Short Fiction Contest-winning story #72 – “La Fontaine,” by Ashlee Trahan

New Short Fiction Award

Three times a year, we award a writer who submits, in our opinion, the best original, previously unpublished work.

Ashlee Trahan of South Louisiana is the winner of the 72nd Jerry Jazz Musician New Short Fiction Award, announced and published for the first time on August 8, 2026.

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photo by Daniel’s Richard/via Pexels.com

La Fontaine

by Ashlee Trahan

….. 1966, Paris.

….. “I feel as if it is necessary to inform you of the death of your father…” She read, as she sat at a bench on the busy street underneath the mid-morning sun. “He has left you the property at Aix-en-Provence. He mentioned you before he passed, he regretted not having a recent picture.”

….. Fanny dug in her pocket, hoping for a cigarette. A pair of blue heels passed under her gaze, striking the grey sidewalk, and bringing her eyes back to the bustling street. There was a moment of swift contemplation.

….. A sensation of something stale and muted brushed over her. She hadn’t spoken to, or seen, her father in fifteen years. She stood from her seat, and stuffing her letter into the breast of her coat, she began her walk back to the Sorbonne.

* * *

….. Fanny sat stone-faced, listening to the lawyer’s voice reading over her father’s will. He was quite apologetic as he read out the last instructions Gilbert Lefèvre ever penned.

….. “Mademoiselle is to inherit the summer property.” He spoke, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose, more to himself than to anyone else in the room. “There is also, of course, everything that belonged to Madame Lefèvre that is now yours.”

….. Fanny didn’t say anything.

….. “You know, Mademoiselle, you are a very rich young woman now.” He added, with a hopeful smile.

….. Fanny glanced up. She shifted awkwardly in her chair, and again felt that she suddenly needed a cigarette.

….. “Does it matter?” She inquired finally, after a lengthy pause.

….. “Come again?” He replied, suddenly confused.

….. “What has changed?” She sighed, “Does any of it matter?”

….. “Surely, Mademoiselle, you’re quite wealthy now,” was the lawyer’s rational response.

….. She wasn’t very impressed. She sat back, glancing out the window, looking for fresh air.

….. “What else did he leave me? Besides his money, and my mother’s things?” She spoke to the pane.

….. There was a slight rummaging of papers.

….. Whatever more he had to say, she didn’t want it. She had especially decided long ago that anything having to do with her father was no good for her. His money, his things, even that dreadful place in Aix-en-Provence. It all meant nothing to her.

….. She turned her head back around to find the old man examining the inside of an envelope. He removed something.

….. “This, Mademoiselle.” He placed a piece of paper on the table, and slid it gently across to her.

….. It was a photograph. She grasped it, and lifted it to her eyes. She blinked several times, not because her sight was failing, but because the sensations stirring in her were irksome and forbidden. She could not remember a time when she felt so rattled. It was an old, familiar ghost nonetheless.

….. She placed the photograph face-down on the table, and sitting against the chair again, removed a carton of cigarettes from the pocket of her coat.

….. “May I smoke in here?”

* * *

….. One train ticket later, and Fanny stepped out of the car onto the parkland.

….. The driver closed the door behind her.

….. The trees that surrounded them were aged, and leaves dwindled on their branches. Time had appeared to have rested here. Memories crowded back to her, but she felt no kinship to them. The memories that she had once held so dear as a child were now, in her womanhood, rotten tokens of things she would have preferred to forget.

….. “Stay a while, I want to walk around.” She told the driver, putting her hands into her pockets. She began en route up the gravel park, towards the white façade of the house.

….. It was in December of 1945, the war had only just ended. Her mother and father were strained. Maman was nervous and unrecovered after losing her brother Victor to the war, her grief banked deep inside of her. But, Gilbert was preoccupied with fairytales. He wanted his family to remain together, and held tight to this hope. A withering dream.

