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.

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.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.

Short Story: Jesus, Jimmy

Hope you're having a good morning! Love to you. Check out my books on Amazon NOW! Thank you for supporting and loving my photos and books! Heading for NUMBER ONE! XO, C.A.

My next book, nonfiction, is in the design stages. Also, I have a budding new fiction book going on as well. :) Here is a fiction sample for you. It's an old piece, but it'll give an example of my style...and how I capture a voice. :) -- C.A. Mac

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! I guarantee you'll never forget the ride! On the way to number ONE! Help me get there! Creative, fast-paced, unique, and gripping. Full of heart, real. I independently handle everything -- the creation, writing, editing, and interior/exterior design. 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. <3, C.A.

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.

The Computer Lady

Good morning. I mess around with the traditional POV patterns in this one, and I definitely break rules, but I like the result. It gets interesting...fun little story with a great twist. Hope you like it. A fiction sample for you... Check out my books on Amazon. Saw some good music last night. It was nice to get out for a bit! Snow's coming! Have a good day. Love to you, C.A.

The Computer Lady

Grunting, The Computer Lady always arrived at Bumble Bee Cafe after lunchtime; she appeared around two in the afternoon. She was nearly forty-five years old, and her too-long, frosted bangs blended into her shoulder length, patchy-frosted hair. Sometimes she resembled a scarecrow. Short with small breasts, she wore a little extra roll around her middle, because every now and then, she enjoyed a Bumble Bee pastry. Sometimes she wore lightly tinted, Janis Joplin style glasses. Other days, she showed her face. But one thing never varied -- every day, after slowly eating her lunch (tuna salad on wheat, cup of soup), she sat and stared at her computer for hours. She drank water. From time to time, she asked the server, Jim, for more water. Mostly, she demanded it. Water, more water.

Several times, Jim had thought that she might need a hose attached to her lips.

Computer Lady raised the glass and shook the ice. No words at first. But when no one immediately responded, she changed her ways, and she began to scream. "Where is my water?"

Jim tried to keep the glass full to avoid the inevitable scene, but he'd been busy with the end of a lunch rush, so he'd been a little distracted. "I'll be right with you," he answered. Quickly, he found a full pitcher and refilled her glass.

An hour or so later, Jim thought she was gone, so he cleared her table, taking her water glass with the plate, the fork, the knife, the soup spoon, and the always-wet napkin. But that was the wrong move, he found out. Way wrong.

Suddenly, Computer Lady returned from nowhere and yelled, "Where the hell is my water?" She yelled it loud enough for every customer to hear.

Heads turned.

"I'll get you another one. So sorry," Jim said quietly, hoping his tone would soothe her. "I thought you were gone."

She muttered, "Hmmphhh," shaking her head with disgust. "You always assume I'm gone. It's not right."

Jim grinned and hurried to get her another water. With lemon.

She went back to her computer.

When it was time to close, Jim took the check to her. Seemed like the thing to do. He'd been doing the same thing for years.

She looked up and yelled, "Do I have to pay this NOW?"

"Well, we are closing," he whispered. "We always close at six. You know that."

"Hmmmphh," she said, handing him her credit card.

After Jim rang the card, he took the slip over to her. Again, it seemed like the natural course of events.

When she saw the slip, she scowled at Jim and asked, "Do I have to sign this NOW?"

"Uh, that'd be great," he muttered, trying to hold back a chuckle. She wasn't just simply rude. She was beyond rude. He'd seen it before, but it usually wasn't that bad.

After Jim finished rolling his silverware at the Bumble Bee, he had some time to kill before he met up with his friends, so he headed to Lucky Dog Coffee for a shot. Then he glanced to his right, and there she was again. The Computer Lady. As always, she was sitting by herself, staring at her computer, drinking water.

Jim called out to her, "Hi there, I just saw you. I work at the Bumble Bee...you know, where you just were. You writing a novel on there?"

"No," she barked.

"Oh, okay," he said, introducing himself. "My name's 'Jim' by the way. I've never told you all these years."

She muttered, "Laura" and went back to her computer.

He knew her full name. He'd seen the credit card slips for years, but it was nice to hear her say it. Then he asked, "Why do you come into the Bumble Bee every day?"

"Oh, I banned that place for a while because of bad service, but now I go back because I like the soup," she answered, still staring at her computer.

He nodded, rose, went to the bar, and ordered his espresso shot from her, the Barista. No, not one, a double shot. On the way back to his table, he walked near The Computer Lady, sliding right by her, wanting to look at her screen, wanting to know what she was searching for, wanting to ask more questions, but she was still buried in the computer. So he gave up.

