Bird As Fish

It was twilight when I decided it was 'bout time to be 'eadin' 'ome. The missus'ud be up with the kids, keepin' the grub warm. 'Twas rather a pretty night, I remember, I do, 'ow th' purple can t'gether with th' blue. "A perfect oonion" in the words o' the hol' priest. It was a fortnight after the Amuricans han' their Dependence Day. I remember too 'cuz I was just gettin' my skivvies back to norm arfur all them fireworks scared my blathers out. My 'umble 'ome lay has it were, just on th' 'em o' th' city, where hall them rich n' fancy gents lived in them mighty big 'ouses. 'Corse I wasn't has privurged has all tha', but I took up me residence in one o' thur gardens. They didn't seem to mind hit, an' even one o' th' other unforchnates, like myself fed me a' times.

'Though she called me "Birdie", when me real name be Ralph, I still ate the stuff and took it 'ome t' Mum. Well, y'see, I seed 'er then too from where I sat in th' happle tree, a sittin' in th' twilight on 'er bench lookin' a little down on the rims. Just a sittin' there, hall alone. Now don't you be askin' me why. She just be a sittin' there for hunown reasons.

'N then I sawed it, with me own eye sockets, 'er dress be all torn t' bits n' pieces, like a 'awk's claws went hat it. Well then I was ticked, ticked right t' th' gills. I 'as 'elped with me own two claws t' make tha' dress. Th' mice always know a mighty bit more than me, being 'ouse'olders an' they convinced me to lay a 'and to charity.

Well, I flew 'ome right straight 'n tol' the missus. She blowed 'er 'at when she 'eard, an' she allus had a fearsome temper, I tell you. Being a woman 'erself, she synthesized with tha' poor unforchnate, 'n said she'd like to send 'er a nice synthesy card. We wasn't as educated as all that though. It would 'ave just looked like chicken scratch. We just decided that a cassarole would be more a fittin' ya see. So I picked up the grub that was to be me dinner, still squirmin' it was and flew o'er to the young'un.

Well blow me eyes out an' make 'em jelly! No more was that gel a sittin' in 'er own tears but a sittin' in 'er own carriage, all done up nice like a swell. Naw, she was God-honest beautiful like I'd never seen 'er get up. The carriage looked suspickushly like a pumpkin from just beyond the way.

An old lady jiggled like breakfast marmelade as she jumped hup and down, like a body fresh out o' the pub. This sight gave me the good ol' fashioned jeebers has I got goosepimples from me 'ead to me claw. Figuring to me, that she didn't need our synthesy, I took t' eatin' that fine grub, right straight to the feelers, which I saved for the kids - they like to suck on 'em y'know.

Went to bed straight arfer tha'. Too much jeebers for one day don't do a body good. But 'bout midnight by me ol' ticker the wife she wakes me an' says that there's a some'em creepin' below. I love the old duck, I do, but she hain't got no nerves, for nothin'. So I gets up an' pops me 'ead out th' door.

Well if it hain't that poor unforchnate, a comin' 'ome in 'er rags with the mice an' dog. What a sight! lookin' like they just lost the biggest cockfight in town. I tells this to the wife, an' she just clucks like an old 'en, an' tells me it's love. I shakes me 'ead and goes back to bed.

Busy as I was for the next few days (I 'ad business with the pawnbrokers see). I didn't get to visitin' that poor girl. The missus did once or twice and declared that 'er problem was definitely Love. A couple days arfer what a skwawking went up by the Big 'Ouse that I 'ad to go see what the ol' riot was fer. The ol' witch in th' 'Ouse was makin' a terrible 'mount of noise, til I took a bit o' charge an' told me cousin to shut 'er trap. 'E did 'n quite nicely too, a stockin' from the laundry did the job. From there the old 'ound took 'er. I'd never much cared for 'im but now that I see 'e 'as 'is uses, I is quite 'appy to 'ave 'im around.

One of 'em really big swells who can afford to 'ave their shirt starched everyday a marched 'imself right up them stairs with 'er shoe in 'is hand an' when he marched right back down, tha' gel was in 'is harms, 'er shoe hon 'er foot.

The missus gave me a good snuggle arfer tha', all 'appy like. I was good an' confused. 'E only wanted to give 'er shoe back. I says this to 'er. All she would say to me was, "Men!"

© 2003 All rights reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

While I was on the bus yesterday, I thought about this one time when I was sitting in a small group, and we were discussing what we wanted - what we wanted if we could have anything, what we wanted if we could only spend $5 on it, what we wanted if it didn't cost anything. Everyone gave joke answers - a cowboy hat, a fishing license, because no one wanted to say what it is they really wanted, no one wanting to make themselves vulnerable. I, myself said I wanted a bicycle pedal if I could have anything that only cost $5 - hey I would be that much closer to owning a bike. It was a typical group, and then someone came out and said something that shocked everyone and made them look at the floor tiles or pick at the nasty black caps on the chair frames in nervousness. He said, as if he had been contemplating saying something else, "I want to know for one second what it is to be truly alive. For one second, I'd like to know that I was truly alive." He said it nervously, he said it haltingly, swallowing in between two words of a sentence. Someone across from me rolled their eyes, another person looked nervously around to see if there was anyone brave doing something that they could also do. Another person, [that would be me] said "Hmm" and nodded their head, in an effort to validate what he had said, and not make him feel embarrassed, but at the same time, I didn't know what to say to make everything all better.

