Limousine Girl, 1989

Sweat-drenched, once again,
her body became
the rain to the bed,
her sudden nightly windshield.
Engine starting,
she stretched to rise,
holding her racing head,
shifting into
her fake-tan,
fake-nail,
fake-face role
with vehicles, run sheets, and chauffeurs,
and she was never anything more
than a stuck car door,
and she was never anything more
than a stay-at-home groupie.
Fifteen, going on twenty-seven,
she arranged rides
for businessmen and stars,
making sure the drivers
remembered the ice,
watching her pager
vibrate and flash,
later collecting backstage cash,
shaking hands with managers,
when they had no idea
that Mom was her ride that day,
when she nodded, frowned,
and made a note of it
when the man in shades,
the big-toothed contact,
mentioned that one car
didn't have the right juice.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Babies.

C.A. MacConnell

The Good Knives

Was talking with a friend the other day, laughing about scenarios like this, and I was reminded of this funny little essay...hope you smile. Love, C.A.

The Good Knives

When I was little, there were these weird people called "traveling salesmen" who appeared every now and again in the neighborhood. Now, of course they're long gone, but back in the day, we'd let any old Scott or Tim or possible murderer into our house. Encyclopedia Britannica? Mom and Dad bought the whole set. Tupperware? Bring it on. We didn't even discriminate against the guy selling Cutco Knives. That's right -- he was selling knives, and one night, Mom opened the door for him like he was her best friend. Soon, I think he was.

Hunched in a corner of the den, I watched the transaction go down. I always thought it was fun when something interrupted dinner.

The salesman laid out the butcher knives, the steak knives, the machetes, the swords, and the various types of scissors. I'm sure there were some nun-chucks, axes, daggers, and crossbows in his bag.

Mom listened intently as he described their possible cutting, dicing, and slicing techniques.

Wide-eyed, I thought, What do we need more knives for? But the salesman wore a suit, and he smelled like Polo cologne, so I figured he was the real deal.

Then the salesman pulled out the Cutco scissors. He began to demonstrate how the scissors were so sharp, they could cut a penny in half. And they could -- that serrated edge cut right through any old penny.

Mom shouted at Dad, "Honey, come look at this! These scissors cut a penny!" Then to me, "Can you believe this?"

"I can't believe it, Mom. Never saw anything cut a penny in half!" I yelled, agreeing wholeheartedly.

With his skeptical face on, Dad slid into the room. "What's this racket all about?"

Smiling like a wild clown, the salesman did another demo of the penny cutting.

Dad gasped. "Never saw that before! Unbelievable. Those things cut a penny right in half! Where's Matt? Get him in here."

Matt, my brother, wasn't around, so I was the sole recipient of the day's magic, and I admit that I was pleased about it.

Mom promptly purchased the scissors, and then she added about five knives on to her bill. She seemed excited, maybe even sweaty.

The salesman seemed excited, maybe even sweaty.

But as the salesman was leaving, reality set in, and a horrible thought about the scissors occurred to me. I waited a few minutes until Dad was gone, and then I tentatively asked Mom this very pointed question: "Why and when would anyone ever need to cut a penny in half?"

Holding her knife set, Mom scrunched her eyebrows, shrugged, and whispered, "You never know." Then she looked around, and I could tell she was listening for Dad's footsteps above her. We did that all the time -- just stared up at the ceiling to make sure he was up there. Then Mom chuckled and winked, whispering, "At least I finally got my good knives."

C.A. MacConnell

Church

Howdy. Here's something I've been tinkering with just now. A love poem, in a way. Has a lot of pattern, sound going on. See what you think. <3, C.A.

Church

I see your face
in the faces of strangers –
in the quick lip licks,
in the thin-legged stride
that leans right,
hips tilting
with sudden sweeping.
I see your face
in the teeth
tearing through lettuce,
in the church drunk
fresh from detox;
he shudders and hovers
kitchen-counter-style.
I see your face
in the picnic table
bad man, who watches
the ladies, carving into knots,
tugging the tangled leashes
on his hound dog,
and the mutt.
I see you inside
the jerky walk
of the wedding photographer,
the squint of the close-up shot,
and the nervous groom’s
flute lip.
You must be behind
the blue wristwatch glass,
keeping time zones straight,
holding a half-cracked
lollipop.

