My So Called Father by Zahra Emanuel

Honourable Mention in the 13 to 17 age category – Wadadli Pen Challenge 2016

Author’s comments: “I was inspired to write this story because of curiousity; to see how well I can expand my thoughts about any situation.”

Judge’s comments (positives only*): “Really interesting story, plot, and subject matter …”

Note: *While only the positives are being shared with the public, in keeping with the development goals of Wadadli Pen, all long listed entries are returned to the author with the judge’s note  – both positives and negatives – for revision. Congrats to Zahra for doing as well as she did in the Challenge – considering the length of the story, a fact that prevented it from placing though it impressed the section judge enough to earn an honourable mention. Keep working on your craft; keep valuing your voice and your art. – JCH

Zahra Emanuel.

Here now is My So Called Father by Irene B. Williams student Zahra Emanuel, who was third placed for the 13 to 17 prize in 2014, and who describes herself as a “sixteen year old girl who enjoys writing short stories in her leisure time and loves doing Craft! Creativity is her style.”:

It has been years since I’ve worn good clothes. Mommy hasn’t been working a stable job lately, but when she does she tries her best to save a little money.       Sometimes my sister and I would be home alone, until very late in the night.  I      would put my little sister to bed by 8:00p.m but I wouldn’t go to sleep until          mommy came home. Sometimes the hands of the clock would be at 12:00 a.m. and I still see no sign of my mother,

‘This hotel work is a slave job.’ I would think to myself.

Most of the times when mommy reaches home, I would be asleep. She        would wake me up and send me to bed.  Sometimes, I would sit up and watch her, she always looked tired.  My mother was a slim woman with short, coarse hair and her skin was like a Hershey’s Chocolate.  I always wondered why her skin was so dark and her parents both had a clear complexion.  I, on the other hand, was an      exact replica of my father, tall with a light complexion and small black eyes just   waiting to roll out of my head. The only difference between my father and I was     the behavior; my father was ignorant and stubborn and I was a quiet little boy who was willing to help others. The first time I could remember meeting my so called   father, was when I was three. I remember my mother walking up to the Pre-School with a man, he was young back then. On that day she said to me Te’Koy, this is     your father. The so called father lifted me up as the three of us walked home. I       don’t recall seeing that man until months later. He was hardly in my memory. Now I am getting older I begin to understand the only reason why he stopped by was    because he would want to sleep with my mother. She always gave him what he     wanted; I think he just deserves to die.

One day, as I was walking to school with my sister, I heard what sounded     like two men arguing in the distance

“Pow Pow!” The shots reverberated against my eardrums. I covered my sister’s       trembling body to protect her. When I looked up I saw a man running out of           someone’s yard.

“That looks like the yard I would see my father coming out of”, I thought to myself.

“HELP ME, SOMEBODY HELP ME!” a wave of screams poured from the mouth of a woman nearby.

Since my sister was only five, I lifted her up and ran to help. When I got to the   spot, I saw what appeared to be my father lying in a pool of blood. I quickly took  off my uniform shirt and wrapped it around his right arm where the blood was        seeping from.  I looked up at the house and there was a lady by the window on the phone calling for an ambulance.

“He is losing a lot of blood.” she sobbed breathlessly into the mouthpiece     trembling uncontrollably

When she came off the phone, she came running over towards us.

“Who are you?” the lady asked me.

“How can you ask a question like that in a time like this?” I shouted wondering    who she was.

She just looked away wiping the blood with tissues and old clothes.

“The ambulance is on its way baby,” she said to my father wiping the sweat from  his forehead.

He couldn’t answer, his breathing slow and shallow. He now looked             unconscious.

“I’m his son.” I said to her feeling a bit guilty about my answer earlier.

“Son?” she asked, a shocked, startled look on her face like a dog caught in the       middle of oncoming traffic.

“Yes, please help me save my father.” I begged her.

I could hear an ambulance in the distance. When it finally reached, the         paramedics came out and told us to please move back so they could deal with him. I held my sister close as the ambulance sped off, sirens blaring with my father as     the passenger. I still wanted to know who that lady was but she had already left in     the ambulance.

Later that day, I went to the hospital to see how my so called father was       doing. They led me to a room where the same lady was standing by the door with  blood on her shirt.

“Hey boy.” she said smiling when she saw me.

“Where is he?” I asked her.

