Billy
C.A. MacConnell
8/28/2015
8/21/2015
8/20/2015
8/06/2015
7/17/2015
Flash Fiction: Call...On...Him
Wrote this just now, on the spot. :) Love, C.A.
Call...On...Him
flash fiction
Pepper shifted in her hard seat. Her ass hurt. Her braids itched. She needed new extensions. The facility's meeting room chairs were always rough -- the metal, fold-up kind that didn't give, but they were perfect for stacking. Pepper looked across the room, staring at the wall. Startled, she saw a tall, dark shape. She squinted, trying to make out the face. She'd never seen the strange man before. Some kind of misfit cowboy, an urban camper. A misplaced mountain man. Seemed white, but he was so muddy, she wasn't sure about his true roots.
In the back corner of the room, the cowboy leaned against the pale, clean wall. Tall, dirty, bearded, and black-haired, the man grimaced in pain, occasionally looking down at his thickly bandaged left foot.
Pepper glanced around at her coworkers, but no one budged, and the staff work meeting continued as usual -- worksheets and bagels and such. She figured that the cowboy sneaked in the back door somehow; it happened sometimes, since the far end of the rehab center faced an alley. From time to time, in the early evenings, when Pepper opened the sticky back door to take the garbage out, Pepper saw multiple shadows scatter -- pushers, users, hustlers, and kids. Maybe the cowboy needed a place to rest. Maybe he was looking for a cookie, some coffee, a doctor. Maybe he bandaged that foot on his own. Maybe he needed medicine. Maybe he was on too much medicine. Maybe he was mixing medicines. Maybe he was just simply looking for people, for bodies.
The cowboy's face contorted. His lip moved sideways, jerking to the left. Then right. Sliding up and down against the wall, the cowboy half-screamed.
Pepper sat on the edge of her seat, watching his face, wondering if he were going to fall, or more than likely, crash.
No one in the meeting moved. They talked about schedules, patients. The usual kidders kidded each other. As was their custom, they raised their hands and took turns. For ten years, the meetings had been conducted the same way. Regina ate a blueberry muffin. Joe ate a Nutter Butter.
Pepper watched the cowboy. Her throat hurt.
The cowboy grabbed his right arm with his left, forcing it up. Clearly, from across the room, this stranger wanted to talk, to put his two cents in.
Pepper stood up, quietly walking over to the CEO of the rehab center. She touched the president's arm and whispered, "That man over there. He wants to talk."
Turning pink, the president held up her hand and shook her head "No." She fixed a wrinkle in her navy skirt. She ran a hand along each button on her silk blouse. "Who's next?" she asked the crowded room.
Pepper whispered, "He has a right to talk. He's in the meeting too."
The president whispered back, "He's not a patient or staff. He shouldn't even be in here. Don't know how he got in."
Pepper remembered back fifteen years earlier. She thought about the time when the musician, J.J., stood on the front steps of the facility for weeks. Waiting for an open room, he even slept outside the door. She thought about the day when she went to tell J.J. there was finally an open bed, how he turned blue in front of her, dying right there on the bottom step.
Quickly, Pepper winced and walked across the room, making her way over to the cowboy. Face to face with him, her nose almost touched his.
He swayed, rocked, and struggled to stand.
Pepper looked at his arms. She saw multiple sores, and she'd seen abscesses before. She'd become a therapist for a reason -- to help those who knew what it was like to take a fucking blow. She'd been there, back in the day. Opiates. Detox. Any minute, he might have a seizure. All the time, it happens here. She'd been there and at any time, if she chose to, she could go back.
The cowboy was filthy, but blue, blue, blue, the eyes.
Pepper grabbed his arm, holding him up. In a voice loud enough for everyone in the meeting to hear, she asked, "You need detox? You in detox? You need me to call 911? We're not a detox center. We're more of a therapeutic place, but I can get you in there. I can pull strings, get you right in."
Behind Pepper, the work meeting continued on as usual.
The cowboy leaned in closer, nearly falling on her. "I'm in pain. Just my foot. Someone ran me over."