My minimal efforts didn't help and he sat, not looking at anybody, with a red face, never to be honest, never to bare his self again.

What do you do in a situation like that? How do you communicate that it is alright, that I appreciated such honesty, and wished I were brave like that, without making them even more embarrassed, and without embarrassing myself, without it seeming like they had crossed the borders of normal behavior, and you are just trying to reassure them.

I don't know. I lack that kind of social tact, that a normal upbringing would perhaps imparted to me. I have a good heart, but I lack the tools. What is equally disappointing is that life is full of social situations like that I still sit in the shadows on and don't know how to behave, where I could do good, if only I knew how.

Then there was this other time that I was sitting in a classroom at lunch time and this guy I really like came up to my desk. He had bright orange hair, lots of freckles, a pug nose, and a smile everyone loved. He said, "I really like you, MJ. You are a lot different than the other girls in this class." I can't remember exactly everything he said, as at that moment, I flushed red and wondered how I could possibly extricate myself from this situation. To this day, I wish I had said something instead of just walking away.

Granted it was quite a few years ago, but it still bothers me as an example of my profound chasm of missing protocol. I really liked the guy, why didn't I say anything? Why did I find it necessary to reject him again and again throughout the year? I still appreciate it to this day, the fact that someone found something good in me, and found enough courage to tell me about it.

© 2003 All rights reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

In sight of shore, these ships they meet
Two mountains on the choppy sea
Here they bide 'til break of day
When whips shall crack then all away!

Oh hear ye now, the cannon's shot
The blackest barrels searing hot.
They shall await the coming day
When they all shall back away

And travel home to waiting wives
And shall resume their dullard's lives
Of mutton eaten, horses rid,
The stronger beating cowards hid

But for now, they heroes all
And list'ning to the dying call
They ships they sink, yes one and all
To never more the other pall.

The wives they stand awaiting day.
When the men come home, they pray,
Theirs has not perished far a-sea
Where waiting, hungry teeth may be.

Nothing ever does compare
To salt winds blowing through your hair
As waiting comes on waiting times
As waiting almost never blinds

But only ever longs the times
Of waiting. It is never kind
To women as they wait for men
Who never will come home again.

The magistrates with taller hats
Express regrets for being last
To leave this earth, a mortal ball
(We know they don't mean it all).

And now that all the prayers are said
Let us all retire to bed,
To problems about cargo lost
And replacing it at cost.

Let the widows cry alone
And pray that their pitious moans
As they cry and groan and weep
Don't wake us too much from our sleep.

© 2003 All rights reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

You have no idea what a big step this blog is for me. Paranoia has followed me for so long, justifiable paranoia, not some medicable mental condition, but paranoia none the less. The year 2001, I was too afraid to write things down on paper, lest someone read it. By someone, I mean the big man himself, the one who had been following us for eight years, who had been in our house countless times. By that time, I had not seen him for a year, but still I was afraid. That year after large amounts of persuasion by my godparents, I wrote a letter about how depressed and upset I felt, how violated, like being raped. After I wrote it, I secreted it away, amidst a pile of blank paper in the bottom of a drawer under some junk flyers, so it would not be found. Looking back on it now, it seems so silly, so utterly stupid, but I was still afraid. I suppose seeing it as I do now is a good sign, a sign that I am moving on, and it feels so good, so grand, like I am beginning to breathe again.

© 2003 All rights reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

Rage of cool inhibitions
That bids my blood to burn
Cold
And slows its territory path
That ever more frustrate
And return to the place of small demise
Like an elephant leash
Of nothing more than memories of pain
Of things gone bad.

We hate it
But we hate ourselves still the more
When the leash holds us back
For we are no more than simple animals, bestial
We are no more than merely.

© 2003 All rights reserved MJ Jackson
No part of this article may be reproduced without the permission of the author.

So now on to Depression poetry. Most of the poetry I write is when I am feeling depressed, or overtaken by such an overwhelming feeling of melancholy, that I have to find some release. Most people who know me, would not think of me as an emotional or moody person, but I very much am, and I very much am at the mercy of these feelings that overshadow me. Somehow, I have to learn to control them. As of yet, I have not found any solution, to this, the most basic of problems.

But you know the funny thing about depression, the more you think about what it is that depresses you, the more real it becomes, however, I would not say that a depressed person is someone who is taken out of reality, but rather, so immersed in their own reality, that they can find no reason for joy. It is kind of like standing with your face to a black circle on a long, white wall. All you can see is the black circle, and certainly, it is there, but there is a whole huge wall of white that you are ignoring. If only you would take a step back, you could see it.

Here is some of my own Depression poetry:

Perhaps the sun will come
I think as I lie here in the snow
Face down.
My hands held by you all
Where we lie here together.
I am not alone.
Even if we do not speak,
I still know I am not alone.
We all grow tired together
As if the veins that pass through us
Were dripped with morphine.

Sleep now, sleep now,
Face down in the snow
As is crusts ice around our faces
Cold as the dead snow in our mouths,
Freezing our tongues so we cannot
Cry out.

Sleep now, sleep now,
Is our lullabye.

Whoa, something very serious happening there, eh? It's over, the poem is finished, but what a ride. Okay, let's talk about something happy now, just typing it out has made me come dangerously close to the edge of the cliff, and I try to keep myself mostly happy these days. Still, let me know what you think, okay.

