See me now. I am as tough as a roaring
mother bear. Some lost gardeners
are watching -- strange, lonesome ones
who don't see my wet eyes or fatigue --
the green and black and darker green,
the limp, the broken parachute, the fat
mirror, and the wool. Some macho man
will hook to me, skydiving tandem.
I am not afraid of the ground, the fall,
the sky, or the wind; it's everything else --
the no-named caterpillar, all the weight
in the world, my childhood home
for sale. I am afraid of resting, the first
day, some new sound, and all of the dirty
dirt on earth. I am afraid to forever
miss you like I miss myself. I'm guessing
that plant's called cat mint.
C.A. MacConnell
7/31/2018
7/29/2018
7/28/2018
Photo: Amy
Amy
Decisions, decisions...although they can be hard, it's good to have options! Sitting here with an oatmeal mask on my face, drinking Diet Dew, feeling my tongue over a chipped tooth.
Hope you have a nice evening, and you feel free, like Amy in this shot.
C.A. MacConnell
7/27/2018
Fiction: Dirty Turkey
Short Story, fiction sample today. Kind of a spooky piece. <3. Peace out, C.A.
Dirty Turkey
Thanksgiving break. Evening in Jaytown, flocks of college kids browsed the stores and each other. Back home, each year, Rose became one smooth deal hunter. Her jeans were the black, skinny kind -- straight-legged and tight. Casually dressed to kill, she was window-shopping until some voice came at her from behind, the way she liked it.
“Hey!” he yelled.
She whipped around. "Hey yourself," she said to the man in the new T-bird. The car wore temporary tags.
She looked him over. Fresh meat, she thought, grinning. He was young, around her age, nineteen, and his build was hardly bigger than hers. He sank low in the leather seats of his crimson car. His hair was her brown shade. His wild brows weren't plucked, like hers. His shirt was red and fading, bleeding like hers.
Waiting for him, she leaned back against a storefront, restless. Maybe she’d buy a thumb ring later. Maybe skateboarders would soar and wreck, nursing breaks and bruises on Jaytown's streets. She never knew what characters would appear or vanish. She looked at her watch. Dad might ground her if she were out too late.
Hand at her chin, she studied him.
He parked crooked as hell. He was half-baked. He wasn’t careful.
She liked this.
When he climbed out of the car and reached for her, his shake was firm, like hers. “I'm Billy,” he said, raising a brow. “You look familiar." Billy touched her wrist, which cracked.
In his hand, her wrist became weak and fragile, like a wishbone. For a moment, she liked this too. "I'm Rose," she said, grinning. He seemed like a good egg. And when he touched her hair, she felt a shock, which was strange. She liked strange birds.
His eyes turned round and large, nearly buckeyes. "Come with me," Billy said, tugging her small wrist.
Meeting Billy was a good excuse to avoid home. Dad was usually out. Or making juice or eating tofu, watching Survivor, just checking out. Mom checked out too. Ten years back, on Thanksgiving, raspberries were on sale again. What a deal. Mom went to pick some up, planning for Dad’s special pies, but she never returned. Around twelve items or less, Mom disappeared. Dad let the turkey burn, burn, char in the oven. Dad still called her "missing;" he still put up signs. Rose couldn't picture Mom anymore. Rose only saw smoke.
Past the ghetto mart, past the people gliding through auto-doors like shopper hawks, Billy led her into Jaytown's famous ice cream shop. They shared a cone, berry sorbet.
Rose called it a date. Each year, back home, around the fourth Thursday in November, she had dates like this. She grinned, reminiscing. She checked the wall clock. She knew she had to either push this one in the oven or let it sit. She checked her watch, scratching her head. She would already be in trouble by then. Might as well stay out.
Backtracking, they paused in an underground parking garage until it became a deserted maze. Sex began with the slight tearing of shirts until both were bare, focused on skin grabbing. Billy let her suck on his finger. He let her suck.
Rose discovered that Billy was the sweaty kind – nearly cooking. And Rose discovered that someone had written Bush Sucks on the wall in black. Overhead on a fire escape, a couple fought until breakables began breaking.
Dirty Turkey
Thanksgiving break. Evening in Jaytown, flocks of college kids browsed the stores and each other. Back home, each year, Rose became one smooth deal hunter. Her jeans were the black, skinny kind -- straight-legged and tight. Casually dressed to kill, she was window-shopping until some voice came at her from behind, the way she liked it.
“Hey!” he yelled.
She whipped around. "Hey yourself," she said to the man in the new T-bird. The car wore temporary tags.
She looked him over. Fresh meat, she thought, grinning. He was young, around her age, nineteen, and his build was hardly bigger than hers. He sank low in the leather seats of his crimson car. His hair was her brown shade. His wild brows weren't plucked, like hers. His shirt was red and fading, bleeding like hers.
Waiting for him, she leaned back against a storefront, restless. Maybe she’d buy a thumb ring later. Maybe skateboarders would soar and wreck, nursing breaks and bruises on Jaytown's streets. She never knew what characters would appear or vanish. She looked at her watch. Dad might ground her if she were out too late.
Hand at her chin, she studied him.
He parked crooked as hell. He was half-baked. He wasn’t careful.
She liked this.
When he climbed out of the car and reached for her, his shake was firm, like hers. “I'm Billy,” he said, raising a brow. “You look familiar." Billy touched her wrist, which cracked.
In his hand, her wrist became weak and fragile, like a wishbone. For a moment, she liked this too. "I'm Rose," she said, grinning. He seemed like a good egg. And when he touched her hair, she felt a shock, which was strange. She liked strange birds.
His eyes turned round and large, nearly buckeyes. "Come with me," Billy said, tugging her small wrist.
Meeting Billy was a good excuse to avoid home. Dad was usually out. Or making juice or eating tofu, watching Survivor, just checking out. Mom checked out too. Ten years back, on Thanksgiving, raspberries were on sale again. What a deal. Mom went to pick some up, planning for Dad’s special pies, but she never returned. Around twelve items or less, Mom disappeared. Dad let the turkey burn, burn, char in the oven. Dad still called her "missing;" he still put up signs. Rose couldn't picture Mom anymore. Rose only saw smoke.
Past the ghetto mart, past the people gliding through auto-doors like shopper hawks, Billy led her into Jaytown's famous ice cream shop. They shared a cone, berry sorbet.
Rose called it a date. Each year, back home, around the fourth Thursday in November, she had dates like this. She grinned, reminiscing. She checked the wall clock. She knew she had to either push this one in the oven or let it sit. She checked her watch, scratching her head. She would already be in trouble by then. Might as well stay out.
Backtracking, they paused in an underground parking garage until it became a deserted maze. Sex began with the slight tearing of shirts until both were bare, focused on skin grabbing. Billy let her suck on his finger. He let her suck.
Rose discovered that Billy was the sweaty kind – nearly cooking. And Rose discovered that someone had written Bush Sucks on the wall in black. Overhead on a fire escape, a couple fought until breakables began breaking.
Billy scooped his arms above her, making weird wings. Then he reached down, gripping her wrists, pinning her down on the ground.
It was hot, mad, wet, rough, and then her body became his giant skin pillow.
His chest, his body curves fit hers.
She wondered if she'd see him again. She fell asleep wondering.
--
Stiffly, she woke. It wasn’t that cold out, but Rose shivered. The world was hardly lit. She squinted to see. She was whale-hungry, chewing stale gum. She looked at her weak wrist. It was 9 a.m.
Billy slept spread-eagled on the blacktop. Then he came to, rubbing his buckeyes, moving his mouth like hers. Chewy.
Quickly, they dressed before crowds or cops appeared.
Her car had a fresh ticket. Using a rust crayon she found in the gutter, she scribbled her number on the back of the ticket, handing it to Billy, saying, "That's me." Rose sat in her car, wondering if Dad would ground her for staying out. That turkey.
Blocking traffic, Billy leaned at her window, hovering and shifting like a drug dealer. He said, “I’ll call,” and his buckeyes loomed at the surrounding traffic. All around, drivers’ faces burned red, trapped in various road rage stages. "I will," he said. Then he kissed her. Then he paused. Then he kissed her again. “I’ll call,” Billy said again. Then he shot away, heading for his T-bird, heading for the highway.