“He’s resting in this room.” she said holding my hand leading me into the     room.

“Your son is here to see you.” she told him.

“Hey son!” my so called father mumbled when he saw me.

He was hooked up to oxygen and drips. His hand sported a huge bandage and   he looked tired.

“How are you feeling?” I asked him pretending not to care.

He coughed then said “I’m good. I see you’ve met my wife.”

“Since when man like you want fu married?” I said my voice beginning to   get sharp.  I got upset.

His wife looked at me funny, then she asked “And how old are you supposed to be son?”

“And how that become you business?”, I asked her.

“You seem to be a stubborn child,” she said.

“A you so call husband me tek after, a wa you problem?” I asked her.

“Please don’t make this situation any worse.” she begged.

I thought about what she said for a moment and then I apologized for my          behaviour.

“Now, how old are you sweetheart?”, she asked me in a calm tone of voice.

“I’m twelve years old.” I responded.

“Twelve!” She said as she covered her mouth in disbelief.

“And what seems to be the problem?” I asked her.

“Your father and I have been married for fifteen years.”

“You see, I tell you he is a stubborn man, but you nar listen. So tell me miss, so this mean he cheat on you?” I responded wanting to laugh.

“I guess.”, she said looking at my so call father as he slept.

“My name is Mary Sebastian and I guess I’m your step mother”, she said.

“Me nah have no step mother, only one mother me have and she home. Not because you married me father, besides if he min love you I wouldn’t exist.” I told her.

“I think it is time for you to leave.”, her voice became flat and very angry. “We’ll sort this out when your father gets better.”

I left not wanting to cause any trouble; I could already see that this lady and I   were going to be enemies. I couldn’t wait to get home and ask my mother about     this Mary Sebastian. She must be telling the truth I thought because we both have   the same surname.

When I got home, I asked my mother about this lady I had met. She told me that Mary was living in England for five years and that is why my father began to see  her, my mother.

“Is barren she barren Te’Koy.” my mother told me. “That is another reason why you father have you, he want children and she can’t have any.”

“So am I the only child outside of his marriage?” I asked.

“Nah man, you father is a sharp man, he have bout two or three more            children. I think all of you should be around the same age.” mom had this angry,   hurt way of laughing when she talked about my father. Sometimes I wondered if    she noticed.

“It nah seem as if this so called wife of his know bout he children.” I said to my mom.

“She nah know bout not one of you. She hear things and nah want believe,    especially how she always to and from England.”, my mother told me.

Mom had a sad look on her face then she apologized for not telling me about     this sooner. My sister came out of her room awakened by the conversation, her       round face shone in the night.

Two months passed and my father came out of the hospital. I went to visit   him where he lived. As I approached the house, his wife was there hanging out      clothes on the line while my dad sat on the gallery.

“Good morning.” I said as I walked onto the gallery.

“Hey son!” my father said opening his left arm so I could hug him.

I hugged him only because he was sick.

“You alright?” his wife asked me as she came up behind us.

“I think so.”, I answered.

She went inside and then came out with some drinks. She gave me some lemon juice but I didn’t drink it, I was afraid she would poison me.

“Where are my other brothers and sisters?” I asked my father.

“Now is not the time for that.’ he said.

“Which other children? You have more?” Mary asked  father on the verge   of tears.

My father told her about the other children and Mary began to cry. My father    hung his head; I could tell he felt ashamed for not telling his wife about the            children. I was not sorry for him; he should feel extremely bad for cheating on his wife.

“Poor woman.” I said as I patted her on her back, I wanted to laugh. I found it        very amusing because she had been married to this man for fifteen years and didn’t have the slightest clue that he has children.

“And I treat you so good.” Mary said her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry for not telling you earlier sweetheart,” my father mumbled. You  could tell he was embarrassed that I was witness to this very private, very                personal conversation.

“Please leave son.” Mary asked me.

“How much time me have to tell you me a nar you pickney? You barren self”       I said feeling offended that she wanted me to leave my own father’s house.

