Four Sisters.

 

Four Sisters

Took this some time back. They looked so happy, but yet, the path was treacherous that day. <3 to you,

C.A. MacConnell

Never Give Up, Ha.

 

Here I was at McDonalds, hahaha. It was -3 out, w/ a -17 wind chill I believe, and yet, I walked 5 miles. Actually, I had a blast...believe it or not. I'm doing it again tomorrow. It felt like being a kid for some reason. I was toasty...the key is NO AIR. You can't let any air in. I was so layered, I looked like a Weeble Wobble.

Love, C.A. MacConnell

Wish List

I'm gonna disappear for a little bit. If you're interested in my writings, I have a bunch of samples on here, all genres; hit up the "Labels" column on the right side of this page. You'll find a little of everything. Even better, check out my Amazon Author page, where you'll find my four novels. I'd love to have you join my journey.

This is the only holiday-ish poem I have. I'm not into celebrating certain days at all. Never have been. But I am into celebrating the feeling of love. Truth:  in my life outside of writing, I've been a lone soldier for many years, but I feel a closeness, an intimacy, when I write. Or when I look at pictures, movies, when I hear a certain voice or song, when I read into words or photographs and imagine where the story might go. Ah, and when I'm laughing. But often, I feel like a distant observer trooping through the world. I believe I'd like to learn more about true intimacy, though; I feel it with three of my longtime friends. And learning about it more sounds fun. I've spent many years solo, repairing trauma, getting to know who I am, and of course I'm still learning, but I'm proud of this journey, so whatever way it goes from here, I'm content with it. Not to mention, I'm stubborn as all hell, and I'm a strange, introverted bird, and I have some bad habits, ha. But who knows what or who might roll in. God has a way of surprising me lately.

A little, heartfelt piece that I wanted to share with you, one of many that I've written about love, one that comes from the kind of intimacy that I know...

Wish List

You, me, inside
the fire light.
On days like this,
I miss the left
side of your jawline.
I miss the slightly
larger shape,
the almond
of your right eye.
We will rest
in one simple room.
East or west,
north or south,
we will feel time
for what it is --
low lit, silent
and momentous.
Holiday, come.

C.A. MacConnell

P.S. On a practical note, I sure hope my soul mate doesn't arrive before I get these teeth fixed, haha. Also a work in progress, haha. Oh well, love me with jacked up teeth or not at all.

Missing Windows

 

Missing Windows

Much love, always, 
C.A. MacConnell

When Facing You

Someone drew
a white tiger
on every
inch
of duct tape,
and suddenly,
I was called upon
to study
the stripes.

C.A. MacConnell

Hawk, Sunrise.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Big Cat, and an essay. I'll Take the Risk.

 

This was a film shot. I love this. :) 

I'll Take the Risk

Hope you have a good day, regardless of what's going on in life and such. In general, I'm just pressing forward, doing the footwork, and leaving the rest up to the universe. "Suit up and show up," as they say. Here I am, absolutely powerless.

I've had a lot going on, as I'm sure many others do right now -- heavy ongoing stress, physical reactions, curveballs, financial hardships, exhilarating news, devastating news, many unknowns, pretty much all of that noise, and I've been blindsided by change, feeling rather shocked and surprised one day to the next.

But for the past six months or so, it's all been quite a solo venture. I've been spending a great deal of time meditating, as this is a time when I feel it's necessary to be quiet, listen carefully, and be true to myself. Whenever I get worked up, my first response tends to be a kneejerk reaction -- the desire to escape my feelings and feel better. Often, in the past, I'd panic, reaching for the phone, readings, a certain person, doctors, groups, or the like. Holy shit, I wanted to get rid of the feelings and feel better, sure...

But I've noticed that lately, my response has dramatically shifted; life's events have changed me. Instead, I've chosen to look inward. This feels wise and necessary, as these circumstances are not something I feel I can navigate through looking outward. 

Instead, I've been calling upon my inner strength; this route feels right and true to me. Sure, there have been a lot of tears, but feelings are fleeting, and they certainly haven't killed me thus far, and over the years, I've felt the gamut -- you name it, everything from a cavernous depression to a year's worth of panic attacks, and then some. And I'm still here. So, I let them roll in, but I continue to open myself to what's next, what's new, and embrace the uncertainty of change. 

This has all affected me physically as well. At the moment, my left arm and hand are numb; it comes and goes. Scary, right? Normally, I'd be jumping on that piece. And I admit I dove into chaos at first. But this morning, I'm not, because I know that in the past, I've had a number of physical reactions to stress, and my anxiety often tunnels into the land of somatic responses, and this is no different. So here I am, amazingly saying this:  numb arm? Fuck it, take a walk, do some yoga, get dressed, go to work. I've learned that if I needed the ER, there would be no question involved, and I would know. I'll eventually find a solution, and it'll all roll out. And oftentimes, after I push through the mental aspects, the physical problems fade as well. It's all interconnected.

And so, I sit, wait, listen, and act accordingly. There is a bit of risk involved. But therein lies faith as well. Bring it on.

Also, I've been laughing more, and I've been feeling closer to my higher power (higher self, God, soul, The Great Spirit, whatever you want to call it) as well. Not sure how this will all pan out, but I feel strange and new. Pressing forward feels right. Scary and uncomfortable, but right.

Ready for a new me. Ready for surprises. Ready for the curveballs. Bring it on. I'll take the risk, and I'll continue to look inward, because I rarely give myself enough credit for the horrors I've faced over the years. Wisdom comes from these battles. I'm learning to trust this wisdom.

C.A. MacConnell

Prayer Request

an oldie but goodie. :) <3

Prayer Request

Last night, I got kidnapped.
I was trapped
inside a hot

sanctuary.
I was shifty
in the church pew –
a cramped place
I have never called home.

Last night, I got lucky.
I discovered
a blank stack

of prayer request paper.
Three by five,
I drew you wearing suns.
I’ve never seen you like this,
but that's the way I always

picture you.
I drew me next to you.
I was reaching

for your middle.
I drew a taller me –
wild-haired,
stick hands nearly touching
the place where your belt

should be.
My fingers got lost
between your loops.

I've never seen me like this,
but the pencil made me
a lead-grey, dipping,
V-necked dress.
Your mouth

was a line.
My mouth
was a circle.

C.A. MacConnell

Hawk, Lunken

 

Hope you have a good night! Hopefully, I'll catch up with myself soon, and I'll be on a more regular writing schedule. Life has been busy as all hell and full of change. Thanks for your support on this site, if you're visiting. 

Love,

C.A. MacConnell

Leaves

 

C.A. MacConnell

Success: More, Less, Balance, and the Moment

What is success? Society and the media in general tend to lean toward money, fame, power, and looking good. All of the outsides, yes. And I catch myself easily focusing on the simplicity of this idea, as if there's some sort of tangible answer, something concrete...and if I attain this "thing," then I will be happy, and I'll stay that way. Seems so. Many outside influences often point that direction. Fleeting? False? Perhaps. But...what if I say this...honestly, some of these things have truly made me happy -- awards, surprise gifts, money, horse ribbons, achieving goals/dreams, a date with an old crush, new haircuts, and the like. Sure, some of this shit is cool. I'd be lying if I didn't say that I love the rush. And what's wrong with that? Winning is fun. More, more, more.

And then there's the other side...the religious and/or spiritual folks, who veer toward looking inward, rather than focusing on outward appearances and accolades. Here's what they say:  look inside. Meditate, pray. All is coming. Let your higher power be your employer. The answer is internal, right? And some of these things have made me happy as well. And what's wrong with that? Less, less, less. But these ideas tend to sway and change within me too. I've known some seemingly peaceful gurus, and I've known some pretty miserable and/or unhealthy folks who have become lost within spiritual gaga. Some days, meditation makes me feel peaceful, but hell, other days, sex and a rock show do the trick. Help others, sure, but one morning, wouldn't it be fun to drive to the Outer Banks simply because I want to, for me? Or maybe chill on the couch and binge on Netflix just because. Cobra Kai!

