Fire House
C.A. MacConnell
12/15/2015
12/13/2015
Photo: Curve Ball
Curve Ball
I really do love taking pictures. Ha, sure wish I had a camera, but I'm having fun, so who cares. My goal is to make someone smile. Or laugh. Or feel it in the heart or gut. I'd be thrilled to make someone feel beautiful. Or escape for a while.
I feel peaceful today. Sitting here with my My Little Pony shirt on, chilling. Wondering what's next.
C.A. MacConnell
12/12/2015
Bad Hair Bad
Bad Hair Bad
Short Story, Fiction, started original version years ago...this is the revised version. Enjoy.
by: C.A. MacConnell
Let me tell you a secret. I am bad. They call me Shelly Hopscotch because I’m the fastest at the game. We’re junior high, so we’re way too old for it, but we play anyway. It’s either that or tether-ball, and there’s always a line there, so we get bored and hopscotch it is. I can stretch my legs, throw the perfect stones, and make it to ten before the other girls even make it to the playground. So I always stand there and laugh, watching how their ponytails chase after them like all those red-faced, horny boys. If it rains in the valley, I'm the first one to swallow drops. If the sun pokes up over the mountain and beats down, I'm the first one to take off my mud boots and dance. The other kids watch me tie someone’s shoelaces together, and they follow, one by one, until we’re all tripping over ourselves. Nice.
My hair is so black and so straight. No waves or anything in the way. Sometimes, it's tied back tight and smooth. Maybe I look like a seal, I dunno. Other days, it falls down my shoulders, tickling my chin like boys’ hands do sometimes, like when they’re being stupid boys. Today I have the black claw clip in, so my hair’s somewhere in between up and down. Mom got it down at the Dollar Store. She said I needed it. She said she wanted to see my face. We usually spend about twenty bucks at that place, so like Dad says, “that dollar thing is all a bunch of BS.” Dad cusses all the time when he thinks I don’t hear. I drag Mom in the Dollar Store whenever, because she’s a total sucker for a deal. Sweet.
I’m smiling all weird because Bryan just popped into my head, and my teeth feel so slippery, because I just got the braces off. To test out my teeth, I bit real hard into a whole green apple, and I ripped into that skin like a tiger. Last week, Bryan made some poetry, and he told me my face was as smooth as a freshly painted wall. He’d know since his Dad’s the town painter. Sometimes, after Bryan touches my chin or my cheek, he stares at his hands to make sure they're not stained white. I guess that’s what he’s doing. Strange, because whenever I check myself out in any mirror or window, I think my skin has a rough, yellow glow, like some joker just rubbed my face with Cheetos. I dunno, I’ll ask Christine at school later. She always tells the truth, which makes her only kinda cool, not totally cool, because she wouldn’t lie for me if we were in the principal’s office. That kid Jess is the same way – medium cool, never lies. I think they’re in love or whatever, which can be annoying.
The bell rings, and I think I’m a kangaroo for a second, the way I jump out of my seat. Always, I’m the first one out the door, the first one at the lockers because that makes me super cool. Everyone knows it.
All around, feet are pounding and people are yelling like animals. The boys stick together in choppy runs. The girls scurry into the bathroom. They never go alone. This is their only chance, for real. Later, they’d have to squirm in their seats and hold it. Or, they could raise their hands and ask the fake-blonde Social Studies teacher if they can get up. If her husband wasn’t out all night at the Do-Right Pub, she’ll let them pee, and they’ll get up, and everybody will stare at them and laugh, just to laugh at something, like the way we laugh at someone’s stupid no-name jeans. No loser wants that.
Slamming my locker shut, I peek into my brown bag of gross lunch. Some bigger girls will beg me for my sweets, and I'll trade them, because I like the taste of something another Mom made, something that fills me more than a Twinkie and some beef jerky, geez. My Mom is chef at the rich people’s Highland Restaurant, so when she gets home, the last thing she wants to do is make another meal. Dad always laughs and tells Mom that her dinners are dog food. Nice.
Lunchtime, yeah. We’re in our seats, passing food around. Some girls give me bad looks. I'm the only brave one who moves to a boy table. Those girls want to hate me, but I smile at them, showing them my new straight teeth. Kill them with kindness, Mom always says. I try thinking about what Joan Jett would do, what her face might look like right then and there, and I make a cool face.
Dirk pats me on the back.
I roll my eyes and munch on Doritos. He wasn't saying "hi." He wanted to feel my shirt to see if there was a bra strap there, which there wasn’t. Sorry to bum him out, but I'm still boobless, skinny Shelly. One of the boys, for real.
Bryan checks his reflection in a spoon. He’s the boy leader - brown-eyed, brown-haired, tall, and no doubt, he’s the most curly-headed deviled egg around. He's new. New kids in the valley are auto-cool.
Bell rings. Our stomachs full, we run to recess. Faces trapped in grins, we’re like little snakes. Someone has Twizzlers. The girls all try to beat my hopscotch record, but I win the game, one-footed and proud. Okay, sometimes I cheat. Bored, I cross the playground to the boys’ side.
They throw the football around. I don’t think they know what they’re doing, but they act like they do. Sometimes they even punch each other. Even Jess, the buzz-haired quiet one, is catching some. Mike, the shortest of them all, takes off his glasses, cleans them with his shirtsleeve, and looks at me all weird.
I feel like a loser, remembering the time I didn't dance with him in sixth grade, so I act like I don't see him. Sitting down on a log, I pull a heavy metal magazine from a hidden, inside coat pocket, flipping through pages of bands, tattoos, and tongues. Ratt is my favorite. They rock.
Bryan bounces back and forth, shouting, “I’m open!” He’s always open.
Mike comes over to bug me. He looks over my shoulder at the pictures.
I hand him the magazine, stealing his place in the football game.
“Hey!” Mike yells and laughs.
“Sorry, yeh snooze, yeh lose,” I tell him, catch the football, and run.
When I’m out of breath, I look over at the Latin teacher. She shakes her head, gripping her bell like a recess boyfriend. By her look, I know she's thinking, Shelly will be pregnant at sixteen, another kid lost in the mountains. She’s right about one thing. I’m going to end up in the mountains, living in a log cabin like that guy on TV with the beard, Grizzly Adams. I love him. Just me and my half-wolf, blue-eyed dog, Tesla, hanging out in the cabin with Grizzly. I know, “Tesla” is a bad name for a dog, but I was listening to that band when I named him, so whatever, everybody has to deal.
I smile at the Latin teacher. Kill her with kindness.
She smiles back, scaredy-cat like.
Science room. I take my assigned seat next to Christine. She’s obsessed with some book, something told through the voice of a wolf I guess. That’s what it looks like from the cover picture, but sometimes I think I know what I’m getting into, and then I open some book and get a big, fat surprise, which is annoying.
I pull the headband out of Christine’s hair and throw it to Bryan, who’s behind us.
“Hey, give it back!” Christine yells out. She laughs, feeling her hair. It's thick and perfect, like Tesla’s coat. I wouldn’t say I hate her for it, but she’s not my favorite either.
Bryan throws the headband to Jess, Jess to Mike, Mike to Lisa, Lisa to Stephanie, until everyone touches it. Everyone except Lara, the part-albino girl who sits in the closest seat to the teacher. Lara’s almost blind; she can’t even see the big E’s on eye charts. Sounds sad, but I think it’d be cool to be an alien.
The Science teacher runs into the room. He’s losing his hair, but what’s left of it is full of static cling, so it looks like he’s got wings on his head. “Sorry I’m late,” Bird Head says, writing definitions on the board. There are chalk hand prints on his butt.
Jess walks up to Christine, looks at the ground, and hands her headband back. “Here,” he says, shuffling back to his seat. He looks like Tesla did when he had worms, when he walked around our house, dragging his behind all over the carpets. Sick-o.
Christine blushes, going back to her book.
She’s bad too. Just not yet. It starts with the hair. Pretty soon, she’ll stop blow-drying. She’ll start wearing it messy, like it’s supposed to be, and Jess will make her squirm around like a belly-up hornet.
I pass Bryan a note that says, “Come over later.”
He passes me one back that says, “You got it,” with a smiley, winking face, which is ridiculous.
Lara sits alone in the front of the room, her Science book pressed close to her face, the light hitting her skin like the sun on mountain snow. She follows the lines of words with her finger, because it takes her forever to read. Every day on the playground, she sits on the same log, peeling an orange. I don’t know if she ever eats anything but oranges. Crazy, but I'm a sucker for her. She’s not cool, but she’s not a nerd. Lara’s in a whole other world all together. Kill her with kindness.