© 2003 All rights reserved MJ Jackson
No part of this article may be reproduced without the permission of the author.

While we are on this topic, [I promise, the next blog will be about something different, I promise, I promise...] [the reason that I keep going on and on about him is because, there is so many things that I did not tell him, or get out, that now I have the forum to do so, I feel so liberated - so there, but I promise the next one will be about something else, okay? You'll listen to me for just one more blog?]

This is actually something I wrote in March, which I have been told is really chaotic, [and it is supposed to be] and not very well done [meh], but still I meant it, and since I have a total hit count of "5" I don't think it will matter too much if my public reads it.

[By the way Sian, thank you for leaving such a lovely comment - I really appreciate it and it's really nice to hear from a fellow writer. I'm told you have a blog - I will have to read it, if you'd let me know the address.]

So here it is:

I remember this one night when we were leaving Rotholme. It was a comfortable feeling, not wracked with anxiety about where we were going to go. I remember especially that it had had just rained and that beautiful feeling you get when the air is fresh and cool on your face. The yellow streetlight reflected off of the black ashphault near the back of the parking lot like the moon off of Grandpa Burleigh's lake at night.

There were some black kids there with us, helping us pack the car. I don't know who they were but one of them had a red jacket. They laughed and joked with us and we ran around and played before they helped us pack our stuff in. In the end, we all had to get in and they had to pack in the stuff around us. We never were light packers. I didn't mind. I just knew we were leaving. Oh beautiful bliss, so unburdened. Mom knew where we were going to. I was simply content.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The first time I've felt safe in years, like I had absolutely nothing to worry about and I could just let go. It wasn't the kind of letting go that was nothing, like when you go to sleep - kind of an icy feeling. It was more like holding a pink rose in your hands on a warm day when there is nothing better to do and you are content to do just that. He and I were watching TV, and I just fell asleep in his arms. I don't normally fall asleep - always, always on guard. I don't know what it was, I just fell asleep. I didn't have to do anything. Oh beautiful bliss, maybe I can recapture that childhood.

© 2003 All rights reserved MJ Jackson
No part of this article may be reproduced without the permission of the author.

I haven't had a day off in nearly two weeks, hence the interruption, but Thursday and Friday I have off and I await them with eager anticipation.

You know what's funny?

Today is the anniversary, if you want to call it that of us breaking up. Well, it was four months ago, yesterday, now that I am thinking about it. And I still think about him. Is that normal? I mean, I'm getting over it and not obsessing, [obsessing isn't the word, but I would think about him a lot, and then cry, and then firmly say that I was over him] like I used to but still I think of him, and sometimes I realize that he is there, still in the back of my mind like a presence, hovering.

I have never broken up with anyone before in this calabre of relationship. We went out for a year, so I don't know if that is how I am supposed to think. I don't talk about him anymore, which is a good sign for both me and my family [they breathe collective sighs of relief], not that I talked about him a lot, but just randomly in conversations, I would blurt out, "I miss him", and they would roll their eyes and say, "yeah, it's hard" and then continue on with whatever they were saying. I give them credit for not getting tired of it, but you know, he is still there.

And do you want to know the most annoying thing? I still see him once or twice a week. I can't avoid it. We hang out in the same circle of friends, so I can't avoid seeing him, unless I want to totally give up my social activities. Oh, garr.

For about the first month and a half, I still called him, and talked to him, because he said he still wanted to be my friend, of course with guys, perhaps they mean it in the beginning, but once the kissing is gone, they realize that they never had much interest in you anyways [hear the bitterness - wow, I really need to get over that]. One Sunday night, after hanging out with him and a few other guys, in which he totally ignored me, [and that made me overwhelmingly angry], I sent an email to a friend of mine who knows both of us, and who had been in a similar situation with his ex-girlfriend. He gave me some really good advice. After trying to pursue a healthy, normal relationship with him for a while, perhaps it was just time to start ignoring him. If he did not care to have a relationship with me, then why bother continuing trying. It sounds mean, but I have employed said strategy ever since, and feel marvellously better for it.

Only he looks at me in such a way, whenever I see him that makes me feel wierd. It's as if he is looking for something, he looks and I do not return his searching look, although as a woman, I am far more adept at it than he. Rather I look right through him. It is not revenge though, for I would not do that for revenge, for if it were, than I would only be hurting myself. Rather, I am not trying to punish him for not caring about me, that would be the wrong way to go about things. I do not care for his friendship now. He can have it and make friends with others and these things do not bother me. [See, normally, I crave friendship, or I despise it. I have never before been in this state of limbo, where I just don't care. It is quite a new sensation, very liberating. It puts me in control].

To my credit, though, I have never been rude, never once openly rude, never spoken about him rudely to others. I treat him with all the courtesy that I would any other human being, because that is proper, and if I didn't I would feel crappy about myself, and that is counter-productive. See, I may be hurt by his behavior, but that doesn't mean that I should be cruel to him back. I however, do not feel it necessary to talk to him unless he talks to me, in which I am perfectly polite. And that makes everything alright, until I get over it.