She didn't believe him. She never believed those turkeys. No matter how good they tasted, the seasoning was never quite right. Gripping the wheel so tight that her wrist, her wishbone, hurt, she noticed that her red shirt was too loose, too faded. It wasn't hers. It was Billy’s. She should give it back. She smiled. She followed him. She was close. Too close.
His lead foot was serious, like hers. Deep into the back roads, Billy flew easily until he couldn’t take the curves.
She tailed him. She was close. Too close. She watched him weave, trying to lose her, but she grinned at the game. She knew these moves, these streets; they were all a familiar recipe.
The T-bird screeched, wobbled, then flipped like a toy, landing upside down. The car was no more than shredded, splintered metal. A smoldering nest.
Pulling over, Rose's body simmered, shaking out a small earthquake. She listened for Billy’s life signs, blinking repeatedly. No movement, no life, no breath. So much smoke, so much black ash mascara. Her eyes smarted, taking the burn. Her eyes leaked, crying and drying. One thing was clear – another turkey was burning. It was too late for Rose to check out. Dad might ground her. Dad sent Mom out for raspberries. He had to have them. Twelve items or less. I’ll call. I will. That liar. All those liars. Express checkout, motherfucker. She shrugged, running her hands together – slap, slap, slap – then licking them clean. All she had to do was speed and wait and watch the time, and this dirty bird was done. She clapped, just once, feeling suddenly sleepy.
Rose's U-turn was hard. She scanned the road, studying the cars, the colors, the metal skins. She knew how to pick a bird. She followed another car. She could see the back window, then the plates, then the driver’s hair -- tangled with angry wings, beyond help with flyaways. She was close. Too close. Rose was one deal hunter. She smiled, red-faced and whale-hungry again, her teeth tearing through stale gum.
This was a rare one. The head was feathered messy, out of control, like hers. Rose looked at her watch.
-- C.A. MacConnell
It was hot, mad, wet, rough, and then her body became his giant skin pillow.
His chest, his body curves fit hers.
She wondered if she'd see him again. She fell asleep wondering.
--
Stiffly, she woke. It wasn’t that cold out, but Rose shivered. The world was hardly lit. She squinted to see. She was whale-hungry, chewing stale gum. She looked at her weak wrist. It was 9 a.m.
Billy slept spread-eagled on the blacktop. Then he came to, rubbing his buckeyes, moving his mouth like hers. Chewy.
Quickly, they dressed before crowds or cops appeared.
Her car had a fresh ticket. Using a rust crayon she found in the gutter, she scribbled her number on the back of the ticket, handing it to Billy, saying, "That's me." Rose sat in her car, wondering if Dad would ground her for staying out. That turkey.
Blocking traffic, Billy leaned at her window, hovering and shifting like a drug dealer. He said, “I’ll call,” and his buckeyes loomed at the surrounding traffic. All around, drivers’ faces burned red, trapped in various road rage stages. "I will," he said. Then he kissed her. Then he paused. Then he kissed her again. “I’ll call,” Billy said again. Then he shot away, heading for his T-bird, heading for the highway.
She didn't believe him. She never believed those turkeys. No matter how good they tasted, the seasoning was never quite right. Gripping the wheel so tight that her wrist, her wishbone, hurt, she noticed that her red shirt was too loose, too faded. It wasn't hers. It was Billy’s. She should give it back. She smiled. She followed him. She was close. Too close.
His lead foot was serious, like hers. Deep into the back roads, Billy flew easily until he couldn’t take the curves.
She tailed him. She was close. Too close. She watched him weave, trying to lose her, but she grinned at the game. She knew these moves, these streets; they were all a familiar recipe.
The T-bird screeched, wobbled, then flipped like a toy, landing upside down. The car was no more than shredded, splintered metal. A smoldering nest.
Pulling over, Rose's body simmered, shaking out a small earthquake. She listened for Billy’s life signs, blinking repeatedly. No movement, no life, no breath. So much smoke, so much black ash mascara. Her eyes smarted, taking the burn. Her eyes leaked, crying and drying. One thing was clear – another turkey was burning. It was too late for Rose to check out. Dad might ground her. Dad sent Mom out for raspberries. He had to have them. Twelve items or less. I’ll call. I will. That liar. All those liars. Express checkout, motherfucker. She shrugged, running her hands together – slap, slap, slap – then licking them clean. All she had to do was speed and wait and watch the time, and this dirty bird was done. She clapped, just once, feeling suddenly sleepy.
Rose's U-turn was hard. She scanned the road, studying the cars, the colors, the metal skins. She knew how to pick a bird. She followed another car. She could see the back window, then the plates, then the driver’s hair -- tangled with angry wings, beyond help with flyaways. She was close. Too close. Rose was one deal hunter. She smiled, red-faced and whale-hungry again, her teeth tearing through stale gum.
This was a rare one. The head was feathered messy, out of control, like hers. Rose looked at her watch.
-- C.A. MacConnell
7/26/2018
Hairline
From the archives. Poetry day today. Hope you dig it. Have a peaceful day. Love, C.A.
Hairline
Sweaty-wet wings live
In the front row, near
Your temples.
Some tips hover now, reaching out,
Sharply.
Some settle down, half-covering your
Eyes. Some shoot the dark,
Wrong way, no more
Than bars against the skin, making homes
On a smooth brow bone.
You run a hand through the chaotic,
Flyaway hair. Maybe you just rolled out of
Somewhere, a place
Where only her breath
Moves
The part of you
That is wheat.
C.A. MacConnell
Hairline
Sweaty-wet wings live
In the front row, near
Your temples.
Some tips hover now, reaching out,
Sharply.
Some settle down, half-covering your
Eyes. Some shoot the dark,
Wrong way, no more
Than bars against the skin, making homes
On a smooth brow bone.
You run a hand through the chaotic,
Flyaway hair. Maybe you just rolled out of
Somewhere, a place
Where only her breath
Moves
The part of you
That is wheat.
C.A. MacConnell
7/25/2018
Photo: Integrity
Integrity
Ault Park
Can't sleep, so I thought I'd share a pretty photo. :) I love storms. When I worked on farms, I adored watching them roll in over the flat land. The other day, I walked in a wicked thunderstorm...it was right upon me. I was the only one out there walking, ha. They say your chances of being eaten by a shark are less than that of being struck by lightning. Not sure why I thought of that, but neither one sounds fun.
Alas, I can have dark thinking at times, ha. I get stuck in it. Like a tape recorder.
I've been up reading over (and over and over) the beginning of Book Three. I dig it. Let's hope the masses do as well! Time will tell, eh?
Job hunting today. Speaking of sharks, getting some bites. Right on. Hope your day is full of happiness, joy, and freedom.
C.A. MacConnell
7/24/2018
7/23/2018
Photo: You Will Be Rewarded for Your Courage.
You Will Be Rewarded for Your Courage
Concerned about a friend in ICU in Columbus...gonna head up there later today, although I have a hard time with hospitals. Known him for about 18 years. Glad to have the time off to be able to do this. This photo's for you, my sarcastic buddy with a gift for one-liners. :)
Puts it all in perspective, bang.
People, love, family, friends, the energy between us all -- that's what it's all about. I feel a lot of love in my heart this morning. Been thinking so much about Ray Hinton's book, my family, my friends, that little girl who fell at Sharon Woods and didn't cry or even tear up at her skinned knee, and all of you who support me on this journey.
Puts it all in perspective, bang.
People, love, family, friends, the energy between us all -- that's what it's all about. I feel a lot of love in my heart this morning. Been thinking so much about Ray Hinton's book, my family, my friends, that little girl who fell at Sharon Woods and didn't cry or even tear up at her skinned knee, and all of you who support me on this journey.
Thank you,
C.A. MacConnell
7/20/2018
The Lost River
Lost Glove 15
A poem about mystery...and the drive of those seeking the source. From the archives. The Lost River, located at Natural Bridge, Virginia, is so named because its source and destination are unknown, despite desperate attempts by many to locate them.
