Bird As Fish

So me and my friend Dale got to know each other a lot better over these past few days. In fact, very well. In fact, I was kind of shocked by the speed at which we progressed to each new level, until today when he picked me up at work and we went over to his apartment. He had up until now said that he didn't want to go past what was appropriate for morality, but his words didn't really match his actions. On several occasions, I had to stop him from doing what would be clashing with my sense of propriety. Today though, I had a really difficult day at work and when we went back to his place, we started kissing and stuff. Things got a little passionate, and then I had to pull back and tell him to stop. I thought he knew what the appropriate levels were then, but he kept on going and didn't stop when I told him to, until I actually had to stop him physically. This really disturbed me because how can I trust him if he doesn't respect me? In fact, I think this whole Dale thing is a dead-end, unless he gets his act together. He has absolutely no self-control, and absolutely no respect for me, although he claims he does. I told him I didn't want to kiss him any more that night, that I was upset with him, and yet, repeatedly, he still tried to kiss me. Maybe he was just trying to make things better between us, but it just made it worse. I talked to him and told him how upsetting it was. I told him about the dreams I have, the ones that are so vivid, where I am being raped again and again by men who are supposed to care about me, and now everytime I think about him, it reminds me of that. He asked me to see him again on Tuesday, and I said I would, but then thought better of it and called his house. I don't want to see him again for a long while.

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

Everything is so scary, Emma thought as she lay in bed, trying to sleep, but afraid to close her eyes. The nightlight was on, sending orbs of warm light into the room, teddy was close by, soft and quiet, but still she lay almost paralyzed, looking anxiously up at the dim flower border at the top of the wall and the unpainted stucco on the ceiling that formed faces and goblins in her mind. The plastic flowers on the dresser cast ominous shadows of fingers and reaching hands on the curtains, but Emma did not even glance at those. And she knew what would come next after the screams and shouts quit echoing through the house. The thump, thump, thump up those long, long stairs, maybe even the sound of the belt hitting the wall.

"It's your kid! You were the one who laid down and whored yourself..." came the shouts from below.

"Don't tell me you never slept with nobody, you self-righteous..." And on and on until Emma was sick in the head with hearing it. Maybe they didn't know she could hear them, or maybe they just didn't care. Either way, Emma was afraid. She talked to her bestest friend on the way to school once, but she had to promise to keep it a secret, and her best friend said that nothing like that ever happened in her house. Emma didn't know why.

Not long before those ominous footsteps would come banging up the stairs, Emma heard something muffling around outside her window.

"Well, hey there, I say, open up! Broo hawhaw! I say! Open up" came an old and hollow voice.

"Who's there?" Emma asked nervously, poking her head out from underneath the covers, and bringing teddy still nearer.

"It's Underwood, who else could it be! Silly question, that. Come on then! Open up!"

"What do you want?" Emma asked, even more nervously, for she did not know an Underwood.

"I have received word, young lady, that you have my hat and I would like it back. If it please you, and what not...My hat, come on then, my hat."

"Your hat? I don't have your hat." Emma sat up in bed.

"I can assure you that you do, now, if you please..."

Emma inched out of bed and crept to the window, pulled back the curtains, just a tiny bit and there stood an owl on her roof, fluffing his feathers and looking most indignant.

"You're an owl!" Emma exclaimed in surprise.

"Yes, and you have my hat."

"But, I don't have your hat."

"Fine, fine then, you want to bargain. Hmm, what do you want young lady?"

Thump, thump, thump came the footsteps up the stairs, the shadow falling across the crack at the bottom of the door.

"I want to get out of here!" Emma cried.

"Broo hawhaw, very well, I'll take you with me." Emma threw open the window and the owl stepped in. "There it is, right there." He picked up a big red leaf that Emma had collected on the way home from school. "Alright, on to my back, let's go." The owl seemed to have grown in size, or Emma had shrunk as she quickly climbed onto his back and Underwood flapped out the window, his red hat on his head, leaving the house far behind.

"I can't believe I'm flying!" Emma cried out in happiness as the air swept through her hair.

"Yes, yes you are" the owl commented dryly, as if flying were a completely normal thing and as if Emma were making a big deal about nothing.

"Look, there is my best friend's house, the one with the basketball hoop! I can't wait to tell her I was flying."

"Broo hawhaw. I'm just happy I got my hat back."

"But that's not a hat, it's a leaf."

"What are you talking about? A leaf? Have you gone mad in the head? This is only the finest hat ever made by Floyd the hatmaker of Swoosh! Just a leaf...broo hawhaw, that's what I have to say to you. Look at it again." Emma examined it closely and sure enough it was a beautiful piece of cloth, decorated with purple and blue stars and with gold embroidery that sparkled in the moonlight. "See what I mean?"