"I see that, but you need detox too," she said, staring at his marked-up arms.
"I'm okay. I'll just stand here a little while. I just want to talk."
Pepper studied his eyes. Glassy, but it was the "okay" kind of film. He was high as hell, sure, but she'd been around long enough to know he'd live that day. She returned to her seat.
Again, the cowboy raised his dirty hand, seemingly wanting to add words to the meeting's discussion.
Pepper looked over at the President and mouthed, "Call...on...him."
The president ignored her and announced to the crowd, "Okay, everyone, now on to the next topic in your packet -- 'How to best work with others.'"
Regina ate a blueberry muffin. Joe ate a Nutter Butter.
C.A. MacConnell
Call...On...Him
flash fiction
Pepper shifted in her hard seat. Her ass hurt. Her braids itched. She needed new extensions. The facility's meeting room chairs were always rough -- the metal, fold-up kind that didn't give, but they were perfect for stacking. Pepper looked across the room, staring at the wall. Startled, she saw a tall, dark shape. She squinted, trying to make out the face. She'd never seen the strange man before. Some kind of misfit cowboy, an urban camper. A misplaced mountain man. Seemed white, but he was so muddy, she wasn't sure about his true roots.
In the back corner of the room, the cowboy leaned against the pale, clean wall. Tall, dirty, bearded, and black-haired, the man grimaced in pain, occasionally looking down at his thickly bandaged left foot.
Pepper glanced around at her coworkers, but no one budged, and the staff work meeting continued as usual -- worksheets and bagels and such. She figured that the cowboy sneaked in the back door somehow; it happened sometimes, since the far end of the rehab center faced an alley. From time to time, in the early evenings, when Pepper opened the sticky back door to take the garbage out, Pepper saw multiple shadows scatter -- pushers, users, hustlers, and kids. Maybe the cowboy needed a place to rest. Maybe he was looking for a cookie, some coffee, a doctor. Maybe he bandaged that foot on his own. Maybe he needed medicine. Maybe he was on too much medicine. Maybe he was mixing medicines. Maybe he was just simply looking for people, for bodies.
The cowboy's face contorted. His lip moved sideways, jerking to the left. Then right. Sliding up and down against the wall, the cowboy half-screamed.
Pepper sat on the edge of her seat, watching his face, wondering if he were going to fall, or more than likely, crash.
No one in the meeting moved. They talked about schedules, patients. The usual kidders kidded each other. As was their custom, they raised their hands and took turns. For ten years, the meetings had been conducted the same way. Regina ate a blueberry muffin. Joe ate a Nutter Butter.
Pepper watched the cowboy. Her throat hurt.
The cowboy grabbed his right arm with his left, forcing it up. Clearly, from across the room, this stranger wanted to talk, to put his two cents in.
Pepper stood up, quietly walking over to the CEO of the rehab center. She touched the president's arm and whispered, "That man over there. He wants to talk."
Turning pink, the president held up her hand and shook her head "No." She fixed a wrinkle in her navy skirt. She ran a hand along each button on her silk blouse. "Who's next?" she asked the crowded room.
Pepper whispered, "He has a right to talk. He's in the meeting too."
The president whispered back, "He's not a patient or staff. He shouldn't even be in here. Don't know how he got in."
Pepper remembered back fifteen years earlier. She thought about the time when the musician, J.J., stood on the front steps of the facility for weeks. Waiting for an open room, he even slept outside the door. She thought about the day when she went to tell J.J. there was finally an open bed, how he turned blue in front of her, dying right there on the bottom step.
Quickly, Pepper winced and walked across the room, making her way over to the cowboy. Face to face with him, her nose almost touched his.
He swayed, rocked, and struggled to stand.
Pepper looked at his arms. She saw multiple sores, and she'd seen abscesses before. She'd become a therapist for a reason -- to help those who knew what it was like to take a fucking blow. She'd been there, back in the day. Opiates. Detox. Any minute, he might have a seizure. All the time, it happens here. She'd been there and at any time, if she chose to, she could go back.
The cowboy was filthy, but blue, blue, blue, the eyes.