I could tell that she was one of those soft women who cried at the drop of a hat. She must have been spoiled when she was little. I sat there observing her long       nails and her well-groomed hair on her little head. She was short and about my      complexion, she had a broad nose and her eyes were brown. She wasn’t that pretty, I thought, surely not prettier than my mother. I wondered why my father would   marry a woman like Mary. There were so many questions I wanted to ask him but I decided to let those questions remain unanswered. This was neither the time nor   place. I left the house eventually; I could see that something was going to take       place that didn’t concern me. As I walked to the gate, several rich looking people were coming out of a brand new car and heading into my father’s yard. We met at  the gate; they all gave me funny looks as they passed, as if I was some animal to    them. One lady accidentally brushed against me and then quickly wiped the place where I touched her.

“A wa happen to this woman yah?” I cut my eyes at her. “All arwe piss the  same a how you come higher than me inna society?”

The lady stared and seemed to be horrified by my outburst. She hurried to catch up to the others.  Her cloying perfume choked me as I passed.

“Their minds are bigger than their pockets.” I thought shoving my hands      deep into my pocket wishing I had money to buy my mom that perfume. My mom worked hard. She deserved it more than that foolish looking woman.

When I got home I told my mother all that had happened. She explained that my father had only married her for her money.

“He used to bang she see,” my mother said. “He min even fu go a jail but     she so chupit, she bail he out.”

“How long ago was that?” I asked.

“Just the other day.” she said. “Is his father-in-law shot him.”

“True?” I asked.

“You mean say them nah tell you wa mek you father min up a hospital?”

I nodded.

“Well she go try keep it a secret because she nah want she father fu go jail.” mom said rolling her eyes.

As the weeks passed I would go and visit my father often. His wife eventually   left him, heading back home to England. I came to the conclusion that his double    life was too much for her to deal with.  Her father went to jail for 2 months for       aggravated assault. I guess that will happen when you’re rich : little or no jail time. The thought was like vomit in my throat, hard to swallow.

Over the next couple of months my father and I began to develop a relationship;   we would go fishing, swimming and hiking together sometimes.  I got to meet one of my siblings. His name was Kareem, and we became very close. He lived on the other side of the island, Antigua, so it was difficult for us to spend time together    but when we did, we had a blast. As for my other siblings, my father said that they lived overseas and he hadn’t heard from them or seen them in years.
I could see that my father was now changing into a mature man. I’m sure it was    because his wife had left him. As I got to know my father I came to realize that he was just that: a man, my father. He had a great sense of humor. He had this way of raising one eyebrow just so when something amused or puzzled him. On one of our fishing trips to Pearns Point, he began to talk about his childhood as the pelicans  wheeled and screamed overhead under the searing sun. How his father had left his  mother with ten children. Ten children!!! When he recounted the painful memories  from his past his broad shoulders tightened and his hands clenched into huge fists.  A wave of pity came over me and my eyes filled with tears and, at that moment I   realized that my dad was only a victim of his circumstance: he was only following in the footsteps of his father before him and probably his father before that. I         immediately vowed that I would not fall into such a trap. My children, well………… if I had any anyway, would always have a father in their life.
I walked over to him and hugged him tightly. He seemed surprised but pleased by  the move. He hugged me back.

“Look I’m willing to give this relationship a try if you are,” I mumbled under my   breath staring out at the placid blue waves.

“Ok son,” He cleared his throat as though he was embarrassed.

“Let’s get you home to your mom before she send CID to find us, you know how   she is already,” he laughed seeming to remember something funny.

I had to agree. My mom isn’t easy to deal with sometimes.

We walked over to his car our steps in time with each other. I glimpsed at     this man out of the corner of my eye a warm feeling stealing over me. I could now accept this man as my father and not my so called father anymore. He now meant a lot to me.

For earning honourable mention in her age category, Zahra received:
A certificate sponsored by the Best of Books
EC$50 (courtesy Dr. Hazra Medica)
Inner City Girl by Colleen Smith-Dennis (courtesy CODE)
Thanks to all partners and patrons for making the Wadadli Pen 2016 Challenge possible. Here at Wadadli Pen, we encourage you to support the businesses and individuals who support the arts.

Please respect the writer’s copyright. And while we welcome feedback, please be constructive.

 

Faded Glory by Alyssa Charles

Winner in the 13 to 17 age category and 1st runner up/2nd placed overall – Wadadli Pen Challenge 2016

Author’s comment: “First of all I LOVE to write and I want to spend the rest of my life writing. I discovered a penchant for writing (and using big words) at the age of ten years old, much to the disapproval of my mother (I was writing too maturely for my age). I have succumbed to writer’s block so many times because of insecurities that it’s a wonder I continue writing at all. I really hope you find something worthy in my writing.”

