- C.A. MacConnell

3/13/2025

One Twelve Forever.

C.A. MacConnell

XO. <3 have a great evening. :) Hope you're enjoying my art. Working on Book Five. Love to you.

Good morning. Thank you for being here.

Please scroll down and check out a fiction sample, Jesus, Jimmy, which I posted a few days ago. Or click on the Labels on the right side of this page to see samples of any of my writing!

If I can offer writing/editing help, I'd be glad to. Lately, when I'm not doing deliveries, I've been helping folks with fiction, resumes, cover letters, bios, poetry, and more; I can do any genre, including copy of any kind...as well as scripts. You name it, I've done it. :) XO. I'd be glad to send you a portfolio. And my bio is on the right side of this page as well. I have a master's degree as well as over 30 years of experience. Sweet. Yes, I'm a pro. Rad.

Click here and directly contact me if you'd like some writing/editing work. Awesome.

Working on Book Five...until then...

My four novels! Thank you for supporting my books and photos. On the way to number ONE! If you'd like signed prints of any of my photos, contact me. Thank you to everyone supporting my art.

It has been a busy time for me, mentally and physically! But I am grateful for the rapid-fire life. Ha. I love to keep moving. It's teaching me a new pace of life, and it's a new adventure every day. I used to be afraid of the pace and now, I realize that it suits me, because life is catching up with my ridiculously fast-paced mind, ha. I hope that you have a beautiful day. I think I'll play some piano tonight. <3 XO.

Love to you. XO, C.A. MacConnell

3/10/2025

Still Together

A little gem I just took. Deep little sucker.
XO,
C.A. MacConnell

P.S. NOVELS: Four published books by C.A. MacConnell on Amazon NOW! Need writing help? M.A. English/Creative Writing, Hollins University. Over 30 years of experience in all genres. You name it; I can do it. PHOTOS: custom, signed prints. Or prints on metal or canvas, ready to hang. Email: right here.

3/05/2025

March Morning.

Good morning. Please see a fiction sample on the post from yesterday! It's pretty rad. Working on Book Five...until then...

My four novels! Thank you for supporting my books and photos. On the way to number ONE!

3/04/2025

Jesus, Jimmy

Good morning. Here is a fiction sample for you, one of my favorites. Hope you enjoy my art. You can see here how I grab onto a voice. :) Please consider a donation to my site (button on right side of this page) or consider purchasing a print or buying a book. Thank you for loving my books all the way to number ONE! <3

RIP Melody Beattie. <3 Love to you, C.A. MacConnell

Jesus, Jimmy

-- orig. published in Analecta 25: the Art and Literary Journal of the University of Texas at Austin

All right. There were some fights. Food scattered all over the kitchen, a fork mark on the side of Dad's neck. She had thrown it at him. She liked to throw things. When I walked into the kitchen, I ducked.

Bang, bang, bang on the wall. That was how she got my attention. "Moe! Get up, Moe! You shouldn't be sleeping all day!"

"I work the night shift!" I yelled back. Something like that.

Bang, bang, bang on the wall. "You shouldn't be sleeping all day!"

And there was my hand through a glass door because she pushed me into it. Then her calling the cops on me for attacking. Which I didn't, but there was blood there, and it was my fault like it was always my fault. Then it was me choosing between juvey hall and the psych ward. Then me choosing again.

So I hung out at Jimmy's basement mostly. We did ridiculous things like drink cases of Milwaukee's Best and smoke stuff and knock down walls. And sometimes, Jimmy got his guns out to show off to me. How Jimmy never ended up in jail, it's a wonder. He liked guns and guns like Jimmy. One time, we built a bonfire out in Jimmy's backyard. Jimmy burned things like books and chairs while I played my Dad's guitar in the basement. Through the sliding glass door, I watched Jimmy dance around the fire shooting his gun. Flash got me stoned. We called him that because he used to be all athletic and run real fast. He used to do everything fast -- walk fast, drive fast, pick up women fast. Stuff changes though. He made us crack up and turned into the dealer for us. There was money in it. When he was stoned, Flash cooked up these plans to save the world, then forgot them in a flash. He was a dreamer. We all were, like how we thought we could ace tests without studying at all. I always did okay, but there was the time when Jimmy saw my score and wrote "Eat shit" on my test. Then he dropped his pants. Boy, we both had to call our moms from school on that one. It was nuts.

While we burned things, Jimmy's mom slept upstairs. Either that or she went out with her boyfriend to Blueberry Hill for a drink, which usually turned out to be ten drinks. Her boyfriend was an electrician, and that came in handy when Jimmy drank too much and broke lamps. Me and Jimmy were just glad we had a place to hang out and do ridiculous things and not get yelled at. Jimmy's mom had a bad back and she was crazy too, quiet crazy. She took drugs for it, the kind that make you all loopy like you're half-dead.

Bang, bang, bang on the wall. "Moe, you bring me some hangers." And when I forgot, "Boy, I can see your titties when you wear that tank top." Mom said that 'cause I was big for fifteen. I was pretty built freshman year, but I kind of let myself go after that. Me and Flash were big and silly. Jimmy was bigger and sillier. Jimmy's mom was quiet crazy. My mom was loud crazy. That's why me and Jimmy hung out and knocked down walls.

--

I'm getting out today, which is a good thing because I'm playing my guitar tonight in the jazz band competition at school. All I've thought about for the past two weeks while I've been in the psych ward is how the hell I was going to get enough practicing done. They told me to think about all this past stuff, and I've thought about it, and I've written at least five new tunes about how Mom told me we were going to the doctor to get my ingrown toenails removed. Instead, she started chain smoking and drove me here, threw me in the loony bin. Not so bad, really. When you're fifteen, and in the loony bin, and your mom's loud crazy, it's kind of nice to get away for a while.