Lara looks up, staring my way, squinting her pale, blue eyes.
I know she can’t see me, but I look away at the clock, just in case. Watching the second hand, my eyes and ears lose focus, and the teacher’s words blur, tangled together like hair. The hand moves in its steady, slow, beat. I can almost hear it. I’m sorry, but I drift off.
Shocked awake, I feel a tap on my back, and I open my eyes to Lara’s half-blind, soft stare.
Lara’s thick, white hair blends into her skin. “You slept through class,” she says, floating out of the room, hunched over like old Suzanne, the Health teacher who lets us call her by her first name. She’s not fooling me, though. She’s still a teacher.
I'm an angry raccoon, because I’m supposed to be the first one out the door. I yank a hair from my head, leave it on the desk, and stand up, anxious. I grab my book pile. Book bags are for losers.
Home. I slip on my acid-washed jeans with the zippers at the ankles, my burgundy, thrift shop sweater, and my blue rain boots. I hear the sounds of dinner-making: the wrappers, the freezer opening and shutting, the beep of the microwave, Mom’s pant legs rubbing together as she paces, worried about Dad again, and “DarnitMaryMothertoHell” when she cuts herself. She never cusses like Dad does, because Mom takes Church seriously. I like the donuts.
There's a knock on the door. I rub the top of my head for good luck.
Bryan stands behind the screen, but it’s scary because his face is all blurry behind the gray, wire netting. Like a ghost, for real.
I sneak out, which is easy, since Mom’s buried in grease.
We run through the horse field and up the mountain to our waterfall, sitting on our favorite, wet rock. It's a biggun, like a boulder. I think it has a face too.
“Glad you came, but we don’t have much time,” I tell Bryan.
“Well let me just spit it out. Just in case you wondered, I love you, Shell,” Bryan says, kissing me sloppy.
I let him kiss me, and then I stand up, knowing Dad will let me have it if I’m out too late. There’s a long howl. I picture Tesla stretching his neck, pointing his nose up in the air, opening his jaws, letting the sound creep out. If I shut my eyes real tight, I can almost imagine the feel his thick, fur coat. “You know I gotta go,” I say to Bry. My bottom lip feels funny because he’s been sucking on it.
Bryan grabs my hands. “Not yet, Shell,” he says, pulling me down to him.
Tesla’s pitch grows higher.
Bryan pulls my sweater over my head.
I start to unbutton his shirt, but I get confused, so he finishes for me.
He looks at me, his mouth trapped in some serious, thin line, and says, “I’m...a virgin. Don’t tell anybody.”
“I know,” I say. "Me too," I lie. I'd already done Dirk and Mike that year, but whatever.
I move to a higher rock, put my arms around his neck, and kiss him, listening to the rush of water, which makes me have to pee. Tesla’s howl turns lower, sounding more like a moan, the kind that Mom makes at night, in bed, when she thinks I’m sleeping in my attic. When I listen to her cry, it's like metal music. I love Axl Rose.
Naked, shivering something crazy, we move to a flat, wet, grassy spot. I think it’s all moss, because it feels like Styrofoam on my back.
Soon, Bryan's on top of me, making noises.
I am quiet, for real, feeling him inside me. In the distance, Tesla is barking. By the sound, I can tell he's on his way home. I put my hands in my hair and grip it.
Bryan presses his weight into my ribs, his fingers moving across my skin. Insects.
When it's over, we grab our clothes from the ground. As I struggle with my jeans, Bryan brushes twigs off me. Then he reaches to pick leaves from my hair.
“Don’t. I’ll get it,” I say, making fists with my hands. Like I'm queen of some jungle.
Our boots heavy with mud, we walk back, lifting our legs high, careful not to trip. When we reach the bottom of the trail, Bryan runs down the driveway, his footsteps beating it up like hail on the attic roof.
I look down at my hands. One, open. The other, still clenched in a fist. I spread my fingers, one at a time. A small clump of hair in the palm. I brush it away with the other hand. Bad, Shelly, bad. I run fingers over my arms, legs, head, chest, until I feel like I’ve erased myself, the way rats slip into the wall cracks, disappearing for a while. But it’s weird the way they always come back. I watch and wait for them to come back. I stay ready because sometimes traps don’t work.
Home. At the table, my ankles are crossed. My hands, folded.
Dad sits next to me. His dark eyes stare hard at whatever. Dad's in serious mode. He looks handsome, and he smells crispy, like bacon smoke and mountain air.
Mom picks at the chicken on my plate. If it’s not on her plate, the calories don’t count. Mom thinks nothing counts if people don’t see it.
“How was your day?” Mom asks, dropping some peas on her lap. She laughs, nervous. Mom never stops moving. Even when she sits stuffed, leaning back in her chair, her lips quiver. Might sound creepy, but I’ve gotten used to it.
Dad nudges me and says, "Answer you Mother, pretty."
“Okay,” I say, pushing food around with my fork. “The day was okay.”
“Did you do your homework?” Dad says, shoving a roll in his mouth. He swallows without chewing.
“Done,” I say, studying his mechanic hands. No matter how many times he washes them, the skin cracks are still black. Like paws.
“Good girl.” Then with his mouth full of food, he says to Mom, “What’s really for dinner?” He laughs a little.
“You’re looking at it,” she says back, looking down.
I sneak away from the table before the heavy metal begins.
That night, I listen to Tesla scratch at the door. Paw to wood, paw to glass. Nights like this are always the same. Dad's tired again. Later, he slaps Mom around. No big deal. Nothing like Lara’s house. I hear there’s a reason why she was born half-blind; her mom got knocked around when Lara was in her stomach. Just one of those mountain stories. Well, they’re all pretty true, now that I think about it. I mean, nobody’s seen Bigfoot around, but we all know he’s there.
I pull the covers over my head, thinking about Tesla’s blue eyes, eyes as blue and clear as Lara’s. And I wonder, when Lara squints all funny and tries to see, I wonder if her eyes sting like a Daddy spank. I feel the top of my head. There is an empty circle, that spot in the back. Man, I need the claw clip. It’s no biggie. Soon, it will turn to long, jagged stubble. It’ll grow back in.
Morning is silent. Mom and Dad are gone at work already. Since I’m bigger, I guess they trust me to go to school alone now. Nobody told me that. It just kind of happened. One day, I woke up, and they weren’t around. So I am naked. I push the covers away and shuffle across the floor, and I feel the goose bumps on my skin. I hear Tesla’s paws hit the steps. Then his pounce comes. He pushes the door open and licks my face. Before I have time to wrestle with him, he's gone. Nuts.
I pick my purple sweatshirt and Forenza jeans off the floor, slip them on, and look in the mirror. I pull my hair back in my claw clip, fixing it so no one will see the empty space. Yes, I brush my teeth and all that. I wasn’t born in a barn. Christine was, but that’s just because she came out early and thought she was a horse or something. Anyway, carrying my books, I drop the History one while I’m running to the bus. I just leave it in the puddle for the stray cats. I take my seat in the back, the place where I can write on the seat in front of me and no one will see. No one will see my writing.
Bryan’s stop is next. Slowly, like the cool boy he is, he makes his way down the aisle and sits right next to me. His curls are all wet. At least his hair’s clean for once, geez.
“Hi, trouble,” I say. Someday, I might want him. I might be able to want him. I think of the way Lara can sit alone and just seem all right. How, with where she comes from, I have no idea. They all talk about her. They make fun of her. They say they hate her guts because she’s blind, but they can’t hate her. They want to be what they most hate. Because deep down inside her quiet, she’s as strong as a lion. I can see it there, that king, that wild, fierce hole. Everybody wants to be secretly tough.
Bryan nods, says "hi" back, and he acts like he’s reading.
Then he touches my leg. Got him. Could throw him like a stone. Could land him on any hopscotch number, hop over him, squish him, and win the game. Whatever.
Homeroom. I chew on a piece of hair, anxious. My stomach rumbles. I think of the night last week when Dad pulled me outside. I thought we were going to catch lightning bugs, but instead, he told me about his bad, bad days.
“Shelly,” he said. His dark eyes were wet and swollen up.
“Yeah,” I said, curling up on that old chair Mom never got rid of.
“I want you to know why I'm the way I am,” he said.
Then he told me how lucky I was. He told me about being little, that he barely ate because they were so poor. In a basement. Left there. Rats would crowd around. He thought about eating the rats. That his brother didn't make it. And most of the time, Dad wished he didn't. “I'm closer to you than I am to your Mom,” he said. He put his arms around me. He held his arms around me.