Hope you dig it. Thanks for reading. Have a beautiful day, C.A. Here she is...
The Lost River
So close.
They could hear the rush of water.
They imagined the stillness of its end,
but the true body, the beginning,
remained unknown. For many years,
full-chested men
set out on reckless rides
with restless horses;
the beasts grew tired
from the miles and the whip
and soon, they loped
with half-open mouths,
lips flapping to the breath game,
long teeth chomping to spit,
white foam lathering bits.
For decades, strange men
drank to exploding rock,
leaping over logs,
splashing through fallen leaves,
coughing up the muck of dreams,
hiking deep into the evergreen,
hunting, killing, searching
for the River’s source.
So close.
Later, some bit nails or scratched skin.
Others clawed at cheeks and chins,
and the wicked chase
drove them into mad fits,
a red-faced, grownup colic.
They cut permanent grooves,
carving into anything worth carving.
Names, initials, and the mess
of battle fields
spelled out the truth –
chicken scrawl showed the dates,
the horrible instants
when bone by bone, they suddenly
gave up.
Dropping the dynamite, struck
into tired, tight-lipped statues,
forced into stone silence,
they checked the sky,
guessing the weather
for the hard ride home.
So close.
And they returned to families
with no news, no notes, no souvenirs, no clues,
not even a single penny.
Some made fists, kicking their kid legs.
But in this startling quiet, the brave moment
when the forest settled,
just when all lost men had slipped away,
perhaps then came life.
Right then, the forest Natives, the watchers,
grew restless, finally waking, rising up
from their hiding places,
the glowing, fire-lit caves,
creeping out of thick shadows
like smiling, winking, slender, so-close-blue
flames. So close, so rich, they lived inside
the swallowing art of wet secrecy.
Together, big-eyed, camouflaged
by unknown homes,
they studied the damage,
knowing the truth,
that the River’s source was always present,
resting inside the mystery, the silent time
when the noise of horse men ended,
when the laughing trees whispered,
They are still coming.
C.A. MacConnell
7/17/2018
July 2018 Update for You! On the Road...
On the Road to Publication
Hi there. Just some news and updates for you today...
Here, you can purchase my debut novel, GRIFFIN FARM, an achingly real, raw mystery and family drama published in 2013; it is the story of one strong woman's journey to uncover the truth, recover, and heal. Available in hard copy or on Kindle.
Right here, you can purchase my sophomore work, THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, published in 2017, an intense, voice-driven, powerfully creative, slick mystery story set in Seattle in the nineties. Available in hard copy...will be available on Kindle soon.
The links also provide more description of the novels. Both of these books are all-original works of adult fiction. They were written, edited, designed, and promoted solely by me, the author, C.A. MacConnell. Pass it on!
Currently, I am seeking an agent for my third book, an all-original, 81,876-word, finished work of young adult fiction.
In the process of making contacts. Wish me luck! It's a quite a bumpy ocean out there, for sure. No worries, I love sharks. Bring it on.
Hope you are well and happy. Love, always,
C.A. MacConnell
7/16/2018
Photo: Jati
Jati
Going to the elephant for luck. :) I love this pic. Hope you do as well. One of my faves I've taken, if I do say so.
Going to send out some letters today. Seeking an agent for Book Three. Right on.
But most importantly, I'm going to keep the focus on gratitude. For sure. I'm just glad to be here, alive, and creating...and when I think about it, I'm blessed, in this moment, to have everything I need. Not fancy around here, but simple and sweet. Aye.
Hey, among other weird decorations in my pad, I have a tiny Etch A Sketch perched on my wall as if it's a special piece of artwork. I think it cost $1 on clearance. I just love the thing. I have no idea why. I've never even used it after the initial testing, but it does indeed work. I just know it's there in case I want to create and erase something.
Weird, I know. Much love to you,
C.A. MacConnell
7/09/2018
Short Story: While You're Down There.
A fiction sample for you, from the archives. Much love, C.A.
While You're Down There
by C.A. MacConnell
Stifling. The air. A hot, damp, thick Seattle summer evening. Seven-thirty on the nose, it was time for Charlie to head home. She scanned the crowd and spat. It was her secret, buried bad side that flew out of her mouth only when no one was looking. A simple thing - spitting - but it felt good. It seemed like she had spent her entire life with her mouth pursed in a tight petal, acting demure. Spitting, every now and then, gave her a tiny, wet release. When no one was looking.
Standing at the entrance to Seattle's Pike Place Market, Charlie removed her apron. Under the apron, Charlie was thin. Well put together. She was thirty-three, but she looked twenty-six, give or take a few.
With a bony finger, she tucked her hair behind her right ear. For ten years, she'd maintained neat, straight, brown hair with short bangs. She slid on bug-style, sexy sunglasses, hiding her deep brown eyes.
Moving forward, Charlie waited to cross the street. Wind blew at her dress enough to reveal her pale, clean, long legs, and her slender ankles. When she went out, anywhere, she wore dresses with closed-toe sandals. Market rules on shoes. Calf-high boots in the winter. Her classy look never varied. When she walked the Seattle streets, heads turned.
The lights were taking forever. Red. No change. A dirty skate kid rolled up, handing her a flyer for the latest show at the Seattle Art Museum.
Charlie read the brochure, then tore it to shreds. At heart, she was a painter, but she never painted anymore. Not for ten years.
For ten years, she'd lived in the city of rain. Ten years. No variation. For spending cash, she worked at The Market. The job was filthy, and the hours were long, but it was simple. Charlie was wickedly smart, but she liked the grunt job. It gave her an excuse to have short, rough nails. Besides spitting, this was her only flaw. Bad hands. And being part of the downtown scene was all that she had left of her creative side. She took home leftover produce, and she liked the ease of it. Among all market employees, Charlie stood out. Everyone thought she was spitting gorgeous. Daily, men and women whistled at her. So she stayed. For ten years.
Something must be wrong with the light, Charlie thought. No change. Still, she stood there waiting, sweating, and musing about her life. Ten hours a day, four days a week, her job was to stand with a dripping, half-cut nectarine and force testers on the tourists. To the boss, fruits and vegetables were gold. Charlie’s stand was the largest in The Market. Daily, tourists weaved through her aisles, squeezing skins; what they took home had to feel ripe.
When they packed in on her at lunchtime, Charlie gave it her all. She'd yell, "Last chance! Eastern Washington nectarines and peaches! Come and get 'em!" over and over until, on the busiest days, her voice turned hoarse. Sexed-up.
--
For ten years, Charlie had taken the same route home.
She still hadn't gone far. Still waiting on the damn light. All around her, people started shifting and complaining, but Charlie said nothing. She waited. Like a sniper, she waited. As usual, in each hand, she carried a plastic bag full of avocados, lettuce, peaches, almonds, and more. One bag split. She paused to check the damage. She'd lost everything. She shrugged, littered, and finally walked forward. One bag was enough for her and Danny, her husband, anyway.
But when she neared the bus stop, when she looked up again, she saw someone strange and new. There was a man, an oddly young, white-haired man; he was heading toward Seattle's Best Coffee. Quickly. On a mission, perhaps. The man looked cool. Retro.
Charlie thought about stiff Danny. A handsome, slick computer suit. She and Danny were a horrific match. They both said so daily. But they stayed together, acting out parts in their modern, cold apartment uptown. It held angular furniture, the kind that looked better than it felt. What kept them together was the sex, and the codependency that Charlie knew everything about, but she didn't care. Long ago, she'd decided that she wasn't changing anytime soon. "Anytime soon" had turned into ten years of Charlie waiting on Danny and his cocaine to come home.
The white-haired man stopped in front of Seattle's Best Coffee, studying the building.
Curious, Charlie watched him. Her stomach hurt, gurgled. Then she felt her gut start to boil, as if it might rupture. She put a hand at her aching belly. Something seemed wrong.
Danny always thought it was cute. Her shrugging, her spitting silence, her stomach aches.
Charlie liked the sex.