So, what if I went entirely against the grain and looked at it this way -- maybe it's not one or the other. Maybe it's both ideas, and more. A hell of a lot more. Let's try this again. What is success? More is less? Less is more?

My first answer tends to roll on out this way -- success equals peace of mind, laughter, love, and freedom from suffering. That about covers it, right? Not necessarily...

Other days, I'd say it's this:  do what you love and work hard. This helps sometimes, but I've still felt a hole with this idea too.

Maybe it's simply this:  I'd like to be able to pay my bills. Yeah, that's cool for a while, but then it becomes monotonous.

When something hurts:  success equals a life free of pain. My back doesn't hurt anymore, but now the neck does; it's always something.

Or this:  do what you love, and your life will be your work. Sure, but then everything is work. What about pure play...play for no reason at all?

When I'm lonely:  find your true family. I found one. Then that didn't work, so I found another. Then I wanted the first one back. Confusing.

Here's one:  feel good about the way you look...fuck the haters. I felt good about my hair, but then my teeth looked crooked, so the haters changed.

Parents love this:  don't ever quit one job before you have another. I've done this multiple times, and it turned out all right.

Some days:  help others and live in gratitude. Yeah, but sometimes I feel tired, mad, afraid, or any number of human feelings, and I'm not grateful. Rather, I need to process things, or I need to be alone and rest.

How about this -- laugh, play, be free. Right, but what about other people?

And still other moments:  dream hard, follow the course, and never give up. Sure, but there are some things that just don't pan out.

So, which one is it? Ha, I'd say it's all of them, and there are numerous other "success definitions." My life continues to haphazardly change in a way that's elusively grey. With age and experience, my perspective changes. And as with many of my findings, my idea of success isn't simply "all or nothing."

So, I'll win that award and celebrate the victory. Or maybe I'll ride a bicycle and study the nature of the season. Pray, meditate, fast, do what I do, then climb Catawba Mountain and whether or not I'm happy, I'll take a beaming, fake or real selfie. I'll slap on some makeup, or I won't even shower and head out for a walk. Maybe I'll exercise or eat that cookie. Yoga one day, bath the next. Spend my whole paycheck on a ticket out west or save every penny. Help a friend or dive into the mosh pit. Slip into an expensive gown or tux, pray to my higher power, or slide off my old sweats and screw my lover for hours. Write this piece or delete it and take pictures. Do whatever. Do it all. Live fully. Do me. See what makes me happy, right here, right now. It'll change tomorrow. Do me.

Just as my version of a higher power changes and evolves over time, my view of success changes day to day as well. Many factors alter my view -- time, trauma, therapy, others' suggestions, joyful happenings, mistakes, failures, achievements, navigating through fear, looking within, looking outside of myself, asking questions, studying nature, creating, never giving up, giving up, and taking in results.

If I fully express my unique self, I am always paying attention to the moment, and as far as I know, this moment is all I have, and if I had to make a grand statement about the definition of success, I'd say that the answer sits in a realm beyond the idea of "more or less;" rather, the answer rests in the balanced individuality of the being; true success lives and breathes within the moment. And since we are all created in such mysterious, varied ways, something tells me that my higher power would agree.

Am I right? I don't know. Balance it out. Do you.

C.A. MacConnell

Fall to Touch 3

 

C.A. MacConnell

The Kind

I just wrote this. I love it. So simple, but it holds a li'l power. Love you, C.A.

The Kind

Last night, an old man forced me to smile, as if my face
were no more than a sticky envelope, a love letter trap.

Think of the closing view – the dark, the blackout, the feel
of tongue over teeth, the clenching, the grinding of bone

on bone. Somewhere, a thick elephant herd, an extended
family, marches on, turning up dust. Wrinkles vice-grip

those eyes. Black. Creases. Think of the solemn dance,
the hunger, the search, and the noise. Think of the kind,

huge hearts.

C.A. MacConnell

Fuct.

 

Yo, 

Check out The House of Anchor, my sophomore work. :) This photo was one of the inspirations for the work. I took the photo a long time ago...I was in Roanoke,  VA, downtown, hanging out by the market. I also remember that my friend Chris was eating Chinese takeout, sitting on a bench nearby. Every time I saw that guy, he had a box of takeout, ha. He'd eat some noodles, then spout out something brilliant, then eat some more noodles. A humble genius.

The dialogue is unbelievable in The Anchor. Ha. I loved writing it. I hope you get a chance to read it.
Hope you're happy!

C.A. MacConnell

P.S. 25 years today.

First Date

Have a nice evening. 

C.A. MacConnell
:) <3

Facing

C.A. MacConnell

I Spy

The sunset road
stretches out before me
like a pale, lined tongue.
Let me follow the limit.
I never wear a seat belt.
I never look both ways.
Lost inside a red,
deserted place,
my figure is fine.
Driving alone,
junkyard tires
kicking up dust,
I am barely twenty-two,
tearing across Wyoming,
looking for horse plates.

C.A. MacConnell

Wind's Coming, and a Note to You.

 

Good morning. Letting Book Five sit to gain some perspective, before I start revising that sucker again. It's a rather large project, and it's a difficult undertaking; nonetheless, the process of writing it has already changed me forever, and it continues to do so each moment, even as I'm gathering more information.

As a direct result of writing this work, I have been catapulted into change, so much so that I can barely keep up with myself, my life, and my feelings, and I admit that I'm definitely still processing it all, but at the same time, there are moments when I feel freer and stronger than I ever have.

I feel challenged. I feel afraid, angry, lost, confused. I feel somewhat alone, but I also feel that it's crucially necessary to trust myself, my inner spirit, and my choices, rather than rely on others for direction. I am feeling a more profound sense of self, but I'm not quite there yet, ha. Kind of in between the noise and the calm. A hell of a lot of noise.

Doing the best I can, I suppose. This is all very new to me, and recent events have challenged pretty much all of the beliefs I've held for a very long time. And so, I'm tired too. Half full, so to speak. I need a whirlpool. And free massages. A stuffed animal. A long hug. Stuff like that.

In the meantime, while things settle down, I show up, feel uncomfortable, and continue to stay the course. That's all I know to do. And today, I know I'll take a walk, meditate, do some chores, and see what else unfolds. One day at a time, as they say.

Sometimes, I want to just hop in my car and take off. And if I had the means, I probably would. But then again, wherever I ended up, I'm sure I'd come upon the same lessons...and I'd have to revisit them eventually, so the way I figure, might as well push through it now. Then take off. Something like that. Or, take off and learn them wherever. Ha. Who knows? I have no idea.

What I'd really like to do is to be able to spend all of my time on this book. I'd still take my walks, but other than that, I'd focus, because I think this work is that important. But at the moment, that's not doable, and I suppose I'm still living it. I've seriously thought about selling my car, but then I'd be stuck without wheels...coming from a woman who was nicknamed "Driverwoman" in college, that plan seems unwise.

Ah, I think I'll just make some coffee and do some reading for now. And muse about true love. And take some pictures today. Let some joy roll in. Grinning as I write this. See, letting things settle down in the midst of feeling an internal lion's roar.

Hope you're enjoying your morning, wherever you are. Stay tuned for news on my latest project, and in the meantime, you can find my other four works on Amazon. Just click on any of the book covers to the right, and it'll lead you to the page, as well as a description. Also, my author page is here.

If someone asked me this morning, what is my goal? Freedom. Play. Freedom.

C.A. MacConnell

The Season of Lost Gloves

 Lost gloves 15 & 16:

Do you know what time of the year it is? The holiday season? No, to me, it's the season of lost gloves, haha. I have 45 pictures of lost gloves...then I went on hiatus. Not sure why, but I did. Now, I think I'll start it up again, as I've been seeing them all over the place lately. It's kind of like a scavenger hunt to me. And Tom Hanks, it seems. I once came across his lost boot/lost glove pics on the net -- seems he gets a kick out of it as well. Although, I find the lost boot pics to be more of a plebeian activity. Lost glove people are more highly evolved, in my opinion, Tom. I've never met Tom, but maybe we should start a "lost glove" club, and it'll be extremely exclusive, even among the exclusive. We'll have a long list of membership criteria. I'm sure there are more of us out there. Ha. The parties would be hilarious. We could showcase our work, and to support each other, we could all show up wearing one glove, one shoe, or half of a hat, something of the sort. I'm in. Absolutely.

