No use to fret, its only temporary measures
As keepers of the gloom proclaimed in press
Suspend the longing for the simple pleasures
Amidst the circumstances of distress
Awnings are lowered, tables are removed
Everything’s minimized, except the road works
Progress develops in a spiral, and it’s proved
Shall we embark soon in a fabulous epoch?
We have to benefit from the upcoming gladness
Or they’ll take over with another war
Forgetting gradually the days of sadness
We never know, what we were made up for.
High above the quiet, darkened streets of January, the night wind begins to whisper secrets through my apartment window casements. Far below me lie four cafes, all in sync as they awaken from daytime hibernation to begin an evening ritual of turning on lights, welcoming thirsty patrons, discouraging lost polar bears, trying to survive.
Light bulbs hang in lazy swags, dripping evenly from the edge of each identical awning. Predictably, their glow travels as fast as the light itself creating a sudden and uninvited interruption of the Arctic desert landscape.
Sitting apart on their respective corners below, the cafes squeeze into a single pane near the bottom of my window. Leaning closer, I blow a hot and intoxicated breath onto the glass in defiance or retaliation, an attempt at immolation perhaps. Instead, my unused air lies wasted across the cafes on the other side of the window, in an irregular oval of futility.
I use a balled-up fist to wipe away the misty scene before it has a chance to evaporate and leave me alone, a desperate and inevitable disappearing act in the face of my curated isolation.
Chantilly lace curtains of my apartment window ripple in the cold January night. From here, I observe mooring lights that illumine the docks in this petty northern port and four cafés that lean toward one another, side-by-side, though separate and apart. I wonder at their co-location. Their twinkling lights blur together in a loud kaleidoscope of color.
The harbor winds carry putrid odors to my window. Sidewalk signs cover most of the walkway. Though too distant to register detail, I discern the outline in flickering neon of two women outside the smallest café as men clad in oilskin foulies lumber into the second, barely a bar, as they all are. Faint modern dance rhythms announce a tiny dance floor inside the third. The brightest café-bar has no one visible. A lone figure in casual attire moves from café to café, not staying long. He moves in the same pattern, over and again, stopping once to chat with the women. I wonder what or who he seeks. The women disappear down a side pathway.
With a desultory outlook for the evening, I close my window, wrap against the cold, and descend the European-styled spiral staircase.
A soft rain rippled across the apartment window distorting the rainbow of lights emanating from the Four Cafes. That’s what the locals call them, The Four Café’s. Each had a flavor all their own as do the street musicians offering their insight into another’s recipe. January cold limited the number of street walkers, saturated the aroma of croissants with an urgency. Perhaps the scent of snow on the air had stifled the urge to choose a café. Better to pass by splashing in the colored puddles and settle in for the night. Still, I stood at my window hypnotized. Drawn into the flow of the jousting neon lights defending their colors, brightly slashing at one another.
The snow had come, the jousts over, the lights extinguished. Sunrise chased an echo through the streets as Café bell chimes welcomed the baker. A soft light played on the snow. The frantic rainbow would follow later.
©3/7/2023
157 words
Before corporate café`s took over and Starbucks became so ubiquitous, on every corner of your city, small business cafés thrived. There was Antique Row Café Ave; four café`s that stood alongside each other, noted for their unique furniture and boasted their own peculiar interior. The antique row cafés were so cool, as you could amble around and observe intriguing artifacts and some for sale, and pictures of famous stars whom you grew up with. Very nicely decorated.
Tiperillo, sweet and husky tobacco smoke ascending from golden ashtrays, and lava lamps bohemian chic—purple plush couches, and stylish bars. We met twice a week, Flor, Cece, and I, and a few other college buddies. We studied, shared ideas and asked one another for advice.
I met Joey the manager of the café’s, resembling a young Salvador Dali`. He answered my questions about the unique and endearing bar café`s his father once owned, before they were drowned out under the heavy hand of corporate takeover. Hoping one day they’ll return with their indispensable charm and upbeat youthful ambiance. Until then it’s corporate dull and uncomfortable seating at the Starbucks!
