"3566 rue Cartier" by Stuart Trenholm— Our March 2025 Bronze Medal Winner
“unique”
“It sent a few chills down my spine.”
“Very mature writing. Puzzling, assured, confident, one of the best stories I’ve read for the writing prompts.”
Meet Stuart
Stuart Trenholm is a writer who moonlights as a neuroscientist. His work has appeared in The Malahat Review and the Montreal Review.
3566 rue Cartier
the unedited story by Stuart Trenholm
1.
Writing in laptop
I had just finished writing a story that involved both Rasputin the mystic and Rasputin the song. I was looking online for places to submit the story when I came upon an Ontario-based literary magazine with an open call for a flash fiction contest. “Write a piece of fiction inspired by this image.” It was a photo of a triplex in Montreal’s Plateau neighbourhood. It was a run-of-the-mill grey brick building, with yellow doors and yellow highlights on the façade. Of particular note: it was a photo of my home. I live in a condo on the ground floor with my wife and daughter.
Where did this picture come from? I went through my phone and it’s definitely not a photo I took. Did someone at the literary magazine take this photo while randomly walking around Montreal? I’m having flashbacks to David Lynch’s Lost Highway, in which a couple receive video tapes that were clandestinely recorded of them in their own house, possibly representing the protagonist’s subconscious guilt slowly rising past consciousness’ liminal point.
In the photo, the yellow paint on the building is already starting to peel in places. I painted the building five years ago in the spring, just after a protracted effort from our upstairs neighbours to switch our building from an undivided to a divided co-ownership agreement. They argued that such increased autonomy would make it easier if any of us ever wanted to sell our condos, but my wife and I, along with the owners of the condo in the basement, voted against the motion as we felt it would needlessly incur hefty mortgage and notary fees. I put a fresh coat of paint on the building as an olive branch to the upstairs neighbours.
Based on the lighting and the lack of leaves on the trees, I guess the photo was taken last fall. I wonder whether the person who took the photo heard that fight my wife and I had about whether we should serve custard or ice cream with the sticky toffee pudding? Was the photographer around that afternoon when I was sitting on the front stairs and our upstairs neighbours came home, noticeably drunk, and proceeded to tell me a long story about how they were descendants of les filles du roi?
I’m sure the neighbours would be interested that a photo of our building is the prompt for a literary contest. So I decide to let them know.
2.
Voice memo on phone
so i’ve snuck into my upstairs neighbours’ condo… snuck isn’t the right word… i knocked on their front door and it just opened up… i called in but no one came to the door… now i’m standing in the living room of their two-floor condo… i can hear some music playing upstairs… i can’t quite make it out, but i’m pretty sure it’s on ne change pas… either way, i really like that song, though I’m not sure what it’s about… i see there’s a door at the top of the stairs muting the music… i’m not sure why, but i’m drawn upstairs… now i’m opening the door and immediately i get a whiff of something pungent and goaty… down the hall, behind another door, i hear sounds, like scratching… i’m trying to open the door but it’s locked… umm…
3.
Thoughts in head
i’ve been here around three weeks already. our upstairs neighbours are psychopaths. i’m locked in a hidden room on the top floor of their condo along with two other people. my neighbours refer to us as “Peter, Paul et Mary.” these are not our real names.
we are shackled in a makeshift workshop. we are being forced to make wigs. i don’t know why. Peter and Mary are very good at it. they’ve been here much longer than me, so i have some catching up to do to. i’m currently working on a blonde perm. each of us is sitting beside a bust of René Lévesque on which we are to test the wigs. the bust next to me shows Lévesque at an age where his comb-over was only covering the very back of his head, which was around the time when he killed a homeless man with his car while driving home from a party with his mistress. he received only a fine for not wearing his glasses.
each time we finish a wig, we get a treat: a mini maple sugar cone. i’ve only finished two wigs so far, but i’ve been hoarding my treats, sneaking one small bite at a time. with the last bite i took, i cut the roof of my mouth. i keep running my tongue over the scratch.
we’re allowed to listen to music while we work, as long as it’s quiet, but we can’t agree on what to listen to. Mary likes podcasts. Peter likes pop music. i prefer silence.
4.
Thoughts in head
it’s been a few months since i’ve been here. we don’t have windows, so it’s hard to keep track of days. i can sometimes hear church bells, which gives me a rough sense of things.
i’m pretty sure Peter and Mary have become jealous of me. i’ve gotten so good at making wigs that my neighbours have started letting me wear some of them. currently i’m wearing a long black one that i’m certain really suits me. and i’ve gotten really fast at making wigs, so now i have a stockpile of treats. sometimes i catch Peter and Mary eyeing them.
i often wonder if i’ll ever get to see my wife and daughter again. the neighbours have made it clear that we’re never getting out of here, but i maintain some hope. in the meantime, with the couple minutes each day that the neighbours come into our workshop, i’ve been talking to them, working on my french. i hope they appreciate the effort, but i’m not sure they notice.
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