Sometimes, I wonder though, is he over me? Did he do a better job at self protection than I? Does he ever think about me, does he ever want to call me, but doesn't? My curiousity burns for answers. I wish he had a chart attached to his back that I could read that tells of his condition, just so that I could know. That would be a grand thing - to know about a man, but equally impossible, especially with this one, and especially in my current state of polite silence. I assume this is a totally normal womanly thought, although one which I eagerly try to quench, and am ashamed to admit even here on a page which currently has a total hit count of "2", and I have an inventory of all those visiting the site, [my brother for one and his friend the other, both only to read my "Welcome" sequence, which they felt was brilliant, only it required too much thinking on their part]. I am just as eager to part with these thoughts and feelings as they are eager to cling on. So we'll see who in the end wins. [Tune in next time to see the conclusion, same bat channel same bat time...no I'm just joking. I know it will be me, it's just a question of when]

Maybe by Christmas, and he will no longer sit in the back of my mind, a presence hovering, colouring everything I see with tints of him, with tints of sadness. And then I can forget all about him, and we will all breath sighs of relief because no longer will he be taking up my writing time and my writing space, and I can think of other things and other people, and maybe even get a new man, haha, yes a new man, and not for the reason that I want to prove something to the old one, or I want to hurt the old one, a new man because I like this new man, and want to have a new relationship, because I have a positive outlook on life, and I am not afraid.

Talk to you soon.

© 2003 All rights reserved MJ Jackson
No part of this article may be reproduced without the permission of the author.

Letters that mean something - I have gotten a few letters that jerk at my emotion, make me really, really angry, that swallow me in bliss.

This summer I was on vacation and I wrote a letter to my then sweetheart. I never gave it to him and we broke up soon afterwards. I regret not giving it. It let him know how I really felt. I found it recently on a piece of lined paper, folded and refolded and almost soft because I kept it in my pocket so long. I now wish I had not been such a chicken, I wish I had given it to him. I feel like it needs to get out in the open now because I really meant it, and things with sincere emotion are not meant to stay hidden. Do I make any sense? I don't know. Just read the letter.

Dear Love,
I love you dear and I wish you were here, sitting with me cuz I miss you, I really do, and the more I see couples in love, hand in hand, hand on waist, I miss you all the more. Wish you were here sweetheart. Right now, I'm sitting in a tree over a river - presently I have dropped my pen into the river and have gone to retrieve it - which explains the lighter colour of ink. Thank God for plastic pens that float. It is quite a large tree and I am about 15 feet onto the river, although it is more like a bay off the main river. My cabin is about 30 feet from here - Cabin 81 with a small green door that Naing and JJ can hardly walk through without ducking. And there is this little Chinese girl with Down's Syndrome across the river. We were talking - her name is Sarah, and I remember her from a couple of years ago. She wanted me to jump in the water from the tree, but I told her I didn't want to cuz it's cold but she wanted me to anyways. Then she got her fishing pole to show me how she was going to fish, but she got it stuck in a tree. So I went over there and got it down. She told me to 'be careful Nananee' which is what she calls me. Now that I have returned to my treetop perch, she is gone, but the wind has picked up and I can feel the tree swaying under me - almost an unnerving feeling if you are not used to it, and I wish you were here. Out of the main river, the boats go by and sometimes, I wave at them, but usually they don't see me cuz I'm sitting in a tree. And down on the water are thousands of these harmless little water striders, and at first, they all seem to move in sync, but then when you look closer, you realize that they don't mean it that way. I can see little minnows in the water and bigger fish passing by and innocuous floating seaweed finding its way to the resting grounds of the bay. And a long way down the river is Lock #38 where the boats go down away but in between is a lot of trees and water. And I'm hoping my sandle doesn't fall off and land in the river. I'm not so sure it would float as well as the pen. And I wish you were here to enjoy all of this with me, and see it all for yourself.
Love MJ.

I keep all of these letters in a box, hidden away under unused thankyou cards. I have thought of burning some of them, but I have never been able to for some reason. Maybe it is holding onto the past, but there is something in me that won't let me destroy them. Some of them are ones I have wished to send, but never had the courage, especially to my sweetheart. All of the letters in the box have one thing in common - they shouldn't be there. It is just one more thing from my secret life that maybe one day, I will have the priviledge of showing to somebody else. But now, indefintely, they will stay, where only I know, secreted away.

© 2003 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
No part of this article may be reproduced without the permission of the author

Vadel sat alone on a stump, contemplating. Trees overshadowed her and the dark green light filtering through the leaves far above reflected off the shield laying at her feet. She sat strongly rigid, unmoving, while the noise of exotic birds who flew through the tops of the trees echoed all around. Smells of dank and rotting wood swarmed all around as little flies swarmed all along Vadel's body, while she sat unmoving, her hands clasped tightly and her lips pursed.

A little ways off, a company of other women stood waiting. They knew not to disturb their leader when she looked like this. They were a tall group, with black hair all chopped off, short enough not to grasp. Their faces and bare arms were all covered with deep scars and recent wounds. They didn't grumble but shifted their weight impatiently. One left to relieve herself a short distance away. They numbered about twenty and were rather a motley group, only dark skin and hair bonded them together. Armour plating and shields were all different, some dented, some only leather, but all looking fierce enough. Many were tatooed on the face and arms. Some had rubbed white and black ashes into wounds to make them even more fierce and battle worn.

In the distance, a shout was heard. Vadel motioned to two of the women who silently hastened away in that direction, bearing shields and all of the military trappings. The rest of the women stood guard, but Vadel remained motionless.

A few minutes later, the two returned with another of their group who sweated and panted and had the smell of battle and haste all over her. The other women attended to her silently, bringing her food and water and letting her rest. After she had rested, she went to speak to Vadel. Vadel stood when the scout approached, and they talked almost silently for several minutes.