I was scared, because I never saw Dad cry before. I’d rather see him throw stuff around. And I couldn't pull loose. His cries were like music. High notes. Like Tesla’s nighttime cry. Like the screaming of a hard rocker. Like Skid Row. As Dad got up to go back inside, I put my hand on my head and pulled hard. I couldn't find Tesla. I hoped that dog didn't run away again, because Dad said he might shoot Tesla if he didn't shape up. And Dad had a loaded rifle in his shed. It was ready to go.
A soft tap on my shoulder snaps me back. Lara says, “Shelly, we have to go to class.”
"Oh, hi, Lara, all right,” I say, looking up at her glowy, white face.
"Thanks," she says.
"For what?" I asked her.
"For saying my name. No one ever does," Lara says, grinning. She's almost see-through.
I nod. I don't know what to say to invisible people.
I count. Mom always says that calms her down. Ten. The Latin teacher walks in. Her hair is blonde, long, and thick, like a horse tail. Today, we get our tests back. Nine. I have to get an “A.” I’m bad. Eight. My eye twitches. Seven. I look around. Six. Dirk carves something into his desk. Five. Bryan tears a piece of paper from his notebook, slowly, as if no one can hear. Four. Margaret and Christopher touch each other’s feet. Where am I? Jess watches Christine, who is buried in the same wolf book. Yes, three. As the Latin teacher passes the papers back, I feel them looking at me across the room, from the corners of their eyes, staring. I wonder if they can see it - the empty space. Two. Touching the top of my head, I remember that once, just once, in bed, when I was almost too young to remember, I think Tesla kissed me there. It was dark, super dark, so dark, I was half-blind like Lara. I could feel him above me, panting. Yes, for real, Tesla was panting. He wasn't going to run away. He kissed me there. One, breathe. She hands me the paper. Good enough. Saved by the scribble of someone’s hand. Never use my own hands. My own hand can only hurt and pull, hurt and pull, until I was left with only the memory of one kiss. Then the empty space. Because Tesla ran away before I could even tell it was him. Because Mom didn’t believe me. She said that Tesla and our family were good people, that I was making up mountain stories. She said that some secrets had to stay in Tesla’s ears, secrets like rats in the house walls. He kissed me there. It was him. In my attic room. And I knew that one day, he was coming back. Head banging is so cool.
Lara holds her paper close, trying to read the tiny writing.
I tap her back and say, “Hey, you got a hundred."
“Thanks,” she says, her red lips spreading out like a cut.
“How did you do?” she asks, touching me with her white hand.
“Bad,” I tell her.
Recess. Lara is nowhere. She must be at the nurse’s office again. I saw a bruise.
The English teacher is in charge, the one with the bell. She's pretty with reddish-brown hair. At recess, she pays attention to what kind of birds are out, and sometimes she forgets about us kids. Sweet.
I stole some cigs from Dad the night before, so I pull two smoke treats from my bag, sneaking into the woods on the side of the playground.
Bryan follows. “Shelly! Wait!” he yells after me.
I keep running. Like Tesla, I give his words, his howls to the wind.
It rains. I light up anyway, hearing Bryan’s footsteps. He’s coming.
“Why are you always running?” he says, pushing fingers through his curls.
I put out my cigarette, cough, and start to leave. I'm all head-rushy like a freak. Sick-o.
Bryan grabs my shirt. By accident, he pulls on some of my hair.
The claw clip falls out, and the pieces slide down and separate.
Bryan stands closer and sees it. The empty space. He stands back, like he thinks the bald place might be contagious.
“I have to go,” I say, running, the rain hitting my face. Tiny fists.
Back in Science class, everyone whispers. Everyone but Lara, who can’t even see the big E’s on eye charts. Bryan must've passed it around. Everyone knows. Shelly pulls her hair out. Soon, they'll make songs out of it. Get together and giggle and point. All but Lara, who could never see the notes. She’ll hear their whispers, but she can’t see it. They laugh. Bad, Shelly, bad. But someday, when they sit in their attic rooms at home, when they hear Tesla howling just outside the door, when Dad shakes a fist over something bad, when he cries and holds you and you can’t get away, they’ll know what it’s like to put a hand to the head, and pull out hair, strand by strand, until all dogs are gone, gone, gone, extinct. Kill them with kindness. For real.
Short Story, Fiction, started original version years ago...this is the revised version. Enjoy.
by: C.A. MacConnell
Let me tell you a secret. I am bad. They call me Shelly Hopscotch because I’m the fastest at the game. We’re junior high, so we’re way too old for it, but we play anyway. It’s either that or tether-ball, and there’s always a line there, so we get bored and hopscotch it is. I can stretch my legs, throw the perfect stones, and make it to ten before the other girls even make it to the playground. So I always stand there and laugh, watching how their ponytails chase after them like all those red-faced, horny boys. If it rains in the valley, I'm the first one to swallow drops. If the sun pokes up over the mountain and beats down, I'm the first one to take off my mud boots and dance. The other kids watch me tie someone’s shoelaces together, and they follow, one by one, until we’re all tripping over ourselves. Nice.
My hair is so black and so straight. No waves or anything in the way. Sometimes, it's tied back tight and smooth. Maybe I look like a seal, I dunno. Other days, it falls down my shoulders, tickling my chin like boys’ hands do sometimes, like when they’re being stupid boys. Today I have the black claw clip in, so my hair’s somewhere in between up and down. Mom got it down at the Dollar Store. She said I needed it. She said she wanted to see my face. We usually spend about twenty bucks at that place, so like Dad says, “that dollar thing is all a bunch of BS.” Dad cusses all the time when he thinks I don’t hear. I drag Mom in the Dollar Store whenever, because she’s a total sucker for a deal. Sweet.
I’m smiling all weird because Bryan just popped into my head, and my teeth feel so slippery, because I just got the braces off. To test out my teeth, I bit real hard into a whole green apple, and I ripped into that skin like a tiger. Last week, Bryan made some poetry, and he told me my face was as smooth as a freshly painted wall. He’d know since his Dad’s the town painter. Sometimes, after Bryan touches my chin or my cheek, he stares at his hands to make sure they're not stained white. I guess that’s what he’s doing. Strange, because whenever I check myself out in any mirror or window, I think my skin has a rough, yellow glow, like some joker just rubbed my face with Cheetos. I dunno, I’ll ask Christine at school later. She always tells the truth, which makes her only kinda cool, not totally cool, because she wouldn’t lie for me if we were in the principal’s office. That kid Jess is the same way – medium cool, never lies. I think they’re in love or whatever, which can be annoying.
The bell rings, and I think I’m a kangaroo for a second, the way I jump out of my seat. Always, I’m the first one out the door, the first one at the lockers because that makes me super cool. Everyone knows it.
All around, feet are pounding and people are yelling like animals. The boys stick together in choppy runs. The girls scurry into the bathroom. They never go alone. This is their only chance, for real. Later, they’d have to squirm in their seats and hold it. Or, they could raise their hands and ask the fake-blonde Social Studies teacher if they can get up. If her husband wasn’t out all night at the Do-Right Pub, she’ll let them pee, and they’ll get up, and everybody will stare at them and laugh, just to laugh at something, like the way we laugh at someone’s stupid no-name jeans. No loser wants that.
Slamming my locker shut, I peek into my brown bag of gross lunch. Some bigger girls will beg me for my sweets, and I'll trade them, because I like the taste of something another Mom made, something that fills me more than a Twinkie and some beef jerky, geez. My Mom is chef at the rich people’s Highland Restaurant, so when she gets home, the last thing she wants to do is make another meal. Dad always laughs and tells Mom that her dinners are dog food. Nice.
Lunchtime, yeah. We’re in our seats, passing food around. Some girls give me bad looks. I'm the only brave one who moves to a boy table. Those girls want to hate me, but I smile at them, showing them my new straight teeth. Kill them with kindness, Mom always says. I try thinking about what Joan Jett would do, what her face might look like right then and there, and I make a cool face.
Dirk pats me on the back.
I roll my eyes and munch on Doritos. He wasn't saying "hi." He wanted to feel my shirt to see if there was a bra strap there, which there wasn’t. Sorry to bum him out, but I'm still boobless, skinny Shelly. One of the boys, for real.
Bryan checks his reflection in a spoon. He’s the boy leader - brown-eyed, brown-haired, tall, and no doubt, he’s the most curly-headed deviled egg around. He's new. New kids in the valley are auto-cool.