Judge’s comment (positives only*): “Although the story wasn’t uniquely Caribbean, I found the subject matter powerful and interesting and uncommon in the writings of this age group. …overall an enjoyable read and my number one pick.”

Note: *While only the positives are being shared with the public, in keeping with the development goals of Wadadli Pen, all long listed entries are returned to the author with the judge’s note  – both positives and negatives – for revision.  Congrats to Alyssa, who took the opportunity to edit the story. Finally, I did some minor proofing before posting. Alyssa,  your worthiness goes without saying no matter what this or any other competition says. Keep working on your craft; keep valuing your voice and your art. – JCH

 

Alyssa Charles.

 

Here now is Faded Glory by Alyssa Charles, 17, student at the Antigua State College:

She was beautiful, with bright brown eyes staring up at the world in wonder. Her little hands and feet emphasizing just how fragile she was, and it broke my heart. I knew that this day would come, where I would leave her in the care of someone else; someone who was better qualified than I was; someone who wanted a child and couldn’t have one of their own. I was giving someone what they desired most and yet I felt like I would combust. I was giving away the child that I endured such hardship for.

I could remember the day like it was yesterday. After spending five hours stretching my brain to its capacity in order to receive a ‘sound education’ – words courtesy of my mother – I had felt exhausted. I never wanted to go to that club meeting but something called to me, and there I found myself. Among the masses was a shy little creature completely averse to being talkative and being myself, it was a wonder that he first noticed me. A terribly cliché situation came to mind as I found myself staring at his face. He was no born Antiguan but one could tell that he was bred here. The soft colour of his skin was contrasting with the voice spewing from his lips and in that moment I believed with all my naiveté that this was the man of my dreams; the man who would sweep me off my feet. But things had a way of coming back to bite you and I would forever learn that karma lived up to her name.

We would spend time together, this dream man of mine, and in that time we were elusive of my mother. Secret rendezvous after school, buying ice cream and talking about ourselves turned into something else; things were progressing beyond meager friendship. One day, I’d found myself enveloped in his arms. Whispers of love flooded my ears and my heart grew wings, taking flight. I had experienced love for the first time and I wanted to keep it forever. I wished that his touch would always be with me; his presence to guide, but the saying was true, “Be careful what you wish for” and disaster ensued.

When he deserted me, I kept my love under my breast; the love that rose in my chest like a tide of mercury every morning. I let it listen to my heartbeats, share the food I ate, comfort me when all had forsaken me. She entered this world, where I had bargained her away, taking a piece of me. As I stared into her bright brown eyes I thought of one thing, “If this is what my naiveté caused then I would gladly do it again, if only to have you and keep you.”

Love played a part in my faded glory, giving me meaning only to be ripped away and leaving me with a gaping hole in my chest.

 

For winning her age category and placing second overall, Alyssa received:
Certificates sponsored by the Best of Books
EC$300 (courtesy Juneth Webson)
EC$240 (courtesy Dr. Hazra Medica)
Gone to Drift by Diana McCaulay (courtesy Papillotte Press)
Prospero’s Daughter by Elizabeth Nunez, Glorious By Bernice McFadden, Turn Thanks and Controlling the Silver by Lorna Goodison (courtesy Pamela Arthurton of Carib World Travel )
Musical Youth by Joanne C. Hillhouse, Writer’s Digest magazine (JCH)
Vampire diaries board game – The Best of Books

Thanks to all partners and patrons for making the Wadadli Pen 2016 Challenge possible. Here at Wadadli Pen, we encourage you to support the businesses and individuals who support the arts.

Please respect the writer’s copyright. And while we welcome feedback, please be constructive.

 

SECRET OF DE MANGO TREE BY MICHAELA HARRIS

Wheneva mama left for de market to buy de veggies an bread,

She beat words in me head like road–march “I don’t care weh you ah go be ….

But ah don’t want you unda dat Mango tree. Yuh see hoo much man dung day?

Is a whole fleet… waiting pan you like a piece a meat!  Tek heed young child is fu you own good!”

Den she’d leave, apparently tinking ah understood.

I’d look up an dong, mek sure she garn, den poor me who did neva go school,

Went running dong like a fool.

Kenny Brown, de bwoy from town, tell me him like fu see me and he’d be me boyfren if, today, me gee he de honey.