A long-ago January, my love and I spent a month in France. We rented a quaint
apartment up a hill from the road near a lake. The view from the window included lovely mountain flowers and grass down a path to four bar cafes, alongside each other, with outside tables. The apartment window captivated me. I could watch the people, hear their laughter and indistinct voices. All four cafes were quite busy, especially at night, which surprised me, as there is only one small village to support them. I would pour a glass of Cabernet, sit back and watch while my love was busy writing. The scene was enchanting, as if lifted from a painting. The lights from the outside dining made reflections in the glass of the pastel doors and windows. The waiters would go in and out, carrying large trays, while the patrons would walk back and forth between cafes. Sometimes there would be a shout followed by laughter It was a happy scene I'll never forget.
The prose above is entirely fictional.
March 4, 2023
for "Four Cafes" Prose Contest
by Julia Ward
My work took me one winter to a small sea-side town where I lodged
myself in a high up apartment with a window opening on to a narrow alley
that had a few shops, the most prominent being four cafes in a row that displayed ‘open whole night’ signboards. This intrigued me because I failed to comprehend how the café cluster could attract customers the whole night in the remote part of that small town.
On a cold January night I looked down from my apartment window, and saw
the road lights flickering in the mist created a mysterious exterior for the cafes. I then saw a man appear from the dark and enter the first café, but came out hurriedly, skipped the second and entered the third. After a long while, he walked out unsteadily with a girl to enter the fourth one. I didn’t see them come out as long as I was awake, but I realized I was in the red-light alley.
Count : 165
March 4, 2023
Contest : Four Cafes
Sponsor : Julia Ward
The four cafes, bordering the canal, sat eerily still this January night. So often they seemed to blend together but on occasion any one of them could become a little more rowdy, and tactfully competitive - making the view a little more interesting. I would watch from my apartment window as their personalities were expressed through music, each displaying their own version of laughter and unique aromas defining their menus and all, oh! so heavenly. I watched with envy as couples danced and caroused on the festooned decks that laced the water’s edge and I’d sway to the rhythmic pulses rippling in the water's reflection.
But on this evening, I watched as each sat in silence. The haze of fog had settled just above the canal’s waterline, slowly drifting in rhyme to its flow, deepening the stillness. I was filled with a sense of sadness. Each empty cafe appeared to be waiting for someone... a friend maybe, possibly a lover? But no one came. It was an emptiness I knew well.
loneliness lingers
in an ominous silence,
still waters quiver
Outside the four cafes, four dogs awaited their caffeine crazed owners. Sniffing different street signs, taking inventory of who’d already been there. Four dog “owners” exited the cafés. A tall blonde, possibly bleached, retrieved the dog and haughtily gazed at the “other” cafes and dogs. A slightly rumpled donut muncher hurriedly hustled away with a slightly rumpled mutt. A lithe and limber, skin tight yoga panted Latte carrier, glided away. The dog, nose high, sniffed nothing. A rather large flannel shirt exited café number four, the dog nuzzled its owner. It’s reward, a hearty greeting and vigorous petting.
Shortly thereafter they all met at the dog park, the dogs that is. The owners took their places. One sat silently engrossed in a book. One talked loudly into a cell phone. One primped and posed while taking “selfies”. One watched and laughed at the antics of the dogs.
As they left the dog park the cups told a story. One was left on a bench, one tossed on the ground, one rinsed and filled with water so the dog might have a drink, and one placed in the recycle barrel.
John G. Lawless
©3/3/2023
Four Cafe’s
It was post digestion time, 6pm ! uncomfortable bloating causing a staggering stand,supported by the apartment windows brass clasp, the torn green velvet digestion chair lilted just beneath. Nested above the Canal Madeline, perched in a loft atop hundreds of lonely books, which i have not browsed ! their prison the De Krook. Afar beyond the cracked glass, out into the January month night, wildly dancing snowflakes cause a cataract pin pointed view of the culprit of indigestion
“ Cafe Croix de Fer”!
Along the frozen cobbles, “Chartreuse” fuelled, in-firms trudge and trip precariously, Monkeyfied by the Green Devil; towards “ Cafe Le repaire des ames perdues” I myself, visit this lair to regularly, its chestnut doors, spit tainted in past blood, open 24 hrs per day 364 days each year , “ No ! Not Noel ! Its Cask day “ And, on this day, i visit four cafe’s.
My tipple of choice Absinth ! And a deck of cards ! held in gloves tattered and fingerless. This addiction to be found in the basement of the Bookshop. A Cafe, 174 worn steps below me, its name “ Enfer” my light purse, confirms this.