I got Dad's guitar with me. They don't let me keep it in my room because they're afraid somebody might steal it. They keep it behind the counter until I ask for it. It's not so bad here. Quiet. Kind of like a vacation.

So we go to meetings where we talk about how we feel, and I tell them I don't know why I'm here, that I'm just here, that Mom's loud crazy and I got no problems. Those whitecoats just nod and smile, looking at me all sad, the way Jimmy's mom looks when she does come down from her room, which is a one-in-a-million thing. The girls here talk and cry a lot. The boys here listen to me play tunes and beat on things when we're allowed to make noise. While I strum, I miss Jimmy and Flash, and I wonder how they're holding up. And I feel bad 'cause I know they don't like too much time without me. They need me to keep them from doing stuff that's really stupid, like stealing picnic tables from the neighbors. But that's another ridiculous story.

All right. So all week long I've been ignoring that guy with the sleep disorder. He kept banging on the wall the way my Mom did, all loud, trying to get my attention. I've been ignoring the pill suicide girls and the kid whose mom deserted his family on his birthday. I played my part in the psycho drama, the part of one of the suicide kid's abusive older brothers. That was some fun. All week long, they kept coming to me, and I listened to their stories and tried to help, but there's just no helping some people. Besides, I had to practice for the jazz band competition. Jimmy and Flash were looking forward to it. We had ridiculous plans for after the competition, whether or not I played well. They promised me that when I used my one phone call on them.

So I sit here with Dad's guitar and wait for her. When she pulls up in her AMC Eagle, yelling, "Moe!" out the window, waving her cigarette at me, I just sit and sulk.

"Get in," she says.

I get in because I got to get to school fast for the competition. I can’t drive yet and Flash is the only one with the car, but his is on blocks in Jimmy’s backyard because of the night we got all drunk on wine coolers and had the munchies. We went to Kentucky Fried Chicken and ate straight off the all-you-can-eat bar. When we got back, Flash ran straight into the side of Jimmy’s house. That was after we trashed the Cedar Ridge apartment complex across the street. Jimmy had to get a new brush after that because he left his floating in the pool there. Slipped out of his back pocket.

Dad’s guitar sits in the backseat behind me, same way it sat the day after he had his first heart attack, which was the same day Mom asked him for the divorce. It was the same day that gunfire and explosions went on in Jimmy’s backyard, and we stole a birdbath from his neighbor. A week later, Jimmy’s mom smoked in the basement, ashed in the birdbath and said, “Where’d this birdbath come from?” And Jimmy said back, “Moe’s mom gave it to us.” Jimmy’s mom smiled and went up to her room with a bottle of Wild Turkey and got all quiet.

Mom rolls up her window and lights one smoke off of another. “How you doing?” she asks me, stretching her neck like a bird so she can see over the dash. Mom is skinny and wrinkly. Makes me wonder how I turned out so big.

“How do you think I’m doing?” I say back. I feel like playing some blues. Maybe Muddy Waters. Miles Davis. Yeah, Jimmy and Flash would like that.

“Moe, we got to hurry. You got the jazz band, and I got people coming to see you,” she says.

I always thought it was funny that I had to play my electric with no amp because she was always telling me to shut up, but when people came over, she wanted to show me off.

“Yeah,” I say. She doesn’t talk anymore, and I’m glad because I’m trying to remember chords in my head. I move my fingers to make sure they still work.

When we get to Wilson High, my school, Mom drops me off at the door, and I rub my hands together because they’re cold, and it’s hard to play when they’re cold. Jimmy and Flash are there and they pat me on the back. Jimmy is stoned for sure and Flash is too I think, but sometimes it’s hard to tell with Flash since he wears glasses and when he takes them off, his eyes are just slits all of the time.

Jimmy pats me on the back again, and we walk back behind the school, where I smoke a blunt with them. We huddle together like three big bears.

“Was it a shithole?” Jimmy asks me, pulling that new brush out of his back pocket. He got the new one the time when we were fucked up and Flash was running around Food Lion yelling, “I’m available for any fourteen-year-old chicks,” while Jimmy was busy stealing pot pies, and while I was busy keeping track of them.

Jimmy brushes his greasy hair back so that it’s all slick.

“Yeah, man. The people in there were so crazy, made me think I’m pretty normal.” I take the brush from Jimmy and get slick too. Got to hold up my image. I’m a slick, fast blues man. I feel my goatee. It hasn’t grown much.

“Did you meet any women?” Flash asks me, pulling a flask from his pants, taking a swig, then passing it to me. He doesn’t slick his hair ’cause it’s not worth it — his hair’s so curly the brush just gets stuck there. But he pushes his glasses up on his nose even though they’re already pushed up there. Habit.

“One. She liked to hear me play, but the nurses watched us close. Made me leave the door open. Treated me like I was some kind of nutcase,” I say.

“Too bad,” Flash says, “Hey man, you can stay at my place if stuff with your mom is tiring you.” He takes another swig and goes, “Geez, ahhh,” then smacks his lips. Something like that.

“Yeah, like your mom wants another kid running around. She’s already got ten,” I say. I think about it though. Whenever I went to Flash’s house, his dad would cook me gourmet things like eggplant Parmesan. There was just something about his house. No matter what, me and Jimmy could walk in there looking and smelling like bums, but Flash’s house always smelled good. And Flash did too. My house smelled like smoke. Jimmy’s did too, only not cigarette smoke — his house smelled like smoke from burning things because Jimmy just liked to burn things.

