Wednesday - By Caitlynn van Lingen

Written By: Caitlynn van lingen

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Caitlynn van Lingen, writing as Wednesday, presents a poignant short story titled "Wednesday" as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This entry draws readers into a narrative that explores themes of memory, introspection, and the passage of time. Through her evocative prose, Caitlynn invites us to reflect on the lingering impact of loss and the subtle beauty found within the mundane.

About the Work

"Wednesday" beautifully captures the essence of introspection and nostalgia. Caitlynn's narrative style is rich with imagery, weaving a tapestry of emotions that resonate with the reader. The story's mood is reflective, encapsulating the quiet struggles and enduring memories that shape one's existence. Through vivid descriptions and thoughtful musings, the piece invites contemplation on life's fleeting moments and enduring echoes.

Wednesday

Original Submission by Caitlynn van lingen

Wednesday

The depths of my sallow disposition brought little pity, eyes passed my window and sighed. I could bring myself to step past the doorframe, on a Thursday maybe, with the week ebbing, at 3pm while the sun wanes and mother is making coffee and watching the news. I could be as silent as a mouse and invite no audience to my newfound bravery. The spiders would notice though, they would stretch their legs and bathe in the light again, I would greet them and they would see me leave. My shoes might get wet or muddy in the autumn soil after the rain poured for hours the day before. Rainy Wednesdays bring humid Thursdays and fertile Fridays I suppose. Maybe I could stop in the garden and pick a flower that had grown tired of showing off her beauty. I could go down to the lake, cross the bridge and listen to the crunchy leaves be blown by the wind, closer as I came to the lake with my huge willow tree slanted to the left. Is the swing still there? Is it still pink? Are the butterflies still on it or has the paint been bleached and the rain washed my pretty childhood drawings away? We painted them together when I was 8, he bought the brushes at a market on some long-forgotten Saturday. We spent hours painting and swimming and rolling in the long itchy grass. I can’t remember his laugh anymore. It crackled? Like wood burning. It was warm like that too, an all-consuming fire. The fireplaces he made were always symmetrical, he had a funny perfectionism that came out in these small ways, never big ways like mother, prodding at my dress and licking her thumb to smooth out a stray hair in my brow, my frown tended to deepen the more she pulled my hair, left and right and centre and left again. He drew with his left hand, wrote with his right like a genius. I should have soaked up all he said to me, like the skin might soak up the sun rays through a curtain, peaking her face around clouds and curtains to greet your cheeks and make them red. I could greet her, the sun. I could greet her, not from behind a pane of glass, but with the wind cooling down her harsh gaze. I could do it. One step out the door is all it would take. So, I swivel my body left and put my loafers on, left then right. I push down on the bed and stand as the stars greet me. The floor creeks and groans more than usual, as if to tell me “No, stop, this is a mistake. Do not dare leave me the way he did.” This fills my chest and I am heavy again, my legs reluctantly move forward, and my throat feels the familiar pang and sting that continues to consume me, has consumed me, eaten me from inside out like a parasite. I find the indents in the door frame, edged with his carving knife, carving the existence of my changing into the wood, wood holds swirls of its age and carvings of ours. When do we stop doing this? When do we stop tracking how high our heads reach up to the clouds? Is it when we stop growing or is it when the growth is so minimal we no longer notice or care? When our physical bodies stop and allow our minds to decide if they will reach further. My mind feels stale these days, like a loaf of bread stuck in the refrigerator. It stays there and watches the refrigerator light come on and off, on and off, on and off, the door opens and closes, opens and closes. Watchful faces peak in, different faces each time, scanning for nice things and things with more potential than a stale loaf of bread. My bedroom door screams as it opens, “don’t do it, don’t leave. It is safe inside and you are shielded from the agony of memories, of things.” Things like his coffee mug with a dent in the handle from the dishwasher, or his keys hanging in the holder, never to know his hands again, or his chair that faces the garden where he watched the birds bathe in the water put there that morning. I will have to see the table without his wallet on it, the coat rack without his grey old coat that smelled of sweet, soft hugs and old cologne. I will see how the morning paper is untouched, unread and unbothered. I will see that there are two plates in the sink instead of three, breakfast will be four eggs not six. I will have to hear the toaster only pop twice. The door handles are cleaned by now, his fingerprints wiped, like it was a crime scene and every trace of the suspect was cleaned and the mystery has been left unsolved. The victim stays in her bed and rots like stale bread in the refrigerator, the perpetrator is wasting, the perpetrator is money, the perpetrator is running out. Time is too fickle a concept for me, is it really Thursday today? What if it was actually Monday? Or maybe I am stuck on a perpetual Wednesday. A rainy Wednesday that washes the earths cheeks with salt, the waters pour and flood and the world drowns in the water that rises from this day, this day of stagnation. I will stay in this day of Wednesday. I will never let the spiders stretch their eight legs, my shoes will stay dry next to my bed, the rose in the garden will stay unwed, her leaves rotting with the drops that stay on her face. The lake will stay still; the crickets will play symphonies with the trickle of drops dripping down from one leaf to another. I will never find out if there are still butterflies on the swing, they stay with their wings cocooning and never changing. I will cocoon in my bed. The door will never scream, and the floor will never creek. Your mug will stay with its chip in the cupboard, and your keys will stay on the hook and hold your warmth in their metal hands. The chair knows the indent of your body and the birds watch you back. Your wallet is still on the table and your coat still fresh like laundry powder. The paper has been read and I know new words from the crossword completed. The sink is full and mother is complaining that no one ever helps her in the house. And the door, the door knows you, it holds your DNA, it knows the sound of your footprints and the laughter crackling in your throat as you twirl me around after work with spirits on your breath. I still remember the sound of your laughter harmonizing with mine. Your eyes never saw my broken face and your breath never sighed and whispered, “what a pity she is so sad for so long,” because my sadness would come from boys that never brought me valentines cards, from the music teacher putting me in the back of the choir, from an exam failed, from a friend lost, from a dress torn and a leg broken. My tears would end; they would be wiped away because you would bring Thursday. The sun would have risen on that Thursday. You would have felt the warm, sunny and humid air on that Thursday. You would have breathed on that Thursday. Your heart would have beat on that Thursday. The sun begins to set, the light wanes and ends, the frogs outside grow violently loud and the mosquitoes play Mozart in my ear. I don’t remember when the day ended, where it went. But I remember your laugh, like a fire, crackling and warm and bright. All-consuming how your laugh will consume me for the rest of my life.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious event that celebrates literary talent from around the world. Participants showcase their creativity and storytelling prowess across various categories, including poetry, essays, and short stories. This competition serves as a platform for writers to share their unique voices and connect with a global audience.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Caitlynn van Lingen for her contribution, "Wednesday," to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her story offers a profound exploration of memory and emotion, leaving a lasting impression on readers. We look forward to seeing more of her insightful 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.