"That's amazing, but who is Floyd?"

"What, what? Don't tell me you've never heard of Floyd the hatmaker of Swoosh. Broo hawhaw, what nonsense. I shall have to take you there to meet him immediately."

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

So I was on the East Side the other day with a bunch of friends, we were just chilaxing, eating nachos, brushetta and the like, when one of my friend's friend's friend's comes up to talk to me. He was one of the people in the group who I didn't know that well. He was almost six feet tall with curly blond hair and glasses. Lets just call him Giminadan Gagiginonshiwan, or Dale for short. So Dale and I got to talking [Dale's such a nice name, don't you think, reminds me of the forest], not about anything in particular, but he seemed nervous, which of course put me at ease [of all the wierd, strange things] and we talked for a while, after which he offered me a ride home. Probably not a good idea, considering I had just met him, but he seemed like such a nice person [I know, I know, axe murderers are supposed to be especially "nice" people] and he had just bought a new truck in September, so I agreed. He drove me home and on the way there asked what I was doing on Tuesday. I replied that I was working [indeed, I'm working straight through until next Tuesday]. He said that that was too bad, and that maybe we could do something later on in the week. I couldn't remember my schedule, so he gave me his number, and asked for mine and maybe we could do something on Saturday morning.

Even after we had arrived at my house, we sat in his truck and talked for a while, mostly about his job [which is interesting to say the least - but I shall not divulge it's secrets] and then I went home, just bursting with happiness.

So yesterday, I was sitting at work, cutting up millions of these little coupons when somebody came up to the front desk. I had misplaced my glasses a couple of days before, so I just asked the person if I could help them. He replied "No, not really" and just milled around for a second, smiling. All of the sudden, I realized it was him, it was Dale, and he had come to my work! Oh [insert various exclamations of joy here!] I, involuntarily smiled a huge smile and said "Hi!" perhaps too gregoriously, but still, I was happy to see him. And he came to my work! And he wrote his cell phone number down on a piece of paper for me, in case I felt like calling him [don't laugh at me, I'm pathetic to tell you all these silly little details that I don't want to forget]. We talked for about ten or fifteen minutes until the sales manager shooed him away, but still, all evening, everytime I thought about it, I smiled hugely. Wow it really made my day. After he left, I had 24 walkins (we usually have 10) and at one point, I had three calls on hold, and four people waiting to checkin. I didn't get to leave until midnight.

But you know the worst thing, I was thinking about him [I know it's horrible] and couldn't get to sleep. I was so keyed up, what with the walkins and him that I was practically vibrating. Ahh, what a crazy, happy day.

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

Strange thing happened this morning. I woke up to the sudden sound of what seemed to be an alarm clock, just going on and on in one continuous sound. I jumped out of bed and looked hastily around for it, in the perfectly cognizant stupor that comes from having years of adrenaline pumping practice of shutting off alarm clocks, when extra sleep is needed [by the way, that's practically all the time]. When I couldn't find it, nor provide any logical explanation for the noise, I was forced to actually wake up and seek out this maniacally malicious disturbance, in an effort to get back to sleep. I went into the other rooms of the house, hoping that I could shut off another alarm clock that was somewhere else. No, it wasn't there either. I poked my head outside and sure enough the noise was coming from there. Now this began to worry me. And my mind began to concoct some wild story about how there was some national disturbance and the bomb sirens were going off. I went to turn on the TV in my bedroom, but, strangely enough it wouldn't work [it wasn't plugged in]. Holy crap! They've taken out our power supply, I thought. I threw my clothes on [thinking that if there was a national emergency, I would like to face it fully clothed] and rushed downstairs. Just to make sure I wasn't blowing this out of proportion, I turned on the TV in the livingroom. It was a soap opera. Hmm, I thought to myself, if it were something important, you'd think they would have interrupted this. So I flicked on the radio - just a song that they always play. Flipping stations, I couldn't find anything that was talking about a disaster. This is strange, thought I, although, seeing as it just started a few minutes ago, maybe they haven't received word yet. But slowly, something [I think it was my sense of reason] began to kick in, and I began to wake up, and I thought that maybe I would be brave and go and see where the noise was coming from. I threw on a pair of sandals and walked groggily down the walk, to the street. Following the sound, I turned the corner and went down the street a little ways, and just round the next bend, I came upon a yellow heating/cooling truck that was sucking something out of somebody's garage [don't ask me, I was still asleep at this time] and that was making all the noise. I returned home, deflated, yet happy that nothing of note had happened in my little town.