I pick up Dad’s guitar and go around the school to the backstage, where I get ready, and where Jimmy and Flash say to me, “Don’t kill yourself,” which means good luck. Jimmy brushes my hair where it’s sticking up and Flash puts a pack of smokes in the pockets of my jeans. I pull them up. They’re a bit loose. That’s what happens when Mom puts you in the psych ward. You get loose jeans. Doesn’t matter, though, ’cause I’m big and Flash’s dad’ll cook me up something soon, like he did the last time I was in there — cooked me up some roast duck with wine sauce, which is something.

When I walk into the rehearsal room, the kids are already warmed up. They all stare at me, like they are thinking, There’s that big Moe, who was sent to the psych center. He must be nuts. But they keep on warming up, and as I tune my guitar, my hands feel bigger and bigger. My body feels bigger and bigger. And Dad’s guitar feels ridiculously heavy. I feel sweat coming down my head, messing up my hair where Jimmy brushed it. But I am strong, strong like Dad. I am a fighter, like Jimmy when he threw that kid into a mirror at his house and glass went everywhere. “Shit,” Jimmy said. “Bad luck.”

“Ready. The crowd’s waiting.” Mr. Slosher says that. He’s the gym teacher, but he’s also the music teacher. In gym class, he laughs when he calls my name for attendance. “Oh, it’s Tuesday. Moe must be here.” I only go to school on Tuesdays and Thursdays because that’s band practice days. Always get an “A” in gym though. Mr. Slosher likes me ’cause I play a mean guitar. He says I know how to improvise.

We follow him because he’s got the suit on — me, the keyboard player, the bassist, and the drummer. One big bear and three little kids. We follow Slosher the way Mom follows me around the house, watching me, waving her cigarette like an extra finger, saying, “Moe, why you always look at me like that?”

Slosher opens the curtains for us, and the four of us go out on stage, waiting for the good part. I breathe deep and think of Jimi Hendrix. I look at Charles, the bass player, and nod. And he nods back. I feel all loopy and daydream about his dark face fading into Jimmy’s pale one. I picture Jimmy standing next to me on stage, saying, “Look at my new gun, Moe. We’re gonna tear some shit up tonight.” And I look at the skinny, angry drummer, wishing it were Flash beating on them, saying, “Come over. My dad made some linguine.” But when the curtains open, and I look out at the parents, all I see is Mom’s face, wrinkly and smiling. She even claps.

I stare at her while I play Dad’s guitar. I’m not thinking about what I’m playing, but somehow, my fingers move because Slosher says I know how to improvise. I keep staring at Mom and thinking of songs in my head, songs about people just like me and Flash and Jimmy, people that do ridiculous things. When it’s over, and the crowd’s making some noise, I think I see Dad out there too, smoking a cigarette in the back of the auditorium because he has to smoke in order to cough and get stuff out of his lungs. And that is the stupid thing about all of it. Not that he has to cough, but that he’s not there at all.

When they give me the plaque for "Most Valuable Jazz Band Member," all I can think about is how good it is going to look on that wall, that wall that Mom always bangs on. And as she takes me home, all I think about is where the plaque should go, somewhere between my poster of Jimi and the one of B.B. King. So, when I ask Mom for nails, she says, "Moe, we can't be ruining the walls."

But I do it anyway. I search through Dad's old work shed and find a big one and pound it in. Bang, bang, bang on the wall. I hang that plaque there, and when she comes in and throws things and takes that plaque away, I duck and keep hitting the wall. Bang, bang, bang. I hit it until there's a hole there, then walk over to Jimmy's to cool off. I'll get that plaque back. Something like that.

Me, Jimmy, and Flash hang out at Jimmy's and play pool. Jimmy is good and liquored up by the time I get over there to tell him about the plaque.

"That ain't right," he says, sitting on top of the pool table. It doesn't matter if we do that. The table has all sorts of dents and slants in it.

"Yeah," I say, drinking Jimmy's Mom's Wild Turkey.

"That just ain't right," Jimmy says, hitting his fist on the table, knocking the eight ball with the side of his big hand.

"Boys, we need to have a little meeting," Flash says, pulling bud out of his jacket.

The three of us move to a holey couch, sink in it, smoke and get all quiet until Flash says, "Man, you're gonna be all famous on stage someday and none of this shit will matter."

"Let me see your guns, Jimmy," I say to him.

Jimmy's red eyes open, and he jumps up to get them, but he only makes it to the pool table. He lies down on it and gets all sleepy.

Flash puts his arm around me. He feels warm and smells like some food I can't put my finger on. "You're gonna be all famous, and I'll be the cook for your band." He takes his glasses off and starts cleaning them on his sweatshirt. The glasses are clean, but he cleans them anyway. Habit.

"Yeah," I say. "I'm gonna make some noise." I pick up Dad's guitar by the neck and begin to strum the blues, staring at the birdbath. Flash gives me a noogie and fills up the big bong. Jimmy talks in his sleep. I play until I can't move my fingers. Then I shake them and play some more until I'm sweating, sweating like I'm on stage with thousands of people staring at me, yelling my name, smiling, smoking their cigarettes, letting me hang up my plaque. Me and Flash get stoned off our rockers and laugh at Jimmy who wakes up when his Mom comes down the stairs when she gets back from Blueberry Hill and thinks she better check on him for once.