The white-haired one rocked from foot to foot, the way Charlie's fish stand lover did. The fish guys were two stands down from her stand. While the boss timed her, during Charlie's coffee breaks, she watched the men throw salmon. Hands gloved in slime, the fish men sang to the tourists, reeling them in, smiling and wiping grimy fingers on grimy aprons that were already black from the day before. Daily, Charlie imagined their hands turning into slick, human fins. Danny had taken away many of her things -- her paints, her brushes, and her blank canvases -- but Danny couldn't steal her imagination. This, and the spitting and the sharks, was Charlie's little secret.
For ten years, she'd been picking up sharks, banging them. Her current one was twenty-three, and he had quite the stamina. Kid was always asking Charlie to leave Danny and run away to Portland, but when he looked at her with watery blue eyes, begging, "Please," Charlie shrugged and answered, "Maybe." She'd said "maybe" to a different shark for ten years. Please, please, please.
The white-haired man wasn't moving. Customers slipped in and out of Seattle's Best, and he stood there, staring at the window.
Charlie had never seen him near the Market. Not a customer or worker. She studied the back of him.
He wore slick black gloves. Black combat boots, a black leather jacket. Too many layers for summer.
Charlie moved closer.
The white-haired man slowly reached inside his jacket, pulling out a black gun.
Drooling, Charlie put a hand over her mouth.
Slowly, he aimed the gun at the glass window of Seattle's Best Coffee and shot. Then he stood there smiling, watching people run.
Behind him, like a firm statue, Charlie waited. Maybe he'll kill himself, she thought. But he didn't. It didn't seem like he was looking for money or blood. Charlie spat.
Everywhere, people scattered into alleys. Even after the shatter, the screams, and finally, the sirens, the white-haired man stood still, putting his gun on the ground, surrendering, hands up.
While they cuffed him, he looked back at Charlie.
Amidst the chaos, she was the only one standing out in the open. A still, naked, easy target.
The shooter's expression remained flat, expressionless. His v-shaped mouth was closed tight, upturned at the corners like an envelope's seal. Then he smiled at her.
Charlie shrugged. For a second, she thought about smiling back, but people were looking. Still hiding, but they were looking. The shooter's only visible audience, she stood tall, full of rage and peace and utter fear and no one was near. No one came out of hiding. She felt like her body might split in two, and half of her would roll away like a splintering, wooden wheel. She'd never felt so bare, so exposed. No more than a blank piece of thin, wet paper about to tear.
Repeatedly, the shooter turned his head to look at her. He smiled one last time before the cops got rough. When the police hauled him away in a dark cruiser, the sky leaked rain.
She'd better get home. Surely, Danny was waiting, wanting her to make him a meal. But for some reason, it felt good to connect with a criminal. Charlie had never even stolen a single grape.
Nobody died that night.
--
The next morning, Charlie didn't kiss Danny, because she knew he hated her strawberry lip-gloss.
They had sex on the kitchen table.
In his stiff suit, Danny gave her a stiff hug and left.
As usual, wearing a pretty dress and sandals, she took the bus to work.
Mornings, Charlie had to carefully arrange the fruit and vegetables to attract people. Colors sucked them in. She was good with colors. But numbers were difficult. Sometimes, she cheated customers. Sometimes, they cheated Charlie. But she figured it all worked out in the end, one way or another.
Lunchtime. It happened every day. When she bent down to pull out a crate of nectarines, her boss laughed and said, "While you're down there, why don’t you do me a favor?" He said this when her eyes were level with his zipper. His mustache was thick, a spongy mess hanging over his lip.
Charlie thought about peeling him, but she smiled, shrugged, turned, and became good and quiet, hauling out the heavy crate, acting like nothing happened. For ten years, she acted like nothing happened.
"Last chance. Come and get 'em," Charlie muttered to the tourists.
On her way home that night, it rained hard. She accepted the feel and kept on walking, oblivious, imagining she was in the desert.
At the bus stop, she thought about Danny saving her from Dr. Mom and Dr. Dad. When Charlie was ten, she got a "B" once, which made her sniffle.
Mom said, "Suck it up, Charlotte. Life's rough. Work harder."
Mom and Dad were doctors who liked to save the world. To Charlie, Mom was a Type A bitch, and Dad was a shoe sole.
After the "B," Charlie made an apple wood carving in Art class. Because it looked so real, and she was hungry, she bit into it. She got splinters in her teeth. And a bloody lip. Other kids laughed at her. Laughed and laughed. Charlie decided that day to never, ever create anything that real again. Then, when no one was looking, she spat.
Her bus came and went. Charlie sat still. After ten years of Danny, uptown, thick silence, suits and sex on hard, angular chairs, Charlie's teeth chattered. She felt a subtle, stirring anger, and then full-on fury bled into her. She pictured Danny coming home from the office, wearing his fresh-pressed suit, and his striped, expensive tie. She pictured Danny opening and shutting and opening and shutting the blinds. She pictured him doing lines on the glass den table, then leaving without a word. Then she saw him returning at six a.m., redressing, wanting sex and breakfast.
Always home by eight p.m. Ten years of home by eight. She should be there, boiling something.
Another bus came. And went.
People did what doctors told them to do. If Charlie didn't, Dr. Mom would give her that look, and that look meant that no matter what, Charlie was no more than bruised fruit. Suck it up, Charlotte. Life's rough. Rough enough to give her splinters. Later, alone, she had to pick them out of her lip, in the basement, in the dark, tasting blood and spitting and tasting blood until it tasted good.
Then Charlie thought about the shooter. She thought about his nature -- unpredictable and cool. She thought about what she could do, since she wasn't home, boiling dinner. She could find her lover, the kid shark. Please. Maybe. No. She had another idea.
She returned to the bus stop. Here it came. It was the wrong bus to take her home, but suddenly, it was the right bus to Charlie. Why not, she thought. Why not just get on the wrong bus, get off at the wrong stop, and stay there. Forever. Why not.
Riding, she pressed her pale face to the window, watching the human blur outside. Another bus, then another, a few cell calls, and she arrived where they were holding him, the shooter.
She crossed the street without looking. Suddenly, feeling was everything. The rain was the bullet kind. All around, people ran for cover. No control over the weather and the way the peaches weren't ripe yet. They came around with time. Danny was probably home, nursing a bloody nose, wondering why she wasn't there, slicing pears.
She acted slutty with the officers, getting the shooter's name. Aaron something. She sketched it down.
For ten years, Charlie had access to Danny's money. For ten years, she'd refused to borrow cash. But she remembered the passwords. All letters. Letters came easy to her. A few calls to Key Bank, a few emails on her cell, a few transfers, presto. Finally, she had a reason to harvest the goods.
That summer, jails were overflowing. It wasn't hard to bail Aaron out.
Aaron's white hair was slick. His big eyes were shaped like sideways avocados, turning into pistachios when he squinted at her.
Charlie picked at the remnants of mushrooms under her nails.
Aaron came forward to the free side.
Side by side, they walked like any old couple. Criminal and artist, interchangeable.
Aaron put his jacket around her shoulders. His eyes opened and changed. More like plums.
Charlie thought of pistachios. She loved them until the boss saw Charlie breaking shells with her teeth, and he gave her that look that said, While you're down there.
Danny might be calling the cops, looking. No, he wouldn't want them finding his coke. Either way, right then, there was nothing better than wild, convict Aaron and the rain. That was enough.
Together, they took the bus to Aaron's pad, a dive in Belltown.
Inside, when Aaron kissed her, he kissed her. He swallowed her. He sucked her in. Lip to lip, he held her there. She felt him grow into her. She felt her insides tear.
His hair moved like white fire.
Aaron rested his head on her blue dress, and they slept this way.
--
In the morning, Charlie stretched out naked on the futon. Her body tingled, feeling new.
Aaron looked strangely peaceful, lightly snoring on his side.
She slipped a pretty dress over her head, ran her fingers over her bangs, smoothing them, and stood, looking around.
Aaron's place was simple. One knife, one fork, one pan. No clutter.