Bell rings. Our stomachs full, we run to recess. Faces trapped in grins, we’re like little snakes. Someone has Twizzlers. The girls all try to beat my hopscotch record, but I win the game, one-footed and proud. Okay, sometimes I cheat. Bored, I cross the playground to the boys’ side.
They throw the football around. I don’t think they know what they’re doing, but they act like they do. Sometimes they even punch each other. Even Jess, the buzz-haired quiet one, is catching some. Mike, the shortest of them all, takes off his glasses, cleans them with his shirtsleeve, and looks at me all weird.
I feel like a loser, remembering the time I didn't dance with him in sixth grade, so I act like I don't see him. Sitting down on a log, I pull a heavy metal magazine from a hidden, inside coat pocket, flipping through pages of bands, tattoos, and tongues. Ratt is my favorite. They rock.
Bryan bounces back and forth, shouting, “I’m open!” He’s always open.
Mike comes over to bug me. He looks over my shoulder at the pictures.
I hand him the magazine, stealing his place in the football game.
“Hey!” Mike yells and laughs.
“Sorry, yeh snooze, yeh lose,” I tell him, catch the football, and run.
When I’m out of breath, I look over at the Latin teacher. She shakes her head, gripping her bell like a recess boyfriend. By her look, I know she's thinking, Shelly will be pregnant at sixteen, another kid lost in the mountains. She’s right about one thing. I’m going to end up in the mountains, living in a log cabin like that guy on TV with the beard, Grizzly Adams. I love him. Just me and my half-wolf, blue-eyed dog, Tesla, hanging out in the cabin with Grizzly. I know, “Tesla” is a bad name for a dog, but I was listening to that band when I named him, so whatever, everybody has to deal.
I smile at the Latin teacher. Kill her with kindness.
She smiles back, scaredy-cat like.
Science room. I take my assigned seat next to Christine. She’s obsessed with some book, something told through the voice of a wolf I guess. That’s what it looks like from the cover picture, but sometimes I think I know what I’m getting into, and then I open some book and get a big, fat surprise, which is annoying.
I pull the headband out of Christine’s hair and throw it to Bryan, who’s behind us.
“Hey, give it back!” Christine yells out. She laughs, feeling her hair. It's thick and perfect, like Tesla’s coat. I wouldn’t say I hate her for it, but she’s not my favorite either.
Bryan throws the headband to Jess, Jess to Mike, Mike to Lisa, Lisa to Stephanie, until everyone touches it. Everyone except Lara, the part-albino girl who sits in the closest seat to the teacher. Lara’s almost blind; she can’t even see the big E’s on eye charts. Sounds sad, but I think it’d be cool to be an alien.
The Science teacher runs into the room. He’s losing his hair, but what’s left of it is full of static cling, so it looks like he’s got wings on his head. “Sorry I’m late,” Bird Head says, writing definitions on the board. There are chalk hand prints on his butt.
Jess walks up to Christine, looks at the ground, and hands her headband back. “Here,” he says, shuffling back to his seat. He looks like Tesla did when he had worms, when he walked around our house, dragging his behind all over the carpets. Sick-o.
Christine blushes, going back to her book.
She’s bad too. Just not yet. It starts with the hair. Pretty soon, she’ll stop blow-drying. She’ll start wearing it messy, like it’s supposed to be, and Jess will make her squirm around like a belly-up hornet.
I pass Bryan a note that says, “Come over later.”
He passes me one back that says, “You got it,” with a smiley, winking face, which is ridiculous.
Lara sits alone in the front of the room, her Science book pressed close to her face, the light hitting her skin like the sun on mountain snow. She follows the lines of words with her finger, because it takes her forever to read. Every day on the playground, she sits on the same log, peeling an orange. I don’t know if she ever eats anything but oranges. Crazy, but I'm a sucker for her. She’s not cool, but she’s not a nerd. Lara’s in a whole other world all together. Kill her with kindness.
Lara looks up, staring my way, squinting her pale, blue eyes.
I know she can’t see me, but I look away at the clock, just in case. Watching the second hand, my eyes and ears lose focus, and the teacher’s words blur, tangled together like hair. The hand moves in its steady, slow, beat. I can almost hear it. I’m sorry, but I drift off.
Shocked awake, I feel a tap on my back, and I open my eyes to Lara’s half-blind, soft stare.
Lara’s thick, white hair blends into her skin. “You slept through class,” she says, floating out of the room, hunched over like old Suzanne, the Health teacher who lets us call her by her first name. She’s not fooling me, though. She’s still a teacher.
I'm an angry raccoon, because I’m supposed to be the first one out the door. I yank a hair from my head, leave it on the desk, and stand up, anxious. I grab my book pile. Book bags are for losers.
Home. I slip on my acid-washed jeans with the zippers at the ankles, my burgundy, thrift shop sweater, and my blue rain boots. I hear the sounds of dinner-making: the wrappers, the freezer opening and shutting, the beep of the microwave, Mom’s pant legs rubbing together as she paces, worried about Dad again, and “DarnitMaryMothertoHell” when she cuts herself. She never cusses like Dad does, because Mom takes Church seriously. I like the donuts.
There's a knock on the door. I rub the top of my head for good luck.
Bryan stands behind the screen, but it’s scary because his face is all blurry behind the gray, wire netting. Like a ghost, for real.
I sneak out, which is easy, since Mom’s buried in grease.
We run through the horse field and up the mountain to our waterfall, sitting on our favorite, wet rock. It's a biggun, like a boulder. I think it has a face too.
“Glad you came, but we don’t have much time,” I tell Bryan.
“Well let me just spit it out. Just in case you wondered, I love you, Shell,” Bryan says, kissing me sloppy.
I let him kiss me, and then I stand up, knowing Dad will let me have it if I’m out too late. There’s a long howl. I picture Tesla stretching his neck, pointing his nose up in the air, opening his jaws, letting the sound creep out. If I shut my eyes real tight, I can almost imagine the feel his thick, fur coat. “You know I gotta go,” I say to Bry. My bottom lip feels funny because he’s been sucking on it.
Bryan grabs my hands. “Not yet, Shell,” he says, pulling me down to him.
Tesla’s pitch grows higher.
Bryan pulls my sweater over my head.
I start to unbutton his shirt, but I get confused, so he finishes for me.
He looks at me, his mouth trapped in some serious, thin line, and says, “I’m...a virgin. Don’t tell anybody.”
“I know,” I say. "Me too," I lie. I'd already done Dirk and Mike that year, but whatever.
I move to a higher rock, put my arms around his neck, and kiss him, listening to the rush of water, which makes me have to pee. Tesla’s howl turns lower, sounding more like a moan, the kind that Mom makes at night, in bed, when she thinks I’m sleeping in my attic. When I listen to her cry, it's like metal music. I love Axl Rose.
Naked, shivering something crazy, we move to a flat, wet, grassy spot. I think it’s all moss, because it feels like Styrofoam on my back.
Soon, Bryan's on top of me, making noises.
I am quiet, for real, feeling him inside me. In the distance, Tesla is barking. By the sound, I can tell he's on his way home. I put my hands in my hair and grip it.
Bryan presses his weight into my ribs, his fingers moving across my skin. Insects.
When it's over, we grab our clothes from the ground. As I struggle with my jeans, Bryan brushes twigs off me. Then he reaches to pick leaves from my hair.
“Don’t. I’ll get it,” I say, making fists with my hands. Like I'm queen of some jungle.
Our boots heavy with mud, we walk back, lifting our legs high, careful not to trip. When we reach the bottom of the trail, Bryan runs down the driveway, his footsteps beating it up like hail on the attic roof.
I look down at my hands. One, open. The other, still clenched in a fist. I spread my fingers, one at a time. A small clump of hair in the palm. I brush it away with the other hand. Bad, Shelly, bad. I run fingers over my arms, legs, head, chest, until I feel like I’ve erased myself, the way rats slip into the wall cracks, disappearing for a while. But it’s weird the way they always come back. I watch and wait for them to come back. I stay ready because sometimes traps don’t work.
Home. At the table, my ankles are crossed. My hands, folded.
Dad sits next to me. His dark eyes stare hard at whatever. Dad's in serious mode. He looks handsome, and he smells crispy, like bacon smoke and mountain air.
Mom picks at the chicken on my plate. If it’s not on her plate, the calories don’t count. Mom thinks nothing counts if people don’t see it.
“How was your day?” Mom asks, dropping some peas on her lap. She laughs, nervous. Mom never stops moving. Even when she sits stuffed, leaning back in her chair, her lips quiver. Might sound creepy, but I’ve gotten used to it.
Dad nudges me and says, "Answer you Mother, pretty."