"I have returned as speedily as possible." She began. "I first made my way to the Clearing of Ratorn where we said we would meet, but you were not there."

"No, we fled here when the sounds of battle reached us. Did you see the message I left you?"

"Beside the elephant tusks? Yes. That is how I knew to come here."

"What news do you have for us? I am about to make a decision."

"I have returned to the road to Doquorn, where the Mokoi are camped. They have impaled our members on sticks to mark the gates of their encampment. They are more than two hundred strong, and all have unmatched armour."

"How could the Mokoi have amassed an army that large? Did you hear anything?"

"I did not. I could not get close enough to hear, except when the night fell and the men went to sleep. They were silent then."

"Weaknesses?" Vadel asked quietly.

"They are very well protected. Night watchmen, torches, supplies under heavy guard. They even piss in twos."

"Any signs of expansion?"

"Men arrive all the time."

Vadel sighed and licked her lips. "Did you see any battle on the way?"

The scout almost smiled. "I caught two of them pissing in the dark. They won't do that again." She pulled two Mokoi sashes from her belt and handed them to Vadel, who nodded approvingly. "I also passed a battle field of Mokoi and Damaroi."

"They are just small. Surely they will be all killed."

"The Damaroi are have all died on the field of battle or have fled."

Vadel shook her head. "That I should ever see this day."

The scout returned to the other women.

Vadel picked up her shield and strode soundlessly over to the waiting group. Standing erect, and with a dead seriousness in her eye, began.

"We were ambushed on the road to Doquorn and there lost twenty six of our members." The group shifted uncomfortably. "Karmel has told us it is the Mokoi who have done this." The hatred in the women's eyes suddenly burned. "We shall flee but we shall not be without our revenge." They stomped their feet in angry agreeance. "Tonight we shall perform the ceremony of proxy and tomorrow, I, Karmel, Torel and Dequel shall return to the place where the murderers are and shall slaughter twenty six of them - one for each of our mothers and sisters and daughters." The women offered up gutteral cries while the three women mentioned defiantly put on their helmets and strode over to Vadel's stump. The leader summoned a thin woman named Unel as well to join them. "Now eat!" Vadel shouted, "for tomorrow we march!"

Vadel then joined the four women by the stump. They all greeted her with a nod as she began to quietly speak.

"Unel you shall take charge of the group and shall lead them to the Borderlands as quickly as possible." Unel nodded curtly. "You shall not stop until you arrive except for food and rest, and shall avoid all conflict. You shall be stealthy. You shall wait for us ten days at the Rekemorn Pools, in the caves there. If we do not return in ten days, you shall continue east to the Arches of the Sea. Wait for us there ten days. If we do not join you then, you shall know we are dead and shall make your way to the Northern Forests, where you shall find the Reday. They shall help you if you give them this." Vadel showed her an oblong piece of stone carved into the shape of a snake wound around itself again and again. "I shall give it to you tonight at the ceremony of proxy." Again Unel nodded. "Do you swear to do all of this, in the presence of these witnesses and in the presence of your two sisters - spirits, slain, and seeking revenge."

"I do."

"Very well. Go and prepare. You have a long journey ahead." Unel left the circle bruskly. "The rest of you," Vadel sighed almost unnoticably, "will be returning with me to the road to Doquorn. I cannot deny that it will be dangerous, but we shall avenge the Mokoi for our deaths." All of the women looked tiredly at her. They were the best fighters that she had left. Karmel had lost her mother with whom she always scouted, and had learned scouting from. Torel had lost two of her three sisters, the fiercest of the group and Dequel although one without blood ties, had lost her comrade with whom she had joined the group. Vadel felt as tired as the women before her and felt like she should lie down and die, but those were shameful, shameful feelings, and her sense of honour demanded more than the grief she felt. "We shall avenge them for the pain and anguish they have caused us, we shall avenge them for our mothers, our sisters, and our comrades who they slew with mercilessness, whose bodies they impaled as trophies." The women heard the anger building in Vadel's voice as they felt it building in their chests. "We shall slay twenty six of them, one for each of us. We shall steal back their bodies, and bury them so their spirits can rest in peace. And right now, we shall all swear to each other that as long as one of us is alive we shall carry out this mission. Do you swear it Karmel, on your dead mother's spirit, longing for rest?"

"I do. I swear it until my dying breath." Vadel could hear the passion in Karmel's voice and see the murderous glint in her eye. She was impatient to begin.

"I swear it on Maquel's spirit. She was-" Daquel stopped silent. It was not a good thing to talk about the dead, especially when they had not found their rest. As well, the group's defiant stance did not favour this emotional talk. "I shall do it."

"Do you Torel?"

"I do." Torel was not one for speaking but an oath demanded that words be spoken so that the spirits listening could hear and take witness.

They all glanced around surreptitiously as if the spirits gathered would show themselves, or give some sign that they had witnessed the oath.

"They are still armoured," whispered Torel almost silently, "they cannot find their rest."

© 2003 All rights reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

Enough of this serious, schmerious stuff, lets get onto something a little more fun - shall we? I agree.