She made coffee. Seattle's Best. Black. She felt cold, damp, chilled, as if she were inside a melon. Sipping from the mug, she tiptoed around, rummaging, finding Aaron's other gun under a couch pillow.
She slipped the gun into her purse. One last time, she looked at him. Aaron was strange, dangerous and beautiful, and he had never even spoken to her. She thought about poking him, just to make sure he was real. She thought about squeezing him, testing his age. Then she decided that it was better to wonder. In the moments with Aaron, words had been replaced by lips, jackets, and the sound of his and her breath, breath and only breath, breath alone. With him, she was fresh juice. She was thirsty and alive.
Quietly, she slipped out the door like a thin letter. Heading to work, she felt pensive and alert. She hadn't missed a day in ten years, and she wasn't about to break that vine. When the rain came down hard enough, Charlie drank it. She had to finish things with the boss.
Morning wasn't bad. Charlie weighed apples and caught bananas, yelling, "Last chance! Eastern Washington nectarines and peaches! Come and get 'em! Last chance!" She was perky. She sold it like a lady.
Around lunchtime, Charlie had a bad taste in her mouth. She was sick of hard furniture, lists, and bringing home leftovers. She was sick of Danny leaving, coming home, leaving, sick of his missing nose cartilage, sick of lines on the table, the fruit, the bruises, the fruit, the skins. Nothing was ever fully skinned, edible, tangible, real, whole. No matter how much she touched handsome Danny, he was never better, never ripe.
"Come and get 'em!" she yelled. "Last chance!"
The boss was rotten too. People could be tricky. She could get too close, and they locked her up, and no matter how gorgeous the house or the market colors were, they were still prisons. Suck it up, Charlotte. Life's rough. This much was clear.
The boss cracked his knuckles over and over, like he was trying to get at a nut's insides. Crack, crack, crack. He had leftover lunch on his mustache.
Charlie fixed the fruit, and when she bent down, when her mouth was level with the boss' zipper, when he said, "While you're down there," she reached her hand inside her purse, pulling out her bug-style sunglasses, slipping them on. Then she reached deeper, finding the cold gun with her bad hands.
She shot at the star fruit, the kiwis, and all of the produce until guts were everywhere. The boss screamed, running down the aisle, backing his fat body against the fish stand.
Smiling, Charlie stood still, holding the gun loosely.
The boss' eyes widened, apricot-sized. Then he covered his face with his hands, crouching low in front of the fish stand's glass case.
She raised the gun again, pointing it at his apron. She said, "While you're down there," smiling. Her finger brushed the trigger.
Then she spotted the blue-eyed kid, her lover shark, who had a wicked tremor going on. He stood up tall, moving his skinny body between Charlie and the boss, right in the line of fire.
Charlie stared into his watery, grape eyes.
One tear drifted out of the kid's left eye, cleaning his market-soiled face. "Please, Charlie, please," he said.
Charlie spat, putting the gun down. She whispered, "Why not."
Nobody died that day.
While You're Down There
by C.A. MacConnell
Stifling. The air. A hot, damp, thick Seattle summer evening. Seven-thirty on the nose, it was time for Charlie to head home. She scanned the crowd and spat. It was her secret, buried bad side that flew out of her mouth only when no one was looking. A simple thing - spitting - but it felt good. It seemed like she had spent her entire life with her mouth pursed in a tight petal, acting demure. Spitting, every now and then, gave her a tiny, wet release. When no one was looking.
Standing at the entrance to Seattle's Pike Place Market, Charlie removed her apron. Under the apron, Charlie was thin. Well put together. She was thirty-three, but she looked twenty-six, give or take a few.
With a bony finger, she tucked her hair behind her right ear. For ten years, she'd maintained neat, straight, brown hair with short bangs. She slid on bug-style, sexy sunglasses, hiding her deep brown eyes.
Moving forward, Charlie waited to cross the street. Wind blew at her dress enough to reveal her pale, clean, long legs, and her slender ankles. When she went out, anywhere, she wore dresses with closed-toe sandals. Market rules on shoes. Calf-high boots in the winter. Her classy look never varied. When she walked the Seattle streets, heads turned.
The lights were taking forever. Red. No change. A dirty skate kid rolled up, handing her a flyer for the latest show at the Seattle Art Museum.
Charlie read the brochure, then tore it to shreds. At heart, she was a painter, but she never painted anymore. Not for ten years.
For ten years, she'd lived in the city of rain. Ten years. No variation. For spending cash, she worked at The Market. The job was filthy, and the hours were long, but it was simple. Charlie was wickedly smart, but she liked the grunt job. It gave her an excuse to have short, rough nails. Besides spitting, this was her only flaw. Bad hands. And being part of the downtown scene was all that she had left of her creative side. She took home leftover produce, and she liked the ease of it. Among all market employees, Charlie stood out. Everyone thought she was spitting gorgeous. Daily, men and women whistled at her. So she stayed. For ten years.
Something must be wrong with the light, Charlie thought. No change. Still, she stood there waiting, sweating, and musing about her life. Ten hours a day, four days a week, her job was to stand with a dripping, half-cut nectarine and force testers on the tourists. To the boss, fruits and vegetables were gold. Charlie’s stand was the largest in The Market. Daily, tourists weaved through her aisles, squeezing skins; what they took home had to feel ripe.
When they packed in on her at lunchtime, Charlie gave it her all. She'd yell, "Last chance! Eastern Washington nectarines and peaches! Come and get 'em!" over and over until, on the busiest days, her voice turned hoarse. Sexed-up.
--
For ten years, Charlie had taken the same route home.
She still hadn't gone far. Still waiting on the damn light. All around her, people started shifting and complaining, but Charlie said nothing. She waited. Like a sniper, she waited. As usual, in each hand, she carried a plastic bag full of avocados, lettuce, peaches, almonds, and more. One bag split. She paused to check the damage. She'd lost everything. She shrugged, littered, and finally walked forward. One bag was enough for her and Danny, her husband, anyway.
But when she neared the bus stop, when she looked up again, she saw someone strange and new. There was a man, an oddly young, white-haired man; he was heading toward Seattle's Best Coffee. Quickly. On a mission, perhaps. The man looked cool. Retro.
Charlie thought about stiff Danny. A handsome, slick computer suit. She and Danny were a horrific match. They both said so daily. But they stayed together, acting out parts in their modern, cold apartment uptown. It held angular furniture, the kind that looked better than it felt. What kept them together was the sex, and the codependency that Charlie knew everything about, but she didn't care. Long ago, she'd decided that she wasn't changing anytime soon. "Anytime soon" had turned into ten years of Charlie waiting on Danny and his cocaine to come home.
The white-haired man stopped in front of Seattle's Best Coffee, studying the building.
Curious, Charlie watched him. Her stomach hurt, gurgled. Then she felt her gut start to boil, as if it might rupture. She put a hand at her aching belly. Something seemed wrong.
Danny always thought it was cute. Her shrugging, her spitting silence, her stomach aches.
Charlie liked the sex.
The white-haired one rocked from foot to foot, the way Charlie's fish stand lover did. The fish guys were two stands down from her stand. While the boss timed her, during Charlie's coffee breaks, she watched the men throw salmon. Hands gloved in slime, the fish men sang to the tourists, reeling them in, smiling and wiping grimy fingers on grimy aprons that were already black from the day before. Daily, Charlie imagined their hands turning into slick, human fins. Danny had taken away many of her things -- her paints, her brushes, and her blank canvases -- but Danny couldn't steal her imagination. This, and the spitting and the sharks, was Charlie's little secret.
For ten years, she'd been picking up sharks, banging them. Her current one was twenty-three, and he had quite the stamina. Kid was always asking Charlie to leave Danny and run away to Portland, but when he looked at her with watery blue eyes, begging, "Please," Charlie shrugged and answered, "Maybe." She'd said "maybe" to a different shark for ten years. Please, please, please.
The white-haired man wasn't moving. Customers slipped in and out of Seattle's Best, and he stood there, staring at the window.
Charlie had never seen him near the Market. Not a customer or worker. She studied the back of him.
He wore slick black gloves. Black combat boots, a black leather jacket. Too many layers for summer.
