Oddbird

Tangles of pearl and gray coiled their way around, accentuating long yellowed materials of which have been long forgotten, lost to law. As per usual, I sat, lost to time herself, watching every movement of such a fine predator. Lanky specimens such as these took up but a small part of my day, but by far were the most interesting; second only to giraffes and their violet tongues. 

Intense waiting meant suspense in the bones, grueling stillness and all the patience a child could muster. But! How worth it it is, to see the first movements for those spindly wee legs, the delight in a glimpse of such beady eyes, how it crept and scuttled at a moment's glance. When it met others I’d project all sorts of fantasies onto them, families of two braving the dangers of a bathroom ceiling, a lone hiker traipsing ye old window frame; all of which I’d wake from their own motion picture with a kiss of air, flown towards them.

Such peculiarity followed me all throughout my childhood. Children are usually filled with questions, but I was spilling with them. Not a second was allowed by without intimate investigation that questioned the very existence of an object. 

But who wouldn’t? Why was I the only one asking where god’s mother and father were; the only one who asked increasingly difficult questions that left teachers admitting frustrating defeat. I remember the tangents I’d lose myself in when attempting to answer a simple “So what does this mean, class?”, usually resulting in the class yawning and the teacher miserably failing to draw a conclusion to my raving. 

I wasn’t aware of any labels, being the sheltered kid I was, only that whenever lazy Sunday heat came I could barely stand it's sweltering gaze, and that I spoke awfully formal for my age. 

It really is no wonder I was drawn to Ransom Riggs’ peculiar kids, or felt an affinity for the characters of Aaahh!!! Real Monsters. When you feel the need to tell your Dad you “don’t need friends because you have books”, and a burning question follows you around, it probably should be the first sign of queer qualities within an individual.

Unlike other dandies, I’ll satiate your curiosity and relay such important inquisitions, my youthful mind wondering “Why am I stuck feeling like I was born and missed out on an essential quality? Is every other kid given a manual and I just lucked out?”

A lonely outlook for someone barely ten years old.

‘Spinner’, as every arachnid had affectionately come to be known as, was spotted again, many of them littered about the bathtub. Miniscule and mighty, it begs the question why so many misunderstand this creature but prefer cats, a far fearful beast..

Memory serves a reminder of “Snappy”, the friendly baby pigeon who I swept away from a pile of bricks into my cap. How distressed I was at its disappearance after feeding it Mum’s expensive salmon, two days later leaving a few feathers and no remaining calling cards. Or how every time Spring fell upon us with snow-like blooms, and I’d find stray eggs in the yard I’d attempt (and fail) to raise them, always burying them thereafter. 

Oddities aside, a strange child often attracts strange attention.

Parental controls and pins can only try, but nothing beats the quiet of the night. Informed by a sour Mary Lennox, a different understanding of garden walls peeled away a sickly exterior, so as to say the quaint bird house in the yard was far more intimidating and spindly than one’s first impression. Creeping for a fix of blue, or for a book to read by whatever moonlight seeped past the blinds, I was stubbornly determined though enveloped in a cold sweat.

Racing eyes saw tigers in the doorway, dreamt up visions of floating yet never coming back down, saw futures of myself waking up to a changeling family and locking myself in the bathroom (the only room with a lock) while awaiting an impending doom of fang and rot.

When everything feels so constantly real and you absorb 100% of everything, everywhere, all at once, how exhausting it must be for little me. 

Clinging to familiarity like a witch, tip-toeing past the cracks in the tiles, I’d avoid looking at the mirror, especially at the void behind me, and most definitely was banned from staring out too far too long onto the street lit alone by a singular street lamp. Everything was film noir, dramatic yet silent; I felt most akin to Judas at the sleep of sound so thick it could only be pierced by the incorrect time on the microwave. 

Be quick, quiet and without quarrel was the rule, in and out and jump to the safety of the bed! Ironic how I truly believed vampyres would be deterred by a sweaty child struggling to breathe under the weight of the doona, not a neck nor a peep in sight. No, true monsters simply lay waiting under the bed, staying put for a limb to fall into reach.

This is all an achievement, these past few events, as it draws to the conclusion of the present. Sitting before me, bricks themselves are swirling and dancing, forming a brigade of delirious movements, capering and taunting. Warmth seeped towards my face and pounded in my head, forcing its way inside the castle doors. Cool tiles soothed the ache in my knees but contrasted the throb of my chest. Breathe in, breathe out, the pattern weakened alongside racehorses and their flared nostrils, but I bet I won’t be getting out of this one.

Go out with a blast, yet feel so lost fighting in a crowd of walls, your anger and righteousness will never repay old debts. Claws will come and eyes will rain down on the poor queer soul who dares defy nature - not a natural nature but human nature - though you try your best to justify. 

Is it the acclimation of strange hobbies and interests you carried since childhood, or the worrisome pair that pierced all reason at the witching hours, perhaps even the queer habits parents made seem all so normal. 

What exactly leads to such strong outcasting, what uncanny art always leads you down a path of diluted conversations and uneasiness? Not to be abstract, but this day only confirms more that I simply cannot understand others, nor can they know me. Mob mentality clashes with strong individuality, a certainty I’ve become accustomed to.

It really is no surprise to ache myself up, supported by the walls on either side, standing as straight as one can. Coffee stained my admonished skirt and white lines bloomed across my arms, a right mess if I’d ever seen one. I suppose I deserve it.

Deer dance around the subject, but birds who fly into the eye rarely fly out.

Written by Jasper.

‘I’m Jasper, a queer writer who loves exploring history and folklore. My work always has hints of Irish culture, the latest media I’ve consumed and the same formal language and questioning I’ve carried since I was 7. 

You can find me on both Instagram and Substack as @seasparo.’