I never move the lost gloves. I just challenge myself to take a cool shot, no matter where I find them. Wonder if I'll find one today. 

Actually, one of these shots made it on to the cover my fourth book, THE HOLE, a psychological thriller I wrote during the heart of the pandemic. Yes, I took the shot and designed the cover. I also handled the interior design, writing, and editing-- a completely solo venture. (True for all of my books). Shameless plug: you can find it here. And there's a rather spooky, running glove theme in there as well, one that sneaks in throughout the whole book. Here's the cover of that sucker:

Lost gloves. Makes life a little more interesting, anyhow. Have a good one.

C.A. MacConnell

Mosquito, a Day in the Life

I just wrote this little sucker. Pretty cool. Kinda sends you somewhere else. Enjoy. Love, C.A.

Mosquito, a Day in the Life

I guess I'm here now, which was quick. The water is cold this time
of year. I'm the only one
skimming the surface. Indeed, I could hide inside 
the tree's hollow. Earlier,

I was spent from trying. How high
does a damn bridge have to be.

I could give up and throw up makeup,
the sweet taste of old caffeine, smoky cigar skin,
and all of the horrible sweat -- exercisers and sleepers --
and enjoy the dirty, wind ride
home. Or I could rest within

a deserted wrinkle. Yesterday, earth-hidden, a fresh, male one
pitched a green/tan tent
on the bike trail. Suddenly, he was mine. I slipped through
the underside hole, digging
into his thigh, leaving him
shrieking. At the back, I spied a black,
smiley face
spraypainted on his cooler.
I guess he was grinning too. Illegal free rent,
and even though
the pesky chill covered that morning,

I then heard a rustle. The delicious buck spied on me,
and I thought about the tricky dive,
aiming for tail end,
but the hell tick
blocked me mid-back-hair,
and with sunrise, the branches -- our shared, lawless branches --
burned orange with light,
and our whole scene
turned into fire. Funny,

later, safer, I flew to the office. Caddy corner, the boss man
called the woman a twig.
Aside, I rolled my eyes,
all one hundred lenses. I'd visited her before. She's lived through
an above-average, human
war zone. Ninety-eight percent of people like her

have turned into heat, no more
than the vapor zone.
Even still, five days a week, forty hours, she stayed.
Resting on the desk, checking
my reflection in her ring,
I had all the time in the world.
When she was typing, I recalled the time

when I stabbed through
her open-toed shoes, expertly
finding the vein. Back then, people left rear windows
cracked. Hands were easy targets, and car phones made men mad,
buzzing without reception.
Even then, I planned on becoming
famous, with or without
tasting roadkill, mascara, perfume,
or lotion. I always knew that wasn't the answer,
but I heard the swarm. The others believed that once
we were known, we could live

forever. But the answer is this: 
we mosquitos bite for the blood type.
Time to find another, before they team together, like people do.

What if tomorrow, the white room,
the paper, the printer, and the grey
walls vanished. The girl could pack her blue car
and drive several directions,

because once, I heard her whisper

that all she ever wanted to do
was shoot pictures of the happy
cooler, unzipping the tent's nylon to find his peculiar eyes --
whether caked, lined, or untouched --
suddenly staring back. Soon, he would reach out his right hand,
smack and miss, scratching the itch,
feeling the trace
of what I always left behind -- the tiny speck of blood

staining his pointer finger
red. He could taste it, or he could touch her cheek,

making a print. And only then, according to god's unwritten rules,
I'd be forbidden from the return,
but I'd never be forgotten.
I'd simply leave them 

together

and tear away

laughing.

C.A. MacConnell

Happy Thanksgiving

 

Happy Thanksgiving from me...and the stranger in the tent up yonder. Hope you have a happy and safe holiday. Love to you, C.A.

Fence

 from the point of view of the fence. Enjoy, love, C.A.

Fence

Human, for years, I've been waiting.
Soon, I may warp into kindling --
no more than knots. Leaning back,
living in slant, there rests a ladder.
Today, may you reach out, touching
my strong side (the least faded,
the straightest, my shaded best).
Go ahead. Press your rising chest
against me. My mouth can take
the weight. You will make me --
one, lowly, man-made fence --
stand tall enough to come alive.
Peek above the jagged rows. Find
the crooked downside, for beyond
and below, a thousand splintered
stories, the aches of yesterdays,
are hidden within each crack and line.
So many whispers. All over, I hold
secrets. They are woven in.
They are carved into me
by little hands.

C.A. MacConnell

Left Field

C.A. MacConnell

Way Home 1&2

 

C.A. MacConnell

Twig

 

I took a bunch of photos today...weirdly, this was my favorite. I'll post some more later. I'm sure this won't be your favorite, ha. Hope you had a good day. Love to you, always. C.A. MacConnell

Talon

 

C.A. MacConnell

Skater, Devou Park

 

C.A. MacConnell

Rabbit Hash

 

C.A. MacConnell

Church

 

C.A. MacConnell

Clock In

So, clean the red buckets
or don't scrub a thing.
Maybe ride the finest
gelding; that boy's 100-K
at least. Fix what's black,
make it white-smooth,
or watch someone greater
get the leg up, becoming
the cowboy you’ll never
see again. Teach the kids
how to win, that blood
and bruises and blisters
are temporary. Always.

Or, head down the drive
and lose every single child
at once. The tortoise cat lives
or dies. Down at the gate,
Mac the dog smiles, almost
forever. Soon comes the pack,
barking, catching up, seeking
out game scents, trusting
the air for signs, whether
danger or play. Above all,
when the scene chokes up,
grip the wheel, moving
with the wind and rocks.

And when the road runs
out, breaking the back
of work, you suddenly
realize that no one ever
came close, that no one
ever knew your twisted
insides, but like live gods,
now that you’re gone,
maybe they’ll whisper
your name, seeing traces –
a handprint in the dust,
a boot track in the lounge,
all loose boards nailed
tight, the rules and lesson
times that were forgotten,
and suddenly, they too
will live, buried within
you, wherever you go,
long after you clock out.
So, walk in silence
or hammer something.

C.A. MacConnell

Reporter

 

C.A. MacConnell

Blindsided

The other half
is gone.

The aftermath
is quiet,

and the sheets
are still red.

With sunrise,
I disappear

under cover.

Alone,
in the crimson
morning,

I'm guessing
that every mosquito,
and every tree limb,

and every single
thunder crack back
has lived through

such a feeling.
If I could,
I'd ask the ant,

or maybe
the cheetah.

Here and now,
out there,

someone new
is blindsided

by a naked,
Iceland afternoon,

next day wishing
on smooth skin

or wrinkles.

Soundless.
Yes, the sheets
are still red.

Discreet,
in the crimson

morning

-- C.A. MacConnell

Perfect Fit.

 

I've been reading some new spiritual texts, as suggested by K., a stranger I just met, a small man with deep, dark, happy eyes. He was just hanging out, wearing coveralls, sitting by his partner of nine years, I soon found out. She was a cheerful, tiny lady with an enormous, yellowish beaded necklace. Both of them shared drinks of water out of the same ancient Diet Dew bottle, ha. Grinning wildly, they seemed so in tune with each other, and yet they were so unique at the same time. Freedom. Together, but free. Just the image of them next to each other sent these words to me. It was a vision of ultimate trust.

Never know where messages might come from, if I am open to it. I'm ready to take my morning walk. :) Hope you are well and happy, wherever you are. 

 

Thank you to all those who have helped me on my journey...all those who have shown me the way through this:  living it and providing an example of hope.

I love you,

C.A. MacConnell

Photo.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Happy Halloween.

 

Wish I could fit in that little hiding space. XO <3

C.A. MacConnell

Aisle

 

Good morning.