Charlie moved closer.
The white-haired man slowly reached inside his jacket, pulling out a black gun.
Drooling, Charlie put a hand over her mouth.
Slowly, he aimed the gun at the glass window of Seattle's Best Coffee and shot. Then he stood there smiling, watching people run.
Behind him, like a firm statue, Charlie waited. Maybe he'll kill himself, she thought. But he didn't. It didn't seem like he was looking for money or blood. Charlie spat.
Everywhere, people scattered into alleys. Even after the shatter, the screams, and finally, the sirens, the white-haired man stood still, putting his gun on the ground, surrendering, hands up.
While they cuffed him, he looked back at Charlie.
Amidst the chaos, she was the only one standing out in the open. A still, naked, easy target.
The shooter's expression remained flat, expressionless. His v-shaped mouth was closed tight, upturned at the corners like an envelope's seal. Then he smiled at her.
Charlie shrugged. For a second, she thought about smiling back, but people were looking. Still hiding, but they were looking. The shooter's only visible audience, she stood tall, full of rage and peace and utter fear and no one was near. No one came out of hiding. She felt like her body might split in two, and half of her would roll away like a splintering, wooden wheel. She'd never felt so bare, so exposed. No more than a blank piece of thin, wet paper about to tear.
Repeatedly, the shooter turned his head to look at her. He smiled one last time before the cops got rough. When the police hauled him away in a dark cruiser, the sky leaked rain.
She'd better get home. Surely, Danny was waiting, wanting her to make him a meal. But for some reason, it felt good to connect with a criminal. Charlie had never even stolen a single grape.
Nobody died that night.
--
The next morning, Charlie didn't kiss Danny, because she knew he hated her strawberry lip-gloss.
They had sex on the kitchen table.
In his stiff suit, Danny gave her a stiff hug and left.
As usual, wearing a pretty dress and sandals, she took the bus to work.
Mornings, Charlie had to carefully arrange the fruit and vegetables to attract people. Colors sucked them in. She was good with colors. But numbers were difficult. Sometimes, she cheated customers. Sometimes, they cheated Charlie. But she figured it all worked out in the end, one way or another.
Lunchtime. It happened every day. When she bent down to pull out a crate of nectarines, her boss laughed and said, "While you're down there, why don’t you do me a favor?" He said this when her eyes were level with his zipper. His mustache was thick, a spongy mess hanging over his lip.
Charlie thought about peeling him, but she smiled, shrugged, turned, and became good and quiet, hauling out the heavy crate, acting like nothing happened. For ten years, she acted like nothing happened.
"Last chance. Come and get 'em," Charlie muttered to the tourists.
On her way home that night, it rained hard. She accepted the feel and kept on walking, oblivious, imagining she was in the desert.
At the bus stop, she thought about Danny saving her from Dr. Mom and Dr. Dad. When Charlie was ten, she got a "B" once, which made her sniffle.
Mom said, "Suck it up, Charlotte. Life's rough. Work harder."
Mom and Dad were doctors who liked to save the world. To Charlie, Mom was a Type A bitch, and Dad was a shoe sole.
After the "B," Charlie made an apple wood carving in Art class. Because it looked so real, and she was hungry, she bit into it. She got splinters in her teeth. And a bloody lip. Other kids laughed at her. Laughed and laughed. Charlie decided that day to never, ever create anything that real again. Then, when no one was looking, she spat.
Her bus came and went. Charlie sat still. After ten years of Danny, uptown, thick silence, suits and sex on hard, angular chairs, Charlie's teeth chattered. She felt a subtle, stirring anger, and then full-on fury bled into her. She pictured Danny coming home from the office, wearing his fresh-pressed suit, and his striped, expensive tie. She pictured Danny opening and shutting and opening and shutting the blinds. She pictured him doing lines on the glass den table, then leaving without a word. Then she saw him returning at six a.m., redressing, wanting sex and breakfast.
Always home by eight p.m. Ten years of home by eight. She should be there, boiling something.
Another bus came. And went.
People did what doctors told them to do. If Charlie didn't, Dr. Mom would give her that look, and that look meant that no matter what, Charlie was no more than bruised fruit. Suck it up, Charlotte. Life's rough. Rough enough to give her splinters. Later, alone, she had to pick them out of her lip, in the basement, in the dark, tasting blood and spitting and tasting blood until it tasted good.
Then Charlie thought about the shooter. She thought about his nature -- unpredictable and cool. She thought about what she could do, since she wasn't home, boiling dinner. She could find her lover, the kid shark. Please. Maybe. No. She had another idea.
She returned to the bus stop. Here it came. It was the wrong bus to take her home, but suddenly, it was the right bus to Charlie. Why not, she thought. Why not just get on the wrong bus, get off at the wrong stop, and stay there. Forever. Why not.
Riding, she pressed her pale face to the window, watching the human blur outside. Another bus, then another, a few cell calls, and she arrived where they were holding him, the shooter.
She crossed the street without looking. Suddenly, feeling was everything. The rain was the bullet kind. All around, people ran for cover. No control over the weather and the way the peaches weren't ripe yet. They came around with time. Danny was probably home, nursing a bloody nose, wondering why she wasn't there, slicing pears.
She acted slutty with the officers, getting the shooter's name. Aaron something. She sketched it down.
For ten years, Charlie had access to Danny's money. For ten years, she'd refused to borrow cash. But she remembered the passwords. All letters. Letters came easy to her. A few calls to Key Bank, a few emails on her cell, a few transfers, presto. Finally, she had a reason to harvest the goods.
That summer, jails were overflowing. It wasn't hard to bail Aaron out.
Aaron's white hair was slick. His big eyes were shaped like sideways avocados, turning into pistachios when he squinted at her.
Charlie picked at the remnants of mushrooms under her nails.
Aaron came forward to the free side.
Side by side, they walked like any old couple. Criminal and artist, interchangeable.
Aaron put his jacket around her shoulders. His eyes opened and changed. More like plums.
Charlie thought of pistachios. She loved them until the boss saw Charlie breaking shells with her teeth, and he gave her that look that said, While you're down there.
Danny might be calling the cops, looking. No, he wouldn't want them finding his coke. Either way, right then, there was nothing better than wild, convict Aaron and the rain. That was enough.
Together, they took the bus to Aaron's pad, a dive in Belltown.
Inside, when Aaron kissed her, he kissed her. He swallowed her. He sucked her in. Lip to lip, he held her there. She felt him grow into her. She felt her insides tear.
His hair moved like white fire.
Aaron rested his head on her blue dress, and they slept this way.
--
In the morning, Charlie stretched out naked on the futon. Her body tingled, feeling new.
Aaron looked strangely peaceful, lightly snoring on his side.
She slipped a pretty dress over her head, ran her fingers over her bangs, smoothing them, and stood, looking around.
Aaron's place was simple. One knife, one fork, one pan. No clutter.
She made coffee. Seattle's Best. Black. She felt cold, damp, chilled, as if she were inside a melon. Sipping from the mug, she tiptoed around, rummaging, finding Aaron's other gun under a couch pillow.
She slipped the gun into her purse. One last time, she looked at him. Aaron was strange, dangerous and beautiful, and he had never even spoken to her. She thought about poking him, just to make sure he was real. She thought about squeezing him, testing his age. Then she decided that it was better to wonder. In the moments with Aaron, words had been replaced by lips, jackets, and the sound of his and her breath, breath and only breath, breath alone. With him, she was fresh juice. She was thirsty and alive.
Quietly, she slipped out the door like a thin letter. Heading to work, she felt pensive and alert. She hadn't missed a day in ten years, and she wasn't about to break that vine. When the rain came down hard enough, Charlie drank it. She had to finish things with the boss.
Morning wasn't bad. Charlie weighed apples and caught bananas, yelling, "Last chance! Eastern Washington nectarines and peaches! Come and get 'em! Last chance!" She was perky. She sold it like a lady.
