Carolyn Lewis on her debut collection of prize-winning short stories

“Short stories are notoriously difficult to get published,” reflects Bristol short story writer and creative writing tutor Carolyn Lewis, who has also just completed her PhD, as well as her first novel.

She is justifiably delighted therefore that many of hers have either won a prize, been broadcast or published in various anthologies.

Now, she has brought 12 short stories together in her debut collection Some Sort of Twilight, published by Watermark Press.

“To have them in one collection is a real thrill for me,” she says. And reading them side by side makes a lot of sense, given that there is symbiosis between many of the esoteric individual narratives that Lewis tells.

“I will always seek out characters who are slightly marginalised, people who are a bit out of kilter with the rest of the world, she explains.

“I like finding out their insecurities, their idiosyncrasies and finding out what makes them tick.”

Carolyn Lewis – photo: courtesy of the author

In Some Sort of Twilight we find out about Cassie who can fly but has no one to tell, Christine who feels overshadowed by her friend, newly – and unfairly – unemployed Bernard, and Hannah, on her complex relationship with her father.

While her stories are not autobiographical, Lewis admits sometimes to using elements of herself in her narrators.

Bristol 24/7 is pleased to share an extract from one such short story in the collection, which garnered two literary prizes, as well as being published:

Carolyn Lewis, Some Sort of Twilight (2022) – photo: Watermark Press

I Thought it Was You

The waiter, shoes squeaking on he tiled floor, had shown us to a window table. My husband had booked that particular table knowing I liked the view of the river. We had the usual question, “Would you like to see the wine list, sir?” and we sat there for a while, enjoying the view, the atmosphere. Neither of us looked at the menu, at least not immediately. We’re regulars and, after over 30 years of marriage, we know each other’s tastes.

The waiter appeared again, a bottle of Sancerre in one hand, an ice bucket in the other. Again, the ritual, this time of tasting the wine. My husband swirled the wine in his glass, took a sip and nodding, told the waiter it was fine.

We toasted each other, “Happy Anniversary,” we smiled.

I picked up the menu and then I saw you. You were by the door, a woman at your side. A waiter was checking the bookings, you said something to the woman and, when you turned, you saw me too.

It’s been a long time, nearly 40 years and I thought it was you. Is it you? Your hair is still too long and it’s no longer blond. It’s a silvery white, curling as it always did, on the collar of the jacket you wore, a dark cream linen jacket. My husband won’t wear linen, he says it creases and doesn’t look right.

You looked at me as if you couldn’t work out if indeed it was me. I felt like that too. I wanted to smile, to wave but I didn’t and neither did you. The moment passed and the waiter escorted you to your table. I watched as you went by. My husband asked if I knew what I wanted to order. He said he’d bet I’d order sea bass. I laughed, I always laughed. I told him he knew me too well. Without turning my head, I saw the waiter hold the chair out for your companion. Is she your wife?

It’s easier to order the sea bass. It’s expected. My husband and I spoke about our son and his wife and the new baby due in six weeks’ time. We talked about taking a short break before the baby arrives, knowing we’ll be needed just like before when our granddaughter was born. We talk easily and if our conversation doesn’t exactly flow, it’s not forced or stilted either. I’m aware, in the periphery of my vision, that the woman you’re with has stretched out her hand to take yours. Did I imagine it or was there an almost imperceptible hesitation on your part? On the pretext of gazing at the other diners, I turn to look at you. Your hands are the same: long-fingered with blunt square shaped nails. You look up, there’s a question in your eyes. What? What is it? What are you asking? I can’t tell.

It was never easy to read you.

Carolyn Lewis: Some Sort of Twilight is out now, published by Watermark Press. Keep in touch with Carolyn Lewis’ news at www.carolynlewis.co.uk.

Main photo: Watermark Press

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