C.A. MacConnell

Some Shots from Today.

 

Willow

Kentucky Horse Park

Trail Ride

C.A. MacConnell

This Place Needs Cleaning

Trigger warning:  descriptions of violence, references to suicide. 

This Place Needs Cleaning

by C.A. MacConnell

 
My name is Otis Moperandi. I call myself that a lot because I forget things, things that are unimportant like names, directions, the day my Pop blew his brains out. It’s a fitting name because I’m a grade school janitor, and I do a lot of mopping. But the thing about it is that none of those kids with their plaid skirts, books tucked under their arms, ponytails slicked back, ties hanging from their necks like extra limbs -- none of those kids know my name. And none of them know what I’m really capable of. When I push a mop around, to me it looks like I’m pushing somebody’s head across the floor with a swoosh, swoosh. When the mop’s wet, if I touch her, it feels like what someone’s insides might feel like. I’ve never felt insides, but I’ve felt raw chicken, and that seems close. Smooth. Clean. When I’m done mopping, the floors shine like my Pop’s bald head used to shine.

I work slowly. No sense in rushing. Got to do a job right, plan out which corner of the room to start at so tiny feet won’t make tracks before it’s dry. By the time the bell rings, I stand back, hide in the broom closet, watch the kids rush in. The halls are quiet and smooth. Pretty.

There is this one boy I watch. His name is Freddy Hammock. It’s a fitting name because when he walks down the hall chewing on a Fruit Roll-up, his fat body swings from side to side like a hammock. Today, he does this very thing, holding his books in one hand, the Fruit Roll-up in the other. His skinny best friend, Tyson Mahoney, swaggers behind him, saying, “Gimme a bite of that will you?” Tyson is his only friend, really.

Freddy chews and chews while some girl yells at him, “Freddy, you’re as big as Mt. Rainier. And someday, you’re gonna blow.”

Freddy stares at her and chews.

In the closet, I arrange the cleaners by color. I set up the mops, the brooms, hanging them on the wall like my own little art. That boy Freddy, he should stand up for himself. He just sits there and chews. Bet he couldn’t get this floor shining. And his face, it needs cleaning.

I listen for the sound to die down, for the doors to shut. I always put on my hat before I leave. The hat was my Pop’s, and it’s kind of crushed now, but it’s all I got from him, so I wear it. It reminds me that I’m Otis, and I can go home.

All I have to do is walk across the street, shuffle really. I like to shuffle. I like the sound of my big feet brushing across the cement, kicking at stones. Sometimes, cars honk at me, me and my slow ways. Got to do a job right. That’s what Mom used to say to me. She’s sick now though, sick as a dog. I don’t visit her anymore. I don’t like dogs. They’re messy, messy like kids.

Home. The first thing I do is take off Pop’s hat, feel my own head with my hand, shuffle to the bathtub, strip down, then shave my skin smooth, clean, pretty. All of it -- my arms, my legs, my face, my head, my eyebrows. Then I get dressed again, put on my long underwear, my white overalls. Next, I paint things white. I paint cereal boxes, my toothbrush, the sink, the windows. I buy plants and paint them. Sometimes, they die, but they die white and clean. All is white. The house looks like skin. My name is Otis Moperandi.

I can’t find anything else to paint today, so I put on Pop’s hat and shuffle to the market. You can get there if you walk down First Street, pass the bums that sleep in an abandoned bar, pass a coffee shop where some guy named Fly hangs out and plays his guitar while he sips at Mad Dog, and turn the corner. Queen Anne Street. The market’s there. That’s where I get my pasta. Pretty.

On the way back, I go a different way. I pass by my school and watch the kids at recess. The girls play hopscotch. Sometimes, you can see up their skirts when they throw stones and jump. The boys play football. All except Freddy, who just sits on a log, sweats and chews his Fruit Roll-up. Sometimes, Tyson waves at him, when no one else is looking. Tyson is too skinny for his pants. They look like they might fall down, fall off, leave him naked. Freddy is too fat for his pants and white shirt. Someday, they’ll both split. My head’s splitting. Splitting with a headache. So after Tyson yells, “Touchdown!” and Freddy holds up his Fruit Roll-up at him for support, I shuffle on. When I move away from the fence, it looks like it cuts up their bodies in tiny pieces. But it just looks that way. It’s not real. Funny how that is. Things aren’t always what they seem, like rear-view mirrors. Objects are closer. I know that because Pop used to take me on drives. I don’t like to drive, though. It’s confusing. I forget where I’m going. I like to shuffle. I hold my bag of pasta. I got it at the market. You can get there if you shuffle past Key Arena, pass the fountain where kids play and get all wet, pass some skateboarders in the park. They shuffle too, shuffle and swagger like Otis. I feel my hat on my head. My name is Otis Moperandi. I can go home.

Home. I paint the pasta box white. Better. I boil water and feel it. Ouch. Seems like I’ve done that before. My finger remembers the feel of a burn. I pour the pasta in -- Mostaccioli, because that kind of pasta cooks slowly. No sense in hurrying. I grab a big spoon, stir, and watch it. Sometimes, if you watch things, they cook slower. It grows softer in the pan. I paint the spoon white, wait for it to dry, and stir on.

I set the table. Fork on the left. Knife and spoon on the right. Just like Mom told me. Plate is in the middle or to the side of all of it. I can never quite remember that part, so I just eat out of the pan. Less to clean later. But I eat slow, slow and smooth. If you don’t, your stomach might flip out, flip over. You might puke or something, like my mom always does. One pasta tube at a time, I eat. I tilt my head back and drop a piece down my throat, swallow it like a pill, like Mom swallows pills. No need to chew. Freddy does enough of that for both of us. And I always stop eating before I’m full. It’s always good to be just a little bit hungry. My body’s so thin, sometimes I think I could float. Sometimes I think Tyson could float too. But he never does. Freddy holds him down, holds him down like a weight, lead, like your stomach feels if you eat too much. Disgusting. Fat. Fat as my Pop was.

I curl up on a white, vinyl couch, wrap my cold body in a white blanket, a soft, white blanket. It’s time for Otis to sleep. When I sleep, I have a dream about me and my mop, wiping the whole world with her, wiping off trees, houses, faces, erasing them. In the dream, I have my hat on. The hat is kind of crushed, but I wear it. When I wake, I paint Pop’s hat white, and make sure no hair has grown back on my skin. Mom’s hair is long and white. She’s got enough for both of us. I put on my hat and shuffle.

I have all the keys to the school. Janitors are important. I open the front door, walk straight, then left, past the little boys’ room, then left again. It’s good to be at my broom closet. Feels like home. Feels like when Pop and I would play hide-and-go-seek, and I would hide in a closet. Pops are scary when you’re little. Especially when they’re big and fat. Sometimes, when you’re away from home, you tug on a leg of pants, look up, and it’s not your Pop’s face. It’s someone else's face, and you know you’re lost. You gotta find out where they are. And sometimes you cry. And there’s no one to help you, so you just sit and wait and look for some familiar face. You forget your name, where you live. You forget the exact time when you let go of your mom’s hand. Then you shuffle and search, search for her. She’s probably in the bathroom again. Her stomach is probably funny again.

So, I look in my closet and everything is arranged, arranged the same way that it was the day before. Perfect. Perfect as a mom’ s bedtime story. Perfect as pasta that you get from the market. You can get there if you shuffle past kids who are zipping up their flies outside the Key Arena, turn the corner, pass skateboarders who bum smokes and sleep in the park, pass a hippie who hangs outside of an abandoned bar, playing his guitar, pass cars honking, cars honking at a mad, wet dog named Queen Anne. First Street. That’s where the market is. That’s where I get my pasta. Pretty.

First, I pull the gum off the underside of desks. Those little, dirty kids stuck them there and didn’t even think of Otis. Then I sweep, sweep up the mess like cracker wrappers, Fruit Roll-up wrappers, papers, pens, erasers, chalk, barrettes, a note from Christine to Jess that says, “Do you like me? Check one” and there are three boxes for Jess to check -- “Yes, No, or Maybe.” Jess checked "Maybe." And there’s a note from Cary to Lisa that says, “Freddy is a fat pig.” Cary’s the one that said he looked like Mt. Rainier. Cary likes to eat pickles. That’s all she eats. I don’t like pickles. They smell. They’re green as a sick face.