Around lunchtime, Charlie had a bad taste in her mouth. She was sick of hard furniture, lists, and bringing home leftovers. She was sick of Danny leaving, coming home, leaving, sick of his missing nose cartilage, sick of lines on the table, the fruit, the bruises, the fruit, the skins. Nothing was ever fully skinned, edible, tangible, real, whole. No matter how much she touched handsome Danny, he was never better, never ripe.
"Come and get 'em!" she yelled. "Last chance!"
The boss was rotten too. People could be tricky. She could get too close, and they locked her up, and no matter how gorgeous the house or the market colors were, they were still prisons. Suck it up, Charlotte. Life's rough. This much was clear.
The boss cracked his knuckles over and over, like he was trying to get at a nut's insides. Crack, crack, crack. He had leftover lunch on his mustache.
Charlie fixed the fruit, and when she bent down, when her mouth was level with the boss' zipper, when he said, "While you're down there," she reached her hand inside her purse, pulling out her bug-style sunglasses, slipping them on. Then she reached deeper, finding the cold gun with her bad hands.
She shot at the star fruit, the kiwis, and all of the produce until guts were everywhere. The boss screamed, running down the aisle, backing his fat body against the fish stand.
Smiling, Charlie stood still, holding the gun loosely.
The boss' eyes widened, apricot-sized. Then he covered his face with his hands, crouching low in front of the fish stand's glass case.
She raised the gun again, pointing it at his apron. She said, "While you're down there," smiling. Her finger brushed the trigger.
Then she spotted the blue-eyed kid, her lover shark, who had a wicked tremor going on. He stood up tall, moving his skinny body between Charlie and the boss, right in the line of fire.
Charlie stared into his watery, grape eyes.
One tear drifted out of the kid's left eye, cleaning his market-soiled face. "Please, Charlie, please," he said.
Charlie spat, putting the gun down. She whispered, "Why not."
Nobody died that day.
7/06/2018
Photo: Little Miami River
Little Miami River
Milford, OH
Been doing some job hunting...now, it's time to work on Book Three. Hope you like the pic. Have a wonderful evening. And remember...expect a miracle.
C.A. MacConnell
C.A. MacConnell
I'm Glad I Have This Macaroni
When I was in preschool, I had a crush on this boy we'll call Bruce Manley. Well, it seems that Bruce was a little confused; he liked me as well as my best friend Sarah. So Bruce had an idea -- he told us to line up back to back, and he would ultimately date the girl who was taller "forever and ever."
In all of my four-year-old being, I was ready for the Bruce commitment. But I was one of the smallest in the class, and I knew I was screwed, but I backed up to Sarah and stood on my tiptoes anyhow, stretching with all of my might, hoping for some sudden, divine miracle. I thought if I closed my eyes tightly, maybe, just maybe, God would make me grow right then. Or if not God, maybe a unicorn could help me out with its magic.
For what seemed like an eternity, Bruce held up his hand, measuring our toddler heights. Not sure why he took so long, because Sarah was clearly about two inches taller than me. But he kept muttering strange half-words, like, "Hm," holding up his hand, and checking our measurements.
Eventually, when Sarah and I began to shift around and say things like, "Come on," Bruce announced the winner -- Sarah, of course.
Defeated, I moved to the side and dug my hand in the vat full of dry macaroni. Not sure why that was there, but in that preschool room, there were several bins full of strange substances, and I suppose it was for sensory development, I dunno, but I clearly remember the feel of it -- cool, strange, lovely, and weirdly familiar.
By then, Sarah and Bruce were standing next to each other, but there was about a foot of space between them.
I watched them, wondering what they would do next since they were suddenly a couple. I thought they might hold hands or hug or head over to the Legos. I was sure that something big was coming.
But they just stood there, and the gap between them remained, and I remember thinking, I'm glad I have this macaroni, so I don't look dumb. And then I realized something else...down the way, there was this boy playing with the toy circus train, and I had never seen such a tall, plastic giraffe, not to mention the lion with jointed legs and a tail that spun around. So I headed over to check out the caboose.
Guess I wasn't the tallest or the winner, and oftentimes, I'm not, when it comes to the storybook end. But even at 43 years old, on my desk, my pen holder is a tin in the shape of R2D2, and my backpacks are Wonder Woman and My Little Pony, and the other day, I stole a basketball from some kid at the park for a minute when he wasn't looking, and I'm certain that on that fateful day when Bruce picked Sarah, God or a unicorn taught me this: never, ever forget how to play.
C.A. MacConnell
In all of my four-year-old being, I was ready for the Bruce commitment. But I was one of the smallest in the class, and I knew I was screwed, but I backed up to Sarah and stood on my tiptoes anyhow, stretching with all of my might, hoping for some sudden, divine miracle. I thought if I closed my eyes tightly, maybe, just maybe, God would make me grow right then. Or if not God, maybe a unicorn could help me out with its magic.
For what seemed like an eternity, Bruce held up his hand, measuring our toddler heights. Not sure why he took so long, because Sarah was clearly about two inches taller than me. But he kept muttering strange half-words, like, "Hm," holding up his hand, and checking our measurements.
Eventually, when Sarah and I began to shift around and say things like, "Come on," Bruce announced the winner -- Sarah, of course.
Defeated, I moved to the side and dug my hand in the vat full of dry macaroni. Not sure why that was there, but in that preschool room, there were several bins full of strange substances, and I suppose it was for sensory development, I dunno, but I clearly remember the feel of it -- cool, strange, lovely, and weirdly familiar.
By then, Sarah and Bruce were standing next to each other, but there was about a foot of space between them.
I watched them, wondering what they would do next since they were suddenly a couple. I thought they might hold hands or hug or head over to the Legos. I was sure that something big was coming.
But they just stood there, and the gap between them remained, and I remember thinking, I'm glad I have this macaroni, so I don't look dumb. And then I realized something else...down the way, there was this boy playing with the toy circus train, and I had never seen such a tall, plastic giraffe, not to mention the lion with jointed legs and a tail that spun around. So I headed over to check out the caboose.
Guess I wasn't the tallest or the winner, and oftentimes, I'm not, when it comes to the storybook end. But even at 43 years old, on my desk, my pen holder is a tin in the shape of R2D2, and my backpacks are Wonder Woman and My Little Pony, and the other day, I stole a basketball from some kid at the park for a minute when he wasn't looking, and I'm certain that on that fateful day when Bruce picked Sarah, God or a unicorn taught me this: never, ever forget how to play.
C.A. MacConnell
7/05/2018
The Drive, the Aftermath.
It's interesting. I can't sleep, as usual. See, I spent more than twenty years of my life working with horses, making my way all the way up to become a professional rider. At some point, I thought I let it go, but the life always seemed to come back, and I'd dabble in it again -- as a rider, a teacher, a groom, a barn worker, and the like, on and on, steady and continuous.
It has come up again, and I'm not sure quite what to do. I'm literally on the fence.
Ever wonder what it's like for an Olympic ice skater to retire? They spend their whole lives practicing, and then, suddenly, one day, they wake up and realize that the triple axel was for some weird series of strange competitions, and they may throw out their skates, and they have bills to pay, a dog to feed, and a new partner who's making dinner. Nothing seems to make sense because before, the only thing that made sense was the ice.
Yes.
From ten years old on, my focus was on riding. I never dated in grade school, high school, and not much in college, and as a result, I suppose I'm rather immature. Always, I tore out of school at the end of the day, heading to the barn. I obsessed about riding. Now that I'm 43, I admit that the drive is still there, but do we always have to pay attention to these drives? I remember, at the height of my career, right after I quit, I sat in my apartment, teary-eyed, and rocked on the couch, because I was so used to the constant movement of riding so many horses a day that I couldn't stand to sit still.
No, the drive isn't that intense anymore, and I have a fuller life, but indeed, I miss horses here and there.
So an opportunity comes again -- a small chance, but it has potential. But when I think of those skaters and how they continue their lives, I notice a pattern. At some point, they seem to let go of the competition and head back into the mindset that they had when they first began the sport as an eager kid. It's like this: I think I'll just do it for fun.