When I arrived many boys weren’t there, was jus Kenny, big-John, Curtis and wan case a beer.

After my first two bottles a dis same beer, I couldn’t memba de days’ date, or even de year.

Ah felt real giddy an smood, an Kenny told me “girl you’re in the perfect mood”.

“For what” I asked but he didn’t say, all ah see Curtis an big-John clear out de way an lef me, Kenny and de Mango tree.

De last ting a cyan memba was de smile pan Kenny face as he took me lower garments out  a place.

Ah woke up in paralyzing pain, an pan me pretty likkle pink skirt was a big red stain.

De smile pan Kenny’s’ face spelled delight an de look in he eye was pure spite.

“Am afraid we can’t be together” he dryly said, den walk way widout even turning his head.

Dat night mama beat me black an blue, as she screamed at me ‘me nah warn you!’

Ah soon found out Kenny left for town, his friends say he lef widout a sound.

Now nobody knows me secret but mama an me, an yes of course de mango tree.

BIO: Michaela Harris is a 15 year old fourth form student from the Antigua Girls High School. She describes herself as hardworking, talented and optimistic; and said she enjoys reading, as well as writing poetry and sometimes short stories. Her narrative poem Secret of de Mango Tree –based, she said, on her observation of peers
concerning sexual relations with the opposite sex – earned her second spot in the 13 to 17 age category of the 2013 Wadadli Pen Challenge. Fortunes vary year to year in Wadadli Pen but having stepped up from the short list in 2012 to making the age category finals this year is a step in the right direction for this young writer.”I am very grateful for this competition because it provides grounds for me to share something I love with others,” said Michaela.

Please respect the writer’s copyright; do not use or alter without permission.

Thirty-Six Hundred by Aarati Jagdeo

Between the hours of 7pm and 8pm my mother sits in the living room and stares out at the driveway. She feeds me and my brother precisely at 6pm and then we all sit and force small talk for an hour before she begins her strange ritual. During that hour, my brother and I speak very quietly or do our homework. Then, promptly at 8pm, our mother gets up and invites us to watch TV in her room.  We never decline her offer.

It’s been five months since our father left us to start a new life with his girlfriend. That’s nothing new in today’s world I suppose. However, the fact that his girlfriend is 16 years old is what causes us to get the stares at the supermarket and at school.

People who know and like my father always try to make excuses for him or lie about his girlfriend’s age. “His wife too disgusting”, they say or “his wife let herself go after she had kids”. The issue of him leaving us and bedding a girl only three years older than me never seems to carry much weight amongst them.

His girlfriend, Cherie, is one of those girls that developed early and is very aware of her effect on men. Her mother is a loud, obnoxious woman who I hear has been married three times already. Her first two husbands left her and the current one, apparently, hardly spends time at home. Some people used to feel sorry for Cherie, especially since she doesn’t know who her father is. However, that all went out the window once word got out that she and my father were “dealing”.

I saw Cherie and my father out grocery shopping the other day. He looked so old standing next to her. He had his arm around her shoulders and she had hers around his waist. I remember I felt rage creeping up inside me. Didn’t he know how ridiculous he looked standing there with his thinning hair and his stupid paisley shirt tucked into his khakis? She was no better with that annoying way she chewed her gum in her batty riders, with her sloppy orange lipstick and her too-tight t-shirt.  He spotted me that night and tried to say hi but I just turned my back on him and left.

Last night, one of my only true friends, Chris, asked me if I ever noticed my father looking at other women before. I told him no. “Maybe I just never thought…” I said.  I couldn’t tell Chris my true feelings yet. They were still too alien.  I wondered about so many things now, things that no 13 year old should have to wonder about.  Was my father a pervert? Was he a “paedophile”? Had he ever had those kinds of thoughts about me? I didn’t really want the answer to those questions but every night, before I went to sleep, they were waiting to haunt and taunt me.

Tonight I’m watching the clock in the kitchen. It’s 7:00. Like a moth to a flame, my mother starts to make her way to the living room and that wretched window. I look at my brother but his head is down.  I’ve decided I’ve had enough.  I walk to the sofa and put my hand on her shoulder.

“Mom, he’s not coming. Do you hear? He’s not coming.”