Next, I clean the blackboards, make sure all the writing is gone. Make sure to knock all the chalk out of the erasers. Makes a nice, white cloud when I knock them outside. White cloud against black sky. Like smoke. Like steam. Like steam when cold rain hits the warm streets. Like steam from hot water in a white bucket. Like white paint splashing against night. Like I’m fighting the night. Like a steam fight. Like a smoky bucket. Like a knocked-up cloud.

I fill up the bucket with soap and hot water. I feel the water. Ouch. My finger remembers the feel of a burn. Something like a dream. Burns erase skin. I erase faces. My finger is skinny, skinny as a chicken bone.

I pull the mop from its hook that’s labeled, “She goes here,” and stick her in the bucket. Don’t forget to put up the “Caution: Wet Floor” sign. It’s not like anyone’s around, because it’s the middle of the night, but I always put the sign up, just in case. Got to do a job right. I begin mopping. Swoosh. Swoosh.

When I’m done, the floors shine as white as Pop’s old, white Chevy used to shine when he was done cleaning it, and I handed him my report card. He said, “You never do anything right, boy.” He wasn’t a bad Pop, just big, bald and fat. Pops are scary sometimes when they’re big and fat. When they get mad, their faces turn all red like a cherry Fruit Roll-up. He’d be proud of me now, though. My name is Otis Moperandi.

The kids are coming in and I’m ready for them. The bell rings, the doors open. Out of the doors pours a mess of hands on books, books on backs, lockers slamming open, slamming shut, feet tap, tapping on my clean floor.

Freddy Hammock walks in last. His Fruit Roll-up is cherry, red as a cherry. Tyson Mahoney trails behind him. They live near each other and ride the same bus, so that gives Tyson a reason to be near him. So the other kids don’t know. So he doesn’t look like he’s actually Freddy’s friend. I know this because I watch them. I listen. I listen and watch like a good boy, like Mom watches out her window in the doghouse hospital. She’s in the doghouse.

Freddy reaches in his pocket for a candy bar. “Here,” he says to Tyson.

“Thanks, Fred.” Tyson rips it open. He’s poor. You can tell by the way his clothes hang on him. The only reason he’s here is because he’s got some big brain. Freddy feeds him.

“Tyson Mahoney, sounds like baloney!” Cary yells at him, tugs on his tie, and runs. She might be able to float too, she’s so skinny. Wonder if her stomach is funny like Mom’s. Her hair is short and brown. Without braces, she’d even be pretty.

“We better hurry,” says Freddy. Back and forth, his body swings.

They pass right in front of me. They don’t even notice because I hide in the back of the closet and the lights are off. Otis is good at hiding. They don’t even wave. That Freddy, his face needs cleaning.

Silence, except for the sound of the Science teacher, who patrols the hall. I know because I can hear the faint sound of his footsteps. He doesn’t shuffle. Sounds more like a tiptoe. Sounds like the way Mom walks, quiet, soft, careful. Wouldn’t want to mess her stomach up. So I wait in the closet until they’re gone. The footsteps, that is.

Shuffle to the market to get my pasta. You can get to the market if you shuffle past an Arena on First Street where a hippie honks his car that’s been keyed, pass an abandoned coffee shop near the park, pass some smoking bum who yells, “I can fly!”, pass some wet kids who skateboard in the fountain, pass a fat, white woman named Queen Anne who hangs out of her shirt, plays her guitar next to a mad dog that sleeps, then sips at a puddle, then swaggers, then zips around the corner. That’s where the market is. That’s where I get my pasta. Pretty.

So on the way back, I stop at my school, and watch Freddy as he sits on a log and chews, his fat rear end hanging over the log he sits on. Tyson plays tag with Cary, Cary who only eats pickles. If they held hands, I wonder if I could blow them away with a cloud of chalk that comes out of erasers when you knock them together. I hold my pasta and stare. And Freddy stares back. He stares at me and chews. Kids look scary sometimes when they’re big and fat, scary as Pops. When Freddy stares, he stares hard. He doesn’t blink. His cheeks move around, like they’re stuffed with pickles, like he’s storing something in there for later. For Tyson, maybe. Maybe he’ll throw it all back up and feed it to his skinny friend.

That Freddy keeps staring, like he wants to talk to me. And he gets up, walks straight through the middle of the football game. Jess misses a pass because of it. Christine sees it happen and giggles at him. Cary punches Tyson in the arm. “Freddy’s moving,” she says. “He looks like a whale.” Tyson nods.

Freddy’s fat body moves back and forth, and he keeps walking right up to me. And he keeps chewing. Then Freddy swallows, puts his hands on the fence, hooks them there, and says, “Mister, you want a cracker or something?”

I point at my bag. “I got pasta,” I say. “It’s white and it’s pretty.”

Freddy nods. He likes food talk. “I know what you mean. Hey, you okay, mister?” A button pops open on his shirt.

“My name is Otis Moperandi,” I say.

“Hey, Otis.” Freddy’s got cracker crumbs on his chin. He pulls out another Fruit Roll-up. The bell rings. He’s gotta go.

Freddy waves goodbye and swings his fat body. I stare at the back of him and follow. That boy should stand up for himself. He just sits there, unable to move anything but his lips without breathing hard, breathing as hard as Pops do when they’re mad, when you’re playing hide-and-seek and they’re mad and they’re chasing you and they find you. And Mom’s puking again. Pop’s cleaning his Chevy, telling you you got bad grades. Mom’s calling you for dinner. It’s pasta she got at the market, which you can get there if you pass a mad, wet dog named Bum who sleeps in front of an abandoned bar with a sign that says, “NO KIDS,” swat a fly, pass a big, fat woman on First Street where the coffee shop is, pass smoking, honking cars that zip, pass hippies that wait outside the Key Arena for a band called, “Queen Anne and the Wet Kids,” pass a coffee shop where artists swagger, sip, and play in puddles. That’s how she got there. That’s where she’d go when Dad was hungry again, big and fat as Mt. Rainier. And someday, he was gonna blow. And he did. Blew his head right off. And Otis had to clean it up.

So, I follow Freddy until he goes to class. Then I go to my broom closet and wait. The dry mop hangs there. Bet she misses my grip. I twist the head off the mop and wait. Got to do a job right. No sense in hurrying. Freddy’s last class is English. I know because I watch, and I listen. I throw my pasta in the garbage. Not hungry anymore. Wouldn’t want to mess my stomach up and get all sick like a dog.

Since Freddy’s the last one out the door, the slowest, since he can’t breathe, it’s easy. Easy and smooth. So, when the other kids are gone, I yell at Freddy, “Come in here, boy. I got pasta.” And so he does. He swings right into the broom closet. He fits in there, just barely. I shut the door. Shut it fast and quiet. His face needs cleaning. I hold my mop up at him. Pops are scary sometimes when they’re big and fat. I could take the mop and hit him with it. I could hit him bunches until he shuts up and stops chewing. No sense in hurrying. Got to do a job right. I could find sharp things, things like a knife, and cut his neck. I could tie his head on the end of the mop and push it around. Swoosh. Swoosh. I could push his face around on the floor all night, rub it there. But everything would get all red, red like a cherry Fruit Roll-up. The floor would get all messy. I wouldn’t like that.

When my arms get tired, I hang the mop back up. Looks like an upside-down head is stuck on the end of the mop. Eyes are stuck open, staring at me. Mouth’s open too. When I move away from it, it looks like that face is chewing. But it just looks that way. It’s not real. Funny how that is. Things aren’t always what they seem, like rear-view mirrors. Objects are closer. I know that because Pop used to take me on drives.

“Mister? You okay?” Freddy asks me. “My mom’s gonna get mad.”

“Name’s Otis,” I say.

“I know, Otis Moperandi,” he says, pulling crackers from his pocket. “You want some? I got to get home, or my mom will be mad.”