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

The streets are cold in London so early in the morning or so late at night, so forlorn and empty as fog rolls up and around, slithering like misty snakes around buildings and street corners. The cop walks his beat, the snakes making way for his tap-tap as he lumbers down the lonely street, but they slip in behind his back, and follow him close behind. The streets are wet for it has been raining and they reflect the dim light of the surviving street lamps like the back of a melanistic asp. Down dark alleyways creatures move and stir, restlessly but almost silently as they wait for the perfect prey to come along. Muscles creak with anticipation and longing for they have not feasted since last night.

As the hours silently pass by, ticking off the minutes, several small wails are cut short but they go largely unnoticed, and as the darkness begins to fade, the creatures will go crawling back to their holes for another blinding day to await yet another sinister night.

But that morning something was wrong as the virgin population began to stir. Not that any of their species could feel the difference. That morning in 1802 like every other morning, England was up and ready for work by 6 am. They had done it every morning for thirty or more years and there was not reason to suspect that any change had taken place.

But the creatures knew, they knew that one was missing and that one was still at large.

A fat, pasty-faced man, with a long haggard eyes that drooped and bags under them that almost reached his nostrils, stepped out onto the street, shaking himself violently for a second, to rid the suit of a night of dust which it had collected and then moved on.

He licked his lips excitedly, looking in the window of a bakery, not at the cakes but at the baker and he entered the store decidedly. The baker looked suspiciously at this strange looking man but soon thought no more of it.

And that was only one. All over London that day, headless people were found and a fat, pasty-faced gentleman was heard of near each one. The population was outraged that such and indignity should be afflicted on their species. All over the city, fat gentlemen were arrested, rich gentlemen, poor gentlemen, lawyer gentlemen, doctor gentlemen, questionable gentlemen and sickly gentlemen. It caused quite a ruckus that day in 1802 but then night fell, and everyone wnet home to dinner and bed, sleepily forgetting all that had befallen their population during the day.

As for the fat pasty-faced gentlemen, he returned home to receive a sound scolding from his wife, who wanted him to stay home and not go gallavanting about like some monster hero but he decided that he had had quite enough adventure for a while. He had stuffed himself so full that he was quite sick afterwards and couldn't eat anything for a week. Anyway, he decidede, he much preferred the taste of errand boys and bewildered cops to the taste of bakers and the like.

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

How to describe to you the importance of the Nights of Buses? It is most likely impossible. There are the physical sensations that I cannot forget - the aching cold, harsh lights, moist frozen air, raw hands and distressed back.

I tried to be brave in those Nights of Buses, but there was nothing to fight against. How can one fight against something that surrounds you? How can one fight the cold that pervades the entire body and sends foreign shivers up your neck? How can one fight the fear of something that is already upon you? Bravery does nothing.

But I learned to keep a stiff back, never bow, iron lips, never cry, watch everything, never sleep, keep everything under control.

Nights of Buses represents the time when I should, rightfully as a child, be sleeping in a bed. We none of us have any rights on a bus. Meshed together with crazy women and pornographic men, the only respite is in the washroom, where the smell of cigarette smoke still lingers. Bus seats are restless and dead after many hours, but at the end of the line, where will you go? Bus terminals, where all the homeless sleep, and I shall join them. Terminal cancer, terminal end. It is the end. Buses at least stave off the inevitable end. They bring you closer to where you least want to be, but give you a place to be for a while. I never wanted to get off a bus. I dreaded the sudden slow movement of city driving and seeing signs of a destination and the overly hot air of artificial procrastination becoming the all too cold strike of reality across the face.

Where will I go now? Where can I exist at any level? Don't look me in the eyes I won't answer you. Don't talk to me, I'll lie. But I know what I really need. I need a bed to sleep in, that is warm, that I won't have to leave tomorrow, where Nights of Buses will be but a forgotten nightmare.

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

When I woke up, I wasn't sure if it was a dream. It was a sublimely happy feeling with undercurrants of exhaustion, but much too organized in thought and chronology to have been an early morning concoction of my still-sleeping brain.

In a trip to the big city for a family function, I begged to be able to go and visit my two good friends downtown. A sense of adventure seized me and I was spirited away down the subway [my first trip ever in the tube]. It rumbled and roared along, light after subway light passing in a second and suddenly emerging into urban nightlights and just as quickly back underground. When I stepped off, I looked for my friend who was going to meet me, but he wasn't there. There was someone who looked like him, but was walking on crutches. I approached, and lo and behold, it was him. He had a misplaced tendon or something of that sort. We embraced happily and he took me back through the night life of this urban big city, busy.