She looks at me and starts to cry. I cry too. My brother comes in and sees us. Then he stands there and weeps.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Arati Jagdeo describes herself as “a Caribbean girl living in a material world. I like chillin’ like a villain, kickin’ it old school, shootin’ the breeze and any other activity that involves an apostrophe.” Her entry, The Yard, which earned her second place in the 18 to 35 age category of the 2012 Wadadli Pen Challenge is about how a young girl, in an attempt to escape the heat, takes a shortcut through her neighbour’s yard and sees something she’ll never forget. The Yard also earned her third place overall. In her other story, the “well written” Thirty-Six Hundred, which earned third place in the same category, a young woman laments her father’s indiscretion as well as the state of her now devastated family.

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION & TERMS OF USE
Copyright of the winning Wadadli Pen stories and/or art work featured on this site belongs to the creators of the individual works and are used here purely for promotional and educational purposes. Other blog content, except otherwise noted, is created and/or maintained by Joanne C. Hillhouse. Site content should not be copied, distributed, transmitted, used for commercial purposes, altered, transformed, or built upon without the consent of the copyright holders.

Angela’s Baby by Ariel Dunnah

Angela held her newborn baby Rosalie and stared into her eyes searching for something. She searched for the proud moment she was told of in all the pregnancy books. She looked for the tears and laughter she tuned into for hours every day on Discovery Channel as mothers held their children for the first time in nine months. They cooed over their bundles of joy staring into their eyes and envisioning the future. Instead, Angela saw financial burden, sleepless nights and a tough times ahead wrapped in a swaddling cloth. This baby had no father, after this hospital they had nowhere to call home, she had no steady job and she walked blindly into a relationship which left her stranded in a new island where she knew no one. She didn’t even know she was expecting until she was eight months into her pregnancy.

“How am I expected to love you if I barely even know you, ripened eighteen years of age, you ripped my future from under me like a dusty carpet and for eight months you silently sucked the life out of me without my permission.” Hot tears streamed down Angela’s face as she poured her heart out to this baby. “Nowhere to sleep or eat what am I supposed to do, especially if you have a father who doesn’t want or love you. ”

Just then, a nurse name Jocelyn had been eavesdropping by the door, came in to check Angela and Rosalie’s vitals and a routine checkups. Angela sat there despondent.

“You know Angela; I don’t mind helping you to get back on your feet”

“Since ya dey a play fas’, mi kno ya hear the part when ma say me na ha no money” Angela snapped back. The nurse calmly reassured Angela that she was not doing this for money but rather, she knew what it was like to feel as though life itself had rejected you and also wanted to ensure the safety of the baby whom she had taken a liking to. Reluctantly, Angela agreed and was discharged later the next day. She went home with the nurse who also helped to settle the hospital bill until Angela found work and could repay her.

The first couple of nights Rosalie awoke screaming at the top of her lungs at odd hours in the morning. Nothing seemed to comfort her. Angela appeared to be going out of her mind. “Shut up!” “Stop screaming I am trying to help!” she would shout at Rosalie, and at this point, Jocelyn would step in. A night, Rosalie rolled off of the bed and lay on the floor helpless as she tried to wrestle her way from the blanket she was wrapped up in. Angela watched her not the least bit concerned as Rosalie was losing the fighting with each struggle. Angela simply closed her eyes to go back to sleep. Joycelyn doing her normal nightly check on Rosalie and Angela flew to the baby’s rescue.

One night Jocelyn had to work extremely late and left Rosalie home alone with Angela. Jocelyn made sure Rosalie was asleep before she went to work and left Angela asleep in the living room chair. As usual at about 3 a.m Rosalie awoke screaming. Angela trudged to the room where the baby was asleep and saw something holding her baby. It was a short haggish looking woman. Angela watched in shock as it drained baby Rosalie’s lifeless body of every last drop of blood. When she heard Angela begin to scream she took off like a ball of fire through the house. She never thought she’d live to ever see a Ol’ Higue but here it was. Rosemarie rushed to her baby’s aid and cradled her. She crumpled on the floor still holding Rosalie tightly and watched herself in the mirror on the opposite wall. The tears she had subscribed to a month ago came but they were not joyful ones. The reflection mimicked her movements and held the baby just as she had, but, she realised she looked like the Ol’ Higue. She sat there in shock and dismay and suddenly it spoke.

“ It is me the islands’ feared ancient dread, but the blood is on your hands instead, I’m the reason you mourn this baby’s death, Girl as long as dey have woman giving birth,  an ol’ higue like me can never dead.”