“It’s always good to be a little hungry. You could float, like Otis. Yeah, you better get home. When moms get mad, their stomachs get funny.”

Freddy nods and swings his fat body out the door. “See ya, Otis.” He waves his fat hand, then drops his crackers on the floor, not even thinking of Otis, who’ll have to clean up those crackers. He may be in trouble tomorrow. It’s okay, though. That’s my job. This place needs cleaning.

I get out my paints, paint my face all white, paint over my eyes, my mouth until it all disappears into white, white as chalk dust, white as chicken fat, white as shaved skin, white as a Pop’s bald head, white as a mom’s face when she gets knocked up with disease, white as steam, white as smoke, white as a burned finger. This little pig can stay home. This little pig won’t have to go to the market anymore. You can get there if your skin is smooth. Bare even. You can get there if you know what insides feel like, if you always stay a little bit hungry, if you shuffle, shuffle and swagger like Otis. Smooth. Clean. Pretty. I put on my hat. It tells me I’m Otis and I can go home.

Ⓒ C.A. MacConnell 2022

Photo.

 

C.A. MacConnell

“All kids need is a little help, a little hope and somebody who believes in them.” --  Magic Johnson.

Lions

C.A. MacConnell <3

Frying Pan

There's a story behind this poem. Alarmed, some years back, I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night, and I scrawled out this poem from beginning to end, word for word as it is right here. I remember thinking that it was strange that I used the phrase, "noel voice," but I left it in there, because I liked the sound of it. The next morning, I woke up to the phone ringing, and I soon found out that my friend Noel had passed away that very night. Just one year earlier, on the same day, he and I went to the Cincinnati Entertainment Awards together. He wasn't a touring musician, but he adored all music, so I took him with me, and he was so excited that night -- just beaming ear to ear. He was pale and thin with black hair, so handsome and unique. I like to remember him that way. Sorta feel him with me right now.

Frying Pan

Dear god, the nape of it.

He loves a pale Leo
in November.

His oxen senses,
his driving team,

pull him
into the dream of her

but today,
like yesterday,

there will be no lion,
no afternoon nap.

True, her axle neck
barely holds

her head and heart
together.

And listen
to the sound

of her noel voice.
True, her boy shape

is no pear.
In her hand,

there rests
no frying pan.

Nearly all month,
he has been loping

across the room --
ape-living;

here, empty hands
and empty arms

forever hang loose.
Secretly, he hopes

for a strange,
warm winter.

Home is pretty
this time of year.

He loves a pale Leo
in November.

Dear god, the awake of it.

C.A. MacConnell

Waterfall

 

C.A. MacConnell

See the Light

 

Good morning.

C.A. MacConnell

Replacements

 Just wrote this little gem. Enjoy. Nothing like a little love poem buried within something deeper. :)

Replacements

My father was working. My mother was cleaning.

My brother was golfing. My sister was crying
in the crib. The black dog was gone. The new one

was white. Dreaming in the den, she kicked out
her hind legs. Everything inside -- that whole world --
was cream and quiet. Grounded, I sat in the backyard,

hidden beneath the weeping willow, grabbing a thin

twig, scraping the mud out from under my nails,
laughing and scrawling half-torn, loose-leaf notes

about old men hiding gin, your thin, blue sweater,
the neighbor’s bad magazines, describing the way
the prostitute’s thick, tangled hair covered her left,

green eye -- just like mine, minus the branches --

loose pieces trapped in her open mouth, glued there
by momentary wind. Soon, there would be no more

Maltese, and maybe the kitchen would turn yellow,
and I could even tear up my homemade words
or wash my hands clean. The dough was better

than the cookie. I thought I should raise my hand

and tell the teachers about all of the curious, troubled
people, how the family on the right side packed up,

disappearing in the middle of the night. I wondered
why I couldn’t spit and tackle like the boys, and why
everyone seemed to love Bryan, when deep down,

I knew that by the time I turned eleven, I’d be a whole

inch taller, and by then, clearly, you would be coming
to replace him.

C.A. MacConnell

When the Workday is Done

Some say I travel
off-road,
soon stuck sideways
in the tricky
ditch.
Maybe it's my job
to hitch far,
leaving
the Earth. Today,

I'm a violet,
lone guest
in a starched-white,
rich diner,
custom made
for the lucky others.
Champagne flutes.

Tomorrow, I’ll find
the last, yellow,
crimson, Roman café.
There, I’ll pose
for the perfect shot,
eating and living
and moving
solely through
the elusive curvature
of light.

C.A. MacConnell

Billboard

 

C.A. MacConnell

Fall to Touch

 

C.A. MacConnell

Track Three: Easter

*First Place, Mercantile Library Short Story Competition, Cincinnati, OH. Story first published in Citybeat Magazine, one-time rights.

Note:  I won't be posting on this site for a while; I'm working on a large, involved project, and I need to focus, but I have posted numerous, diverse samples of my work on here, if you are interested. Just click on the labels on the right column. And I'll leave you with this short story, one of my best, and although it is ultimately fiction, it was originally inspired by a true music event, but the night's actual details will remain a secret that I'll carry with me to the grave. And much later, I greatly expanded this story, and after years of work, it eventually became my first novel, GRIFFIN FARM, which I published in 2013. But this first creation will give you a taste of my debut novel, which you can find here. The other three of my novels are available on Amazon as well. All of my books contain a mystery element, but they are quite unique. Paperback is always better, but they are available on Kindle as well. Enjoy the story. Enjoy the ride. Love to you, C.A. MacConnell.

Track Three: Easter

by:  C.A. MacConnell

Side One: 1993, Roanoke Civic Center, Virginia. Press Play.

Keep dancing. When the bodies lean, packed together tight, the squeeze of it holds the human slant against the stage, and if I surrender into the pressure, I may hang on to this brief life. From ten years of mosh pits, I have learned to leap, punch, and kick for space. Held up by waves of heads and hands, bodies surf the air, fighting to stay afloat. I nod along to the drums, afraid that if I lose rhythm, my neck might snap, and my head would roll away, a marble cast across the slick floor, my useless brain joining the loose change left behind -- a target for anyone’s boot. In these pits, the enemy is slippery ground. The Devil is a broken lace, a lost shoe. Here, the dance depends on this -- keep the shoes strapped and stay standing.

I have twelve braids in my hair. Wearing nothing but a black bra and ripped, thrift-store jeans with a Harley ass patch, jeans so long they cover my shoes, dragging and swiping grime from the ground. As far as sweat goes, I’m dripping. As far as skin goes, I’m greasy. Earlier, I spread Vaseline on my fresh wrist tattoo, one that’s still peeling and healing. Marlboros, back pocket. Earrings, all twelve, removed. Black Chuck Taylor’s tied tight for the war zone. Semi-sober, I am no mosh pit virgin. When it comes to slam dancing, I’m a proud, mean whore. If anyone doubts these mosh pit credentials, then let them doubt Gandhi or Jesus. Amen.

The pit circles, a tornado of men and me fighting fist-to-fist-to-stomach-to-back-to-ground. I scowl, casting my limbs in a personal rage workout. Between the elbow of an Asian boy and the head of a shorter hippy, I tiptoe, straining to see Singerman. Eyes shut, he screeches. There is something familiar about his curls, and the way he struts and frets with his guitar across the stage. Like a puma. His dark eyes, during a rare moment when they are open, remind me of dens, asphalt, black soles, and the lost and found zone of fields and gutters.

Rewind.

Black soles and gutters. Deep gutters. Bottomless holes, like the ones in the Texan cul-de-sac where my older brother, Thomas, and me played in rubble; we made games out of our dead end. Thomas’ twelve-year-old eyes were as blue and round as a cartoon owl. At dusk, when he glanced up at the hazy southern sky, watching the sun slide down, his eyes dilated into thick, black saucers rimmed with electric sapphires. It seemed that in the half-light of evening, those saucer eyes would beam out navy lasers and shoot a dark film across the world. And they did -- when the sun blinked down, Thomas smiled at me, and I could only see the teeth. Then he’d say, “See, Shorty, I made the world black. I…am…Magic Man. Don’t tell. It’s our pirate secret.” I believed him because Thomas was taller. Being the Big One meant being right all the time. Back then, Thomas’ eyes were the one and only universal light switch.



