The Light is Dim in Tuscany - By Max du Toit

Written By: Max du Toit

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the realm of evocative storytelling, Max du Toit presents "The Light is Dim in Tuscany," a short story that captivates with its vivid imagery and emotional depth. As part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this narrative invites readers into a world where the Tuscan landscape forms a backdrop for a tale steeped in mystery and personal conflict. With its rich descriptions and atmospheric setting, the piece exemplifies the craftsmanship celebrated in this prestigious competition.

About the Work

Max du Toit's story is a masterful blend of suspense and character exploration, where the Tuscan countryside plays a key role in the unfolding drama. The narrative is imbued with a sense of tension, as relationships are tested against the backdrop of a richly painted landscape. Through careful detailing of the setting and the nuanced interplay between characters, the story creates a mood that is both haunting and reflective, leaving readers pondering the complexities of human connections.

The Light is Dim in Tuscany

Original Submission by Max du Toit

The Light is Dim in Tuscany

Vines, twisting up from the ground and into long rows of leaves — row after row, forming fields — fields widening into a patchwork quilt, stitched with roads and embroidered with houses.

The sunset, clotting on the horizon, sent red light flooding down the hills; it stained the roofs and the roads, and the rustling leaves. Heavy clusters of grapes drooped like rubies in the gloom. The sunlight was dripping down to them and sending showers of sparks glancing from each red lens.

The fireplace popped, shooting out a yellow flame. It settled back down behind the grate in a haze of cinders. They glittered in the air and went out, and specks of soot drifted down and stuck to the coals, the worn planks, the walls.

There was a table in the middle of the room. Some candlesticks burned in the centre, lighting up the faces of two men. Both were in their thirties. The man nearer the fire stared down at the table. He was lean, and his brow was etched with lines of shadow. The other man wore a neutral expression, his eyes moving between the staircase and the man opposite him.

The lean man said, “How is she?”

The other said, “Shall I go check?”

They paused.

“How about him?”

“Ange—”

“Don’t say his name!”

The other man paused. Then he said, “I put him out back; in the woodshed.”

The fire popped again, making the shadows weave across the walls.

The lean man looked up to see the doctor coming down the stairs. He took them one at a time, and stopped on the last step, one hand on the balustrade.

“She’s stable, Mr. Linguini.”

The lean man nodded.

The doctor went on, “I’d like for someone to stay with her through the night — shall I call a nurse?”

The other man started from his chair. Linguini waved a hand and he sat down again.

“Show il dottore to the phone, have him call the nurse.”

He paused, and continued, “I’m going out for a bit.”

The two men walked away down the hall.

Linguini turned and stared at the fire, which crackled a little. Then he stood up and went into the kitchen and out the back door.

The sun had set. The landscape smudged grey in the moonlight. He lit a cigarette — it burned a bright orange, and left afterimages in his eyes. He considered it for some seconds, turning it over in his fingers, then placed it carefully across the door handle.

He walked along the paved stones of the path and reached the woodshed that squatted in the corner of the back garden.

He went in.

A thin window, running along the top of a wall, let in a stream of grey light, which pooled like oil on the figure slumped in the chair, knotted ropes around his arms and legs.

The man in the chair looked up.

“You came.”

Then, “Listen, I—”

“No, you don’t.”

They stared at each other.

Then, “Well, I also did it for you, right? I mean, you of all people must see the family is going nowhere.”

“My family — you don’t have a say.”

The man in the chair, his hair greased and drifting in different directions, said, “How’s she doing, anyway?”

“What do you care?”

“C’mon, it’s not like you even like her.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why are you even here, eh? Not with your wife?”

“Don’t say that.”

“If you had been with—”

* * *

Linguini reached the kitchen door. The orange paper of the cigarette filter lay on the ground, in a small pile of ash. He reached down and picked up the stub. The edges were charred, but it was no longer burning. He threw it away as he went through the kitchen.

* * *

Predawn light filtered into the air, lifting the landscape out of the night. Dewdrops sparkled white on the grapevine leaves, prismatic and half blinding. Under the canopy, in the shade, the ground was deep red — stained from season after season when the grapes dropped and soaked into the earth.

The End

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 hosted by Hashtag Kalakar is a distinguished platform celebrating the art of storytelling and poetry from around the world. It seeks to inspire creativity and innovation, offering writers and poets an opportunity to showcase their talent on a global stage. This competition is known for its ability to bring diverse voices and imaginative narratives to the forefront of the literary scene.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Max du Toit for sharing "The Light is Dim in Tuscany" with the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your contribution enriches the tapestry of stories that captivate and inspire. We appreciate your participation and look forward to seeing more of your exceptional work in the future.

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.