Jocelyn pulled up to her house at five the next morning and was greeted by police cars, ambulances and nosey neighbours surrounding her house. She watched as Angela sat in the back of a police car just pulling off the curb.

AUTHOR BIO: Ariel Dunnah is a 16 year old fifth form student at the Antigua Girls’ High School.  Writing is a hidden passion of hers and she saw the Wadadli Pen Competition as an opportunity to expose her creativity and gain experience in my writing. Her story, Angela’s Baby, which earned second place in the 13 to 17 age category of the 2012 Wadadli Pen Challenge was inspired by the poem Ol’ Higue – the old island story of a haggish old woman who feasts on a baby’s blood.  It also addresses the social issues of infant fatalities caused by mothers who may have taken the lives of their babies or who may have had a very ill baby who eventually died from complications and may now be looking for answers.  Her other entry, Every Rose has its Thorn, which won first place in the 13 to 17 age category and second place overall, also pertains to the supernatural. In it, Alyssa senses that all isn’t right with her new stepmother. Things become frightening when Alyssa’s mother visits her in a dream but nothing could prepare her for what happens next.

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION & TERMS OF USE
Copyright of the winning Wadadli Pen stories and/or art work featured on this site belongs to the creators of the individual works and are used here purely for promotional and educational purposes. Other blog content, except otherwise noted, is created and/or maintained by Joanne C. Hillhouse. Site content should not be copied, distributed, transmitted, used for commercial purposes, altered, transformed, or built upon without the consent of the copyright holders.

Every Rose has its Thorn by Ariel Dunnah

The day after school closed for summer vacation, my sister and I boarded a plane for Antigua. We left there when I was five so my memory did not recall much, but my favourite recollection of Antigua was Sunday afternoons on the beach with my family after church.  We would take long strolls down to the beach or sometimes my sister Rosheda and I would race my father to the end of the stretch of sand if we were in a particularly playful mood. My mother would sit laughing and smiling as she watched us play with our father, wrestling him to the sand or challenging him to a game of football or cricket. ‘The boy children Trevor never had’ she would smile and say. Her smile was so beautiful.  Other families were there, but it felt as though the beach belonged to us alone. America was nice with its many stores and tall structures, but we who are born of palm trees swaying in the warm island breeze with the beauty of the Caribbean Seas can never seek solace in rivers and lakes. I rubbed my eyes and felt they were wet. I hadn’t realized I was crying until then. As I was bombarded by these memories, I realized that all it ever would be was a memory and it no longer possessed the ability to materialize and exist. Our mother died when I was five. Little known to us, she had been a survivor of breast cancer for six long years. After the funeral, arrangements were made for us to stay by her sister and our Aunty Irene, in Chicago.

Ten years later, here were my sister and I back in Antigua. We stayed by my father’s house with our stepmother Angela whom I disliked.               Usually we would go shopping or village hopping but this morning I woke up feeling a bit weak so I decided to rest for the day.  My father stumbled onto the porch looking like Jack Skellington from the Nightmare before Christmas. He looked like a stranger to me for he was so thin and his eyes sunk into his head with dark circles sitting beneath each. His cheek bones protruded through his skin and his clothes hung on him like a coat on a nail.

“How are you today daddy?”

“I’m fine”

“True? Well mind wind don’t blow you away” I jokingly said.

I learned that joke from my Grandmother Viola when I met her a few weeks ago upon arrival on island. She was a very pleasant woman who had the characteristic roundness that all pleasantly plump Caribbean women, especially older ones, seemed to posses.  She fed us up on island delicacies and told riveting tales of my father’s childhood that could bring even a grown man to his knees.

“I have been stung by bees and jellyfish, but nothing could ever prepare me for Bethesda mosquitoes,” daddy said one morning joining me on the spacious verandah. He rubbed at some bite marks on his neck and shoulders. Subconsciously, I rubbed at a few on myself as a silent agreement with daddy’s statement. Just then Angela, daddy’s new wife stood by the kitchen door just behind us saying her usual fake cheerful good mornings to me. Though I disliked her greatly, one couldn’t help but admire her beautiful hair, stunning, almost mythical facial features and unmarked skin. I found it strange how she was never affected by the mosquitoes as the rest of us was. She gave me this unsettling feeling. She returned inside and left daddy and I by ourselves.

