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.
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.
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
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