Pepper grabbed his arm, holding him up. In a voice loud enough for everyone in the meeting to hear, she asked, "You need detox? You in detox? You need me to call 911? We're not a detox center. We're more of a therapeutic place, but I can get you in there. I can pull strings, get you right in."
Behind Pepper, the work meeting continued on as usual.
The cowboy leaned in closer, nearly falling on her. "I'm in pain. Just my foot. Someone ran me over."
"I see that, but you need detox too," she said, staring at his marked-up arms.
"I'm okay. I'll just stand here a little while. I just want to talk."
Pepper studied his eyes. Glassy, but it was the "okay" kind of film. He was high as hell, sure, but she'd been around long enough to know he'd live that day. She returned to her seat.
Again, the cowboy raised his dirty hand, seemingly wanting to add words to the meeting's discussion.
Pepper looked over at the President and mouthed, "Call...on...him."
The president ignored her and announced to the crowd, "Okay, everyone, now on to the next topic in your packet -- 'How to best work with others.'"
Regina ate a blueberry muffin. Joe ate a Nutter Butter.
C.A. MacConnell
7/02/2015
Last Two Tickets
In August of 2009, I came across a sobering NPR article that read, "For two-and-a-half days, about 800 doctors, nurses, dentists, and optometrists treated 2,700 uninsured and underinsured people, most from Appalachia. No one was asked for an insurance card. There were no co-pays. And there were no bills." The effort was organized through a Tennessee-based group, Remote Area Medical (RAM), and the help was offered at the county fairgrounds in Wise, Virginia. The medical team treated approximately 1600 people on Friday alone.
This part really choked me up:
"'You got the last two tickets!' the guard said. 'For eyes.'
'The last two tickets?' the driver responded. She seemed stunned by the prospect, and she was speechless, at first.
'Ma’am,' the guard said, as the driver simply stared ahead. 'Ma’am,' she said again as another guard joined in. 'Ma’am, we’re trying to tell you what you got.'
Finally, the driver spoke. 'I want to give the two eye [tickets] back because somebody may need them more than me.'"
Amazing selflessness. Put a lump in my throat. In the spirit of giving. In the spirit of gratitude for available help. In the spirit of gratitude for all within us and all around us that is beautiful.
C.A. MacConnell
This part really choked me up:
"'You got the last two tickets!' the guard said. 'For eyes.'
'The last two tickets?' the driver responded. She seemed stunned by the prospect, and she was speechless, at first.
'Ma’am,' the guard said, as the driver simply stared ahead. 'Ma’am,' she said again as another guard joined in. 'Ma’am, we’re trying to tell you what you got.'
Finally, the driver spoke. 'I want to give the two eye [tickets] back because somebody may need them more than me.'"
Amazing selflessness. Put a lump in my throat. In the spirit of giving. In the spirit of gratitude for available help. In the spirit of gratitude for all within us and all around us that is beautiful.
C.A. MacConnell
6/28/2015
F'n Rad Painter.
Back in the 90s, I used to get completely shitfaced on whatever, and then I'd pull out my art supplies and paint all kinds of crazy-ass, horrific pictures. I used spray paint, acrylics, oils, whatever the fuck I grabbed. I thought I was Picasso or some art god, and I worried I might have to take off an ear or a toe to prove it.
Well, around that time, near Christmas, on one of my manic, booze-induced art sprees, I painted gruesome pictures for everyone in the family, as well as for some others who I barely knew. At the time, I was so fucked up that to me, they appeared to be absolute genius. I even framed and wrapped the monsters, and when I handed them over to my lucky recipients, my face was a proud, beaming beacon of light (mixed with downers and uppers).
One particular drawing was supposed to be an utterly unique portrayal of a certain musician; however, I drew his mouth so close to the microphone, it looked like he was blowing....you get the drift. Deep, let me tell you.
A few months back, Mom whipped out one of my old paintings (yes, she had it in the basement). It was supposed to be a painting of her, but it sort of resembled a dead Gidget doll (the Sally Field version), and it was about at the five year old level, but it was much creepier than any kid could do.