“Daddy I don’t like Angela.” “She’s only nice to Rosheda and I when you are around” I started.

“Now Alyssa Jarvis you need to give Angela a chance because she really does care for you and your sisters.”

My efforts were futile for daddy was too enchanted by Angela. He was tied, as these islanders would say. I knew there was no point in arguing and so I retreated to my bedroom where I stayed on my laptop until nightfall. I spoke to my friend Kendra on Skype and told her all about my wicked stepmother Angela. I felt like I dropped directly into a Disney princess storyline.

“A Dominica you say she from? Better min’ a nar duppy,” she joked in her fake Jamaican accent. I had to keep reminding this girl that I was from Antigua and that Jamaica wasn’t the only island in the Caribbean. Exhausted and weak, I retired early for the evening.

I dreamt I was walking down a dirt road with miles of barren land lying on each side. I was so thirsty and I came upon a little house. I came upon a lady in a broad straw hat sat in a rocking chair gently rocking in sync with the breeze. I told her I was thirsty and she simply got up and went into the house. Suddenly a soft, sweet melodious voice familiar to my ears, that could sometimes rock to me sleep reminding me of happier times and could make me cry ‘til tears offered no more consolation and make me sad in an instant, drifted to me riding on the wind. “Alyssa come” the voice beckoned.  I went into the house and followed the sunlight streaming in through holes in the roof to the kitchen. Then I saw her beautiful face. I didn’t think twice about running into her arms outstretched like a crucifix. It felt so good to hold my mother again but this wasn’t right. My mother was dead. I soon after felt my tiny body being crushed in her embrace. I began to slowly lose consciousness with the inability to breathe, my vision warped.  I slightly regained consciousness to glimpse Angela’s face bearing fangs. I felt the life being drained from me. I drifted out and the next time I drifted in I was awake. I was drenched in a cold sweat and my pajama top stuck to me, chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. I wiped my forehead and got out of the bed to go the bathroom. I went to the bathroom, retrieved a glass of water from the kitchen and was about to return into my bed when I heard a floorboard creak in Rosheda’s room. I tiptoed to her door and slightly pushed it open. I wasn’t prepared for what I saw next. Angela crouched on the bed holding Rosheda’s lifeless body, teeth sunk deep into her neck. I lost all feeling in my body as I witnessed Angela drain my sister’s body of every last drop of life and blood. My hands went numb, I lost the grip on my glass and it dropped with a loud “Crash!” She turned around and flew with animalistic precision up the wall and through the skylight. Breaking my trance I pushed on the door and realized there was a dead-weight blocking it from behind. It was my father. He inhaled and exhaled weakly struggling to get some incoherent words out. He was still breathing and through quivering lips I promised my assistance soon. I flew to her side and cradled her in my arms begging her to wake up. I quickly felt for a pulse but found none. Rosheda was dead. My worst fears were confirmed at that point. Angela was a parasite_ so deadly, but so beautiful to look at.

AUTHOR BIO: Ariel Dunnah is a 16 year old fifth form student at the Antigua Girls’ High School.  Writing is a hidden passion of hers and she saw the Wadadli Pen Competition as an opportunity to expose her creativity and gain experience in her writing. Her story, Angela’s Baby, which earned second place in the 13 to 17 age category of the 2012 Wadadli Pen Challenge was inspired by the poem Ol’ Higue – the old island story of a haggish old woman who feasts on a baby’s blood.  It also addresses the social issue of infant fatalities caused by mothers who may have taken the lives of their babies or who may have had a very ill baby who eventually died from complications and may now be looking for answers.  Her other entry, Every Rose has its Thorn, which won first place in the 13 to 17 age category and second place overall, also pertains to the supernatural though, as the chief judge said, it “feels real”. In it, Alyssa senses that all isn’t right with her new stepmother. Things become frightening when Alyssa’s mother visits her in a dream but nothing could prepare her for what happens next.

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION & TERMS OF USE
Copyright of the winning Wadadli Pen stories and/or art work featured on this site belongs to the creators of the individual works and are used here purely for promotional and educational purposes. Other blog content, except otherwise noted, is created and/or maintained by Joanne C. Hillhouse. Site content should not be copied, distributed, transmitted, used for commercial purposes, altered, transformed, or built upon without the consent of the copyright holders.