Joel Jackson
Bio
An aspiring writer, and successful ice cream salesman from Northern Ireland.
Stories (5/0)
Mothers in the Modern Era
I'm a young guy who reads the news and watches the world around him with fear building. Ice caps melting. Animals going extinct. The deranged becoming presidents. Companies ruling the poor. A decent look at the world and one would not be judged for thinking it's all coming to an end. But then I look at my parents. When a family friend dies, my Mum gets out her pots. She cooks massive vats of curry. Massive vats of the stew that I was raised on. The stew that to this day remains one of my favourite meals for its heartiness, simplicity, and warmth. She gets home from work. Cooks these vats and then disappears off to feed the family of the deceased. Every day for a week. My father, my sister, and I were fed before she left, because, of course. My mum is a superpower. An unstoppable force that makes sure anyone who falters or stumbles gets the exact aid they need. My mum doesn't have a care in the world for the cares of the world. She was teaching me to learn in the years she was given to learn things herself. She doesn't keep up with the Middle East, or East Asia, or the States. She reads the FarmWeek. She isn't going to solve global warming or make capitalism fair. To the healthy, she doesn't give a second glance to. To the rich, she'll clean for them if they give her money. But when the healthy grow sick, or when the rich get poor, that's when she's there. The tide of time washes over the shore. My mum doesn't try to command the ocean to stop advancing. But she'll save the crabs that get knocked on their back by a wave (this is a metaphor, my mum would never touch a crab).
By Joel Jackson6 years ago in Families
Only Human
Rows were filled with people. Everyone settled into their seats. A few people talked. Not in a rude way. Probably in a respectful way, saying something about George. The first row was sparsely occupied by a few people, all in tears, all hunched over, quietly sobbing to themselves. They didn't seem too focused on the crying though. They seemed to be either learning how to bottle it and hide it or trying to get it all out of their system. They were thinking about the speech. That's what it's called, right? The eulogy comes later? They save that for a family member or loved one, surely? Or do we call it a eulogy even if it's from the guy who only learnt of George after death, and probably has all he knows about the man summed up in cliff notes in his pocket to learn beforehand. Yeah, I'd say that's the case. It'd be weird to say the minister gave a speech on George. It makes it seem like it's accompanied by PowerPoint slides and a brief Q&A. Eulogy sounds better.
By Joel Jackson6 years ago in Humans
Let's Get Political
As Millennials I hate generational discussions, so I'm not going to say "as millennials." But as a generation that has grown up with Google, we're connected in a new way. The “weird kid” in town who talks funny and dresses in clothes he's not supposed to finds out pretty quickly that he's actually a she and that many people are. She's not a freak, she's part of a group of people with a rich history of cultural acceptance and rejection around the globe, rooted in the strength of people just like her. The kid who holds a razor to his wrist, because he'd rather kill himself than to become the pedophile he thinks he secretly is finds out he's actually got an OCD that involves bad thoughts, and that many people struggle with this in varying degrees and that it is treatable with time, effort, and medication. The kid finds out he's not a villain, he's just a broken boy who can relax into that and return to being happy. If they were alone, dealing with the things inside their minds and bodies, and their parents, or teachers, or bosses, or bullies, or coworkers, or classmates, or brothers, or sisters, were to tell them "stop being weird", "just deal with it", "like us", then maybe they would stop. The fight's not worth it when you're just fighting for you and your weird mind. But when you find out that you're one of millions struggling, and that for as far as history remembers, all of those individuals have taken the advice and pushed it down, just like you considered doing. When you find out that nothing has changed, and that people like you haven't stopped struggling. When you see those people telling their stories, on Facebook, on Twitter, on Reddit, on vlogs, on playgrounds, in workplaces. When you see people like you, struggling, like you, you realise the fight isn't about your own weird mind. That's when the girl that is called a guy decides she can't just put on boys clothes and so she doesn't. That's when she decides she's not going to date that guy everyone wants her to and instead she'll ask her friend Jodie. That's when the boy scared of his own head decides he's not going crazy, he's getting sick, and that he isn't to isolate, he's to stand up and get help. Because the fight isn't for the self anymore. It's for everyone out there, just like you, not sure if they should fight or not. So you stand and fight so they don't have to, but they'll do the same for you. We were divided and told we were fucked up until we just acted like we weren't. But now we're all best friends on Twitter dot com and we're all fucked up and super hot and we're fucking fighting that good fight.
By Joel Jackson6 years ago in Humans
Mashed Potatoes
Beep Boop thought the robot. He woke up for the first time 4 minutes 18 seconds ago. They told him he was a robot 4 minutes 12 seconds ago. The word disturbed a graveyard of buried images. He saw glimpses of mechanical arms putting doors on cars. He saw a toy dance for a boy as he mashed buttons on a remote. He saw Vin Diesel say "Superman". He looked down at the plate in front of him. He looked at his mashed potatoes. After their first speech, they had led him by the hand to this table. He sat with them all. "You can eat," they told him. He didn't think that was for them to decide. He held his fork up and looked at it. He saw images of families eating at tables. He saw roads diverging in front of him. He saw mobs holding farming tools and torches shouting "Monster". 3 minutes and 48 seconds ago they told him he was part of humanity. The word brought up images of a crying baby, of an old man in a white bed, and now, of the mob with the tools and torches. 3 minutes 45 second ago he was told he was here to serve humanity. The contradiction these statements made brought up the phrase "Does Not Compute". He missed some of the next part of their speech. He was busy laughing to himself and finding out what laughing was. He did not want to let them know he could do that. It seems like they would take it away.
By Joel Jackson6 years ago in Futurism
Kiss The Ones You Love
They were all in a line. Twenty-two of them. Twenty-two frogs all sitting, patiently in a neat row is a weird enough sight. Facing them was a boy in a freshly unflatpacked wheelie office chair. He was staring at each frog with a casual but considerate eye, one after the other. This one had a wart or a lump close to its eye so it made its face look wonky. That one had a tattered and broken looking foot. Another one had some sort of little tail. Further down the line was one that only stared at the floor. He felt bad for that one. It could have some social disorder, and here he is forcing it to sit in a row with a big bundle of other frogs. The boy wheeled to it. No, not it. Him. The boy wheeled closer to...Simon. The moment his chair stopped the boy picked him up, with little gloves on. He heard the heat of skin burns frogs. The frog flinched a bit, but settled quickly. Then the boy kissed it. Not a long kiss, certainly no tongue. Neither party seemed to enjoy it. It was a light peck and that was all. The moment it was done the frog was placed back in the line.
By Joel Jackson6 years ago in Humans