At his apartment, I was greeted by his three crazy roommates, one of which I know very well. He looked very happy to see me. Maybe he was lonely for people from home. He had grown a gotee. That made me so happy to see him so happy. They kept me entertained for a while with authentic fantasy swords [which they used to punish each other into doing the dishes], lego [some of which had real hair - I shuddered, so should you. Any plastic building block with real hair strands should be avoided at all cost. And he built buildings with actual bathrooms, [although the glass doors on that caused a few raised eyebrows]], and lemonade. While in the kitchen [all the counters were filled with dirty dishes], I got a look at what was actually in the cupboard. They, I saw were typical college students. They had a shelf for peanut butter, a shelf for ramen noodles, a shelf for Kraft Dinner [see previous post], and a shelf for spices [They were so proud of their cumin. Can you believe it, they actually had cumin in the house along with salt, pepper and dried parsley!] They wouldn't let me go home alone, so the guy who came to get me went to deliver me home again [even against my most insistant protests]. He talked to me on the subway, but really, I have no idea what he said. He talked for half an hour, and I don't have a recollection of a single thing, except for the fact that about half the way home, his face began to blur and twist. I had a brief thought that if I had to do this for the rest of my life, this would be the very definition of hell - stops and jolts, people expecting you to listen to them, and that annoying "ding, ding ding" of the door closing every two minutes, when all you wanted was to sleep. But it only briefly passed through my mind. Then we got off the subway and I was cold, and he made me take his coat.

When I stubbornly refused it, he told me I was too independent, that I would never take anything from anyone, if I could help it at all. I knew it was true, but how could I describe that horrible sinking feeling I get in my stomach when I do, when I can't do things for myself. Maybe it was pride, maybe it is horrible pride. Then he told me that I was commanding and authoritative. I disagreed and then realized it was true. I don't take any guff, if that's what he meant, on my part, but I am just afraid of being taken advantage of, I don't actually want to be that way. I insult and point out other's errors, jokingly, [but I think my newly goteed friend takes offense and hurt at my jests], but that is just because I don't have anything else to say. I wish I wasn't that way. Maybe you think that this conversation would make me feel bad, but it actually made me euphorically happy that someone noticed something about me, that someone had a conversation that was solely about me.

We walked home in the gentle rain, and in my happiness [he knew something bad about me, but liked me anyway and still enjoyed my company [he has a girlfriend, so it's not like that, but just in a friendship way]] and in my exhaustion [two ten hour days on your feet and next to no sleep will do that to you], I leaned over and gave him a hug of my own volition. Happiness, happiness, tired happiness. Seeing friends, subways lights, rain, lemonade, smiles and laughs. One of the best days of my life.

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

I am grateful for home. There is nothing in the world, if you travel it all over, if you see land that no human has seen before, if you see the seven wonders of the world, if you meet the rich, the famous, there is nothing like home.

Home, where life begins, where I can defend myself on equal ground, where I can sleep, unabashedly. Home, where I can watch TV without feeling guilty, where I can get something from the fridge without unapproving eyes, where I can sit on the toilet for two hours reading if I want to. Home, such an enormous sense of relief.

House, is not home. I have lived in many houses and everywhere I go, I cannot forget home. I have dreamt of home, remembered losing home, transience, of homelessness, of not knowing where next I would lay my head. I have remembered house, where living makes me nervous, where I have no rights because it is not home, where I am the interloper, the stowaway. Envy of those who have the rights I long for, the rights to the TV, the fridge, the bathroom, but instead, it is right that I tiptoe, that I step around others, that I bow and salaam and acquiesce, exist on a knife point and don't make trouble. That is what is right and proper. And my soul longed for home.

Home, it's so good to be here, two years in a row.

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

Oh God, sometimes the urge comes on stronger than ever and all I want is to be loved, to be held, to not struggle, and my Buddhist stance must be denied, for my whole being craves. Craves. Consuming. Like tears coursing down a waterfall, unstoppable, beating, churning. Run your finger lightly down my nose, across my lips, for I am a being too. A being of fire.

Douse the fire! Douse it with tears! Put it out! Keep it out of sight until...And I never know what I am waiting for. When everything will be safe again, when I can come out to rest, come out to breathe.

If I fight long enough I may be consumed, yield to this fury of force. Consume me as I stand in your way. Unbearable flames of heat long pent up awaiting daylight and I feel a wisp on my cheek. Oh take me away.

Wait for me. The fire whispers at the gates, licks up the doors and I am inside wondering how it ever got this far and everything in me is dreading.

Hold tightly. I forget the feel of human hands, since horror took me away. Half my stature just machine, and everything in me is longing.

Wait for me. Hold tightly. And pray that I never fall off.

