A Little Tropical Gothic for Your Afternoon

This piece was longlisted for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize (which feels especially sweet after five years of rejections). It’s a story in verse—yes, that’s a thing, or at least I’ve decided it is. Set in colonial-era Mauritius, it’s got ghosts, grief, tangled family loyalties, and the kind of humid atmosphere where nothing ever dries properly—not even the truth.

Here’s a short snippet...

Foyerbride

A short story in verse

The sky labours hard above us– a grey woman on her back, panting, longing to burst. Bats shriek across the sky, blackened nails across a dirty chalkboard. 

Golden-eyed macaques turn their heads chittering at us from the shadows, their babies suctioned to their backs like parasites. 

A gust of wind blows my veil against my face and I stumble.

He is quick to steady me.

The gravel crunches, uneven beneath my slippers. I cling to him– I the limpet, he the rock. 

He guides me as best he can, but the ground sways underfoot. 

A voice, a step above us, welcomes the Master and his bride. 

I cannot look up. I cannot look anywhere. 

My insides are a riot. 

I turn and spill the contents of my belly into the rolling ferns below. 

The house, it was said, was full and well-appointed. 

The servants, crisp and uniform as we brush past, all elected to stay, even when their 

proclamation arrived from over the seas all those years ago. 

Such was the great temperance of the Master. 

Such was the prestige of a position in his house. 

My wedding band feels heavy on my finger.

I twist it up to the knuckle, a gold serpent, devouring its own tail, then back again. 

In the manoir, my cloak is taken, a glass of red spirit pressed into my palm. 

I down it quickly– dirty river water from a wash bucket. 

It spills over, staining my gown.

My husband busies himself: turning up lamps, whispering low things at the ear of a servant. 

Pretty thing– full figure, fine features. 

She looks at me as the master instructs her, and I find myself a thing she has stepped 

in, a vile thing– all stench and imbalance. 

She leaves with a bow, and we are alone. 

His eyes, slow with purpose, map the space between us. 

There is an impatience to their movement. 

My fingers contort into a knot.

“Will you keep your veil?”

“I do not know where to put it.”

The straight lines of his face soften, and the motion of the hand that reaches for me is kind. 

The veil is damp and heavy, and I am glad to be free of it. 

At last I can see where I am.

The foyer is large, larger than even the great room at my father’s house. 

The wood is old, and creaks in protest at every turn. 

It is polished to perfection– I almost fancy I can see my own face, or its reflection, shifting beneath me as I move. 

Before me is a great staircase. 

Behind me is the door. 

Gilt-framed portraits protrude like abalones from the walls. 

There are other doors, other passageways, only discoverable by daylight.

The foyer around me is more shadow than sense, and I have only the hopeful ring of my husband’s lamplight to go by. 

He coils my hand into his arm and pulls me across the foyer. 

We pass the staircase, and I wonder at the heavy furs and woven blankets, embroidered linen cushions and goosefeather pillows, all heaped together on the floor. 

I open my mouth, but the remark dissolves upon it. 

He is pulling me away with him faster than I can speak.

There is food prepared, and indeed, I should say there is always food in the 

manoir. 

Bread and marlin and crab in its shell; braided cress, christophine squash and dishes of fragrant, jasmine rice. 

Steaming morsels of  cari cerf are arranged in an ornate china platter, and the remains of a cochon marron have been laid to rest in a large tureen. 

A wave of his hand, and food is portioned out to me. 

I wait, as I have been taught, but he is not hungry.  

“You should eat your fill,” my husband says. 

I do not know how, I think, I have never had the chance. 

The taste of deer, spiced and welcoming, is still warm in my mouth when he rises 

and pulls me with him. 

There are no sweets, not even in this great house. 

I mourn the fact–a sorry concession. 

I had hoped to one day taste a dessert. 

He leads me away, and I hear the servants, all scrape and shadow, already at work 

at our backs. 

I turn to the darkness, but I cannot see them. 

They bustle about like cane shrews between hovels. 

Outside, the sky has birthed a tremendous storm. 

Only the flashes of lightning betray their scurrying about.

The foyer again, though now it has been transformed. 

The floor is a single stretch of bedding– soft furs and generous pillow shams; blankets and cushions, from wall to wall. 

My husband’s coat pools like a bloodstain at its centre. 

The rest of his garments soon follow suit.

In the candlelight he beckons for me, and I step into the sea of downy softness. 

He pulls me towards him, and it is his turn to hunger. 

He unwraps me like a birthday gift, and lays me down on the feathers and furs below.

His touch is gentle, and there is a bitterness to his kisses, the taste of the doctor’s 

tonic for mosquito fever I took as a child. 

I halve myself beneath him, cleaving outwards, and when he pushes against me, I halve myself again. 

It is done within a moment. 

I fall asleep to the rhythmic roll and crash of his breath...

There you go! Thank you for reading, and do let me know your thoughts!