"Let me see your guns, Jimmy," I say because it's too quiet, crazy quiet.

"Mom, does your boyfriend stick his dick in light sockets?" he asks her. And she shakes her head and walks to the upstairs, which I have never seen. She doesn't talk back to Jimmy because Jimmy has guns. She just stares like a crowd stares before the music begins when Mr. Slosher says, "You ready?"

Jimmy laughs all loud crazy then starts nodding off again, spread-eagled on the pool table. Flash goes over, pokes his shoulder 'cause he's worried Jimmy might choke on his puke or something ridiculous like that. Sometimes, it's hard to wake Jimmy unless you stick forks in his mouth. And then he'll just wake up and puke in the birdbath.

I keep yelling, "Let me see your guns," and Flash keeps poking him, until Jimmy wakes up and punches him in the mouth. "Let me sleep," he says.

"Jesus, Jimmy, it's me," Flash says to him, wiping his mouth, which probably hurts and will hurt more tomorrow. The whole scene will stick in his mind like a bad tune.

Jimmy opens his eyes up some more, rubs them, and says, "Sorry man." Flash and I know he means it 'cause he messes his hair up when he says it, and that means he's telling the truth. Sometimes the truth is messy that way. Then Jimmy slurs, "Hey, Moe, me and Flash'll help you get that plaque back, even if I have to beat the shit out of your old lady. She probably stuffed it under your dad's old clothes in the basement or something," right before he passes out for real, when there's no waking him.

"All right," I say. And sometimes it was.

-- C.A. MacConnell

P.S. NOVELS: Four published books by C.A. MacConnell on Amazon NOW! Need writing help? M.A. English/Creative Writing, Hollins University. Over 30 years of experience in all genres. You name it; I can do it. PHOTOS: custom, signed prints. Or prints on metal or canvas, ready to hang. Email: right here.

3/03/2025

Everything is Alive

C.A. MacConnell C. 2025

3/02/2025

Workout.

Workout. C.A. MacConnell C. 2025

Simple Lv

Simple Lv, C.A. MacConnell C. 2025

Singing Tree

Singing Tree, by C.A. MacConnell

<3

Lost Glove 64

Lost Glove 64. C.A. MacConnell C. 2025

Good morning. Hope you have a good day. Here's the latest glove shot, ha. Working on Book Five for you. Coming along. Love to you,
C.A. MacConnell

3/01/2025

Orange String.

Good morning. Tired, but focused. :)XO. Chiseling away at Book Five. It's coming along swiftly. Can't wait to share it with you. Absolutely different course for me, and it's fun. Have a good day.

I love this shot. Simple, unique, playful.

Love to you,

C.A. MacConnell

2/28/2025

New World

I wasn't able to get a great shot, but yesterday, I saw this double rainbow, and I had to post it. It blew me away.

Here's a taste of what's to come...

New World

I am hungry.

I am awake.

I am confused about so many things.

I'm making new, uncomfortable decisions.

I'm making decisions that are familiar too.

Old and new, I am trying.

Beautiful.

I am changing, but I am also honoring my past wisdom. Some days it feels scary and unique. Yesterday, I was afraid because I was happy, as if I didn't deserve such peace and happiness. But I do.

And so do you.

It is amazing to know that at any given moment, I can create a whole new world.

C.A. MacConnell

P.S. NOVELS: Four published books by C.A. MacConnell on Amazon NOW! Need writing help? M.A. English/Creative Writing, Hollins University. Over 30 years of experience in all genres. You name it; I can do it. PHOTOS: custom, signed prints. Or prints on metal or canvas, ready to hang. Email: right here.

2/26/2025

It Begins with Me

Everything is here.

In this moment, everything is right here.

In front of me, all around me, I have created everything that I see, smell, touch, taste, and feel.

I have created the entire world around myself.

I am responsible.

What can I do today to honor myself and honor the world around me? Large or small, how can I become a part of healing and goodness? Can I help people? Can I help myself? Can I sit patiently or take some action?

It begins with me.

I suppose I've decided that I will be happy, light, and free today, that I will see the magic in the little things, that I will dance when I feel like dancing.

It begins with me.

Love to you,

C.A. MacConnell C. 2025

2/25/2025

Books Five and Six!

Howdy. Excited to say that I'm chiseling away at Books Five and Six for you. Some nonfiction work. It's all a mess right now, but it always starts out that way, ha. Getting it all organized. Feels good to be digging in.

I think you'll be surprised at the result. XO.

Until then, check out my four novels! You'll never forget the ride! Thank you for supporting my books and photos. On the way to number ONE!

Have a great night. Love to you,

C.A. MacConnell

P.P.S. Met this guy today:

Tissue

Tissue. C.A. MacConnell C. 2025

Good morning. Hope you have a good day. This reminded me of the ocean. Love to you,
C.A. MacConnell

NOVELS: Four published books by C.A. MacConnell on Amazon NOW! Need writing help? M.A. English/Creative Writing, Hollins University. Over 30 years of experience in all genres. You name it; I can do it. PHOTOS: custom, signed prints. Or prints on metal or canvas, ready to hang. Email: right here.

2/24/2025

Flesh Wild Rock

Flesh Wild Rock, by C.A. MacConnell C. 2025

And something mundane can become so fiery, frightening, and irresistible.

Dancing Salted Road

Dancing Salted Road, by C.A. MacConnell C. 2025.

I took this just now. Interesting how something mundane can become joyful. XO.