He thought about how she came in every day at the same time, how she ordered the same thing. She always stayed for hours, and she rarely looked up from her computer. What was strange was that she rarely typed anything either. He couldn't figure out what she was doing, and he'd never had a chance to sneak up behind her to look at the screen. Well, he'd had the chance, when the tables were slow, but he'd never had the guts. Sometimes "not knowing" was better. But his next mission was this: he was determined to make her react, to hear some sound come from her other than choppy words and angry grunts. Perhaps she was a closet genius, and she was creating something brilliant on that computer, right there, right in the Bumble Bee Cafe. Could be anything. Maybe she was a nurse. Yeah, she worked the early shift, and she came into the restaurant after. Yes, she saved lives. Maybe she was creating the cure for Cancer. Or Diabetes. Or mental illness. Maybe she was memorizing the famous paintings of the world. Looking at photographs? Videos? Her kids? Nah, she definitely wasn't the motherly type. Strangely, he wanted to give her a hug. She looked like she needed one, but he was afraid she might crack. He wanted to do something, anything. He wanted to know what stories lived inside such an angry heart. She might crack.

Jim's phone vibrated. He checked the screen. Text from Jason, the sensitive one who couldn't hold his liquor. Jason wrote, Jim, you better come out with us. You've been a hermit, and I'm already buzzing, and I need help with that girl, you know, I can't talk to her, and I know she'll be there, she is so amazing, holy shit. Jim's phone vibrated again. Text from Kara. Heya, I'll be there now, I changed my mind. I'm getting wasted. Lisa broke up with me. Again. I need you. Five more texts. Five emails. Then he got hooked on some YouTube. Even after his espresso shot was long gone, down the hatch, Jim sat next to Computer Lady, staring at his phone. He was there for hours and hours and by then, it was getting a little late to go out. Might as well just chill and go home. Jason would make it happen with the girl. And Kara had serious muscle. They'd be all right. He thought about sending a group text that said this: I'm here. Who is going to help me? Then he looked up and saw her, the Lucky Dog Barista.

Curiously, the Barista was staring back. She thought he was attractive for an older man. She was only twenty, and he appeared to be at least twenty-five. The way the Phone Man was dressed, maybe he was an artist, yeah, a painter, or a musician. No ring on. He always came in at the same time every day, around 6:30pm. And he always sat next to the woman who was buried in her computer; the Barista assumed she was his mother. How sweet, he's hanging out with his mom on a Friday. Not a great resemblance, but it was there -- their quiet ways, and the expressions -- utterly unreadable. She'd been a Lucky Dog Barista for a long time, and she could usually read a face, but when it came to the Phone Man and his mother, the Barista remained stumped. Phone Man always ordered one shot, like a poet. But that day it was two. Strange, very strange. Perhaps he'd be interested in a free shot. She could deliver it to him. She was sexy, playing with a straw, making eyes at him. She wasn't trying to be sexy. She just was. Often times, on her days off, when she dressed for the occasion, she made men and women drool. She thought about making him something free. But she couldn't tell...maybe he wanted to be in his own space. Like his mom. He was impossible to decipher. Every day, she tried to make him smile. Maybe if she could make him smile, she could make the mother smile too. So far, nothing. Always, he simply stared at his phone. What was strange was that she saw the phone flash and vibrate, but she never saw him text anyone back. He just looked at his phone and sipped his espresso. Maybe he was an undercover cop or a Dad. Nah, he didn't seem like the fatherly type. Maybe he was an actor, yes. He looked like one. So handsome, in a weird way. Some days she wanted to hold his hand. But he might shatter. Other days, she wanted to grab his shoulders and shake the pretty face right out of him, to know his real heart. It was maddening.

The Barista cleaned the espresso machine, and she made as much noise as possible.

Jim went back to his phone.

The Computer Lady held up her glass, shaking the ice. Then she yelled, "Hey, can I have some more water?"

"Right away," the Barista said to Computer Lady. She said it ever so softly, trying to keep the scene calm.

That voice, Jim thought. He too knew what it was like to keep a customer from breaking, really breaking. He wondered about her, the real person attached to the voice. Jim turned off his phone and looked sideways at the Barista.

The Computer Lady yelled, "Water!"

The Barista swooped in, handing a tall, dripping glass over to The Computer Lady. She rolled her eyes, and then she looked at Jim, smiling wide. "You always come in here at the same time, every day."

Jim's eyes widened.

In a huff, for no reason, the Computer Lady rose and said, "I'm never coming back here." And she left.