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

Even at midnight, the city wasn't quiet. The headlights of the passing cars reflected off the falling snow, making halos on the streets and the blinking neon lights made the midnight into twilight. The cars still whizzing by, even at this hour, splashing dirty slush up onto the sidewalks and onto irate pedestrians, who walked by with wool up to their noses. They carried small black umbrellas, hoping it would protect them from the snow-rain.

The only exception was the working girls, in all manner of explicit fashion under their coats, smoking their young lungs to sleep. They stood under any roof they could find, trying to keep some semblance of warmth.

Every now and then, one leaves and walks down the street to either get a coffee or to find better hunting grounds. A platinum blonde in a black leather skirt leaves the waning crowd for a small, dim cafe. She brushes off her shoulders and saunters in. The place is all full, except for a few seats by the bar. She takes one in the corner, a black, mahogany stool, that matches the rest of the decoration. The bartender approaches her and then leaves with her coffee order. Black, she says she wants it.

There is clapping over in the corner by the stage. A fat man with anvil hair waddles off and a young black kid replaces him. He is maybe 18, no more. The blonde does not remember that she is only 16. With nothing else to do, and her coffee not yet come, she listens to him, at first carelessly, then intently. Then, without even meaning it to happen, tears begin to stream down her face. His poetry is meaningful, powerful. Her coffee comes, in a fat white china mug. She turns her face to the corner, hoping no one will notice her.

A tap on the shoulder. The young black kid is standing there. He says he saw her crying and hoped she was okay. She says she is. He didn't want to be rude but was wondering if she needed a place to stay that night. Of course not. Did she need a better place to stay the night? She wonders loosely if the makeup over her bruised face has come off already. She wonders to herself if she really wants to go back out there again tonight to work. She says she guesses so but wonders what the kid wants for it. Nothing. She is too tired and cold to scoff and follows him away.

It is a small white house. He lives with his mama, he says. Warmth greets her as he opens the heavy door. There is the smell of dinner in the air. The house is quiet. He pulls out the couchbed with its crisp white linen sheets, says goodnight and walks down the hall.

She sinks into the bed, exhales slowly, and sleeps.

A baby cries. She gets up in confusion. A small light. A woman's voice tells her to go back to bed. She does.

Morning light creeps over the horizon. She stretches, realizing she wore her coat and leather skirt to bed. That is fine. She doesn't want them seeing what is under her coat.

A black woman with a baby under her arms greets her and introduces her to Angela, the neighbor's baby girl. The woman takes care of the baby most nights because her mother works. Did she want some breakfast? No, she would be going now. The woman presses her. No, thank you. She folds up the bed and marches out into the frosty morning air.

But she does not even make it to the corner. Her high heels slip on the icy sidewalk and the girl cries out in pain, as her hands and delicate fingers come in contact with the frozen cement, and her ankle contorts into an unnatural pose. The woman rushes out to help her back into the house. Now she would have to stay for breakfast.

It is porridge. Warm and soothing. The table is small and creaky and the old honey coloured chair shifts under her weight. The yellowing cupboards comfortably clunk shut as the woman calmly gets things ready for the meal. The oatmeal bubbles in the battered aluminum pot atop the old gas stove and it is almost ready to be eaten. The kitchen is warmed by its cooking and she is reminded of home.

The little baby is sitting in the plastic chair talking to itself. Her mother will be by in about an hour or so to pick her up. By the way, the lady's name is Charlotte. Her hair is beginning to grey at the sides of her curly temples, and her cheeks are large and round. A slight double chin protrudes from beneath a white turtleneck. A red and white checked apron covers her ample bosom. Taking the pot off the stove, and beginning to serve it into the green rooster bowls, she waits curiously for the girl's name

Foxy is not appropriate, she thinks. And desperately tries to think of something. Maggie is the first thing she thinks of and says it.

The floor creaks across the house. Heavy footsteps. The young black kid steps into the kitchen, kisses his mama and Angela. His name is Jilangy. He shakes her hand. Charlotte says grace, Maggie unsure of what to do. Soon the prayer is finished and they all eat - she hungrily. They talk about how Jilangy's poetry went last night. Maggie hopes he doesn't mention how she was crying. He doesn't

Jilangy leaves for school. The doorbell rings. Two children and a mother. A boy and a little girl. Charlotte babysits them. Maggie is uncomfortable. She shifts in her chair and softly clears her throat. Nobody notices her. Her face grimaces in pain as she slowly rotates her ankle around.

The children joyously bounce into the room and look at her, and stop, a little shyly. Maggie does not meet their gaze. They approach, their small sweat shirts and jogging pants making little rustling noises as they come close to her. Briefly Maggie looks up. Their dark eyes are fixed on her, intently. What is her name? Maggie. Niabi and Jeff are their names. Niabi tentatively touches the older girl's fingers and leans against her knee. Jeff holds his sister's hand.