C.A. MacConnell

Girl, Sayler Park

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Cleveland

C.A. MacConnell

No Name and the Neighbor

A piece I've been working on. A prose poem. Hope you like it. :) Kinda spooky. Alas, I can be spooky <3, C.A.

No Name and the Neighbor

Famous net photos seem inviting. In the lull, in the slight burn
of the space heater, in the silence of a half-empty, rented room,
No Name misses no one. Morning, Mom reminds him to swallow
one tablespoon of apple cider vinegar. Yes, before him, random,
filtered snapshots. Trapped in a lofty, 46-year-old frame, thumb
and pointer fingers greasy from canola oil, how he wants to erase
twenty years, crash-study psychology, and listen to win. Surely,
guitar leaked into his genes at three. No, a drumkit, and a crowd,
and various pretties. Yes, there was the cooking era, but the head
of his spatula came loose. Next came drag racing, but he always
choked on the turn. All his life, he’s longed to be king. Followers,
the…one…great…award. No Name could never take care of Julia.
Black tool box, loaded garage, and all, he hammered. The takeout
dinners were never normal. Yes, he tried to last through the night.
Tied himself to the bed once, but in sleep, the knots came loose.
All around, many are fat, but he’s…bingo…at his summer weight.
Off and on, he lost his sanity this year. Off and on, eating crushed
ice, he gained it back. No, there is no animal. Julia got the pit bull.
But somewhere, hungry bears fish, slapping cool water, dealing
with near-misses. Yes, inmates wear whatever blues. For cellies,
many days are inside out. If they’re lucky, the hot plate burns red,
and they score Ramen at the canteen. Downtown, rat-faced Dougie,
the born-again ink slave, swears he’ll cover up No Name’s bad tats
for less than spaghetti. If he becomes a clean-skinned millionaire,
will he end up like Mom – closet-crouched down with one ill-fitting
shoe? Famous net photos. Yeah, inviting. A balloon-lipped, skin-
and-bones, local girl. All his life, No Name has longed for fans,
a willing crowd at the supermarket. As the pandemic’s filthy hand
lingers – nose to mouth – whether or not he wears his American
flag gaiter, maybe tonight, he’ll find the bony girl’s close address,
unpack his rotating crackers, wash his hands thoroughly, rise up,
and kill the neighbor.

-- C.A. MacConnell

 

Photo: Kid Skate

 

Have you checked out THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR yet? There are a slew of skaters buried in there, and they're a genius, creative, wild, chaotic, artistically-inclined bunch. But there's a lot more to the book than that...

Here's an overall description:  THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR is a fast-paced, intense, literary mystery set in Seattle in the nineties. Sometimes dangerous and often humorous, this novel is a deep, epic adventure packed with vivid dialogue. The slick use of voice is fresh, addictive, and engaging; it'll stick with you. 

Hope you liked the shot.

Thank you,

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Money Hand

 

C.A. MacConnell

Fiction Sample: Twelve Minutes

Comedy today, just because. Hope you laugh some. -- Love, C.A.

Twelve Minutes

Sweating, on top of Beth, Paul paused and asked, "Don't you like it like this?" He gently kissed her on the mouth.

"I guess, but I like our sex better when I can breathe," Beth answered, coughing. "By the way, can you shave soon? Your whiskers are giving me that chin rash again. Looks like I have a red beard."

"Damn, sorry, but what's wrong with being a pirate?" he said, laughing, slightly moving his body away from her chest. "About your oxygen, I can't help it. I just got carried away."

"I know," Beth said, breathing heavily. "You're gonna kill me. A little Viagra, and you're like the Energizer Bunny man all of a sudden. And I'm sitting here with my hair stuck to my cheek, about to flat line. Well, don't stop, damn it, keep going. The kids will be home in a half hour." She glanced at the wall clock. "Make that twelve minutes," she said.

Again, Paul moved close to her. "Stop ordering me around. I love you."

"Not like that," she said. "Shit, great, now all I can think about are Gino's Pizza Rolls. I love you too."

"Well how? Which way? Like that porn we got? Man, I'm not that flexible," he said, pausing. "And pizza rolls? What the hell? Focus, focus, dear. Why are you thinking about pizza?"

"I dunno, just do something hot, make me forget about pepperoni," Beth said. "You know, they have that commercial where that happy mom is making pizza rolls for all those kids. I feel like I should be like that woman all the time. It's so much pressure. No one could ever make that many pizza rolls at once. I can't live up to that woman."