Resume Play.

Back in the pits, hanging on a strange boy’s bicep, I weave, following his sweaty lead to row two. The bodies sway like a great hammock. Any moment, that swing could turn, flipping us all over to another side. Then, I lose hold of the swing and fall. Clawing at pants and legs, I squirm on oily ground, a belly-up beetle. They won’t even know I’m missing until they find me in a comatose heap, left behind like a stolen, emptied wallet. Picturing headlines, I wait. Some shoe swipes at my nose, and I give in to the face pain, waiting for another crush.

“Here,” says a tall, thin one, saving me to my feet.

No time for thank yous. No Thomas to lead me, making the world change its light. No Magic Man. I make it to row one, but my nose bleeds, enough to seep through my finger cracks. The bodies part open; blood is the only sight that makes the sea of skin relax, letting me out.

Three bouncers follow me to the bathroom, which is nothing special and nothing clean. The fat boys poke their faces in and ask, “You need help, girl?”

I sop my broken nose with paper towels.

Some paramedic says, “Let me see.”

“I get these all the time,” I say, proud and loud enough for them to leave me alone. This will burn tomorrow. Bloody me groans. And my wrist feels wrong, but I always had troubled bones.



Stop. Rewind. Stop.

I was nine. That made Thomas eleven. Sometimes, we hung out with the Bible beaters down the block. Eyes shut in mock prayer, we’d read scripture with them, acting devout. Later, when we were alone, Thomas would steal one of Dr. Dad’s cigarettes. He let me have a few drags. Then we’d egg the Bible beater’s windows. “Pirate secret,” Thomas said while we smoked and soaped their cars like little devils. Thomas’ soap writing was all capitals: HI. I’M WATCHIN YOU. LUV GOD. We smoked more and got head rushes and cracked up until I threw up on my overalls.

Play.

I splash my face with icy water and check for my holy smokes. Still there. Still smokin’, Tomcat. Mom called him that. Then we all did.

When returning to crowds, short girls have to ease in on the side, flirt, and become crowd darts, rewrapped inside strange, shadowy arms. The crowd stretches in a massive yawn, straining to open. Singerman slows his moves, and the bodies around me feel weaker; they are easier to bend. At last, the end is coming.

When Singerman moves to the stage edge, his face is clown white. His guitar, a lost child, wails. I imagine his fingers reaching to close around my neck, melting into a liquid choker. I feel the chilly choke. I can almost hear Thomas whisper, Breathe, Shorty.

“This song’s about Easter,” Singerman bellows. Even though the haze of lights must blind him, when he looks my way, I swear he sees me -- small, barely breathing, bruised and bloody me. Just when I need to yell, my throat isn’t working again. Let me have sound. Jesus, even though I don’t believe, let him hear me. The crowd pushes to make my silent body rise, then sink down, finding land.

Before the next song, Singerman says, “This song is for your demons.”



Pause. Texan Treasure Interlude.

On the edge of my newest tattoo, the dull wrist pain reminds me of the days when my skin was clear, unmarked from ink, scars, and holes, when I knew nothing of battles, the weapons of extremities, the pits. But back then, I knew the wrist pain that came one afternoon when Thomas and I searched our fields for treasure. When school was out, we became true pirates; we wore eye patches, hunting for treasure hidden in the thick, Texan grass. The grass was parched yellow. So bright yellow, Thomas and I spent whole summers with our faces trapped in kid squints.

I was ten. Thomas was so close to thirteen that he claimed he already was. It was June, but our bodies were already cooked brown. It was Sunday. The Bible beaters down the block were at church. Thomas’ nose was shedding. We were so bored that he peeled some dead skin and said, “Ahh, Shorty, my face is melting, ahhh,” then stuck it on my shoulder, laughing. Mom and Dr. Dad chuckled. We were all in the green kitchen.

Mom’s frosty lipstick cracked when she said, “Don’t you and Tomcat run off clear ‘til supper.”

From the table, Dr. Dad looked up from the Houston Times. Smiling through chubby cheeks, he ruffled the paper and said, “Margene, as long as these two got legs, we’ll never keep track.” His cheeks reddened when he short-laughed “ha, ha,” then went back to the Times.

I was so restless. It was me who talked Thomas into hunting. We put on our pirate eye patches, becoming Captain Tomcat and his First Mate, Shorty. By then, Mom was scrubbing yesterday’s dishes. Dad was on the phone with Abraham, the Gutter Man. Our escape was easy. It was me who led Thomas to the fields. It was me who found the treasure. The black sole. The lost boot.

“Captain Thomas! I spy a boot treasure up yonder!” I said. I tugged the black sole. It was stuck, wedged under a log.

“Aye, aye, Mate Shorty!” Thomas yelled, huffing and puffing behind me. “Captain Tomcat orders you to hold fire!” He was so slow.

With my thin arms, I heave-hoed on the boot. Hard. Because I wanted to be the first pirate to find treasure. I wanted to show him I had the magic. That I was big enough to make the world dark. Then, the boot gave in. A little. When it moved, I pulled harder. Then it slipped from my fingers, and I jerked back, falling into prickly grass. When I looked up, I found a live leg attached to the boot, a leg that grew into a living, strange being -- a bad pirate hiding out in our fields. I remember his long, brown beard, and a face made of sticks, stones, and muddy skin. A tic made his hazel eyes twitch, one, two, three, right before the bad pirate brought the boot down on my wrist, shattering it. But I was small and quick. I knew how to weave and split.

But slow Thomas had the growing pains. He tripped. He tried to stand, but the grass was a slippery, yellow slide. When that bad pirate’s lost shoe found Thomas’ head, one, two, three, I was already running. To the house. My mouth was stuck open. Bugs went down my throat, but my lips stayed open. I tried screaming. I prayed to Jesus or the Devil or God or the Sun for sound. But all I could do was swallow insects, hiccup, and run.

The Houston cops came. I strained to see Thomas’ body, as if one glance, one smile, one touch from his First Mate, Shorty, would make him move. But the Blue Men blocked the whole yard with ribbons. I tried to break through to see, but I was blind behind the Big People. When I reached row one, the show was over, the body was gone, and Thomas’ life had been left behind in our Texan field of treasure.

That night, Mom sat in her rocker, whispering, Supper’s on, Tomcat. Time for supper. All night long, she layered on frosty lipstick, rocked, and waited. We all waited. For Captain Tomcat to come home.

At three in the morning, I still had my eye patch on. Dr. Dad remembered to fix my wrecked wrist, but it was crooked as all hell.



Fast Fwd. Side Two: Show’s End.

When the lights return, I am glad to be small.

People wander, searching for lost cash, watches, and weed. All around, clothes are shredded. Someone scurries beside me, a leather centipede.

Outside, I shiver, checking the traffic. When I find my pickup, I put on my army jacket and walk behind the concert hall, where two buses wait, engines running.

I join the groupies behind a fence of tape in a little caution congregation. First, I sit Indian style. Then, jumping jacks. Back down again, I stretch my legs under the caution tape. I wait, chatter. I take my braids out, using my hair as a scarf. The voices are muffled; I am half deaf.

Finally, Singerman appears, wearing an orange skullcap, and a loose army jacket like mine.

Fans wave tickets, waiting for his autograph.

Signing his name, Singerman looks past them into vacant space.

On the curb, I sit, arms around my knees. I search my pockets for paper. Nothing.

Singerman comes closer.

I shiver, hiding and crouching there.

Marker ready, he turns to face me.

Reaching over the caution ropes, I stretch out an empty hand. I look down at my wrist and say, “Go ahead. Hold it or break it.”

