By Shauntionne Mosley
“Creative differences my ass!”
I said slamming my fist on my desk. The hot tea that was sitting on the edge spilt over into my trash can. I didn’t even get a sip. I groaned and laid my head down in defeat. “If I wanted a diva I’d be writing a drama.” I mumbled into my folded arms. Baclavar, the villain that I’ve been writing my novel around, quit on me yesterday. After searching for months and finally typing a rough draft not worthy of a paper ball toss, he quit. Remaining positive as a writer is a job within itself and one that must be done if I want to turn this draft into my publisher on time. I pulled the vanilla folder filled with assorted resumes out of my desk drawer and looked through my potential protagonist.
Nope. Toss.
Nope. Toss.
Nope. Toss.
If I get one more fucking assassin I swear. Point and shoot, that’s it. Impressive? Sure. Villainous? Eh.
“Ms. Rockwell,” said Camila my secretary, peeking her head through the door, “your first interviewee is here.”
“What’s it looking like?” I asked.
My past three have all been duds. The Wingman, who spent his life training pigeons to do his dirty work. Poison Ivyy (the two y’s were very important to her) who swore she wasn’t a copy of DC’s notorious vixen, but the red hair and taped leaves on her green onesie lead me to believe otherwise. Oh, and then there was my personal favorite, Dr. Morpheus King. A Howard Law professor who had incredible potential, until he told me his evil reign began after he lost a job offer to a woman. A woman whom I later looked up and found she was more qualified than he for the position. You want to be remembered for being a sexist bigot? Join the Trump administration. You have no place in my work.
“She’s…interesting.” Camila said with a smirk.
“Send her in.” I replied.
Within moments she was in my office yanking out her headphones and nonchalantly sliding her backpack off her shoulders and onto the floor. She didn’t seem to want to be here anymore than I did. Nonetheless:
“Hi, I’m Misty Rockwell.” I said.
“Natalie Moore.” She responded.
“Have a seat. I love your hair.” I’m a sucker for baby hair and moisturized puffs. “Thank you.” She said flashing a smile as big as her brown eyes. Her caramel colored crop top read “honey” in small font and was the perfect contrast to her dark complexion.
“How old are you if you don’t mind me asking?”
“17.” She answered.
“And you’re a villain already?” I said , taking out a pen and paper. I didn’t write anything but scribbles, but at least I look interested.
“That’s what they’re calling me.” Natalie answered.
“Are you wanted?”
“In 6 states and a small village in Port Au Prince, Haiti.” She said matter of factly, twisting her lips and smoothing down her arched eyebrows. An international badass? I think the furthest Baclavar had gone was Vegas and he was from Los Angeles. Not far at all. I’m intrigued.
“Well let me give you some background on what I’m doing,” I began, “As you know I’m writing a novel. I’ve been playing around with the title but I think I’m going to be settling on “Into the Lair.” I’m writing it as a fiction, but I want it to be based off a real person. Now, I promise to protect your identity-”
“That won’t be necessary,” Natalie interrupted, “I’m wanted but the police don’t know exactly who they’re looking for. I just so happen to be around when bad things happen. I guess I’m more of a person of interest.”
“Why don’t they know it’s you?”
“I make sure of it.” She responded. I crossed my legs and leaned in closer. “What is it exactly that you do Natalie?”
“Are you familiar at all with Vodou?” She asked. “I’ve heard of it of course, but I can’t say I know much.” I answered honestly.
She leaned back in her chair and began: “My family’s from Haiti. I myself was born in New Orleans and raised by my great grandmother.”
“A Vodou Priestess?” I asked.
“The Vodou Priestess.” She responded proudly. “Are you from the bloodline of Marie Laveau? Any relation to her at all?” I took a Caribbean folklore class my undergrad year of college. My Martiniquian professor spent a week teaching us about the religion that is Voodoo and how it beliefs vary throughout countries in West Africa, The Caribbean, and in New Orleans. My professor touched on Laveau in class, but I think my interest in her really peaked when American Horror Story released Coven. The Voodoo Queen of New Orleans was portrayed by the Black Queen of Hollywood herself, Angela Bassett. According to my professor, it is said Lavaeu’s bloodline runs through all of New Orleans. I’m sure it’s just a rumor that adds to her mystique, but I had to ask.