I found this as I was poking through some of my old writing, and I thought, although it was juvenile, it deserved a shot at internet publication:

Dear Diary,
I had a really bad day. Let me say that again, I had a really bad day. If you didn't catch the first two times - I had a really bad day today. But maybe I had better start at the beginning...
The alarm went off. Grumbling, I got up to shut it off. My eyes widened with horror. The clock read:

10:19

Mary had done it again! She had been doing it a lot lately - setting my alarm forward a couple of hours so I was late for work. They had warned me I was on thin ice. I wondered absently if there was something going on with her. A violet coloured note stood against the alarm clock. I picked it up and read it. It said:
___________________________________________________________________________________

Dear Johnston, [I hate it when she calls me by my last name]
I decided last night to move out with Bob. You would probably like an explanation. WELL, I'M NOT GOING TO GIVE YOU ONE, IDIOT, because if you haven't' figured out why by now, you don't deserve one, and no, it's not because I think Mary and Bob sounds better together than Mary and Mervlod [I hate it when she calls me by my first name].
Mary.
___________________________________________________________________________________

I was flabbergasted. How can she do that, diary? I ask you. I have done everything possible to make our married life good, haven't I?

However, whenever I got her back, it wouldn't do me any good if I didn't have a job - Mary's a money woman, you've got to understand. She has rather expensive tastes. So by 10:25, I had gotten over my surprise, and satisfied I would get her back after work, I went to my closet - which was now pretty empty, partly because Mary's clothes were all gone and partly because she hadn't done laundry for a month. I searched through and could only find one suitable shirt - and I would hardly call it suitable. I had worn it last New Years as a joke. It was crisp, neon pink cotton, sporting fat, tumbling panda bears.

As for pants, I had a choice. I could wear psychedelic retro pants of too many colours to mention or bright yellow slacks with "I'm too sexy for my pants" written across my backside. Needless to say, I decided I would go for a 70's look.

I dashed into the kitchen, opened the fridge and realized that Mary hadn't gone shopping for about a month either. The only thing to be seen there was French salad dressing and a slice of stale poppy seed cake. I picked it up an ate it as I ran out to the garage, forgetting, of course, the havoc which my chosen food item wreaks with teeth.

Surprisingly, the car started fine. There was nothing which happened to stop my progress to work, except the fact that I ran into a garbage can full of rotting vegetable matter which rather eagerly imparted my vehicle with its perfumes.

Arriving late for work is a bit of a problem because all of the parking spaces near the front are taken and you have to walk half a kilometer from the parking space to the building.

Other than that fact, I arrived at the building bright and early. At least I tried to make myself believe that, so I wouldn't look guilty walking in two hours late and perhaps wouldn't be noticed. The elevator took me up to the 23rd floor and let me off. I marched confidently over to my cubicle, where I worked on the growing pile of business assaulting my desk.

And there was my boss. Yep, he was mad. Oh gosh! I didn't know he was that mad. Apparently, I no longer had to report to that place of employment and I was more than welcome to leave anytime in the next 20 minutes, provided I leave my desk clean and empty. He would even supply me with a box - oh joy - an empty box to place my personal possessions which unfortunately were also required to leave.

In less than 20 minutes, in 15, in fact, I stood in the elevator with the box, leaving that place of employment. It was, I believe the 15th floor where the elevator suddenly jerked to a halt. The door opened to a concrete wall, except for a crack at the top, where I could see business shoes going about their business. Now, you see it all the time in movies, how the person in the elevator tosses aside the vent on the ceiling and pulls themselves up to safety. Uh huh...not so easily done. You would almost think they'd been practicing. However, my gift box aided me and only straining a few dozen muscles and only inflicting a single gash because of the metal grating of the elevator on my arm, I lifted myself to safety.

In a parallel descending elevator there was a thief who was having an even worse day than I, I imagine, who had just gotten a lucky break. He stole some money from the 27th floor offices and hopped in the elevator. He and I were thus descending parallel to each other and some bright person got the elevators confused and therefore, the thief was assumed to be me. They stopped my elevator midfloor, hoping to capture me. My ingenuity with escapage, I'm afraid, did not surprise them and as I stepped out into safety, I stepped right into the hands of a waiting gun with its owner barking orders, often contradictory to each other:

"Freeze! Put your hands on your head! Get out of the elevator now! Now! Don't move!"

Confused at this sudden barrage of militaristic verbiage spewed at my person, I tried to do what was commanded, but soon I was surrounded by like minded people - oh yes and those handcuffs were a might too tight as they trucked me out to the car where I waited for an indefinite period of time before taking me downtown.

Later, in a rather tight grey room, I was asked repeatedly where the money was. I offered my wallet to the rather obese gentleman but he politely refused and continued on in the manner rather reminiscent of a talking doll I once bought for my niece. She pulled the string and time after time, it simply reiterated the same thing. I soon tired of this unglamorous toy and asked why I was here.

The robbery was explained to me much in the manner of Hercule Poirot, only since I hadn't actually been present for the crime, and the scene did not flash before my eyes as it does usually for the viewers' benefit, it pretty much meant nothing to me.

I suggested that perhaps he was mistaken. The blubberous man left for a minute, I suppose to check security videos, or perhaps for a donut break, came back and told me to "get out of here".

I vacated the building much in the same way I had vacated every other building that day, and went in search of my car. On the way by, I passed a cafe. Glancing in, I saw, a beautiful blonde haired woman, - Mary! I rushed in and kissed her passionately when I realized my mistake. This woman looked exactly the same from the back, but wasn't quite the same woman from the front. I saw her husband out if the corner of my eye, his face almost the same shade as tomato juice.