He kissed her cheek. "You are that woman."

"Maybe do me from behind, yeah," she said, turning over. "Let's try that."

"Oh, we haven't done that in a while," Paul said. "Not sure if..."

"I know, your knees..." Beth said. "Never mind." She rolled over and stretched out on her back.

Beside her, Paul stretched out too.

"Aren't you frustrated?" she asked him.

"It's all right," Paul said. "We can do the side thing tonight, when we have more time."

"You are frustrated."

"Aren't you?" he asked.

"I feel like Jamie Lee Curtis on those yogurt commercials. You know, Activia," Beth said.

"Huh?" Paul laughed.

"Those ones where you're supposed to eat the yogurt so you won't be constipated," Beth explained.

"That's how you feel?" Paul asked.

"Yeah."

"You feel like you ate the yogurt, or you feel like you need to?" he asked, chuckling.

"Like I need to. All stuffed up," she said. "Maybe I should just do it myself."

"Do what? Eat the yogurt?" he asked. "You constipated? Man, I am. Have been for a week. Damn, are you crying?"

"No, I don't think so, but did you have to tell me about your bowel schedule right now?" Beth said, rolling her eyes. "I'm gonna just do it myself." She reached her hand down.

"Oh, yeah, do it," he said. "Go ahead, I'll watch."

"If you watch, I'll get all nervous, and then I won't be able to do it," Beth said in a raised voice.

"Well what do you want me to do?" he asked her.

She brought a hand to her chin, thinking. "I dunno, you could put your hand down there, do that thing. Or you could just go make the kids some of those pizza rolls?"

"What are you gonna do?" he asked.

"I'm gonna finish the job. You know, eat the yogurt," she said, grinning.

"Sometimes it's like you're speaking a different language," he said, getting up from the bed, slipping on his boxers, shaking his head. He smiled wide, showing a straight set of teeth.

"Honey, your teeth look great. You just whiten?" Beth asked, hand at her crotch.

"About a week ago. They hurt like hell," Paul said.

Beth asked, "Hey, have you ever seen that commercial with the Southern Comfort guy, where he's holding that glass, and it has this flag sticking out of it that says, 'Be you,' or something, I can't remember," Beth said.

Paul leaned in, looked her in the eye, touched her breast, and said, "No, the flag reads, 'Whatever's comfortable.'"

"Hey, we better hurry. Get outta here. I'm gonna do it myself. It's getting late. About that commercial, you sure that's what's on that flag? You sure?"

Paul laughed, flashing his white teeth. "I dunno, love, but I'm sure I'd like to watch."

"Me, or the commercial?" Beth asked.

"Both," Paul answered.

-- C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Conservatory

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Who's Next?

 

 I guess my goal isn't to take photos that are just beautiful or perfectly shadowed or whatnot. My goal is to take photos that hold whole stories inside the images. And this one reminds me of my novel, THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR. On Amazon now, Kindle and paperback. 

Hey, I saw a bald eagle on my walk today. He literally swooped down right in front of me. Huge guy. So amazing. I was in complete shock and awe. Absolutely starstruck.

C.A. MacConnell

Rosco's Lesson

 a funny piece, from the archives. :) Enjoy. Love to you, C.A.

Rosco's Lesson

Doing a headstand a few minutes ago, I pulled something in my neck, and it reminded me of the only time I got hurt when I was riding hunter/jumper horses. That's right, from age ten to age thirty-two, give or take a few years off here and there, of course there were falls (although not many considering), and there were dangerous rides during thunderstorms and snowstorms, and there were times when some horses tried to bite or kick me, and there were crazy, weird happenings like loose horses or wild animals or dogs tearing across the riding ring or sirens or anything else you can imagine, including one time when a horse reared up and flipped over when I was riding her, but through all of the strange adventures, amazingly, I only got hurt once. And it was my fault. It wasn't due to a dangerous jumping course or a brand new, untrained green horse, oh no. It was because I was goofing off...

Let me back up a little. Once upon a time, there was this horse named Rosco. Now, Rosco and I had a history. When I was little, I rode at a farm called Red Fox Stables and every now and then, Jimmy, our trainer, would bring in random horses to use for the lessons. Usually they came from trainers down South, people he knew through the business I guess, but it always seemed that the new lesson horses just appeared out of nowhere. Certain afternoons, usually a Saturday, a truck and trailer would come rumbling up Red Fox's drive and suddenly, some tough looking driver would unload a new lesson horse.