But with horses, when you do it for fun, you need extensive financial backing, a world beyond a mere pair of ice skates. So I've always worked in the business instead. And when I wasn't working, I wasn't riding. But I believe there's a reason for everything, even within the simplest of decisions. When I think about the question, "What is the most important thing to me at this age?" I'd have to say, it's not competition or writing or books or having all of the equipment or winning at shows. Simply put, the most important things to me are these biggies: support and love.
See, I don't need to rock on my couch anymore, feeling teary. Because if I keep support and love in mind, the decisions I make will always bring me what I need and in turn, I can give back. And that fills me up in a way that I never knew was possible when I was so driven to ride and succeed. Now I can kick back, smile, close my eyes, and know that at some point, it will all make sense again.
I suppose I've already written my way into a decision, right here, right now. Whenever I 'm doubtful, I get quiet, look inside my heart, and ask myself, "Which way am I leaning?"
I hope your decisions come to you easily on your journey today. I hope that you feel loved,
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. 💕💕💕
It has come up again, and I'm not sure quite what to do. I'm literally on the fence.
Ever wonder what it's like for an Olympic ice skater to retire? They spend their whole lives practicing, and then, suddenly, one day, they wake up and realize that the triple axel was for some weird series of strange competitions, and they may throw out their skates, and they have bills to pay, a dog to feed, and a new partner who's making dinner. Nothing seems to make sense because before, the only thing that made sense was the ice.
Yes.
From ten years old on, my focus was on riding. I never dated in grade school, high school, and not much in college, and as a result, I suppose I'm rather immature. Always, I tore out of school at the end of the day, heading to the barn. I obsessed about riding. Now that I'm 43, I admit that the drive is still there, but do we always have to pay attention to these drives? I remember, at the height of my career, right after I quit, I sat in my apartment, teary-eyed, and rocked on the couch, because I was so used to the constant movement of riding so many horses a day that I couldn't stand to sit still.
No, the drive isn't that intense anymore, and I have a fuller life, but indeed, I miss horses here and there.
So an opportunity comes again -- a small chance, but it has potential. But when I think of those skaters and how they continue their lives, I notice a pattern. At some point, they seem to let go of the competition and head back into the mindset that they had when they first began the sport as an eager kid. It's like this: I think I'll just do it for fun.
But with horses, when you do it for fun, you need extensive financial backing, a world beyond a mere pair of ice skates. So I've always worked in the business instead. And when I wasn't working, I wasn't riding. But I believe there's a reason for everything, even within the simplest of decisions. When I think about the question, "What is the most important thing to me at this age?" I'd have to say, it's not competition or writing or books or having all of the equipment or winning at shows. Simply put, the most important things to me are these biggies: support and love.
See, I don't need to rock on my couch anymore, feeling teary. Because if I keep support and love in mind, the decisions I make will always bring me what I need and in turn, I can give back. And that fills me up in a way that I never knew was possible when I was so driven to ride and succeed. Now I can kick back, smile, close my eyes, and know that at some point, it will all make sense again.
I suppose I've already written my way into a decision, right here, right now. Whenever I 'm doubtful, I get quiet, look inside my heart, and ask myself, "Which way am I leaning?"
I hope your decisions come to you easily on your journey today. I hope that you feel loved,
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. 💕💕💕
7/04/2018
Morning Prayer
Some more flash poetry for you this morning. When I say 'flash', that means, right off the top of my head, ha. :) Just playing around and getting in the groove. These exercises help me focus, for sure, and they help me add juice to my fiction. Gonna work on some edits today for book three, editing right on the hard copy, sweet. Getting closer! Love, C.A.
Morning Prayer
I'm getting better.
I like cool sheets, hot sweats, and the new necklace
on my collarbone. I like black snakes, skate shoes,
and a cutthroat game of horse. I haven't eaten out
in five years. Every day, I clean my place for a party
of one. I like four miles, five miles, faith, and trucker
hats. The Judge made me weep. I have around
thirteen tattoos, and many need retouching.
Like all men, I believe in storms, the lost mail,
and the mean little dog. I believe that the trees
hold the dead inside; I believe that they speak
to us, if we listen. I believe in the light that lives
within some eyes, and I believe that the others
will someday be coming. I like soft serve
and Catawba Mountain. For my size, I surprise
everyone in the weight room. I believe in the blink,
the grin, the wave, and the thumbs-up, that intention
says it all, and that silence can be divine. I'm terrible
with orders. I roll my eyes at suggestions. I think
I'd like to walk today. I like warm, red blankets,
men's t-shirts, rock and roll, and long, boy shorts.
I am better, but no one knows.
C.A. MacConnell
Morning Prayer
I'm getting better.
I like cool sheets, hot sweats, and the new necklace
on my collarbone. I like black snakes, skate shoes,
and a cutthroat game of horse. I haven't eaten out
in five years. Every day, I clean my place for a party
of one. I like four miles, five miles, faith, and trucker
hats. The Judge made me weep. I have around
thirteen tattoos, and many need retouching.
Like all men, I believe in storms, the lost mail,
and the mean little dog. I believe that the trees
hold the dead inside; I believe that they speak
to us, if we listen. I believe in the light that lives
within some eyes, and I believe that the others
will someday be coming. I like soft serve
and Catawba Mountain. For my size, I surprise
everyone in the weight room. I believe in the blink,
the grin, the wave, and the thumbs-up, that intention
says it all, and that silence can be divine. I'm terrible
with orders. I roll my eyes at suggestions. I think
I'd like to walk today. I like warm, red blankets,
men's t-shirts, rock and roll, and long, boy shorts.
I am better, but no one knows.
C.A. MacConnell
7/03/2018
Horse Sense
Fresh off the presses, from my tricky brain. Some flash poetry for you. Just getting warmed up. Hope you like it. Poetry puts me in another mindset, for sure. Have an awesome day! Love, C.A. 💓
Horse Sense
Mornings, I look out my window
For the orange and black
Stray cats,
For all of the colors, and the
Noise,
For the tumultuous
Weather,
For a rest from my racing brain,
For the time of
Day, and the hawks,
Even though
It's not their season.
Sometimes I wonder about
Heaven --
If it lives and breathes
Within an ear,
A tail,
A claw, or maybe inside the
Darkest alley.
When I was sixteen, my bay horse
Was simply,
God.
There were the others,
And then there was him.
I guess
I know these panes.
I guess I know that he was.
C.A. MacConnell
Horse Sense
Mornings, I look out my window
For the orange and black
Stray cats,
For all of the colors, and the
Noise,
For the tumultuous
Weather,
For a rest from my racing brain,
For the time of
Day, and the hawks,
Even though
It's not their season.
Sometimes I wonder about
Heaven --
If it lives and breathes
Within an ear,
A tail,
A claw, or maybe inside the
Darkest alley.
When I was sixteen, my bay horse
Was simply,
God.
There were the others,
And then there was him.
I guess
I know these panes.
I guess I know that he was.
C.A. MacConnell
7/02/2018
Photos: Leap 1, 2, 3
Series of shots I took a while back. Makes me think of stretching, growing, and marching through fear. 💪😃 Pictures inspire me at times. Peace out,
C.A. MacConnell
7/01/2018
Photo: Rugby
Rugby
This fellow was one I rode for a while. I have a soft spot for bays with stars. He dug me, which was a good thing, because if he didn't like someone, he'd play jokes on him or her. One time, I watched while this lady was trying to tack him up, and as soon as she turned around, he'd bite her butt or shoulder or pick up brushes in his mouth and throw them, making a mess all over. Then he pooped in her brush box. I swear when he turned his head to look at me he was cracking up. When I tacked him up, he stood there, no problem. Smart, smart horse.
Horse stories. I have a lot of them. Their personalities are one in a million, every single one. There are some sweethearts, and some real bad eggs here and there, and all in between -- immature, inexperienced, insecure, confident, sexy, all over the map. Just like people.
Horse stories. I have a lot of them. Their personalities are one in a million, every single one. There are some sweethearts, and some real bad eggs here and there, and all in between -- immature, inexperienced, insecure, confident, sexy, all over the map. Just like people.
Have a good evening. I'm getting some editing done. Hope you like the shot.
It's a scorcher.
C.A. MacConnell