Would she like to read them a story? She guesses so. Niabi takes her hand, leads her into the livingroom and both siblings choose a story and both vie for the honour of having theirs read first. Niabi wins out. Jeff pouts for a moment but soon he is seated possessively on her left knee and Niabi on her right. Maggie reads in a quiet voice to the children. All three look up as Charlotte comes into the room.

She smiles. Would Maggie like a shower? No, reluctantly, she answers. It is a shame because everything is all ready in the bathroom for her. Alright. The children clamour. They want Maggie to finish the story. She does. The book is closed, the soft warm pages brush against her fingertips. The children want another one. But Charlotte insists just as the baby's mother comes to the door.

The shower is down the hall and to the night. The carpet is warn but soft under her stockinged feet as she silently plods towards the bathroom. Under her hand, the cold metal knob turns. There is a soft mellow light brightening the room and on the plastic countertop, thick green towels await her finishing. A set of clothes on the other side of the white sink also sit in waiting.

Maggie undresses cautiously, her coat, skirt, and brassiere fall to the yellowed linoleum floor, one after the other. Warm water begins to *tick, tick* on the floor of the small shower stall as her hand touches the cold metal knob and turns and the water falls off her shoulders, around her breasts.

The scent of violets fills the small cubicle as she pours the silken shampoo into her hand.

When the shower is finished, the floor damp beneath her feet and beads of water clinging to the mirror, she puts on the clothes. Not for a very long time has she worn anything so cheap, so simple and comfortable. Cleaning the bathroom, in appreciation of the generous gift, Maggie hangs up the towels and opens the squeaky door.

She reads another story to the young children and by that time, lunch is in the air. Tomato soup and tuna melts. They all sit together to eat, Maggie in uncomfortable silence. She manages to mumble her thanks to Charlotte. The older woman brushes it off and says it is nothing, smiling. After lunch, Charlotte whisks the children out to play in the back yard, all bundled up in snowsuits, while she begins to peel potatoes for supper. Maggie is invited to join.

So where does she live? Now it starts says the look in Maggie's eyes. And that ain't none of her business. Charlotte's eyes say that she is taken aback by the abruptness from her silent guest. Both continue peeling. She was simply wondering if Maggie needed a place to stay for a while. No, she doesn't, she doesn't at all. Her ankle is fine and she will be leaving shortly. She is welcome back anytime.

Maggie looks suspiciously at the older woman. The young girl expected to fight back and become nasty which would end up in her being thrown out of the house. It would extract her anyways from this very uncomfortable state she now finds herself in.

Maggie shrugs.

Determined to help with the woman's supper, Maggie stays until the end, which is rather longer than she thought it would be. After the potatoes were peeled they had to be washed, diced, cooked, mashed and seasoned. The carrots had to be peeled, sliced and cooked. The cake had to be measured, mixed, baked and iced. Not to mention the roast beef.

By the end, the result looks so good that Maggie doesn't want to leave. Mc Donalds doesn't even compare to this. But something in her heart screams to get the hell outta here as fast as she can.

The door squeaks open. Jilangy pops his head in, his afro covered in white snow. Supper smells delicious he says. He asks if Maggie will stay for dinner. No she will not. Why not? His eyes sparkle and his mouth curves upward, his dark eyebrows raise in anticipation of an answer. It's delicious, he reminds her. Maggie has an appointment. They will save her some. Fine. They can save her some. Until it rots green in the refrigerator, she thinks.

In the bathroom once again, changing out of her borrowed clothes, Maggie curses. Why did she ever agree to spend the night? Why did she ever agree to have breakfast? And why, why in hell was she wearing this woman's clothing? She shakes her head, an inward agreement never to do this again.

In the hall, in the livingroom, her face in the kitchen to say goodbye. And she was so close to the door when they stop her with conversation. What time should they expect her back this evening? Dont ever expect me back, she thinks and waves her hand noncommitally.

Finally, out the door, the bitter cold and falling snow welcoming. She shakes her head. What was that? Some wierd family. Crazy? Maggie shrugs .

Back on the corner within the hour, talking to the other girls there. It's getting dark now, and she is ready to get back to work. A tall imposing man approaches. Maggie remains poker-faced but her stomach shrinks with fear.

Where was Foxy last night? He had a job for her. She swears and spits at his feet and walks toward the cafe. Something of the strange family had gotten into her.

He follows, waving his arms around, shouting profanities into the air. There is so much cursing that is is hardly discernable what he is talking about.

Maggie shrugs.