“Okay,” I say, pushing food around with my fork. “The day was okay.”
“Did you do your homework?” Dad says, shoving a roll in his mouth. He swallows without chewing.
“Done,” I say, studying his mechanic hands. No matter how many times he washes them, the skin cracks are still black. Like paws.
“Good girl.” Then with his mouth full of food, he says to Mom, “What’s really for dinner?” He laughs a little.
“You’re looking at it,” she says back, looking down.
I sneak away from the table before the heavy metal begins.
That night, I listen to Tesla scratch at the door. Paw to wood, paw to glass. Nights like this are always the same. Dad's tired again. Later, he slaps Mom around. No big deal. Nothing like Lara’s house. I hear there’s a reason why she was born half-blind; her mom got knocked around when Lara was in her stomach. Just one of those mountain stories. Well, they’re all pretty true, now that I think about it. I mean, nobody’s seen Bigfoot around, but we all know he’s there.
I pull the covers over my head, thinking about Tesla’s blue eyes, eyes as blue and clear as Lara’s. And I wonder, when Lara squints all funny and tries to see, I wonder if her eyes sting like a Daddy spank. I feel the top of my head. There is an empty circle, that spot in the back. Man, I need the claw clip. It’s no biggie. Soon, it will turn to long, jagged stubble. It’ll grow back in.
Morning is silent. Mom and Dad are gone at work already. Since I’m bigger, I guess they trust me to go to school alone now. Nobody told me that. It just kind of happened. One day, I woke up, and they weren’t around. So I am naked. I push the covers away and shuffle across the floor, and I feel the goose bumps on my skin. I hear Tesla’s paws hit the steps. Then his pounce comes. He pushes the door open and licks my face. Before I have time to wrestle with him, he's gone. Nuts.
I pick my purple sweatshirt and Forenza jeans off the floor, slip them on, and look in the mirror. I pull my hair back in my claw clip, fixing it so no one will see the empty space. Yes, I brush my teeth and all that. I wasn’t born in a barn. Christine was, but that’s just because she came out early and thought she was a horse or something. Anyway, carrying my books, I drop the History one while I’m running to the bus. I just leave it in the puddle for the stray cats. I take my seat in the back, the place where I can write on the seat in front of me and no one will see. No one will see my writing.
Bryan’s stop is next. Slowly, like the cool boy he is, he makes his way down the aisle and sits right next to me. His curls are all wet. At least his hair’s clean for once, geez.
“Hi, trouble,” I say. Someday, I might want him. I might be able to want him. I think of the way Lara can sit alone and just seem all right. How, with where she comes from, I have no idea. They all talk about her. They make fun of her. They say they hate her guts because she’s blind, but they can’t hate her. They want to be what they most hate. Because deep down inside her quiet, she’s as strong as a lion. I can see it there, that king, that wild, fierce hole. Everybody wants to be secretly tough.
Bryan nods, says "hi" back, and he acts like he’s reading.
Then he touches my leg. Got him. Could throw him like a stone. Could land him on any hopscotch number, hop over him, squish him, and win the game. Whatever.
Homeroom. I chew on a piece of hair, anxious. My stomach rumbles. I think of the night last week when Dad pulled me outside. I thought we were going to catch lightning bugs, but instead, he told me about his bad, bad days.
“Shelly,” he said. His dark eyes were wet and swollen up.
“Yeah,” I said, curling up on that old chair Mom never got rid of.
“I want you to know why I'm the way I am,” he said.
Then he told me how lucky I was. He told me about being little, that he barely ate because they were so poor. In a basement. Left there. Rats would crowd around. He thought about eating the rats. That his brother didn't make it. And most of the time, Dad wished he didn't. “I'm closer to you than I am to your Mom,” he said. He put his arms around me. He held his arms around me.
I was scared, because I never saw Dad cry before. I’d rather see him throw stuff around. And I couldn't pull loose. His cries were like music. High notes. Like Tesla’s nighttime cry. Like the screaming of a hard rocker. Like Skid Row. As Dad got up to go back inside, I put my hand on my head and pulled hard. I couldn't find Tesla. I hoped that dog didn't run away again, because Dad said he might shoot Tesla if he didn't shape up. And Dad had a loaded rifle in his shed. It was ready to go.
A soft tap on my shoulder snaps me back. Lara says, “Shelly, we have to go to class.”
"Oh, hi, Lara, all right,” I say, looking up at her glowy, white face.
"Thanks," she says.
"For what?" I asked her.
"For saying my name. No one ever does," Lara says, grinning. She's almost see-through.
I nod. I don't know what to say to invisible people.
I count. Mom always says that calms her down. Ten. The Latin teacher walks in. Her hair is blonde, long, and thick, like a horse tail. Today, we get our tests back. Nine. I have to get an “A.” I’m bad. Eight. My eye twitches. Seven. I look around. Six. Dirk carves something into his desk. Five. Bryan tears a piece of paper from his notebook, slowly, as if no one can hear. Four. Margaret and Christopher touch each other’s feet. Where am I? Jess watches Christine, who is buried in the same wolf book. Yes, three. As the Latin teacher passes the papers back, I feel them looking at me across the room, from the corners of their eyes, staring. I wonder if they can see it - the empty space. Two. Touching the top of my head, I remember that once, just once, in bed, when I was almost too young to remember, I think Tesla kissed me there. It was dark, super dark, so dark, I was half-blind like Lara. I could feel him above me, panting. Yes, for real, Tesla was panting. He wasn't going to run away. He kissed me there. One, breathe. She hands me the paper. Good enough. Saved by the scribble of someone’s hand. Never use my own hands. My own hand can only hurt and pull, hurt and pull, until I was left with only the memory of one kiss. Then the empty space. Because Tesla ran away before I could even tell it was him. Because Mom didn’t believe me. She said that Tesla and our family were good people, that I was making up mountain stories. She said that some secrets had to stay in Tesla’s ears, secrets like rats in the house walls. He kissed me there. It was him. In my attic room. And I knew that one day, he was coming back. Head banging is so cool.
Lara holds her paper close, trying to read the tiny writing.
I tap her back and say, “Hey, you got a hundred."
“Thanks,” she says, her red lips spreading out like a cut.
“How did you do?” she asks, touching me with her white hand.
“Bad,” I tell her.
Recess. Lara is nowhere. She must be at the nurse’s office again. I saw a bruise.
The English teacher is in charge, the one with the bell. She's pretty with reddish-brown hair. At recess, she pays attention to what kind of birds are out, and sometimes she forgets about us kids. Sweet.
I stole some cigs from Dad the night before, so I pull two smoke treats from my bag, sneaking into the woods on the side of the playground.
Bryan follows. “Shelly! Wait!” he yells after me.
I keep running. Like Tesla, I give his words, his howls to the wind.
It rains. I light up anyway, hearing Bryan’s footsteps. He’s coming.
“Why are you always running?” he says, pushing fingers through his curls.
I put out my cigarette, cough, and start to leave. I'm all head-rushy like a freak. Sick-o.
Bryan grabs my shirt. By accident, he pulls on some of my hair.
The claw clip falls out, and the pieces slide down and separate.
Bryan stands closer and sees it. The empty space. He stands back, like he thinks the bald place might be contagious.
“I have to go,” I say, running, the rain hitting my face. Tiny fists.
Back in Science class, everyone whispers. Everyone but Lara, who can’t even see the big E’s on eye charts. Bryan must've passed it around. Everyone knows. Shelly pulls her hair out. Soon, they'll make songs out of it. Get together and giggle and point. All but Lara, who could never see the notes. She’ll hear their whispers, but she can’t see it. They laugh. Bad, Shelly, bad. But someday, when they sit in their attic rooms at home, when they hear Tesla howling just outside the door, when Dad shakes a fist over something bad, when he cries and holds you and you can’t get away, they’ll know what it’s like to put a hand to the head, and pull out hair, strand by strand, until all dogs are gone, gone, gone, extinct. Kill them with kindness. For real.
12/10/2015
Being True: Hit or Miss
Catch
Being True: Hit or Miss
The other day at this park, a tiny little girl practiced her batting skills. She couldn't have been more than four years old. Holding that bat, she pursed her lips in utter determination, and this kid was damn good. She only missed when her Dad threw a bad pitch, but even if it wasn't her fault, she still furiously dug her Velcro tennis shoe into the pale dirt when she thought she had "messed up." She didn't cry. Oh no, she grinned, stomped, planted her feet back into position, and waited for the next softball, which was almost as big as her little head. Next came her older sister's turn at bat. Taller, more lanky, and seemingly easily distracted, older sis missed almost every pitch. Air, whiff, foul, she didn't care at all. Her Dad laughed and told her to keep trying, and she did, but she kept right on missing. Big sis seemed much more concerned with fixing the tongue on her cool sneakers. When Dad threw another pitch, big sis reached to pet the dog. The obvious differences between the two girls was amusing.