Love to you,
C.A. MacConnell

2/22/2025

The Air That Surrounds You

I just wrote this. It came from a vivid dream I had last night. I hope you have a beautiful evening. Enjoy the poem...there is a softness to the rhythm, purposefully. And a careful choice of words that punches the emotion. A little secret place in my tricky brain. Actually, there is no separation. My life = my craft. XO, C.A.

The Air That Surrounds You

There you are, in the crowd,
wearing a red T-shirt. In a mess

of cross-style sitting strangers,
you are the only one standing tall,

your long arms hanging loose,
your hands making slight fists.

Around you, a foot of yellow,
glowing space graces each side

of your form. And this is the air
that always surrounds your shape.

You are smiling wide, your dark hair
barely reaching your shoulders.

Freshly shaven, your pale cheeks
spotlight-shine. And you are looking

up. This time, you move. This time,
you hold up your hand, furiously

waving. But even then, you forget
to blink. And from the stage, struck

by the stare, in the middle of two
difficult words, I stop speaking.

Like always, my breath turns
guttural, a seemingly solid pant,

a trapped, warm, familiar ache,
a sky-stuck moon sliver of light

caught in a crevice
deep inside my left

breast.

C.A. MacConnell

2/20/2025

Books, Writing, Editing

Good afternoon. I hope you had a beautiful day. Here are my four amazing books. I guarantee they'll all take you on an adventure you'll never forget. Dialogue is my specialty, and I'm a master at it. Oftentimes, when people read my books, regarding the male characters, they can't believe I wrote the voices; that's because I heavily research and dive into voices. Perfect.

I have a master's degree in English and Creative Writing. Any genre, I can do it. Over 30 years of writing and editing experience. Recently, I've helped folks out with college essays, nonfiction, poetry, nonprofit writing, and much more. I can make anything slick. I've done a vast amount of work on numerous projects, from bios to script editing to book editing, and everything in between.

Feel free to contact me.

Have a great night. Love to you,

C.A. MacConnell

2/18/2025

Moment.

Moment, by C.A. MacConnell C. 2025

We're here for such a brief time. Some hours ago, I was joking with a friend. Now, I'm here, and it's morning, and I'm writing to you, like I have been for years. So strange, the way time works. Moment by moment. Breath by breath. Change and stress have forced me/taught me to really live this way. Meditation helps, but I'm definitely learning! Every day. Every moment, ha.

Love to you.

Hope you have a great one. It's going to be freezing here!

C.A. MacConnell

P.S. NOVELS: If you are enjoying my writings and photos, please consider purchasing a book or a print. Or, consider donating to my site. "Donate" button on the right side of this page. Everything helps! <3 Four published books by C.A. MacConnell on Amazon NOW! Need writing help? M.A. English/Creative Writing, Hollins University. Over 30 years of experience in all genres. You name it; I can do it.

P.P.S. PHOTOS: custom, signed prints. Or, prints on metal or canvas, ready to hang. Msg FB: C.A. MacConnell or Email: right here.

2/17/2025

Lifelines

Good morning.

You're OK.

No, it's not perfect.

You're doing a great job.

Your imperfections make you the beautiful human that you are.

Focus on the tiny details, the beauty all around, the laughter and the love that enters your life today. Life may not be perfect, but the mystery of love, and the way that it circles around through each moment, is perfect.

If you lose track, find an ancient tree. Or a young one. No matter. Move closer. Talk to it. Touch it. Feel the lifelines there. Feel the gentleness.

Yes.

C.A. MacConnell

2/16/2025

On the Way

Two for one today! A poem and a shot. I just took this. I love it. <3

On the Way, C.A. MacConnell C. 2025

P.P.S. PHOTOS: custom, signed prints. Or, prints on metal or canvas, ready to hang. Msg FB: C.A. MacConnell or Email: right here.

Higher Brow

Good morning. I have a gazillion poems. I actually began with poetry, in terms of writing and then, I moved into fiction; it all works together. Here's one I love. It's a love poem of sorts. Hint: there is a softness to the rhythm that pushes the emotion. I use such tactics in fiction as well to push emotion. Have a beautiful day, C.A. MacConnell

Higher Brow

We were ready to face them.

How casual we were – leaning back in heated seats,

listening to the radio's low hum, riding in the strange
car. You were driving carefully – not too fast,

not too slow, taking the turns lightly, teaching me
how to settle and sink, to welcome the ache of calm.
We were making it. On the way to the most crucial

event, lit up with talent fire, I looked out the window,
and I had a vision of what the packed party might be like –
pretty lights, round, clean, white tables, the rich, organic

smells, and a thousand flutes – glasses upon glasses
shining at flashes, and when they touched, they hit,
screaming with cheer. Everywhere, flawless smiles,

sharp shadows, quick hands gripping microphones,
dresses reaching ankles or knees, tailored pants, fitted
jackets, and the difficult height of heels. We were ready

to face them. For weeks, we had planned the perfect
timing, the shifting flame of our long-awaited arrival.
Then, suddenly, still on the road, you looked at me

once, twice, three times, then shrugged and said,
You know, we don't have to go, and I nodded, smiling,
staring straight ahead, then looking back at you,

studying your cheek, loving your fine, cut jaw,
loving the way the higher brow hugged your right
eye, loving the way that some days, the lid seemed

purple, and we both laughed, and we couldn't stop,
and again, the road, the life, the laughter, the costumes,
the sky lights, and the newly burning stars, were ours.

We were ready to face them.

C.A. MacConnell

P.P.S. PHOTOS: custom, signed prints. Or, prints on metal or canvas, ready to hang. Msg FB: C.A. MacConnell or Email: right here.

