Main Prize (Wadadli Pen 2021)- Honourable Mention Razonique Looby

Razonique Looby, 15, F, ‘Vixen’ (fiction)

About the Author – Razonique is a fifth form student currently studying at Christ The King High School. When not desperately obsessing over Jamaica Kincaid, she spends her time writing. “Ever since I was very young, words have been my dearest way of expressing my thoughts and feelings.” Razonique’s favourite themes to explore are those that deal with the internal conflicts of women and their relationships with society and the world at large.

About ‘Vixen’: ‘Vixen’ is a story about a woman who, driven by the pandemic, takes on ‘lovers’ and ruins them for her personal gain. Razonique says she likes to work with femme fatales. “I find them to be some of the most complex and rewarding characters. This particular piece was inspired by a quote from one of my favourite feminist books, Margaret Atwood’s Robber Bride which goes, ‘Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it’s all a male fantasy: that you’re strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.'”



Magdelyne stretched, arching her back and contorting her joints until the satisfactory snaps were heard and reminded her that she was not quite a dead woman yet.

She was not meant to be left alone with her own thoughts; the recent shut down of the country due to the pandemic only serving to exacerbate her many problems. The bustle of St. Johns had always been a necessary distraction, but Magdelyne always knew how to make do.

The man who was currently on video call with her (the fifth that afternoon), was from Britain but far from an English gentleman. Dylan, she thought his name was. Dylan, or Dianthus. He was fifteen years her senior at 37 years old and had the pandemic not gotten in the way of things, Magdelyne was certain that he would have been in Antigua worshipping the ground she walked on by now. This accountant had entered her rotation of ‘lovers’ about six months ago and Magdelyne could tell that poor Dianthus had already deluded himself into believing that he was in love.

After all, how could he not be? The very persona he knew her to be had been perfected to serve that very purpose; ‘Vixen’, a male delusion who never nagged and lived only to please and purr and wear lingerie. For obvious reasons, Magdelyne had neglected to tell Dianthus of the dozens of men around the world who shared his feelings and expressed their love into her bank account accordingly. This was how she lived, how she could afford the luxurious backdrop in frame behind her. Magdelyne was very good at her job.

The young vixen was bored and cold. Lying sexily on satin sheets at 7 PM in the middle of March was certainly not her idea of a good time, but she would do anything for a paying customer. The sinful red of the short robe she was wearing seemed to distract her ‘beaux’ from the dull look in her eyes and the uninterested, outright insincere look sitting on her face. There was not much of a masquerade taking place on either of their sides. Four hours ahead of her in London, Dianthus had called for a late evening ogle and a chance to moan about his sow of a mother. He never mentioned his father.

The more Dianthus spoke, the more disgusted she became. Generally, this was the case with all her marks, but she had long since learned to disassociate her conscience from her body during work. Very seldom did she feel this level of visceral hatred towards any one of her ‘lovers’ at any one point.

Magdelyne did not talk to openly married men. She never felt the need to ask (because she felt it was not her responsibility) but if the topic came up naturally the woman would never directly participate in infidelity. It was, however, explicitly clear that this annoying ‘mother’ of Dianthus’ was his wife- or at least a serious girlfriend. This was her fifth video call that afternoon and Magdelyne was at her wit’s end. Then again, it was not her place to confront him. Not until the young woman had a proper escape plan, at least.

“Sometimes I wonder, Vixen,” Dianthus drawled with a deep, dreamy sigh, “where you were all my life?”

Magdelyne resisted the almost overwhelming urge to roll her eyes and decided to play the part of gracious, giggling sycophant instead. She knew exactly where this was going. Dianthus, focused on the task at hand and keeping to his train of thought mused further, “I mean, I-I’ve never met anyone quite like you.” His breaths were heavy, and it was almost difficult to make out what he was saying over the phone as he was holding it rather unsteadily with one hand but a veteran like Magdelyne could recite this little speech in her sleep. “I w-wish my wife was like you- she barely knows how to have fun anymore…”

And there it was, the truth out in the open. Magdelyne felt like screaming. It was likely his fault that this wife was the way she was. Magdelyne guessed sympathetically that the woman was likely ‘good’, a member of the highly praised yet privately disparaged group of women who did things as society said that they ought to. They had fed from the pie society serves to Every Woman before handcuffing them and sending them into the kitchen (where a woman belongs) to bake the same dish for their daughters. These were the women whose lives revolved around a man as the centre of her universe, who sacrificed their interests and hobbies to be servile. These were the women who found themselves disregarded as ‘boring’ later on when the new girl smell wore off of their bosoms and their men decided to want to ‘substance’ (someone younger and prettier).

That complicit, submissive, eager to please part of Magdelyne had long since died. What was left was a cold, avaricious succubus of a woman. What a stupid man, she thought. An unreasonable, childish man. Couldn’t he tell that any boring woman would be better for him than she was? But alas, none of his lovers would ever be able to compete with Vixen who did not exist.

This character she was playing was an amalgamation of fantasies, barely a person at all. Magdelyne was beginning to get tired of this game.

Vixen performed as she knew how; purring and stroking and pawing and stripping and waited until the man reached his summit to reach for her phone. The end was near. Quickly, she snapped a picture of her laptop screen before grinning murderously, black eyes shining in contempt like a cat having caught its prey. The woman retied the discarded robe around herself.

Dianthus, yet unaware of the misfortune he had just suffered panted. Hard. “That was amazing,” he said.

Sure it was, she thought smugly. Magdelyne held her phone to the webcam and smiled as her newest victim gasped. Dianthus understood what was happening instantly. Tears pricked at his eyes; how could he have been so foolish?

“$50,000 or I send this to everyone you know.”

This story was edited by the author, post-judging, prior to posting. It is one of the winning entries in the 2021 Wadadli Youth Pen Prize Challenge. Please respect each writer’s copyright.

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