But the scene was fascinating -- even when the older one repeatedly missed, they all cheered. And when the younger one killed that ball, they cheered her on too. There was no difference in the way that the parents reacted to the girls. Swing and hit, roar of applause. Swing and miss, roar of applause. Seemed that they were honestly thrilled to be hanging out together, enjoying the sun, and playing in the moment. What mattered to them was not the perfect pitch, the grand slam, the win, or even the game at all. What mattered was the support, the camaraderie, and the present time together.
To me, they showed a unique, rare display of true love; that is, they were encouraging each other to be their true selves, rather than putting "conditions" on love. Awesome. I wanted to join in and cheer for all of them. What it said to me: Hit or miss, I love you. Animals love this way. Animals love us this way. They are speaking to us all.
C.A. MacConnell
But the scene was fascinating -- even when the older one repeatedly missed, they all cheered. And when the younger one killed that ball, they cheered her on too. There was no difference in the way that the parents reacted to the girls. Swing and hit, roar of applause. Swing and miss, roar of applause. Seemed that they were honestly thrilled to be hanging out together, enjoying the sun, and playing in the moment. What mattered to them was not the perfect pitch, the grand slam, the win, or even the game at all. What mattered was the support, the camaraderie, and the present time together.
To me, they showed a unique, rare display of true love; that is, they were encouraging each other to be their true selves, rather than putting "conditions" on love. Awesome. I wanted to join in and cheer for all of them. What it said to me: Hit or miss, I love you. Animals love this way. Animals love us this way. They are speaking to us all.
C.A. MacConnell
12/05/2015
12/04/2015
Photo: Four Sisters
Four Sisters
One of my favorites. Reminds me of my Mimi. Bless you,
C.A. MacConnell
11/30/2015
11/27/2015
Nature's Schoolteacher
Cappy
Nature's Schoolteacher
I believe that with some horses, or maybe all horses, when you approach them for the first time, there exists an extraordinary moment and in that first moment, when you draw near to the animal and perhaps look into the penetrating eye, breathe close to or inside the nose, stand beside the chest, or ride him for the first time, in that remarkable instant, I believe that the horse has the ability to see and feel some or all of your past experiences through flashes of images, scents, and dream-like visions, and if the horse wishes to open up completely, he can sense your entire history as it stands up until the present, and it strikes him with a force; he is suddenly aware of your (and any human's) entire nature -- even the biggest joys and deepest pains -- and the horse knows, right away, on a level man cannot comprehend, what it is that makes you who you are, and drawing from what he knows, the horse reacts accordingly, responding to these senses and visions, whether it be in a positive or negative light, and the crucial, initial moment of connection determines the course of the relationship forever, meaning the dynamic of the bond, and the entire relationship remains the same unless horse or rider (or both), suddenly and strangely shift, opening up to the idea of humility and overall, when both surrender, learn, and let go, there is a partnership of true understanding that is difficult to duplicate.
Each creature is nature's schoolteacher for humankind.
And when it comes to true understanding -- herein enters the idea of the soul mate.
C.A. MacConnell
11/16/2015
11/15/2015
White T-Shirt with Black Writing
Paris, France apartment, 2015
I don't know what I'm going to do with
It.
This
Shirt.
See it on the bed.
It's covered
With blood.
Whose blood is it? It's monstrous
What a bullet can
Do. I think I'll put
It away.
It's covered. I don't know what I'm going to do with it.
They were shooting, and they wouldn't
Stop.
All I remember is that
Man,
The man in red, and those hands,
His hands.
With all of his strength, with the greatest reach alive,
He grabbed my arms and lifted me up and
Out. But
This shirt.
It's
Covered.
I don't know what I'm going to do
With it.
I think I'll put it
Away.
C.A. MacConnell
I don't know what I'm going to do with
It.
This
Shirt.
See it on the bed.
It's covered
With blood.
Whose blood is it? It's monstrous
What a bullet can
Do. I think I'll put
It away.
It's covered. I don't know what I'm going to do with it.
They were shooting, and they wouldn't
Stop.
All I remember is that
Man,
The man in red, and those hands,
His hands.
With all of his strength, with the greatest reach alive,
He grabbed my arms and lifted me up and
Out. But
This shirt.
It's
Covered.
I don't know what I'm going to do
With it.
I think I'll put it
Away.
C.A. MacConnell
11/10/2015
Photo: Long Stretch
Long Stretch
I know it's just a simple tree shot, but I find it fascinating and beautiful.
C.A. MacConnell
11/04/2015
11/02/2015
10/31/2015
Photos: Haunted Slide Show
Beware! Here is my haunted slide show for the day. Enter at your own risk. Love, C.A.
Happy Halloween!
C.A. MacConnell
10/13/2015
The Body: It Carries Us Whole
I admit that I like to perform – to speak or read in front of crowds. I find that these types of experiences energize me but ironically, I also have a strong internal critic that's a real bear. Every day, I fight it, and I’m sure everyone experiences this negative dialogue to an extent -- some worse than others. When it gets bad, I call people, walk, move, move, move. Riding horses used to help me a great deal. Baths, meditating, being with animals, being with nature, helping others, enjoying art, sex, laughter, acting like a goofball -- all of these things provide temporary relief.
Or I write to you.
As it is for so many, facing the self-esteem issue has been a long road for me. As a kid, I had no real solution for my severe depression. Desperately, my mind sought an outlet, and my brain latched on to my self-esteem, my physical self, and my ability to achieve, and there was (and is) a real, constant beating.
Well, the other day, I was listening to the radio, and I heard a writer talk about her body view. She told the story of when she visited a California nudist place and at this particular one, when she ventured into the sauna and glanced at the other women, she thought that they all had nearly "flawless" bodies, in terms of society's stereotypical external standards. From the Midwest, the writer had given birth to two children, and she knew she was fuller figured than any of the women there. At first, she felt like she didn't fit in at all, but then she thought about how each supposed "flaw" on her body actually represented a piece of her life story.
True, she wasn't living in a perfectly healthy way, but she had the following sudden internal revelation: if she hated her body, she also hated all of the experiences through which her body had carried her. As the heat sank in, she thought back over her life; she began to honor the ways that her body told her beautiful tale. Maybe she hadn't had time to tone up like she wanted to, but that was because she was present to raise her children and watch them grow. She hadn't always treated her body well, but it still continued to perform for her. Without retaliation or resentment, her body had selflessly continued to give back. It represented who she was, and she realized that she had to love this outside shell in order to honor her whole being. If she were going to feel complete, she knew she had to forgive herself and love the physical form that had carried her on her journey thus far.
Listening, I thought about the ways that I've daily picked apart my body. But these strong arms, strong legs, and good balance kept me safe while riding horses for many years. And later, this body carried me through yoga. My body has carried me through great trauma, as well as great healing. With this body, I have given talks to thousands of people. With these arms, I have hugged many people and animals. Maybe my voice or smile helped someone laugh. Maybe I helped to save a life. The woman’s words echoed in my mind. If she hated her body, she also hated all of the experiences through which her body had carried her. I was reminded that my body is a vessel that represents the richness present in my life and with this physical self, I have felt and expressed love, and isn’t that why we are here?
C.A. MacConnell
Or I write to you.
As it is for so many, facing the self-esteem issue has been a long road for me. As a kid, I had no real solution for my severe depression. Desperately, my mind sought an outlet, and my brain latched on to my self-esteem, my physical self, and my ability to achieve, and there was (and is) a real, constant beating.
Well, the other day, I was listening to the radio, and I heard a writer talk about her body view. She told the story of when she visited a California nudist place and at this particular one, when she ventured into the sauna and glanced at the other women, she thought that they all had nearly "flawless" bodies, in terms of society's stereotypical external standards. From the Midwest, the writer had given birth to two children, and she knew she was fuller figured than any of the women there. At first, she felt like she didn't fit in at all, but then she thought about how each supposed "flaw" on her body actually represented a piece of her life story.
True, she wasn't living in a perfectly healthy way, but she had the following sudden internal revelation: if she hated her body, she also hated all of the experiences through which her body had carried her. As the heat sank in, she thought back over her life; she began to honor the ways that her body told her beautiful tale. Maybe she hadn't had time to tone up like she wanted to, but that was because she was present to raise her children and watch them grow. She hadn't always treated her body well, but it still continued to perform for her. Without retaliation or resentment, her body had selflessly continued to give back. It represented who she was, and she realized that she had to love this outside shell in order to honor her whole being. If she were going to feel complete, she knew she had to forgive herself and love the physical form that had carried her on her journey thus far.