The Barista shook her head. "What's wrong with that lady? I thought maybe she was your mom."

Jim glanced down. "She is. She just has no idea. She gave me up, you know, way back when."

The Barista sat down at Jim's table. She sniffled a little. "Oh my god. That's why you come in here every day."

Jim looked back up. "At first, yes. And then I realized...well...now I come in here for you."

-- C.A. MacConnell

Take My Test.

A prayer I say in my car every day:  'OK God, let's be safe, have fun, be kind to people. No wrecks.' Sometimes, I'll add a list of things I want to turn over, or I'll add, 'Remove my fear and show me what it is you wish me to be!' Or, 'God, please direct my thinking.' Some days, I also say, 'Big bucks, no whammies.' Ha! What a strange, funny show that was.

Here's a fiction sample for you...a young love story of sorts. I've been doing some babysitting lately and so, I've been gathering dialogue for some future book scenes (I file it away in my head, and it can be annoying, but now I consider it a gift!) Hope you enjoy my work. My books are here.

Here's to a creative, wild life. Many lessons about riding the ride, feeling the feelings, rolling with it, and accepting the unknown. Uncertainty, fear, unresolved things -- all of these issues build great strength and trust, inside and out. Forces me to focus on demanding peace right here, right now, regardless of what's going on around me. Settling into this notion can be difficult as all hell, but absolutely rewarding, aye.

Good luck to you on your journey. Right here, right now,
C.A. MacConnell

Take My Test

Her stomach rumbled. At her desk, Stacy shifted, holding her middle, trying to mask the noise, but when she moved, the groans inside of her only became louder, turning into a sleepy, constant growl. For a moment, she wondered if the sounds would break a rib. She reached up, each hand gripping a blond braid, and she gave them a gentle tug. Her stomach churned, and she cleared her throat, hoping to hide the acidity inside.

She looked at the clock. In about five minutes, the bell would ring. She watched the second hand tick, tick, and then her eyes darted down to the blank paper on the desk in front of her. She glanced at the boy to her right. Will. Repeatedly, she blinked. When her gut was loud, she didn't sleep much.

With saucer-like, big, brown eyes, Will stared back. What? he mouthed at her. An early riser, he was tall for fifth grade. What’s wrong? You look like a sad dog.

Nothing, Stacy mouthed back, looking down at the blurry maze of unanswered math problems. Her stomach raged on, and she hugged herself, moving her small hips side to side in the hard chair, nearly slipping out of it. She leaned toward him. Ever so quietly, she whispered, I’m no dog, dummy.

Your face looks like my puppy though. Didn't you study any? Will wrote on the side of his desk.

Yes, LOTS, Stacy wrote on the edge of a small, spiral notebook. Mom made me.

You sick? he wrote back, blinking his long, dark lashes, then sniffling. Man, I am.

NO, she wrote in bubble, block letters. She thought about Pop Tarts. Strawberry. Hungry, see.

Yer gonna flunk, Will etched into the wooden surface of his desk. It wasn't hard. It wasn't hard at all, and he was happy about this.

Aren't you worried about your desk? Stacy wrote, and her body jerked when her pen sank into the hole of the spiral. She pulled it out, fixing the accident.

Shrugging, Will looked down, studying his graffiti. Then he reached for a small, black book, writing, I like your braids. No breakfast for you? Lucky Charms rock, don’t they?

Stacy wrote, They do. I like the purple horseshoes.

Will scribbled, You didn’t have anything?

Stacy shook her head. With the pen, she dug into the paper. There wasn't enough.

Will nodded, staring down his long nose, studying her. He mouthed, I get it.

The bell rang.

"Okay, everyone, time to turn the tests in. Bring them on up," the teacher, Miss Markistan, announced in a cheery, light voice.

Will handed his test to Stacy, whispering, "Here, take my test. I didn’t even put my name on it yet. I always do that last. Some kind of superstitious thing. Take it. Put your name on it, turn it in. She won't be able to tell the handwriting's wrong. It's just numbers. And I think I got most of them right too." Grinning, he nodded at her. "It's all right."

Miss Markistan yelled, "Come on now, enough of this chatter! Let's turn them in, folks."

"But what will you do?" Stacy asked Will, taking the test from him, sliding the blank one into her book bag.

Will shrugged, licking his lips. "Hm…well…I'll tell her I'm sick, or I’ll tell her that when she passed out the tests she forgot me, or I’ll kill her, I dunno. Hey, Stacy, just so you know, I think you're like some kind of movie star. You are, aren’t you? You’re special, like the purple horseshoe. Hey, your eyes are so blue, they actually look purple, it’s weird.”

