a fictitious and alternative look at jealousy, and the fickle "nature" of man...

Blanchicheusse
by M. James Cooper
The only island to stand on its feet, and the ocean around it followed suit. Before the salted liquid knew who Moses was, before Jesus came, Blanchicheusse existed. Before cars could take them, the people crawled to the top to see its beautied beaches, turquoise green/blues and flecks of silver, a pristine sands. 'Oh lawd God! Is he who make it so yuh know!' Up the west side and down the east, no one even noticed Toco's offering as they traveled to and from, for it paled in comparison.
They were small beings then, and had developed hands that supported them vertically, as feet would, had Trinidad continued to lay on her backside. Agitating the other islands to a state of hyper jealousy. Their wicked stares did nothing but make this oddity a desire, why could they not stand on their feet? This upright island was so anti nature, this un-normal place that produced a new people, never eradicated, after years of pillaging destruction, it seemed as if the only way for it to survive was to cease its blind acceptance of what was, and stand, erect. This is what made the waters follow: as if courting mate, as if infatuated lover, basking in His amazing way, She swore to stay by His side; She abandoned the warm hands of Sun and cleaved to His standing pride...

The Good Friend & the First-Born Fabulist of Bossier Lane
by
M. James Cooper
...Julian was a lucky man, or so he had been told. Friends, neighbors, even his sister-in-laws seemed to think so. Secretly, they thought Ilene was the lucky one. She had been lucky to find such a good looking man. It was all that mattered. Perception and what people thought was the center and main component to their upbringing, so it is what they gave the most energy to. The Grandmother had a sharp tongue and a skeptical eye. They were a watchful, judgmental people, never once did they focus on love. But she was mute now, the Grandmother, silenced by an attack on the body, two strokes, yet she continued to sneak the salt, somehow, into the pocket of her duster, or the band of her knee high stockings, which she refused to stop wearing long after she had retired from the library. Removal of the salt barrel from the kitchen did not stop her cleverness. God knows where she got the ingredient from, covered her food with it is what she did. She complained that her granddaughters did not put enough in the food when they cooked.
"Ah can't taste none!"
Granny would say.
On fruit, vegetable, breakfast, lunch and dinner. Every dish was laden with white granules. Now she just moaned a sound of anger and frustration and pent up evils that would never again be vocalized. Mother-daughter didn't care. It was her time to reign. Ilene relished being in charge, who else, now that her mother was next in line after the dog, she had inherited her mothers sharp tongue, her heavy handed approach to all things arguable. Ilene was only waiting for her to have that third and final stroke, for her to die. Yes Julian was still there, he would proceed to the table for supper eventually, and ask,
"What we drinkin'?"
A Father always wanted to know what juice was available.
"Ah man deserve tuh have juice after workin' so shittin' hard everyday."
Never did he raise his voice, even tones. Like the Mother and the Grandmother, he was habitual, doing the same things the same way, saying the same things the same way. Parenting? It was the only confrontational thing he allowed himself to say. It was the only utterance Mother had no rebuttal for...

BUSH: A story of commitment and pain through survival.

BUSH
by M. James Cooper

...No new religion needed, they were fine. So on the white-man's Christian God's Sunday, the day he thought about what it meant to be Christ-like, the sons and daughters of colonial oppression saw fit to love themselves. Taking their belabored bodies, the hands and feet along with the song of mouths, somehow these were often forgotten about until day seven. They gathered and walked slowly down the path situated behind the barracks where they lived, further and a slight turn down past the first cluster of poui-trees, back behind dey'so, by the bush. Another world it was. Surrounded by tall swaying grass that kept the trees company, a never ending courtship. Big stones to make short people tall, or resting place for a bleeding man to ketch'he'self good. Even in 1834, after emancipation, this kind of activity was illegal, nonetheless, their blood required it. In a sky full of stars they were the bottom. It was day now, but after the stars performed to perfection just a few hours ago, here came Dawn with her sun-rays, beating the waters surface making Ocean and River shine, showing off, something spectacular. Six days of waiting, working his land made for languid feet; SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! went the branches, feet no longer dragging the ground and the warmth of the sun urged heads up and forward. Circling the gayelle, in preparation, drummers warmed their hands on stretched surfaces. Men wearing loose fitting pants made of cotton, tied at the waist and rolled on itself, alpargatas covered their feet, bare backs. Those entering the gayelle from the path reached hands to make a clean break and took with them a good sized piece of poui-branch for today's Kalenda...

This story, my 25th, is part creation narrative, part examination of the human condition. Heaven or hell, knowing and not knowing; the ability to see and be everything God wants us to see or be; this is the struggle I examine here within these pages. I hope that by writing, reading and eventualy publishing this story in its entirty, it will do for others what it did for me.

The After
by M. James Cooper

The after comes when the years go by and the days turn into days after the coming of new eyes, new skin, reborn souls and new hopes. This world has been in existence for quite some time. The mistakes, dissolving of truths and violence that feed and assault its nature give no ease to the burden of beings. Living is made hard, happiness avoided, and suffering at our fingertips. Ground tumbles, fires burn, reason speaks and seas part daily but consciousness is disregarded, no pair of eyes notice, and permissiveness is praised. Branches give their leaves away like unwanted offspring and mothers cry despite the pain they knew it would bring. A sort of rebirth, everyday a newness, the sun delivers his light and we beg for more. More blessing, more please; wanting for everlasting life because we cannot wait for it to be earned. Rains fall like men do from mountains and give seed to a new thing, sinking beneath the ground, eventually, becoming food for the trees that will give us more leaves. But only after, they know what sacrifice is for, only after, and revelation gives warning of the beast can we know what the days were for....

Split/Personality 

by M. James Cooper 

My two-ness is confusing.

It is sustaining, possibility bringing and terrifying. 

It is terrible, abandoning and sacrificial. 

One of me wants to run too and the other wants go back there and stay. My two-ness is misery and beauty, is guiding hand and ballast. 

Yes it is shared love and loyalties. Somebody, help me find my way home.

Truth-Telling

by M. James Cooper 

So what if I told you I had one secret that I could not tell.

It does not affect you.

This secret is about a lie I tell myself, to stop me from knowing, to stop me from believing the truth.

What if I told you I had another, a half truth, an omission? 

So yeah, four.

Of Course

by M. James Cooper

Carry because I can, carry because I am willed. 

Bear because I must, becasue I have faith I trust and do continue to bear it all.

Birthed because I was meant, then give birth, not becasue I can or desire to, it is natures will; nature caries, bears and gives birth all the time, why cant I...