Listening, I thought about the ways that I've daily picked apart my body. But these strong arms, strong legs, and good balance kept me safe while riding horses for many years. And later, this body carried me through yoga. My body has carried me through great trauma, as well as great healing. With this body, I have given talks to thousands of people. With these arms, I have hugged many people and animals. Maybe my voice or smile helped someone laugh. Maybe I helped to save a life. The woman’s words echoed in my mind. If she hated her body, she also hated all of the experiences through which her body had carried her. I was reminded that my body is a vessel that represents the richness present in my life and with this physical self, I have felt and expressed love, and isn’t that why we are here?
C.A. MacConnell
10/09/2015
Bruce is Married, but He Plays a Guitar
flash comedy
Bruce is Married, but He Plays a Guitar
In Vietnam, "Ciao" means "Hello."
Bruce does my sister's nails. He plays an acoustic/electric guitar. "You play?" he asks me.
"I mess around on guitar and piano," I answer.
"You don't look like your sister. Her hair is blond, and yours is black," he says.
"Well, mine's supposed to be lighter, and hers is supposed to be darker," I answer.
All around, all the guys mutter, "Oh."
Bruce nods. Bruce is married, but he plays a guitar, and he's hot. Always confusing.
I am not married, and I play guitar and piano. Even more confusing to Ken, who is also married, the one who usually does my nails (when I go once a year), but he isn't there. Ken has a 90-year-old client who has a crush on him, so she gave him a plastic toy -- a white rabbit with sunglasses, a creepy rabbit driving a blue sports car. It rolls. Neither Ken nor I could ever figure out the meaning of the thing. I guess Ken got fired or left though, because when I mention his name, the guys act like they have no idea who he is, but the rabbit is still there. Baffling.
The guy who does my nails won't tell me his name, and he claims he's sixteen, but Bruce whispers to me that he's really twenty-six. I ask my guy if he is in the mob.
He responds, "Do I look like I'm in the mob?"
I say, "No, but I bet you're a ladies man. You married?"
He says, "No, look at this," and he rubs the small roll on his belly.
I laugh and ask, "I like it. What did you eat?"
He cracks up and says, "Pizza, pork skin fried, so good. I like to sit at the T.V. and eat and eat." He makes a gesture with his hand as if it's a spoon, and he's scooping up the world. Then he asks, "You work today? What do you do?"
"I'm a writer," I say.
Bruce yells over. "Make sure you write about me. Make sure you tell them I play guitar."
I mull it over and answer, "You're married. I'm writing about the pork skin, and the white rabbit."
-- C.A. MacConnell
Bruce is Married, but He Plays a Guitar
In Vietnam, "Ciao" means "Hello."
Bruce does my sister's nails. He plays an acoustic/electric guitar. "You play?" he asks me.
"I mess around on guitar and piano," I answer.
"You don't look like your sister. Her hair is blond, and yours is black," he says.
"Well, mine's supposed to be lighter, and hers is supposed to be darker," I answer.
All around, all the guys mutter, "Oh."
Bruce nods. Bruce is married, but he plays a guitar, and he's hot. Always confusing.
I am not married, and I play guitar and piano. Even more confusing to Ken, who is also married, the one who usually does my nails (when I go once a year), but he isn't there. Ken has a 90-year-old client who has a crush on him, so she gave him a plastic toy -- a white rabbit with sunglasses, a creepy rabbit driving a blue sports car. It rolls. Neither Ken nor I could ever figure out the meaning of the thing. I guess Ken got fired or left though, because when I mention his name, the guys act like they have no idea who he is, but the rabbit is still there. Baffling.
The guy who does my nails won't tell me his name, and he claims he's sixteen, but Bruce whispers to me that he's really twenty-six. I ask my guy if he is in the mob.
He responds, "Do I look like I'm in the mob?"
I say, "No, but I bet you're a ladies man. You married?"
He says, "No, look at this," and he rubs the small roll on his belly.
I laugh and ask, "I like it. What did you eat?"
He cracks up and says, "Pizza, pork skin fried, so good. I like to sit at the T.V. and eat and eat." He makes a gesture with his hand as if it's a spoon, and he's scooping up the world. Then he asks, "You work today? What do you do?"
"I'm a writer," I say.
Bruce yells over. "Make sure you write about me. Make sure you tell them I play guitar."
I mull it over and answer, "You're married. I'm writing about the pork skin, and the white rabbit."
-- C.A. MacConnell
10/07/2015
A 'Tit'illating Morning
Man, this would make the funniest SNL skit.
A 'Tit'illating Morning
A while back, I was at the doctor's office, chilling in the waiting room, reading a Science magazine about the deep, dark workings of the brain. The writing was dry as hell and man, it was quiet in there. The room was packed, and I was deep into reading my article (skimming and popping my gum), when I heard a loud voice announce this: "Hello everyone! I'm here!"
Startled, I looked up.
The voluptuous, loud woman fiercely smiled. Red-faced and perky, she held her tiny newborn baby in a body sling. Swinging her body from one side of the room to the other, she searched for a place to sit.
Well I assumed that's what she was doing. Not the case.
People moved to get up, but the woman shook her head, turning them down on the "here, lady with baby, take my seat" gesture. She waved her arms, swinging that baby around, nearly bowling people over.
I was confused, but oh so intrigued.
Then, without warning, the woman whipped out what appeared to be a 100-pound breast, showing the saucer-sized nipple and all to the world. She stuck the gargantuan nipple in her baby's mouth, and then she proceeded to walk around, talking to people, swinging her large body, the Planet of Boob, and the tiny, sling-bound baby all over the room. She nearly smashed the watermelon-sized milk sack into my face. This was not a case of some woman nursing her baby in a quiet corner, oh no. This woman was standing in the center of the waiting room with a completely visible mammoth-sized tit, and she didn't give a fuck what anyone thought about it.
I looked around. Dude with the People Magazine kept his face buried in his reading. His face was as red as a baboon's ass. Others just looked up and smiled.
Nearly shouting, tit lady walked over to chat it up with the nurses, while that disc of a nipple popped in and out of the baby's mouth. Greeting everyone in the room, the woman then bantered with the nurses about her appointment and all the while, she moved, swung, catapulted, and fired that boob around. It was as if that knocker had a life of its own. For a moment, I wondered if that tit had eyes and a mouth. When the nipple fell out of the baby's mouth, the mother laughed, stuck that amazing teat, her nipple planet, back in its place and then, led by her chest, she moved to chat it up with another waiter.
I thought the poor baby might choke, but he/she seemed as happy as hell. Who wouldn't be thrilled with that never-ending supply of nutrition? Suck, suck, gurgle, gurgle. The sucking sound echoed throughout the waiting room. I was mesmerized by Baby Momma, but it was time for me to see the doc, so I rose up, taking one last look at the size Z boob, wondering if the woman would squirt milk all over the room in some kind of Wild Kingdom protest, but all she did was swing around and chat, swing around and chat.
Cantaloupes, honeydews. I got to thinking, how do women find bras for that kind of thing? I certainly had no idea. I'm all for breast feeding in public, oh yeah, but this bold woman could have easily fed a small nation with one squirt of her magnificent juice.
Mother Earth, in the flesh,
C.A. MacConnell
A 'Tit'illating Morning
A while back, I was at the doctor's office, chilling in the waiting room, reading a Science magazine about the deep, dark workings of the brain. The writing was dry as hell and man, it was quiet in there. The room was packed, and I was deep into reading my article (skimming and popping my gum), when I heard a loud voice announce this: "Hello everyone! I'm here!"
Startled, I looked up.
The voluptuous, loud woman fiercely smiled. Red-faced and perky, she held her tiny newborn baby in a body sling. Swinging her body from one side of the room to the other, she searched for a place to sit.
Well I assumed that's what she was doing. Not the case.
People moved to get up, but the woman shook her head, turning them down on the "here, lady with baby, take my seat" gesture. She waved her arms, swinging that baby around, nearly bowling people over.
I was confused, but oh so intrigued.