I wasn't quite in shape and I had been meaning to start exercising. Now's a good time, I thought as I started to warm up for the Boston Marathon. One of those wonderful merchants downtown decided at that moment to take advantage of my obviously disadvantaged condition and place in my path a wagon full of china.

Suddenly, it was a race of three. This is gaining popularity, I thought. Luckily, my car was only a little farther ahead being approached by a tow truck. The sign:

___________________________________________________________________________________
This parking lot is for employees only
___________________________________________________________________________________

flashed through my mind. My ex-boss must really have it out for me. A sudden flash of inspiration hit me just as began to wonder if there as such a thing as a second wind. If I got there before the tow truck...

I dived for the vagrant automobile. No, my car wasn't black. Oh wait, that was the pavement. The burning sensation in my face suddenly made sense.

Now I decided another sport would be in order, after, I think I'd mastered one - long jump, why don't we try that one?

Made it to the car just in time, and once again surprisingly, it started. After everything else had gone wrong too, the car was still Mr. Reliable. I think the stench which my car still sported may have kept the husband and sales associate at bay temporarily, but the tow truck driver must have had this olfactory glands removed surgically, so he just kept on coming. I left a small dent on the side of his vehicle - it was an accident after all, and couldn't have been larger than the size of a late 80's model photocopier, I swear.

Needless to say, I decided my car should follow my keen sporting example and boot it out of there. Once out of downtown, I followed a firetruck, which surprisingly took every right turn towards my house, I was congratulating myself of my good luck, which I was convinced was beginning to turn when the firetruck suddenly turned down my very own street.

I wondered for a brief moment if Mary was at home shaking a very, very dusty red sheet out the window or if...the firetruck was stopping...at my house and the yellow ducks inside frantically decided that they wanted to stop there for tea and cookies. Well, I didn't have any, so they were out of luck! But if they wanted some salad dressing...

Snap out of it Mervlod! Yeah, thanks diary. I still have Mr. Reliable. That's right. I drove away, more slowly this time under the boiling clouds, which looked like they had been left over the burner too long. Kind of like my house.

I saw a poor young man by the roadside, hitchhiking. I felt sorry for him so I pulled over and offered to give him a lift. He couldn't have had a worse day than me, although maybe close. Actually, as I later learned, I had given him a rather lucky break that day, involving an elevator mixup. He asked me for another favour - he wanted Mr. Reliable. I wouldn't have given it to him except for Mr. Trigger who added extra bargaining power and who I was happy stayed in his pocket.

So there I was, out in the middle of the country, no where to go and suddenly, you guessed it - it started to rain - no that's rather an understatement. It was more like the Pacific was pouring down on my head from some giant misplaced fishbowl.

"Why?! God why?!" I screamed into the storm, swallowing significant amounts of seawater at the same time. A giant thumb from heaven came down, ready to squash me when suddenly I heard my alarm clock. I looked around, trying to find this marvel. It stood over on my desk as usual. It read : 10:19 and a purple piece of paper stood beside it. It had the funny feeling I knew what that paper said...

© 2003 All rights reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

The wind was bitterly cold as it blew in from the ocean. It had been coming in now for days and days, with not a speck of snow in the air. In the town, the wind swirled down the main street and up the road.

On the corner of the street, where it crossed with the highway, was a house that always stood empty. On occasion, it would show signs of possession, lights on, curtains moving, but there were never people to be seen. The lawn was full of gravel from off the side of the highway and a drainage ditch ran across the front. There was no garden but a large bare tree grew on the corner.

A girl in big, red pants followed by a boy in a neon yellow coat and another skinnier boy in a jester hat, came out of the door one day as if it were a perfectly normal thing. They crossed the lawn and the road and climbed down the hill to the river. Looking down on the mud flats, they threw rocks at the ice that formed over the bare tidal riverbed. The boys cried with delight at the explosions, which sounded like breaking glass. The girl just shivered and looked around, behind her, and down the road.

A few minutes drove them indoors once again and they disappeared from sight. A few days later, the girl left the house, walking alone down the road. Her cheeks were soon red from the sharp wind and the bottoms of her pants sagged as unmercifully as the legs were tight around her ankles. Her long, tangled hair whipped around with the wind and the broken elastic in her second hand coat sleeves caused them to hang way past her clenched fists.

Her grey eyes watched the sidewalks carefully, although she thought faraway thoughts. She looked misplaced somehow, walking down the sidewalk of this small town, like a magazine cutout glued onto a different background. She walked for a long while in silence, not greeting any of the townspeople who offered her a 'good morning' and indeed, looking on them with suspicion.

The midmorning passed on the wheels of the mountainous trucks bearing lumber, driving up the road to whatever lay around the corner of the highway as it climbed the hill.

The girl walked and walked until she neared the beach. She stopped before she reached the dunes, fingering the long, yellow grass, whipping wildly. She had almost a kind of trepidation, uneager to see the ocean, or maybe she wanted to postpone the moment when the eye catches the infinite body of water and the infinite sky, to savour that feeling you get when you finally see the ocean. Reluctantly, she stepped onto the grey weathered boardwalk and walked slowly over the rise of sand and grass. She stopped for a moment on the summit and caught how black the sky was, a storm rolling in no doubt. A few rays of sun pierced the coming tempest and fell down onto a faraway headland, beautiful but distant. She ran down to the shore and pressed her index finer into the sand and cold, salty water.