Count.
It was a night in January. I looked out of my apartment window in the direction where four cafes were located.
Four rivals in business. They always had innovations to outshine each other but one stood out of the quartet. It had an uncommon finesse in dealing with its customers. People wondered who was the brain behind the business. The owner of the business nicknamed, “Man of the deep”, could hardly be seen during the day. He often comes out at night. He spends a few hours at the cafe and leaves.
That night he turned and looked up towards my direction. I was taken aback. I moved away from the window and hid in the darkness of my room. He boarded his car and it drove off. His sixth sense had told him someone was watching him. Someone who was his secret follower.
February 27, 2023
Word Count: 144 words
Four Cafe’s
It was post digestion time, 10pm ! uncomfortable bloating causing a staggering stand,supported by the apartment windows brass clasp, the torn green velvet digestion chair lilted just beneath. Nested above the Canal Madeline, perched in a loft atop hundreds of lonely books, which i have not browsed ! their prison the De Krook. Afar beyond the cracked glass, out into the January month night, wildly dancing snowflakes cause a cataract pin pointed view of the culprit of indigestion
“ Cafe Croix de Fer”!
Along the frozen cobbles, Ale fuelled, in-firms trudge and trip precariously, fuelled “by many Trappist brews” towards “ Cafe Le repaire des ames perdues” I myself, visit this lair to regularly, its chestnut doors, spit tainted in past blood, open 24 hrs per day 364 days each year , “ No ! The one day is not Noel ! Its Cask day “ And, on this one day, i visit " Cafe Noir"
My tipple of choice is a hand of cards ! held in gloves tattered and fingerless. This addiction to be found in the basement of the Library, a Cafe,174 worn steps below me, name “ Enfer” my light purse, confirms this.
Count.
On a cold January night, l study the nightscape of the city below my eagles nest apartment window. I'm drawn to the lights of four cafes, arranged in close proximity on the cobbled streets. The old city is crammed closely together, traditional and modern jostling for space. How do they survive, competing with each other? I consider each in turn. One has fairy lights strung, multi colored, swinging along, entwined, moving in the wind. Another has a purple flashing neon sign spelling out its name. It flashes in rhythmic pattern - quick - quick - slow. The thirds harsh cold fluorescent light breaks the dark, a hard rectangle of white. And the fourth is lit by lanterns, glowing warmly in golden orange inside the windows. Muted and intimate. I realise each attracts it's own crowd, drawn in and defined by the lighting. I think about which one attracts me the most, and why.
155 words
January’s snow flows stealthfully through my fifth-floor apartment window, flung wide open to welcome in the new year. The half-drawn curtains bellow with brisk salt air blowing in from the North Sea. A distant foghorn groans in a resigned, forlorn resonance, guiding ships braving the churning, ice-slushy waters as church bells strike twelve stately brassy tones.
This night I stand alone and content, a rich cup of espresso in my hand. Eschewing nostalgia and perhaps too sober of thought, I prefer my pleasures to be of the vicarious variety. Beneath me I take in the muted ambers and oranges spread out from the four cafes, out past the cobblestone road, glistening as snowflakes alite. Young couples drinking, glasses clinking, hug, kiss and revel, strolling out from the cafes. Some indulge in a traditional waltz, before the speaker blares more modern fare. Waves of laughter and singing ebb and flow as I turn and head toward my bed and blessed sleep.
Again the foghorn blares mournfully, like a tuba vainly pleading to be united with a long-lost orchestra.
Four Cafés
------------
Four cafés were at the extreme left of what I could see from my apartment window. There they were, sparkling in the cold night, trying to stand in for stars in the cloudy sky. I had visited these café-bars one by one as they were opened within the space of a year, all offering similar food: runny egg, soggy chips and pale baked beans. They had a touch of European chic in the quaint condiment containers, otherwise I could have been anywhere.
I looked for some time at them on that January night, their being the only buildings of interest in my vista. Word had it they were all owned by the same man, which may or not explain why there were no closures. As I stared from my high up space, a solitary man entered the third café, otherwise I saw no one. I expected he was the owner. There he would be then, in the café called "Bar Three", reading the evening paper. That evening the paper was full of a murder story. Perhaps, but no... He was a genteel type, wasn't he? But there again, one can never be too sure... I decided to look for a new apartment the next day.
THE END
2/16/2023
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