….. The house itself was a late 18^th century structure, half-kempt, with plenty of parkland. Upon seeing it for the very first time, Gilbert proclaimed he could not live anywhere else in the world. The romance tickled his senses more than his pocketbook, and after small negotiations, he had purchased the estate for a trifle.

….. The first day Gilbert brought his family to their new home, he had danced around the gilded hallways and pastel chambers, all as empty as tombs. Young Fanny had watched him with a wild excitement in her eyes. She had not seen her father smile so much since they had fled Paris for the country in the wake of the Nazis.

….. She, like her father, was fascinated with the openness of the house. The rooms were large, and bright. There was a grand salon, with double doors and tall windows, and a courtyard just beyond. The extravagance was breathtaking. Gilbert flung the doors of the salon open, and skipped out into the courtyard. The fountain stood majestic in its decay. No water spilled from its lips. It was as dry as an old maid.

….. “Fanny, we will create something new. We will have water flowing from this fountain soon.” He told his daughter. He put his hands under her arms, and lifted her up onto the rim of the fountain. He linked his arms around her little waist. “Ma belle, we will all be very happy here in the country.”

….. It was the first and last happy memory she had of the house.

….. And now, standing before the facade of this ancient structure once again, she could see that the shutters were all bolted. There was no life left inside. The instances that had happened there were shut away forever, left unresolved and simmering.

….. Fanny heard a movement of footsteps behind her, and she turned slightly to see an older gentleman walking around the house. His legs were bent, and brittle, and he walked with a slight limp. He removed his hat as he approached her. She stared at him a little, surveying his weathered face for an answer to his identity.

….. “Are you Mademoiselle Lefèvre?” He asked upon reaching her.

….. “I am.”

….. “I was told you were going to come. I have unlocked all the doors.” He said in a kindly way. “Is Mademoiselle planning to stay?”

….. “I’m only here for the afternoon.”

….. “Oh,” he replied, almost disappointed. “If there is anything you need, I am in the cottage at the end of the park.”

….. “Thank you.”

….. He nodded with a little smile, and turned for the gravel road. Fanny watched him walk away a little. And as she did so, she began to see everything with new eyes. Her vision was that of a much smaller girl, a cry in the night, a blur of feeling.

….. “Wait.” She addressed him again, trotting to stand beside him.

….. He stopped, hesitant to meet Fanny’s eyes. He was old and wrinkly, as she had noticed before. His age must have been seventy or so. His eyes were kind, and deep. She looked back at him, eager as if it were spring.

….. “You’re the one who found her, aren’t you?” She asked him, her voice echoed an eerie desperation.

….. There was a lengthy pause.

….. “Yes, Mademoiselle, I am.”

….. He said no more, but grasped her hand as if to give her strength. He patted it twice, with a melancholy sigh, before releasing her. And Fanny just stood there, with no cigarettes left in her pockets, and a shiver in her spine.

* * *

….. Her shoes clicked against the floor, echoing in the empty hallway. Fanny put her hands into her pockets as she surveyed room after empty room, all as empty as the first day she had ever been inside.

….. She remembered a wrought iron table with chairs in the courtyard, where they would take breakfast in the morning, served by their maid Nounou. Gilbert was reading a book, and Madame was staring at her fingernails. Fanny would sit watching her mother, afraid that if she moved at all the dishes could go flying across the lawn.

….. “Fantine, please eat,” Maman muttered nervously, biting at her nails.

….. Gilbert looked up.

….. “Are you alright, ma chère?” He asked his wife, suddenly very serious.

….. Madame did not answer him, but kept biting her nails in a more furious fashion. He glanced at Fanny, and put his paper down. He leaned toward his wife.

….. “Ada,” He spoke to her, but she didn’t appear to hear him. She seemed to be locked in a trance.

….. Gilbert reached over, and grasped her arm. Madame stood abruptly from the table, biting her nails and furiously pulling at her hair. Fanny could only sit and watch, mortified at Maman’s sudden transformation. Gilbert stood, and attempted to calm his wife, but she slapped and fought him as if he were trying to hurt her.

