear beneath you.

When I was old enough, I left Boesmanland for Springbok. I believed distance might change my life. Instead it taught me different kinds of loneliness. I found work in the kitchen of a white family during apartheid. Looking back, I remember the silence more than anything else. I learned how to move through rooms without disturbing them. I learned how to be present without truly being seen. Yet the children in that house taught me something their parents never intended. One afternoon a little girl took my hand and asked why my skin felt so rough. I looked at our hands together-hers soft and smooth, mine marked by years of work-and realised she saw only a person. Not colour. Not class. Not difference. Just a person. It was then I understood that prejudice is not born inside us. It is taught, one whisper at a time, until it sounds like our own voice.

Those years in Springbok brought another sorrow into focus. I wanted children. More than anything, I wanted children. At first I believed it would happen. Then I hoped. Then I prayed. Eventually I simply waited. Every month carried the same disappointment. Every year deepened the silence. There is a grief that comes when something precious is taken away, but there is another grief that comes when something never arrives at all. That grief lived inside me for years.

Then I met Dawid.

For a while I believed God had finally remembered me. Dawid had gentle eyes and a laugh that could fill a room. We built a life together, modest but hopeful. We dreamed the kinds of dreams ordinary people dream. A home. Stability. A future. I convinced myself that love would be enough. Perhaps that was my mistake.

The day I discovered he had fathered a child with my sister, something inside me cracked. Not loudly. Quietly. The way ice cracks beneath water. I remember standing perfectly still while the truth settled over me. The betrayal hurt, but it was the cruelty of it that stayed with me. The child growing inside my sister carried everything I had longed for and everything I had lost. For weeks I carried my anger like a stone. Then one night I went to see the baby.

I still remember the dust rising behind me as I walked. I remember the darkness. I remember my sister's door standing open. Nobody stopped me. Nobody asked questions. The baby was asleep when I entered. He was so small. Too small for the mistakes that had brought him into the world. I stood there watching him breathe. Then I picked him up.

The moment I held him, something changed.

People speak about motherhood as though it begins in the body. Mine began in my arms.

He stirred slightly and pressed his face against my chest. I waited for doubt. I waited for God to stop me. Neither came. Instead I felt a certainty deeper than anything I had known before.

I carried him home.

The years that followed became the brightest years of my life. He called me Mother without hesitation. The first time he said it, I cried when he could not see me. Every dream I had buried seemed to bloom again. The house filled with life. School shoes by the door. Toys beneath furniture. Laughter in every room. I packed lunches, kissed scraped knees, attended school events, and sat awake through fevers. I worried. I prayed. I loved. If motherhood is measured by sacrifice, then I was a mother. If it is measured by devotion, then I was a mother. If it is measured by love, then nobody could have been more of a mother than I was.

Children grow. It is what they are meant to do. At first the changes were ordinary. Independence. Secrets. Mood swings. Then things began disappearing. A little money. A cellphone. Tools. Excuses arrived faster than explanations. I wanted to believe him because love often mistakes hope for wisdom. Every lie was easier to accept than the truth waiting behind it.

When methamphetamine entered our lives, it did not arrive like a storm. Storms announce themselves. Addiction arrives quietly. It sits at your table and learns your habits. It teaches a family how to ignore small losses until they become impossible to count. Day after day it took pieces of him away. His laughter disappeared. His warmth faded. His eyes stopped recognising the people who loved him most.

I spent years trying to save him. I prayed until prayer felt like breathing. I forgave things I never imagined I would forgive. I searched for the boy who used to follow me through the house. Sometimes I caught glimpses of him. Most of the time I did not.

The worst moment came on an ordinary afternoon.

I reached for him.

He pulled away.

Then he looked at me and said, "You're not my real mother."

The room fell silent.

Even now, I remember every detail. The light through the window. The sound of a clock somewhere in the house. The feeling of my heart trying to understand what it had just heard.

"I chose you," I said.

His face hardened.

"I didn't choose you."

There are wounds that never fully heal. Those words became one of mine.

I wanted to tell him everything. About the bridge. About the cotton fields. About the years I spent longing for a child. About the night I carried him home and the promise I made without speaking it aloud. I wanted to tell him that motherhood is not blood. It is presence. It is sacrifice. It is staying when staying hurts. But grief has a way of stealing language. I stood there in silence and watched him walk away.

Years have passed since then. Dawid is gone. My mother is gone. Many of the people who shaped my life now exist only in memory. The house remains, though it feels different. Sometimes I sit alone and listen to its silence. The walls remember laughter. The floors remember footsteps. Every room contains a ghost of the life we once shared.

At night, when sleep refuses to come, I find myself thinking about the bridge again. I remember the wooden planks shifting beneath my feet. I remember the river moving through darkness below. Back then I believed the purpose of a bridge was to carry a person safely from one side to the other.

I know better now.

Some bridges are not built to save you.

Some bridges exist only to show you what you are willing to carry.

And when I look back across my life-the dust of Boesmanland, the cotton fields, the betrayals, the child I chose, the love I gave, and the losses that followed-I understand something I could not have understood as a young girl standing above the Orange River.

The bridge was never the hardest part.

The hardest part was crossing it and continuing to walk

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar celebrates literary creativity and diversity. This esteemed platform invites writers worldwide to share their unique voices and stories, fostering a global community of literary talent. Through this competition, writers have the opportunity to connect with audiences and showcase their work on an international stage.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Marquen Carstens for sharing "Eva's Bridge" with us. Your participation in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 enriches our community and inspires readers. We appreciate the depth and emotion brought to this narrative, and we look forward to witnessing your continued literary journey.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.