Stacy smiled, looking down. She hooked her book bag on her shoulders, feeling her stomach, feeling the growl. Then she glanced back up at Will and said, "I think you're like one of those guys who wears hats and shoots guns...yeah...a gangster. My brother makes me watch those movies. I mean, I like them, but he makes me."

"A gangster, I like that," Will said, smiling wide, puffing out his small chest.

"Will! Stacy! Turn in your tests or you’ll be late for science, and no one wants to be late for Mr. Usher. You know he'll make you sit next to the snake," Miss Markistan shouted.

"Yes, Miss Markistan," Will and Stacy said in unison.

Swinging her braids, Stacy turned and walked to the front of the room, moving lightly, like she always did, like a newly violet butterfly.

Whistling, hand on the side of his corduroys, Will followed close behind.

Lightheaded, hanging on to the chalkboard, Stacy turned in her test.

"Finally! Now have a good day, you two troublemakers," Miss Markistan said, shaking her head.

Will approached Miss Markistan – sizing up her round face, her thick smile, and her body mass -- her height and her curves. The possible weight of it. He opened his hands, showing white, empty palms.

"Where’s your test?" Miss Markistan asked him, hands planted on her wide hips. “That’s not like you to be difficult. You’re usually such a good kid.”

From the door, Stacy glanced back at Will with bloodshot, round eyes. She ran a hand across her middle, feeling the life there. The life. She knew it was only one hour until lunch. She could make it.

Will sniffled. Maybe he’d keep quiet, say nothing. No, the sickness story might work. And then he thought about the hunting knife taped to his leg. The week before, he’d taken it from his dad’s dresser drawer, just in case there was some enemy out there, some enemy like Dad or Miss Markistan. Will hadn’t used it yet, but he liked knowing it was there. Like Stacy, his stomach rumbled some too. Only one hour until lunch. If he breathed slowly, the pangs weren't as harsh, and he knew his house wasn’t as bad as Stacy’s. He’d heard.

"The test, the test," Miss Markistan asked, raising her voice.

Will glanced down, studying the smooth, grey floor. For sure, Stacy was like some kind of movie star. He wasn't sure about much in fifth grade, but he was sure that Stacy was like a movie star. Nobody had purple eyes like that. Nobody but her. He stared up at Miss Markistan, his brown eyes peering intently into her hazel ones. He stood as tall as he could and muttered, "When you passed out the tests, there weren't enough.” Suddenly, he was empty-handed and fearless. He was a boxer, a pit bull, a monster from the deep. Like Jaws. He was a man.

Startled, Miss Markistan said, “It’s just not like you. You’re such a good kid.” Then she shook her head and asked, “What’s that sticking out of your pants leg?” She grabbed Will by the arm, and then she reached down, lifted the cuff of his corduroys, pulled at the tattered pants leg, and ripped at the tape hard and fast, scratching at it, tearing off half of Will's sock and some of his skin. Revealing the knife, she studied the dried blood on the serrated edge, and then she backed away from him, holding up the weapon. “Oh my god,” she said. “Where did you get this?”

Looking at the doorway, Will smiled over at Stacy.

Stacy mouthed, You're a gangster, before she disappeared out the door, heading to science.

Still gripping the knife, Miss Markistan dragged Will down the hall toward the principal’s office.

Will had never felt so full.

-- C.A. MacConnell

Short Story: While You're Down There.

Here's a short story, so that you know I can kill it at my craft, and I'm not just a girl who writes about macaroni, like I did yesterday, This is really old, but it shows an example of my intensity and style. In this one, just a hint...short sentences give a feeling of stress, stuntedness, and punch out a little nervousness for the reader. :) So you know something strange is coming. A little secret. I do such tactics with poetry as well. Enjoy...C.A.

While You're Down There

by C.A. MacConnell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charlie liked the sex.

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

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

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

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

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

Charlie moved closer.

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

Drooling, Charlie put a hand over her mouth.

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

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

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

While they cuffed him, he looked back at Charlie.

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

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

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

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

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

Nobody died that night.

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

They had sex on the kitchen table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another bus came. And went.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charlie picked at the remnants of mushrooms under her nails.

Aaron came forward to the free side.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His hair moved like white fire.

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

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

Aaron looked strangely peaceful, lightly snoring on his side.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smiling, Charlie stood still, holding the gun loosely.

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

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

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

Charlie stared into his watery, grape eyes.

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

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

Nobody died that day.