….. “Nounou! Nounou! Come quickly! Bring Madame’s medication! Hurry!” He yelled. “Fanny, go into the house! Go into the house!”

….. Fanny stood, and ran to the glass doors of the salon. She hid behind a curtain, watching the scene outside despite her father’s pleas.

….. Nounou ran past her, and outside to assist the commotion. She held a vial and needle in her hand, which she quickly prepared as Gilbert held Madame down in a chair. At this time, Madame was shrieking and biting at the air. Nounou calmly administered the medication, and Fanny watched as Madame slowly succumbed to the injection.

….. Her body grew limp, and sedated. She almost had the likeness of being dead, her blonde hair spilled over her face, her blouse half unbuttoned, and her arms were limp and dangling from the sides of the chair. Gilbert lifted her up in his arms, and carried her like a child back towards the house. As he passed Fanny, still half hidden in the curtain, he stopped and turned to look at her.

….. “I only wish, Fantine, you would never have to see this.” Gilbert told his daughter somberly.

….. He said no more, and carried Madame to bed.

….. Fanny stood at the very door now. No curtains hung from it with which to hide. Her blurry eyes were fixed on the fountain. So many instances were returning to her all at once. These memories were vivid, so real she could taste the air in them. They were crawling up her spine, twisting around into her ear, demanding that she listen. For years, she had not spoken to them, for years they had remained silent and abiding.

….. They were silenced no more.

* * *

….. Four years passed, Fanny recalled.

….. Madame’s episodes grew more frequent, and more violent. She would wake in the middle of the night shrieking, and ripping off her bedclothes. She would sit cross-legged on the floor in the parlor, pulling the pins from her hair. Gilbert decided it was time for some sort of action.

….. He quietly arranged for her to visit L’asile de Saint Rémy.. During this time, they were told she was administered new treatments that were surely going to cure her. These treatments were administered twice daily; one in the morning, and one at noon. Upon being returned to them, Madame was placid and behaved like a beaten child. She was not cured.

….. Gilbert spent less and less time in the summer house, and more and more time with his mistress in Marseille.

….. The house in Aix-en-Provence had become a prison for Fanny, for hiding her mother. Gilbert sold the apartment in Paris. He did not write. He seldom visited.. His calls were often spent with his arms behind his back, cold formality, and a grimace on his face.

….. Fanny closed her eyes, standing there at the door. A shiver ran up her spine. She could almost hear her mother’s screams from the hallway, echoing out into every crevice of the house. They were unintelligible, guttural and feral. She ran her hand over her face, as if trying to misplace the thought. She couldn’t, and her lips quivered as she spied the fountain beyond the glass again.

….. Fanny glanced up from the windowpane, as if feeling a breath of air upon the nape of her neck. Frantic, she whirled around, only to be met once again with the emptiness of the salon. The house was dead once more; there was not a specter, nor a sound.

….. She held her breath cautiously, opened the door, and went outside.

* * *

….. Fanny had come to see that her mother would not get well. She would giggle, and then scowl in one sequence. Her emotions and feelings were misinterpreted often, for it appeared she could no longer control them. Her behavior was so unpredictable, the strangest of occurrences became commonplace.

….. Fanny would wake in the middle of the night to her Maman standing fearfully in the corner of her room. She would sit up in bed, rubbing her eyes, her mother wearing only her nightclothes. Maman would pace in the room, mumbling to herself.

….. “The voices,” Madame would whimper, holding herself as if she were cold. “The voices, Fantine, the voices!”

….. Fanny, frightened, would run to fetch Nounou, who would take Madame back to bed. Most times, Madame went quietly. Sometimes, Madame would kick and scream, and have to be dragged. Such became the manner of life.