Natalie sucked her teeth and jerked up out of her resting position at my question. “Fuck that high yellow bitch!” She yelled. “Mixing what’s ours with Catholic trash. Europeans did nothing but take but we’re supposed to pray to their Saints? We asked them not to rape, kill, and steal, and they ain’t do that. But if we ask them to bless our homes, our crops, our dying loved ones, our prayers will be answered?”
I stayed quiet. Kicking myself for being too curious.
“Nah my GiGi was the real thing,” Natalie sighed laying back in her chair, “She helped those who could and couldn’t help her. We didn’t have a lot to give but she gave anyway. She could’ve made Laveau money, but that wasn’t important to her. She wasn’t chosen for that. When she died, her and my other ancestors had plans for me to be a Mambo. Our highest priestess in charge of our rituals and ceremonies. It’s an honor, but there are too many rules. Being a Boker gives me more independence. Technically I’m a sorceress and sometimes I use my powers for good…other times I don’t.
“Why is that ?” I asked. “What’s your motive?
“Motive?” She said, staring at me quizzically. “You know, why do you do what you do? Someone wrong you? Personal vendetta? World domination?” I listed.
She let out a loud, hearty, laugh at the last one. A laugh so loud I couldn’t believe it was coming from her small frame. Side holding, tears forming, head wedged between her knees and all. When she finally lifted her head back up, the adorable brown eyes I had seen were now suddenly a bright, electrifying, green. My ears popped and the loud ringing brought on a splitting headache out of nowhere. I broke into a fierce sweat, breath began to shorten. My once room temperature office was chilling cold.
“I could care less about world domination,” she began, “my power is far too great. It’d be too easy to take over this world. My ancestors suffered, the ones before them suffered, my people are still suffering. I won’t though. It all stops with me. My GiGi said that we must deal with the cards we’ve been given. That the spirits gave them to us for a reason. Know what I say?”
She leaned forward and put her hands on my desk, causing my papers and folders to shoot into the air and swirl violently around us. My laptop sparked, then burst into flames. I could hear myself screaming inside my head, but nothing came out when I opened my mouth. I couldn’t move a muscle.
“Why let anyone give me my cards,” Natalie continued, “when I can take them and shuffle the deck myself. Bon chans to anyone who’s in my way. Cause if they don’t move, I’LL TAKE THEM TOO!” She shouted in a demonic voice that wasn’t hers. Or at least I thought it wasn’t. She snapped her head around to look at the Chinese vase in the far corner of my office. Raising her hand in the air, the large antique lifted off the floor, and with a flick of her wrist she flung it straight at me. I had 5 seconds to move and I did. I dived into a fetal position under my desk and waited to hear $2,000 crash into my walls. I heard nothing. As a matter of fact, I was surprised I could hear anything at all. The ringing was gone along with my headache. My clothes that were once drenched with sweat were now dry cleaner fresh. When I raised my head to peer over my desk, my office was completely in order. Vase sitting pretty and untouched in the corner.
“You good?” Natalie asked smugly, cocking her head to the side. “Yeah.” I said, nervously collecting myself and scrambling into my chair. “Um…I think we’re done here. See Camila on your way out. She’s going to give you my card that has my email and office number on it. We’ll be in touch, but if you have any questions before I reach out to you please don’t hesitate to contact me.”
“K thanks.” She responded. Jumping out of her chair and pulling up her baggy jeans. She stuck out her hand for me to shake it. “Nice to meet you Ms. Rockwell. I’m sure this will be another best seller.” I didn’t want to shake her hand, but I couldn’t let some kid know I was terrified of her. I tucked my hair behind my ears and offered her my hand.
“Nice to meet you as well Natalie, I’ll let you know about my decision.” I said. We shook hands and then she grabbed her bag and walked swiftly out the door. I stared at my hand for a bit making sure it was normal. Flipping it back to palm, back to palm. “Ms. Rockwell.” Camila buzzed in on my office phone, temporarily snapping me out of my stare. “You’re next interview will be starting shortly in the conference room.”
“Cancel it.” I said, staring back at my hand. “The position has been filled.”
Shauntionne Mosley is originally from Louisville, KY. When not writing in or re-reading 1 of many diaries (36 and counting), you can find her eating, daydreaming, or talking to herself. Other published works can be found here.