Singerman reaches down, grasping my hand. The grip is hard enough to hurt. When we shake, the tape wall stretches, cracks, and tears. Suddenly, it splits. I start to jerk, to fall back, but he hangs on. God, how he hangs on. Around us, people fumble and grab for a piece of CAUTION. But they don’t rush him; they keep their places behind an invisible fence.

Singerman smiles and leans in close. His shape, his skin, and the world turn from gray to pale yellow, moonlit.

Gripping his hand, I study his form; he is compact, as quiet as a secret. Not a scream machine, but small and red-eyed like Thomas was when he was in the doghouse again.

Biting his lip, Singerman whispers, “How you doing, little one?”

“Sore, but I made it out alive. How’re you?” I whisper back.

He looks down, breathes in. He looks up, breathes out. “Tired…my voice is shot, but I’m learning to sign my name,” he says, grinning.

“Good to know your name,” I say, letting him go.

He shivers, nodding. “Happy Easter,” he says, tucking a curl behind his ear. For another trembling, yellow-lit moment, he waves and says, “See ya, sister.” Scratching his head, he shrugs and winks, vanishing into his tour bus, his sleek, crimson home.

Driving away, I turn his CD to Track Three. As the voice moans through the speakers, I tap my weak hand on the dash. I listen to the Rare Tracks album, the one that even the most devout fans barely know. But I don’t sing along. I don’t even move my lips. Instead, I swallow and steal his sound. I lock his lyrics inside, let him blend into bruised and broken me. I praise the gravelly voice, let the sound stone me, scrape me. I let him rise up through Track Three and become my Magic Man. I let him scream away his name. I let in his sound, his screams, his piracy. And then I scream for all of the Big People to hear. I scream and touch the black sole, letting the treasure go. Breathe, Shorty.

Down the highway, that tune moves into something living, and a feeling is reborn, a feeling that even I, sweet and bloody Mary, the camouflaged Shorty in Virginia, can blink to make the whole world change shades. And in my aching dance, my grownup fight, this heave of life, these pits, if I hang on to one lingering handshake, one Easter touch, one grip is strong enough to pull me up, make me rise, and keep me standing. I keep listening. I keep hanging on to the sound and the grip, one grip strong enough to break the caution tape.

Record.

C.A. MacConnell Ⓒ 2022

Break

 

C.A. MacConnell

"In nature, nothing is perfect and everything is perfect. Trees can be contorted, bent in weird ways, and they're still beautiful." -- Alice Walker

Come Down

Throwback. Fiction sample for you. Revised. First version published in 'CityBeat Magazine' -- a little, intense piece. Hope you like it. Love, C.A.

Come Down

I woke to these sounds -- workmen, storm sirens, and the wind testing my window, the steady rattle, the fight of thin panes against the frame. Below, men hammered, and across the room, my window spoke; it moaned, squeaked, and knocked, trapped inside the wall of my cramped efficiency. Screenless and stubborn, it was stuck shut.

I glanced through the glass, looking down below, but few people walked into the alley. I sat for hours, trying to write, looking for bodies and stories. Besides the workmen, no one appeared, and they never glanced my way. Only relentless pounding and storming. At war with sound, I stared at the computer. Nothing. For a long time, a blank trip, my fingers suspended over keys, hanging there.

At dusk, when I peered out the window again, someone entered the alley. Hands in his pockets, he stared at his feet. Then he looked up. His hair, brown, was a mess. He was small, thin. His blue sweater burned a neon blur through the shadows. His jeans were the borrowed kind, gray. He squinted to see me.

The window moved, seemed to sing. I eased closer. Bang, knock, went the workmen. Crack, smash, went the storm.

Come down, the stranger mouthed at me. Shrugging, he smiled, and his thick lips spread; his face was all teeth.

I pressed my forehead against the glass.

He waited, wet and mute.

I thought about practical things -- feed cats, clean, try to write. But the window shook, and when I touched it, it whisper-screamed. Or maybe I did.

In a blue-gray turn, pivoting on one foot, he left. Just like that.

The workmen sawed trees, demolished skyscrapers, and blew up my world. I forgot to sleep or eat. I reminded myself to blink. My hearing heightened. The hammering shook the walls. I wondered if they'd cave in, collapse. But I wouldn't leave. I watched.

Three nights later, he reappeared in the alley. Pulling his sweater tight around his middle, he mouthed, Come down.

The sky drooled rain on the roof, smothering the building and all inside.

Shifting in his shoes, he waited, drenched.

I thought about stripping him dry and clean. I thought about kissing something. For two years, I had been stuck inside blank pages. Here, I studied the glass cracks. I imagined the window breaking, my body falling, sucked out by the wind, a leech. The wind's pitch grew higher. Whale sounds. One floor down, I could fall into him gently. No suicide.

He shrugged and left.

I guessed that was goodbye. I felt nausea beyond butterflies. I was good at forgetting. The queen of amnesia. I went out for smokes. Then, back in the building hallway, I felt a draft. I opened my apartment door. Someone. In there.

His back turned, he seemed at home, sitting on my floor. Then he whipped around, looking at me, startled, as if I were the intruder.

In our holding places, we were silent, divided by the broken glass scattered across my ground.

Expressionless, he stared with dark eyes, his seeing holes. For a moment, I thought I saw behind them into the nerves, the song of his scattered mind. There, I saw my own damaged mind. Two years, no touch. Nothing. Inside, trapped in the lone, rhythmic hammering. Deeply.

"You got in," I said.

He nodded. "Fire escape. Broke the window...with a rock," he said. His voice was airy, with slight pauses in between words. He smiled, nervously. "Sorry...you wouldn't...come down."

I moved closer, standing above him, hands on hips. I shook.

He grabbed my arm.

All skin was slippery.

I thought of practical things -- call cops, play dead, shout profanities, but my voice was throat-buried. With my free hand, I picked up a piece of glass. A weapon, just in case. I imagined cutting him. I imagined the way the blood would spread a thick slide across his hand as I freed myself. I imagined his generic, hurt expression.

No workmen chattered. No wind whistled. But outside air drifted through the space where the window used to be, and I felt the urge to kiss his small hand, the hand that broke it, the violent, flawless, nameless hand. I grabbed his damp, blue sweater and hung on, dropping the glass.

He reached toward my eyes. I guess to touch the lids. Yes.

Quiet.

Everywhere, hands.

His sweater, the blue shade, so elusive. If I tried hard enough, maybe I could see through the color straight into his chest, his throat, his brain, a brain that held this new draft, the broken glass, the story of two nameless beings touching shared, broken minds and broken space, one stranger lost in an alley, hammering through vacancy, shattering it, filling it. The story of lifting each other, inside and up.

God, I hope the room is still there when we come down.

-- C.A. MacConnell

Untitled.

 

C.A. MacConnell

P.S. Ha, a little dark, I know. I actually feel really happy and light today, but I came upon this strange scene, and I had to take a shot. Struck me as something that would be in a freshman photo class exhibit collection, entitled, "Resting," or something, ha. I actually started laughing thinking about it. I have an odd, morbid sense of humor sometimes, I admit. Anyway, it struck me. Hope you are well and happy today. As always, with love, C.A.

Ten.

 

C.A. MacConnell

The Shop

The clean, fresh
sheets. The fat cat
fed. The fish tank
tomorrow. Whites.
The final spin.
The heavy weight
of spotless silence.
No, no ring
tone near her beige
bedroom. Far past time.

The cream Eldorado
is locked, three deep,
in The Shop,
where the filthy,
full-lipped mechanic
lovingly
smokes menthols.
Her pretty ride
will still make
the night owl.

C.A. MacConnell

Never Give Up.

 

Hello! I'm working on a little essay for you. An uplifting piece. Until then, here's a photo. "Never Give Up." Hope you like it. :)

Besides writing, I've been working really hard, making deliveries nonstop. Soon, I will have a chance to take a break from the grind and polish another draft of Book Five, which is another grind, ha. Life has been busy and challenging, but this morning, I'm feeling strong as hell, and I'm hellbent on pushing forward, ready for what's next.

I hope that you are well and happy, and remember...you are free, if you decide to be. Open your eyes. It's a new day. Love to you.

C.A. MacConnell