….. For a moment, Fanny couldn’t recall her age. She only knew that it had been so long since this place had been beautiful. The fountain didn’t spew. Its water was now murky and green, covered over in a blanket of film. She dug in her breast pocket for a moment, rummaging against the chill in the air. She pulled out the picture, so worn to the touch it may as well have been fabric.

….. Fanny had looked at the photograph so many times in the past. She now recalled when it was given to her, one lonesome night as she was sitting on her bed reading a book. Her mother had come into her room, a white wedding veil upon her head, and placed the photograph on the bed beside her.

….. “This is your father,” Madame said, her brows furrowed, and voice pert. “He sent a letter, and told me to give this to you.”

….. Fanny thanked her, and tucked the picture in the drawer beside her bed. Madame stood there, her eyes growing awfully wide. Fanny kept brushing Nadine, pretending no change was occurring. But Madame lurched for the drawer, and yanked the picture from it, holding it up in her hand.

….. “This is my husband.” She announced. “And he is coming back. Do not stuff your father in a drawer.”

….. Fanny remembered looking up pitifully towards her, and holding out her hand again.

….. “I’m sorry, Maman.” She spoke, softly. “I won’t put Papa in a drawer.”

….. Madame was satisfied. She nodded her head with a sad smile, and quietly left the room. The lace tulle of the white wedding veil trailed behind her. Fanny had kept the photograph with her always, until that awful day.

….. It wasn’t long until the madness had come to claim Madame again. Her last spell proved to bring her to her grave. While Fanny was sound asleep, Madame had slipped into the courtyard. She laid on the edge of the fountain, swallowed the entire bottle of her medication, and slipped away. The water had covered her over, smothering her like a blanket.

….. The old grounds keeper was the one who found her in the morning, when he was making his rounds of the house. He brought her grey, wet body back to the house. They rested her on a red velvet settee in the salon until someone could be called. A blanket was draped over her, and Fanny remembered seeing her cold, dead hand, still wearing her diamond wedding ring upon the appropriate finger, dangling from underneath the sheet.

….. Fanny did not blame her. The doctor said there was no struggle; she simply slipped into an endless dream. They buried her in her family’s plot in Paris, where she had hoped they were going to live again. Fanny wore black, and stood with Nounou at the service. They buried Madame in a petal pink suit with white gloves and shoes. Gilbert did not attend.

….. Nounou was discharged from her services, and tearfully went. Fanny was swiftly sent to live with her mother’s widowed sister in Toulouse, who was wealthy and had no children of her own. This aunt saw to the finishing of Fanny’s education, and assisted her when she eventually applied to the Sorbonne. While Fanny was happy, she clung to a weary hope that Gilbert would come for her. He did not.

….. “You’re very good at keeping the sight of your face from me,” Fanny wrote to him one fine day. “You can take this back, I no longer wish to see it.”

….. Fanny sent the letter and photograph, and washed her hands. She buried all feelings, and dedicated herself to nihilism and indifference. She left her aunt’s home at eighteen, and moved to Paris. One night in a hopeless stupor, she tried to kill herself. She failed, and cigarettes numbed the residue of her shame.

….. A gust of wind blew up and parted back her hair, as she rested on this thought. Fanny wrapped her arms around her shoulders as she stood, her eyes floated down to the marble slab. Her mother’s deathbed. And now that she was an orphan in the entirety of the word, Fanny began to feel. There was no need for a performance of strength.

….. Fanny removed the picture from her pocket, looking down upon it. She regretted that he looked so lovely in his fine suit. She regretted that she wished he were standing beside her now. She regretted that, standing there completely alone, she forgave him of everything. A flush of red came upon her face against the wind, a tear rolled down her cheek.

….. She pressed her lips softly against the photograph, and released it to the fountain.

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Ashlee Trahan is a multimedia artist and écrivaine from the swamps of South Louisiana. When she’s not terrorizing her house plants, or reading her nonsense out loud to her cats, you can probably find her info-dumping her latest projects on her bookstagram @lolalovesreading.

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