Creative Wriiting

A Wife of Bluebeard

By Bella Hatch

You tell yourself you love The prince who dashes in Who storms the castle And slays the dragon And takes away a part of you in doing so. You tell yourself you’ll learn to love Bluebeard If it means you can avoid the chopping block.

You insist you like the inferno, The desire is the fire and it burns beautifully But it leaves nothing But ashes and soot And a bad taste in your mouth. (You thought he’d slayed the dragon But he’s only taken its place.)

There are moments when You can convince yourself you love him; When he’s away in sleep, Lost to you somewhere you Never wanted to follow; When you squint He can look perfect (But squinting gets so tiring.)

You rewrite the story as many times As your mind will let you; Reiteration after cold reiteration Until the lines between

hero

And

villain

Blur on the page And in your head

So you’ll just ask him to kiss the burns on your fingers And run them through his hair. He won’t love you In any way you understand (Or any way that really matters) And you’ll love him More than he’ll ever ask to be (Or he’ll ever deserve) And you’ll wonder if maybe The wives before you were the lucky ones.

Photo: Unsplash

Who Needs A Prince

By Louise Collins

I am not your typical fairy tale figure. My name is Princess Helena, but most people call me Princess Charming. I think they’re trying to be funny because no-one would ever refer to me seriously as ‘charming’. I’m no dignified princess, I’d rather be riding my horse at full speed through the forest than sitting having tea, like I’m supposed to.

I’m meant to be greeting royal guests for my family’s ball right now, but I truly couldn’t think of anything worse. Don’t get me wrong, I love a ball. The music, the dancing, the outfits and the food are all stunning, but I despise making small talk with a bunch of princesses trying to win my friendship, and princes trying to win my hand in marriage. Who needs a prince? I don’t see why I must marry in order to rule. And I won’t even get to rule if I do marry! Fancy that! I’m the heir to the throne but it’ll be my husband who rules. How is that fair?

I love my kingdom, I really do. I could really make a change if only I was given the chance. My parents don’t take me seriously because I’m not as soft spoken as I ought to be. But I don’t see why I should be – princes get to shout and scream as much as they like. I don’t need any of these princes here lording it over me. They can shove off as far as I’m concerned, there’s no way I’ll be marrying any of them. -------

The party is in full swing and I’m running away from everyone who wants to use my status for their own good. Everyone on the dance floor looks stunning, I can see their smiles from across the room. My attention suddenly goes to the doors, towards which everyone is slowly turning. I feel myself step out from behind the pillar to get a better look, and the breath leaves my body. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen steps into the room in a blue ballgown. Her golden hair is pulled up, showing off all her stunning features. I feel myself walk towards her before I can stop myself. In mere moments, I’m directly in front of her, holding out my hand. She looks up at me, confusion on her face, but takes my hand nonetheless.

“Would you like to dance?” I ask her, paying no heed to the whispers around me.

“Is it... is it proper?” She asks, under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear.

“Probably not, but that’s never stopped me before. It’s okay if you don’t want to.” She scrutinises my face for a second, then something clears on her own.

“I’d love to.” She sinks into a small curtsey, and I can’t keep the smile from my face as I lead her to the dance floor. Who needs a prince, when you can have a princess? -------

A year later, we’re in the same room, standing in front of a crowd full of people. Ella looks striking in her wedding gown, her beauty only emphasised by her happiness. Some people were against our marriage, but, at the end of the day, I’m the heir of this kingdom, and why shouldn’t we love whoever we wish? After the ball, the princes went back to their own palaces and started looking for wives elsewhere. They could tell I wasn’t interested, that I was enamoured with someone else. Ella stole my heart that night.

Photo:Unsplash

16 La Diablesse: monster of men

By Mariam Jallow

“Who don’t hear does feel,” a phrase drilled into Nita all her life. First as a stark warning by her parents, whose household rules she’d discarded in favour of rebellion, of putting distance between the versions of herself she wanted to be, and was expected to be. Again by her teachers, who expressed a never-ending frustration with the way she spoke, admonished for not speaking Queen’s English in a Caribbean classroom.

Now in her twenties, Nita found herself repeating the words to the man in front of her, echoing what should have been a warning, now with the conviction of a threat. Tomas had pursued her endlessly, throughout upper-secondary, to appearances at her Nene’s market stall, and most recently, to the dimly lit roadside leading up to her grandmother’s house.

His attempts at, what the church aunties referred to as “courting”, escalated with every rejection and culminated into where she was now- irritated at his “insistence on getting her home safely”. As if she could ever feel safe beside a serial harasser emboldened by his culture and her vulnerable setting.

As she quickened her pace, ignoring his pleas for her to slow down, Nita registered the sound of her footsteps, Tomas’ rapid breaths, and an abnormal clacking. Like a wooden pencil periodically hitting a table, the sound was clean and echoed with a repeated pace. Turning her gaze behind her, the form of what should have been Tomas, was blocked by a woman.

This would become the first time Nita met La Diablesse*. Dressed in a traditional skirt, the white and red fabric pulled around her waist, and flowed down to the dirt road, swaying with the gentle wind.

Nita’s eyes did not stray once, despite the strange and sudden appearance of the woman, and the glimpse of her hooved left foot peeking from beneath the yoke. A scorned woman turned she-devil, hunting the village men for revenge, or catharsis - no one knew. Despite the childhood stories shared by her Nene, between scared children and storybooks, Nita stared on at La Diablesse, the devil woman, as she removed her wide-brimmed hat and spoke to Tomas. She stared as he walked away, not in the direction of his mother’s house, but a path Nita knew ended at the river’s mouth. She continued staring even as Diablesse approached her, a face shown of both great beauty and horror.

Move, she thought, pretend you can’t see her. Or that she can’t see you. Cry. Scream. Run. Don’t just look.

Still, she could not turn her gaze.

La Diablesse smiles at her, before leaving. A clacking, a breeze, and then nothing. Nita ended the night as she started it, alone, walking home.

In her bed, ignoring her Nene’s complaints of coming home too late, and how “who don’t hear will feel”, she stared at the ceiling light, long enough for the orange-hued rays to resemble the burning coals of La Diablesse’s eyes. She turned to face the bedroom wall, but the worn white paint became the fabric of a flowing skirt. The darkness granted by closed eyelids was only a shade darker than La Diablesse’s hair. ww

A month later at Tomas’ funeral, the closing of his casket like a clacking hoof on a dirt road, she cried. As the wind carried the wails of his mother’s grief, the biting sorrow echoed Nita’s own, she realised. On that night, before she was scared, she was confused, and before she was confused, she was enamoured. La Diablesse’s smile left her as Tomas left his kin- hollow, lonely, and feeling.

-----*La Diablesse, also known as Cow-foot woman or Lajabless is a character from Caribbean folklore who lures men to their deaths.