2/15/2025

Never Give Up.

Never Give Up, C.A. MacConnell C. 2025

Love to you.

Hope you have a great night,
C.A. MacConnell

P.P.S. PHOTOS: custom, signed prints. Or, prints on metal or canvas, ready to hang. Msg FB: C.A. MacConnell or Email: right here.

All

Good morning. What comes to mind? Remember, the feelings always change. Sometimes it feels like the dark spots, or the fearful times, may last forever. But eventually, the laughter, lightness, and joy always roll back in. Love to you, C.A. MacConnell.

All, photo by C.A. MacConnell

P.P.S. PHOTOS: custom, signed prints. Or, prints on metal or canvas, ready to hang. Msg FB: C.A. MacConnell or Email: right here.

2/14/2025

Lost Glove 61

Good morning. Happy Valentine's Day. Love to you,
C.A. MacConnell

P.P.S. PHOTOS: custom, signed prints. Or, prints on metal or canvas, ready to hang. Msg FB: C.A. MacConnell or Email: right here.

2/13/2025

While You're Down There

This shows an example of my intensity and style. In this one, just a hint...short sentences give a feeling of stress, and it punches out a little nervousness for the reader. :) A little secret. I do such tactics with poetry as well. Have a great day. C.A. MacConnell

While You're Down There

by C.A. MacConnell

Stifling. The air. A hot, damp, thick Seattle summer evening. Seven-thirty on the nose, it was time for Charlie to head home. She scanned the crowd and spat. It was her secret, buried bad side that flew out of her mouth only when no one was looking. A simple thing - spitting - but it felt good. It seemed like she had spent her entire life with her mouth pursed in a tight petal, acting demure. Spitting, every now and then, gave her a tiny, wet release. When no one was looking.

Standing at the entrance to Seattle's Pike Place Market, Charlie removed her apron. Under the apron, Charlie was thin. Well put together. She was thirty-three, but she looked twenty-six, give or take a few.

With a bony finger, she tucked her hair behind her right ear. For ten years, she'd maintained neat, straight, brown hair with short bangs. She slid on bug-style, sexy sunglasses, hiding her deep brown eyes.

Moving forward, Charlie waited to cross the street. Wind blew at her dress enough to reveal her pale, clean, long legs, and her slender ankles. When she went out, anywhere, she wore dresses with closed-toe sandals. Market rules on shoes. Calf-high boots in the winter. Her classy look never varied. When she walked the Seattle streets, heads turned.

The lights were taking forever. Red. No change. A dirty skate kid rolled up, handing her a flyer for the latest show at the Seattle Art Museum.

Charlie read the brochure, then tore it to shreds. At heart, she was a painter, but she never painted anymore. Not for ten years.

For ten years, she'd lived in the city of rain. Ten years. No variation. For spending cash, she worked at The Market. The job was filthy, and the hours were long, but it was simple. Charlie was wickedly smart, but she liked the grunt job. It gave her an excuse to have short, rough nails. Besides spitting, this was her only flaw. Bad hands. And being part of the downtown scene was all that she had left of her creative side. She took home leftover produce, and she liked the ease of it. Among all market employees, Charlie stood out. Everyone thought she was spitting gorgeous. Daily, men and women whistled at her. So she stayed. For ten years.

Something must be wrong with the light, Charlie thought. No change. Still, she stood there waiting, sweating, and musing about her life. Ten hours a day, four days a week, her job was to stand with a dripping, half-cut nectarine and force testers on the tourists. To the boss, fruits and vegetables were gold. Charlie’s stand was the largest in The Market. Daily, tourists weaved through her aisles, squeezing skins; what they took home had to feel ripe.

When they packed in on her at lunchtime, Charlie gave it her all. She'd yell, "Last chance! Eastern Washington nectarines and peaches! Come and get 'em!" over and over until, on the busiest days, her voice turned hoarse. Sexed-up.

--
For ten years, Charlie had taken the same route home.

She still hadn't gone far. Still waiting on the damn light. All around her, people started shifting and complaining, but Charlie said nothing. She waited. Like a sniper, she waited. As usual, in each hand, she carried a plastic bag full of avocados, lettuce, peaches, almonds, and more. One bag split. She paused to check the damage. She'd lost everything. She shrugged, littered, and finally walked forward. One bag was enough for her and Danny, her husband, anyway.

But when she neared the bus stop, when she looked up again, she saw someone strange and new. There was a man, an oddly young, white-haired man; he was heading toward Seattle's Best Coffee. Quickly. On a mission, perhaps. The man looked cool. Retro.

Charlie thought about stiff Danny. A handsome, slick computer suit. She and Danny were a horrific match. They both said so daily. But they stayed together, acting out parts in their modern, cold apartment uptown. It held angular furniture, the kind that looked better than it felt. What kept them together was the sex, and the codependency that Charlie knew everything about, but she didn't care. Long ago, she'd decided that she wasn't changing anytime soon. "Anytime soon" had turned into ten years of Charlie waiting on Danny and his cocaine to come home.

The white-haired man stopped in front of Seattle's Best Coffee, studying the building.

Curious, Charlie watched him. Her stomach hurt, gurgled. Then she felt her gut start to boil, as if it might rupture. She put a hand at her aching belly. Something seemed wrong.

Danny always thought it was cute. Her shrugging, her spitting silence, her stomach aches.

Charlie liked the sex.