Now, for the young riders at Red Fox (they called us the Juniors), this event was always exciting, because it meant that we had a new project. See, the horses that Jimmy brought in were never fully trained -- usually, they were young or just hadn't been doing much of anything. That's why he got a good deal on them. Like a car with no mileage. So Jimmy's theory of training these new schoolhorses was this:  ride the hell out of them.

Well, from one of these random magic trailers, Rosco appeared to us one day. He was a chestnut quarter horse around 15.2 h. Full-bodied, kinda cute. Not bad looking, not fancy. Nobody thought much of him, but he was new, and that made him interesting. The first person to hop on him was one of the instructors. Within ten minutes, she got bucked off. The next person, another instructor. Again, she got bucked off. Then a third instructor tried. Nope, bucked off. But Jimmy paid no mind to Rosco's tricks. He just kept telling people this:  "If you've got time, go hop on Rosco." And whoever it was would groan and do it because we did whatever Jimmy said, whether or not it might mean landing in the sand.

So people kept trying to ride Rosco, and all of the Juniors got bucked off at least once. But for some strange reason, I never did. I just rode him, and I didn't really like riding him, because I thought he was too slow, but I stayed on. I don't know why. It baffled me. It baffled everyone. Eventually, he chilled out, and he became a superb schoolhorse, just as Jimmy had planned.

Well, many years later, I was a professional horse trainer at a farm in Loveland. I was close to thirty years old. At the same time, it just so happened that good old Rosco was still alive and well, and he had been sold to a client from Red Fox, a woman who decided to move Rosco and board him at the same Loveland farm where I worked. So it creepily seemed like he was following me, like he knew I was the "one who got away."

At that Loveland farm, his owner allowed us to use him as a schoolhorse some, so I dealt with Rosco quite a bit. Since he had aged, he had mellowed, and he was pretty good to use for the kids. Still slow as hell, but for the lessons, that was a pretty good deal. He never bucked with the kids; he just plodded along, doing his job. I couldn't help but think, Jimmy was right. When it came to horses, Jimmy was always right.

But one day after all of my kids' lessons were over, some of the clients and I were out in the side yard, letting our horses graze. I was just kicking back, glad to be finished for the day, feeling overly tired and goofy. So after I put my horse away, I walked over to Rosco and hopped on him bareback, just for old times' sake. Then I decided to show off a little. So I swung my legs around and sat on him backwards, staring at his tail. The clients were laughing. Usually, being a trainer, I was pretty serious, so they thought it was pretty amusing. We were all having a relaxed, good time. At first.

Right at that moment, ancient Rosco started bucking. And it wasn't an old man, wussy little buck. He bucked like he was back at Red Fox, three years old, the star of his own little rodeo. I tried to hold on and normally, I probably would have been able to hang on, but let me remind you that I was stupidly sitting on him backwards. Now, there is a reason people don't ride horses backwards, because when you are riding a horse backwards, there is nothing to hold on to, and if you squeeze with your legs, they are positioned perfectly to tell the horse this:  buck more please. Suddenly I realized that I was screwed.

So I went flying up in the air a few feet, finally landing on the ground on my side, horribly kinking my neck. And while I was trying to recover, covered in grass and mud, I glanced up at Rosco's huge nose and eyes, which were right in my face. He looked like a red monster. Then I studied him a little closer. I swear that horse was smiling. He knew that after all those years of waiting, after trying and trying to buck me off when I was a kid, in that moment, he had finally succeeded. And not only had he bucked me off, but he had also done it in front of some of my clients. Without a doubt, he had finally won.

I looked back at him, laughing. Everyone around was laughing. And I didn't forget that lesson soon, because for weeks I endured the worst whiplash I've ever had in my entire life. I should be grateful though; if Rosco wanted to hurt me that day, he could have. He just wanted to play a joke and teach me a lesson. And he did. Since then, I've never let my guard down like that again with horses; that is, I remember to stay humble when dealing with a 1500lb animal because they are clever, smart, multi-faceted souls, and they have ridiculously long lasting senses of humor, as well as a deep sense of memory.

I swear that horse was smiling.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Girl Running

 

C.A. MacConnell