Her hands brought up a few rocks and shells, which she let dry in the chilly air and then put in her pockets, heading back to the boardwalk. Turning around when she had reached the top of the dunes, she breathed once, deeply, and turned toward the town, the wind causing her hair to cover her face.

Noon passed soon and the girl walked up the gravel driveway of her home. It was raining, cold and miserable.

Twilight came and for the third time, the girl left the house, her insatiable red pants still worn. She walked this time down the mainstreet towards the duty-free shop, bathed in the carbolic streetlights. The little drugstore was just down the street. She opened the door and spotted a rack of postcards and made for them immediately. Several were selected and bought with money from a ragged manila envelope of loose cash and coins.

The cashier wanted to know if she needed a pen to writed something on them. She replied, a little sadly that she did not for she had no one to send them to. A bell above the door heralded her exit and she headed back home.

The next morning, a car came and took them all away. And that was the end of that life. The house stands empty, like a seashell is empty of life and an empty postcard means nothing unless you can write on it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I took out the seashells today, fingering their chalky surfaces. The ones that had been a brilliant blue or milky white or deep black are now just grey. I set them up on my dresser, cold rocks and dying shells to remind myself of that day on the beach. Only I knew where they came from, one day in that other life.
It is like an existence of grains of sand, each life separated from the next, all encompassed in one beach, but I cannot call that one myself, when it is not myself. I think I would disbelieve it happended if not for the shells. I could have read it in a book for it is so far distant, but like the wind that blows in from the ocean, it is almost gone but never really leaves.

© 2003 All rights reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

Late last night, when I couldn't sleep, and the silence was weighing too heavily upon my chest, I got up and walked along the cement. The orange-yellow moon caught my eye, and I thought to it, "You and I, Moon, have a lot in common." No one ever looks at the moon or finds beauty or wonder in its silence, and it has seen so much, so many lives, so many wars, and yet sits quietly in the sky. The silence weighs on both of us.
Oh damned silence.
I hate you.
I hate you with all of my being.
And you cover me, shroud-like.
And you still my breath to whispers.

© 2003 All rights reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

A little explanation, perhaps is in order. My secret life, is not perhaps something about which I can say, "I live a secret life." Firstly, because that would defeat the purpose of having a secret life, but also because some aspects are not secretive at all, if only people would care to look, but I am afraid that most people do not. And there is a reason for that, I am convinced. I am convinced that most everybody else also has a secret life as well, and that they are wrapped up in their own secret life so completely that they don't have the extra eyes to look into others. But then again, life is life, and that is how life is. Therefore, I have started this blog to perhaps give myself and others a glance into this life behind the life. Writing helps clarify so many things, to get things out of the world of the emotionally named objects, into the world of words, into the world of the concrete, where things don't change with the time of day, where things, once you have them down are there. It is not only memory to which I apply myself.

What about the name? Bird as fish? I'm convinced that I am not really the self that I have become. I am often stonefaced, uncaring, unemotional, fearing, controlling, and other the other miscellany of vices I have aquired through my time on earth. Like a fish in a pond, I have no control, I must stay where I am put. I'm convinced that I am not really a fish, but a bird acting like a fish. Birds can fly wherever, birds are free. Perhaps one day, I will put aside my scuba gear and go where I really want to go, and be free like I feel. Instinct is calling to me, and my wings are itching, worse and worse with every passing day, and one day, I will just have to go. That is the day I am longing for, that is the day I smile for, that is the day I dream about. Why then do I stay here, underwater, cold and wet? Familiarity. I have never seen the sky, never felt the wind. In short, I am afraid.

© 2003 All rights reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

As you step beneath these hallowed arches that stretch up and up, the lone echo of your footsteps lets you know that you are the only one here. You walk quietly up the nave towards a lone candle burning at the altar. It is the only illumination and it's shaky lights bounces off a mosaic of mysterious religious symbols on the floor and bounces off a nearby pillar. Everything here is shadows and guesses. You think you see something moving behind the arches, pillars and chapels to the sides, as it slowly circles around you, but you can't be sure. A little nervously, you pick up the candle and go to investigate. This place, you realize is much larger than you thought it was. The chapels extend into smaller chapels and other alcoves of varying dimensions. Some have glittering walls of precious stones, and tiled crystal, some are painted with strangely familiar religious figures who all seem to be staring right through you, some are plain stone with a bench on which to sit and contemplate. Some are broken down, crumbling places that could have once been beautiful. Vandals have broken in in some places and written obscene and obscure things on the walls. Every now and then, you hear a little sound nearby, and you jump and turn around to see nothing. You convince yourself that it is only your echo bouncing off a pillar or a wall, but deep down, you know there must be someone following you. You push the fear out of your mind and go to continue on, but you realize you are lost, and that you have no idea where you are. Something rushes by your back, you turn and see a cloaked figure quickly retreating into darkness. You shout, but your voice echoes and bounces back distorted a thousand different times. Unwilling to lose the one contact you have in this foreign place, you chase after it. After following it through tunnels and under arches and into an old alcove with stalactites hanging from the ceiling, you catch onto its cloak and it finally turns around. In the sputtering light of your candle, you see the face of a young girl with deadly white skin and stone cold lips. She surveys your face with a long, seaching look, as if deciding what to do with you. Her mouth turns up a bit at the corners, into almost a smile and whispers these words:

"Welcome to the secret life of Bird As Fish"

The candle suddenly sputters out and you are left in the dark.

© 2003 All rights reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.