The man grabs her shoulder and spins her around, until they are face to face. His hands clench tightly on her arms until she cries out in pain. He spits in her face and tells her how lucky she is he is gonna let her off easy this time. He drags her into the alley beside the cafe and smacks her cheeks so hard, it makes her head reel. Soon she is on the ground. He spits on her a final time and leaves her wondering why she didn't stay for roast beef. But if she hadn't wanted a warm bed in the first place...

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

Shell shock
Makes us yell and scream
Even though it's all over
Years have gone by
Our heads explode
We still explode.

They ponder us
Through thick glass
One way glass
As they make funny faces
But we see a mockery.
We still explode.

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

I found this piece of paper lying on the ground.
It says:

|Pray list
|_____________________________
|night school
|grow up
|job
|money
|friends
|survive

And breaks my heart everytime I read it.

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

After cleaning the house for an hour and a half, I decided to treat myself to Kraft Dinner. After about the second bowl [when the cheese sauce was starting to give me a buzz] I began to wonder about Kraft Dinner.

Why is it so addictive? I mean, I wouldn't eat a second bowl of almost anything else in the world, but with KD, I can eat an entire box. Maybe it's all psychological. Maybe in your subconscious, you know that after the first fifteen minutes of it's completion as a Kraft product, it coagulates and never is the same deliciously cheesy food, you once knew. You can add milk, you can add butter, you can even [bypassing the microwave] put it lovingly back in a pot on the stove, stirring and coaxing gently, even playing classical music in the background, but it will never be the same. So to compensate for this wastage, your brain tells you to eat as much as is humanly possible, shoving it all into your mouth to meet your fifteen minute deadline, even using the Extend-a-stomach to hold the overflow.

And why is it called Cheese Sauce? Is it to bring back the nostalgia of a time when there really existed such a thing as real cheese? Have you ever actually read the ingredient list? Its like a trip back to highschool chemistry: microbacterial enzymes, calcium chloride, and sodium phosphates don't sound too healthy to me. And how about citric, lactic and sorbic acid? I don't like the sound of all that acid going into my food. But when you get down to the French label, everything sounds so much scarier: farine de ble enrichie, substances laitieres modifees, culture microbacterienne, presure ou enzyme microbacterienne. [Thanks to my extensive education, I know that the French eat exactly the same thing as we do. Strangely, this does not reassure me.]

And why, WHY, do people eat ketchup on their Kraft Dinner? Especially those that stir it into their food. You get this conglomerated mass of wet, pink, noodles. And I'm sorry, but anyone caught eating pink food should be shot. And promptly. Let the rest of us eat our yellow macaroni in peace. Another thing that is so desecrating about ketchup is the fact that it is so cold when you put it on hot noodles. We warm up our gravy, we warm up our fudge, we warm up our caramel, so why should we insist our ketchup be glacic? There is no compromise, even, with true ketchup lovers, to even raise it to room temperature before applying. The shocking, vinegary, tomato taste helps one to develop a pattern when consuming things eaten with immoderate amounts of this condiment: chew, shudder, swallow; chew, shudder, swallow. This eating pattern though, can be of great aid to the anti-condimentist when trying to identify those with true addictions to this masochistic oddity.

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

Well, that last post was rather hideous *shudder, twitch, twitch*, but I have decided to leave it up as a form of self flagellation or perhaps in hopes that someone in this big wide world will find it at least slightly amusing. I did when I was writing it, and you know when you are writing it, you always think to yourself "This is the work of a pure genius! Holy crap, this is amazing!" But then by the time someone else gets around to reading it, the magic lights have dimmed and the little fairies that danced around the paper have gone for a smoke break and the critic looks at you with a strangely questioning look and you stutter, "But, but...". And that's your precious piece will ever be, a but-butt, consigned to sit on your shelf with the rest of the but-butts (mostly every work you have ever done) and gather dust in the far corner. Sadly, I fear for the life of my writing. Morale is running rather low among the troops, and I haven't written anything good or interesting for months now. If you happen to like a particular piece, I have probably rehashed it from some previous age when everything was new and creative. My Vadel piece, I have looked at again and again (working on it since the end of September - still only seven pages) and decided that number one, I am bored out of my mind (I get bored very easily) and number two, it is not any good and to make it good would require untold boring hours on my part, by which time I would find no enjoyment in the finished piece anyway after spending so much time on it.

Oh puff and bother.