The white-haired one rocked from foot to foot, the way Charlie's fish stand lover did. The fish guys were two stands down from her stand. While the boss timed her, during Charlie's coffee breaks, she watched the men throw salmon. Hands gloved in slime, the fish men sang to the tourists, reeling them in, smiling and wiping grimy fingers on grimy aprons that were already black from the day before. Daily, Charlie imagined their hands turning into slick, human fins. Danny had taken away many of her things -- her paints, her brushes, and her blank canvases -- but Danny couldn't steal her imagination. This, and the spitting and the sharks, was Charlie's little secret.

For ten years, she'd been picking up sharks, banging them. Her current one was twenty-three, and he had quite the stamina. Kid was always asking Charlie to leave Danny and run away to Portland, but when he looked at her with watery blue eyes, begging, "Please," Charlie shrugged and answered, "Maybe." She'd said "maybe" to a different shark for ten years. Please, please, please.

The white-haired man wasn't moving. Customers slipped in and out of Seattle's Best, and he stood there, staring at the window.

Charlie had never seen him near the Market. Not a customer or worker. She studied the back of him.

He wore slick black gloves. Black combat boots, a black leather jacket. Too many layers for summer.

Charlie moved closer.

The white-haired man slowly reached inside his jacket, pulling out a black gun.

Drooling, Charlie put a hand over her mouth.

Slowly, he aimed the gun at the glass window of Seattle's Best Coffee and shot. Then he stood there smiling, watching people run.

Behind him, like a firm statue, Charlie waited. Maybe he'll kill himself, she thought. But he didn't. It didn't seem like he was looking for money or blood. Charlie spat.

Everywhere, people scattered into alleys. Even after the shatter, the screams, and finally, the sirens, the white-haired man stood still, putting his gun on the ground, surrendering, hands up.

While they cuffed him, he looked back at Charlie.

Amidst the chaos, she was the only one standing out in the open. A still, naked, easy target.

The shooter's expression remained flat, expressionless. His v-shaped mouth was closed tight, upturned at the corners like an envelope's seal. Then he smiled at her.

Charlie shrugged. For a second, she thought about smiling back, but people were looking. Still hiding, but they were looking. The shooter's only visible audience, she stood tall, full of rage and peace and utter fear and no one was near. No one came out of hiding. She felt like her body might split in two, and half of her would roll away like a splintering, wooden wheel. She'd never felt so bare, so exposed. No more than a blank piece of thin, wet paper about to tear.

Repeatedly, the shooter turned his head to look at her. He smiled one last time before the cops got rough. When the police hauled him away in a dark cruiser, the sky leaked rain.

She'd better get home. Surely, Danny was waiting, wanting her to make him a meal. But for some reason, it felt good to connect with a criminal. Charlie had never even stolen a single grape.

Nobody died that night.

--
The next morning, Charlie didn't kiss Danny, because she knew he hated her strawberry lip-gloss.

They had sex on the kitchen table.

In his stiff suit, Danny gave her a stiff hug and left.

As usual, wearing a pretty dress and sandals, she took the bus to work.

Mornings, Charlie had to carefully arrange the fruit and vegetables to attract people. Colors sucked them in. She was good with colors. But numbers were difficult. Sometimes, she cheated customers. Sometimes, they cheated Charlie. But she figured it all worked out in the end, one way or another.

Lunchtime. It happened every day. When she bent down to pull out a crate of nectarines, her boss laughed and said, "While you're down there, why don’t you do me a favor?" He said this when her eyes were level with his zipper. His mustache was thick, a spongy mess hanging over his lip.

Charlie thought about peeling him, but she smiled, shrugged, turned, and became good and quiet, hauling out the heavy crate, acting like nothing happened. For ten years, she acted like nothing happened.

"Last chance. Come and get 'em," Charlie muttered to the tourists.

On her way home that night, it rained hard. She accepted the feel and kept on walking, oblivious, imagining she was in the desert.

At the bus stop, she thought about Danny saving her from Dr. Mom and Dr. Dad. When Charlie was ten, she got a "B" once, which made her sniffle.

Mom said, "Suck it up, Charlotte. Life's rough. Work harder."

Mom and Dad were doctors who liked to save the world. To Charlie, Mom was a Type A bitch, and Dad was a shoe sole.

After the "B," Charlie made an apple wood carving in Art class. Because it looked so real, and she was hungry, she bit into it. She got splinters in her teeth. And a bloody lip. Other kids laughed at her. Laughed and laughed. Charlie decided that day to never, ever create anything that real again. Then, when no one was looking, she spat.

Her bus came and went. Charlie sat still. After ten years of Danny, uptown, thick silence, suits and sex on hard, angular chairs, Charlie's teeth chattered. She felt a subtle, stirring anger, and then full-on fury bled into her. She pictured Danny coming home from the office, wearing his fresh-pressed suit, and his striped, expensive tie. She pictured Danny opening and shutting and opening and shutting the blinds. She pictured him doing lines on the glass den table, then leaving without a word. Then she saw him returning at six a.m., redressing, wanting sex and breakfast.

Always home by eight p.m. Ten years of home by eight. She should be there, boiling something.

Another bus came. And went.

People did what doctors told them to do. If Charlie didn't, Dr. Mom would give her that look, and that look meant that no matter what, Charlie was no more than bruised fruit. Suck it up, Charlotte. Life's rough. Rough enough to give her splinters. Later, alone, she had to pick them out of her lip, in the basement, in the dark, tasting blood and spitting and tasting blood until it tasted good.

Then Charlie thought about the shooter. She thought about his nature -- unpredictable and cool. She thought about what she could do, since she wasn't home, boiling dinner. She could find her lover, the kid shark. Please. Maybe. No. She had another idea.