Then, without warning, the woman whipped out what appeared to be a 100-pound breast, showing the saucer-sized nipple and all to the world. She stuck the gargantuan nipple in her baby's mouth, and then she proceeded to walk around, talking to people, swinging her large body, the Planet of Boob, and the tiny, sling-bound baby all over the room. She nearly smashed the watermelon-sized milk sack into my face. This was not a case of some woman nursing her baby in a quiet corner, oh no. This woman was standing in the center of the waiting room with a completely visible mammoth-sized tit, and she didn't give a fuck what anyone thought about it.
I looked around. Dude with the People Magazine kept his face buried in his reading. His face was as red as a baboon's ass. Others just looked up and smiled.
Nearly shouting, tit lady walked over to chat it up with the nurses, while that disc of a nipple popped in and out of the baby's mouth. Greeting everyone in the room, the woman then bantered with the nurses about her appointment and all the while, she moved, swung, catapulted, and fired that boob around. It was as if that knocker had a life of its own. For a moment, I wondered if that tit had eyes and a mouth. When the nipple fell out of the baby's mouth, the mother laughed, stuck that amazing teat, her nipple planet, back in its place and then, led by her chest, she moved to chat it up with another waiter.
I thought the poor baby might choke, but he/she seemed as happy as hell. Who wouldn't be thrilled with that never-ending supply of nutrition? Suck, suck, gurgle, gurgle. The sucking sound echoed throughout the waiting room. I was mesmerized by Baby Momma, but it was time for me to see the doc, so I rose up, taking one last look at the size Z boob, wondering if the woman would squirt milk all over the room in some kind of Wild Kingdom protest, but all she did was swing around and chat, swing around and chat.
Cantaloupes, honeydews. I got to thinking, how do women find bras for that kind of thing? I certainly had no idea. I'm all for breast feeding in public, oh yeah, but this bold woman could have easily fed a small nation with one squirt of her magnificent juice.
Mother Earth, in the flesh,
C.A. MacConnell
10/05/2015
The Perfect Round
As a preteen, one day, I was at the Kentucky Horse Park, and I was nervous because it was my first big show with my horse Rojo (Southern Accent). He was an experienced, 15'3 chestnut gelding, and Rojo was quite a
"packer," as we called them, meaning, he knew his job, and he always
seemed content with his mission, whether at home or at the shows. Ro was
kind, loving, upbeat, dependable, and always positive; he never held a
grudge.
When we went in the ring that day, we had an absolutely flawless, perfect jumping round. Unfortunately, Ro was ultra-excited about the perfect round as well, so much so that right after the last jump, nearly mid-air, he let out an enormous, rodeo-worthy buck. Of course, this put me out of the ribbons completely. Now, Ro was a registered quarter horse, and his hind end was extremely strong. He didn't act up much (hardly at all), but the rare times he did buck -- boom -- the rider, any rider, was toast. (A few years before, I watched him do it to his former owner on a trail ride. One buck, and she was gone). Usually, bucks wouldn't throw me, but this buck was massive; it definitely caught me off guard. So I went flying over his head, and I landed in the soft ring sand. Ro was still so jazzed up that he went tearing around the horse park. All around, people yelled, "Loose horse! Loose horse!" like they did, while eating a sandwich or teaching a kid or walking a dog.
I remember feeling the sand in my pants, and I remember the long, horrific walk out of the ring and back to the barn. Head down, tears, the works. The epitome of horse show humiliation. At the time, it seemed like the end of the world, similar to the day when I had a piano recital, and my second page of notes was blocked by a piece of paper, and I couldn't see what was next, so I just banged my hands on the keys, made some terrifying sound, and left. And it was all recorded -- this monstrosity of sound. (My last piano recital ever)
Show horses were hilarious when they got loose. Usually they took a quick trip around, a victory lap or two, and then they went back to the barn, or the ring, or right into their stalls. Many times, they ran around crazed, heads held high, and then they'd end up chilling somewhere, quietly grazing, as if to say, Well, that was fun. Now I want my dinner. Usually it was quite anti-climactic.
So it didn't take long for Rojo to end up right back where we were stabled. When I saw him, he was chilling in his stall, eating hay. He didn't feel bad about it. I think he thought he did the right thing -- helped his girl have a perfect round, and then let the whole horse park know how awesome he was. Seemed to make sense to him, to celebrate his victory. And yes, the pro show horses knew when the round was good or bad, for sure. But he did know that I was mad at him, and he knew he was in trouble for some reason, but I think he was confused as to why.
When my trainer found me, he smirked a little, patted me on the back, and said, "Man that was the best round ever! If you just would've hung on, you would've won the class!" Then he chuckled. He was trying to get me to lighten up, but it didn't work. Getting bucked off was one thing, but getting bucked off after a perfect round really hammered home the embarrassment and such. In our makeshift show tack room, my trainer's brother tried to comfort me through a few jokes and a hand on my shoulder. I remember looking at him, nodding, and listening intently, hiding in the shade of the red and black curtains. Teary, I smiled at him a little.
To this day, when I bring up this show to my Dad, his entire face sinks, and he says, "Oh, God, I remember that day," and he says it in this deep, drawn-out, dreadful tone, as if we're talking about a world catastrophe. Like the piano recital, ha.
As kids, I suppose these things are catastrophes. And then we learn to ride on. And the people around us give us the strength to do so. And we get ready for the next show. Time for a comeback.
P.S. A day later at the show with Rojo, I signed up for an equitation jumping class in the big ring, and the jumps were bigger than I'd done with him, and we rocked it. And we ended up getting ribbons in the small ring as well. It ended up sweet.
When we went in the ring that day, we had an absolutely flawless, perfect jumping round. Unfortunately, Ro was ultra-excited about the perfect round as well, so much so that right after the last jump, nearly mid-air, he let out an enormous, rodeo-worthy buck. Of course, this put me out of the ribbons completely. Now, Ro was a registered quarter horse, and his hind end was extremely strong. He didn't act up much (hardly at all), but the rare times he did buck -- boom -- the rider, any rider, was toast. (A few years before, I watched him do it to his former owner on a trail ride. One buck, and she was gone). Usually, bucks wouldn't throw me, but this buck was massive; it definitely caught me off guard. So I went flying over his head, and I landed in the soft ring sand. Ro was still so jazzed up that he went tearing around the horse park. All around, people yelled, "Loose horse! Loose horse!" like they did, while eating a sandwich or teaching a kid or walking a dog.
I remember feeling the sand in my pants, and I remember the long, horrific walk out of the ring and back to the barn. Head down, tears, the works. The epitome of horse show humiliation. At the time, it seemed like the end of the world, similar to the day when I had a piano recital, and my second page of notes was blocked by a piece of paper, and I couldn't see what was next, so I just banged my hands on the keys, made some terrifying sound, and left. And it was all recorded -- this monstrosity of sound. (My last piano recital ever)
Show horses were hilarious when they got loose. Usually they took a quick trip around, a victory lap or two, and then they went back to the barn, or the ring, or right into their stalls. Many times, they ran around crazed, heads held high, and then they'd end up chilling somewhere, quietly grazing, as if to say, Well, that was fun. Now I want my dinner. Usually it was quite anti-climactic.
So it didn't take long for Rojo to end up right back where we were stabled. When I saw him, he was chilling in his stall, eating hay. He didn't feel bad about it. I think he thought he did the right thing -- helped his girl have a perfect round, and then let the whole horse park know how awesome he was. Seemed to make sense to him, to celebrate his victory. And yes, the pro show horses knew when the round was good or bad, for sure. But he did know that I was mad at him, and he knew he was in trouble for some reason, but I think he was confused as to why.
When my trainer found me, he smirked a little, patted me on the back, and said, "Man that was the best round ever! If you just would've hung on, you would've won the class!" Then he chuckled. He was trying to get me to lighten up, but it didn't work. Getting bucked off was one thing, but getting bucked off after a perfect round really hammered home the embarrassment and such. In our makeshift show tack room, my trainer's brother tried to comfort me through a few jokes and a hand on my shoulder. I remember looking at him, nodding, and listening intently, hiding in the shade of the red and black curtains. Teary, I smiled at him a little.
To this day, when I bring up this show to my Dad, his entire face sinks, and he says, "Oh, God, I remember that day," and he says it in this deep, drawn-out, dreadful tone, as if we're talking about a world catastrophe. Like the piano recital, ha.
As kids, I suppose these things are catastrophes. And then we learn to ride on. And the people around us give us the strength to do so. And we get ready for the next show. Time for a comeback.
Me years later, as a Prof. Trainer
C.A. MacConnellP.S. A day later at the show with Rojo, I signed up for an equitation jumping class in the big ring, and the jumps were bigger than I'd done with him, and we rocked it. And we ended up getting ribbons in the small ring as well. It ended up sweet.