I need something to write about, something that sparks my interest, something that is new and exciting. Once when I moved I couldn't attend school for various reasons [though through no fault of my own] I took up writing. Sometimes I would write for ten hours a day, hundreds and hundreds of handwritten pages in total. It was partly an escape from reality, and partly because I loved it so much. I wish that I felt that way again, that passionate, that dedicated. You know what else I would do? I would walk down to the mall, the main shopping area in town, and just walk around. There was this wall in the food court that had windows all along the top and then the whole wall was completely covered in foliage and in my mind, I always equated it to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. I loved that place and always wondered why the malls back home didn't do it. It looked so peaceful. And I would go and look through the stores. They had a San Diego [a perverse store in some places, but still with many things that I always wanted to buy, like their dolphin, wolf, and fairy figurines that always sparked my imagination] and a furniture store with wooden, satellite-like beds that could be turned into couches just by readjusting their position on the stand. Sometimes I would go and see a movie all by myself. But most of the time, I would just stay home, seek a quiet space and just write. I had been given a cassette player for Christmas, and had bought a tape before leaving home. The cover had a man's face with his turtle neck pulled up over his mouth [now that I am thinking about it, it was very symbolic - the title was "Speechless"]. I listened to that tape all day when I was writing and things were just too noisy for me to handle and all night when there were fights down the hall, when I wanted to shut out the world. Every night I would cry [we all learned how to cry silently] and cry, for nothing it seemed. I couldn't really put words to it, but it was this inexpressible trauma, this inexpressible pulling and stretching of me, too tight, until I felt I would snap. I always felt as if I were a clothes line, slowly being reeled in tighter and tighter, and as long as nothing happened, as long as no wind blew, I would be fine. But everyday, another crow would come and land on my line, and I'd hold my breath and hold my breath, straining evermore to keep myself together.

Valentines Day, I remember Valentines Day. I went over to the mall and bought Mum a rose and a "love bug" [a stuffed animal - a lady bug, that had hearts instead of spots] and brought them home and drew her a picture of a rose in a glass vase in a window and set them on her night stand. I knew she would be lonely that day for someone to love [I always felt responsible that way] and she cried, but I wish she hadn't. It's not a responsible thing to cry in front of other people, and in a sense, it was childish. You shouldn't cry on other people who are going through the same thing as you, people who are just as stressed as you, that is selfish when it really doesn't help you and only puts that much more on everybody else. But at the same time, I felt a flush of pleasure that my gift meant that much to her.

There was this other time when we had a bomb threat on our building from some angry ex-husband, and the police woke us up and we all had to meet downstairs in the livingroom while we all went through our stuff, looking for anything that could be suspicious. That was a bit unnerving, but they didn't find anything to speak of, so I just went back to bed, although with still a lingering doubt in my mind over whether I would suddenly hear a huge bang and be rudely awakened yet again but this time by falling down into the livingroom, because the ceiling had given in.

In the quietroom [their new age speak for livingroom] there were these romance novels that someone donated - not just a few, not just a shelf, hundreds of them. Mum always called them women's porn, so only rarely, when I was dying for something to read, and I knew she was out, would I grab one. One in particular I began to read, it was something about Mary Morgan [meri morgan - woman of the sea] and a mermaids curse. I didn't get very far into it because of the rare times it was available for me to read and because it soon progressed into a very sensual book, that did not quite meet my standards for literature.

They had this big bay window in the quietroom, with this old Victorian couch in it [all of the furniture was from donations, so the room had no noticeable decor to speak of] with some sort of bright red floral material. I used to sit on it, looking out the window at the busy street down below, watching the snow come down. But then one morning the couch was moved and the window had the shades pulled down. It wasn't safe to look out the window anymore, someone could see me.

The adults would have these meetings at night about how not to be abused, and we were never allowed in on them, even though I didn't assume they would be very interesting, I wanted in on one, just for curiosity's sake. We would have to be in bed, even though it was only nine o'clock at night. I was sixteen at the time, and a nine o'clock bedtime was really quite insulting for my gentle teenaged ego. Gradually, they relaxed their rules and I watched TV in the TV room until they were done. I didn't spend much of my time in that room, and really I don't remember what it looked like, except in reference to this lady who had diabetes and always forgot [or disremembered, whichever it was] to take her insulin. We were watching TV together and gradually, she sank lower and lower into her chair, and fell down onto the floor. I was too unnerved to tell anyone about it [the staff weren't as approachable as they liked to believe, plus their being in a meeting made it an extra taboo], so I left and a little while later I saw an ambulance had come to give her insulin. I breathed a sigh of relief, but still lived with an overwhelming feeling of guilt for many weeks to come [and indeed it pangs me still].

If you've made it down to the bottom of this post, I give you congratulations. I realize that it is rather long, but nonetheless, it was not placed here for easy or entertaining readings. It was not even placed here for you, but rather for me, to express things always left unsaid, to become one whose name will not always be "Speechless".

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