She returned to the bus stop. Here it came. It was the wrong bus to take her home, but suddenly, it was the right bus to Charlie. Why not, she thought. Why not just get on the wrong bus, get off at the wrong stop, and stay there. Forever. Why not.

Riding, she pressed her pale face to the window, watching the human blur outside. Another bus, then another, a few cell calls, and she arrived where they were holding him, the shooter.

She crossed the street without looking. Suddenly, feeling was everything. The rain was the bullet kind. All around, people ran for cover. No control over the weather and the way the peaches weren't ripe yet. They came around with time. Danny was probably home, nursing a bloody nose, wondering why she wasn't there, slicing pears.

She acted slutty with the officers, getting the shooter's name. Aaron something. She sketched it down.

For ten years, Charlie had access to Danny's money. For ten years, she'd refused to borrow cash. But she remembered the passwords. All letters. Letters came easy to her. A few calls to Key Bank, a few emails on her cell, a few transfers, presto. Finally, she had a reason to harvest the goods.

That summer, jails were overflowing. It wasn't hard to bail Aaron out.

Aaron's white hair was slick. His big eyes were shaped like sideways avocados, turning into pistachios when he squinted at her.

Charlie picked at the remnants of mushrooms under her nails.

Aaron came forward to the free side.

Side by side, they walked like any old couple. Criminal and artist, interchangeable.

Aaron put his jacket around her shoulders. His eyes opened and changed. More like plums.

Charlie thought of pistachios. She loved them until the boss saw Charlie breaking shells with her teeth, and he gave her that look that said, While you're down there.

Danny might be calling the cops, looking. No, he wouldn't want them finding his coke. Either way, right then, there was nothing better than wild, convict Aaron and the rain. That was enough.

Together, they took the bus to Aaron's pad, a dive in Belltown.

Inside, when Aaron kissed her, he kissed her. He swallowed her. He sucked her in. Lip to lip, he held her there. She felt him grow into her. She felt her insides tear.

His hair moved like white fire.

Aaron rested his head on her blue dress, and they slept this way.

--
In the morning, Charlie stretched out naked on the futon. Her body tingled, feeling new.

Aaron looked strangely peaceful, lightly snoring on his side.

She slipped a pretty dress over her head, ran her fingers over her bangs, smoothing them, and stood, looking around.

Aaron's place was simple. One knife, one fork, one pan. No clutter.

She made coffee. Seattle's Best. Black. She felt cold, damp, chilled, as if she were inside a melon. Sipping from the mug, she tiptoed around, rummaging, finding Aaron's other gun under a couch pillow.

She slipped the gun into her purse. One last time, she looked at him. Aaron was strange, dangerous and beautiful, and he had never even spoken to her. She thought about poking him, just to make sure he was real. She thought about squeezing him, testing his age. Then she decided that it was better to wonder. In the moments with Aaron, words had been replaced by lips, jackets, and the sound of his and her breath, breath and only breath, breath alone. With him, she was fresh juice. She was thirsty and alive.

Quietly, she slipped out the door like a thin letter. Heading to work, she felt pensive and alert. She hadn't missed a day in ten years, and she wasn't about to break that vine. When the rain came down hard enough, Charlie drank it. She had to finish things with the boss.

Morning wasn't bad. Charlie weighed apples and caught bananas, yelling, "Last chance! Eastern Washington nectarines and peaches! Come and get 'em! Last chance!" She was perky. She sold it like a lady.

Around lunchtime, Charlie had a bad taste in her mouth. She was sick of hard furniture, lists, and bringing home leftovers. She was sick of Danny leaving, coming home, leaving, sick of his missing nose cartilage, sick of lines on the table, the fruit, the bruises, the fruit, the skins. Nothing was ever fully skinned, edible, tangible, real, whole. No matter how much she touched handsome Danny, he was never better, never ripe.

"Come and get 'em!" she yelled. "Last chance!"

The boss was rotten too. People could be tricky. She could get too close, and they locked her up, and no matter how gorgeous the house or the market colors were, they were still prisons. Suck it up, Charlotte. Life's rough. This much was clear.

The boss cracked his knuckles over and over, like he was trying to get at a nut's insides. Crack, crack, crack. He had leftover lunch on his mustache.

Charlie fixed the fruit, and when she bent down, when her mouth was level with the boss' zipper, when he said, "While you're down there," she reached her hand inside her purse, pulling out her bug-style sunglasses, slipping them on. Then she reached deeper, finding the cold gun with her bad hands.

She shot at the star fruit, the kiwis, and all of the produce until guts were everywhere. The boss screamed, running down the aisle, backing his fat body against the fish stand.

Smiling, Charlie stood still, holding the gun loosely.

The boss' eyes widened, apricot-sized. Then he covered his face with his hands, crouching low in front of the fish stand's glass case.

She raised the gun again, pointing it at his apron. She said, "While you're down there," smiling. Her finger brushed the trigger.

Then she spotted the blue-eyed kid, her lover shark, who had a wicked tremor going on. He stood up tall, moving his skinny body between Charlie and the boss, right in the line of fire.

Charlie stared into his watery, grape eyes.

One tear drifted out of the kid's left eye, cleaning his market-soiled face. "Please, Charlie, please," he said.

Charlie spat, putting the gun down. She whispered, "Why not."

Nobody died that day.

-- C.A. MacConnell C. 2025

P.P.S. PHOTOS: custom, signed prints. Or, prints on metal or canvas, ready to hang. Msg FB: C.A. MacConnell or Email: right here.

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