In the family, I am now a supreme legend as the worst painter/drawer they have ever seen. I even tried taking classes, and after a while the teachers just shook their heads and left me alone. I heard things such as this:
"Lighten up, MacConnell."
and
"Hm, why don't you just go with that. I'll be back."
And he never came back.
Here is my one actual masterpiece:
Yes, that's right. This one is the best of the bunch, the cream of the crop. If anyone wants his/her portait done, I'm open for biz. I know one person that might jump at that chance. He's seen some of my award-winning, genius work.
C.A. MacConnell
Well, around that time, near Christmas, on one of my manic, booze-induced art sprees, I painted gruesome pictures for everyone in the family, as well as for some others who I barely knew. At the time, I was so fucked up that to me, they appeared to be absolute genius. I even framed and wrapped the monsters, and when I handed them over to my lucky recipients, my face was a proud, beaming beacon of light (mixed with downers and uppers).
One particular drawing was supposed to be an utterly unique portrayal of a certain musician; however, I drew his mouth so close to the microphone, it looked like he was blowing....you get the drift. Deep, let me tell you.
A few months back, Mom whipped out one of my old paintings (yes, she had it in the basement). It was supposed to be a painting of her, but it sort of resembled a dead Gidget doll (the Sally Field version), and it was about at the five year old level, but it was much creepier than any kid could do.
In the family, I am now a supreme legend as the worst painter/drawer they have ever seen. I even tried taking classes, and after a while the teachers just shook their heads and left me alone. I heard things such as this:
"Lighten up, MacConnell."
and
"Hm, why don't you just go with that. I'll be back."
And he never came back.
Here is my one actual masterpiece:
Yes, that's right. This one is the best of the bunch, the cream of the crop. If anyone wants his/her portait done, I'm open for biz. I know one person that might jump at that chance. He's seen some of my award-winning, genius work.
C.A. MacConnell
5/02/2015
Under the Covers
Near Short Vine, me and Susan chill and smoke up
at the toothless cat’s McMillan dive.
Wimpy, cool kids beg below the window.
I see them through the zoo bars.
You know, faces all cut up.
We know no heat or Dr. Seuss is coming.
The puppy is sick, and the cat is gone.
Me, loaded, Susan, on snow, we shiver together,
no more than shaky, sick,
whatever twigs. We share a White
Castle. On the wet futon, we wrap up
in Street Barbie’s leftover, wet, thin, gray blankets,
keeping watch on the scratched, black floor.
Everywhere, burns. Everywhere, pick-up-sticks
and GI Joe’s Hep C. The room moves with roaches.
Susan is seeing Care Bears. To stay warm,
I eat her pussy. Cheeks sink in -- our sleepy hollow.
When I give up, she throws up.
We hurt, hugging lightly, and love isn't working,
but it’s still on the brain.
Better, I half-sleep. You know, Platoon.
Susan stands tall, writing on the wall
with fluorescent paints, yelling at the ceiling,
calling it, Mother.
Eyes like cartoon girls, she raises her right arm,
holding up the neon yellow pen. Connect-the-dots
is tough -- her sores are moving again. Shrugging,
Susan smiles and says, If you leave, I just might
kill myself. She draws me that freaky Rainbow Brite girl.
I tell her to tone it the fuck down.
Susan wants to go to prom.
I’m in.
The puppy is sick, and the cat is gone.
C.A. MacConnell
at the toothless cat’s McMillan dive.
Wimpy, cool kids beg below the window.
I see them through the zoo bars.
You know, faces all cut up.
We know no heat or Dr. Seuss is coming.
The puppy is sick, and the cat is gone.
Me, loaded, Susan, on snow, we shiver together,
no more than shaky, sick,
whatever twigs. We share a White
Castle. On the wet futon, we wrap up
in Street Barbie’s leftover, wet, thin, gray blankets,
keeping watch on the scratched, black floor.
Everywhere, burns. Everywhere, pick-up-sticks
and GI Joe’s Hep C. The room moves with roaches.
Susan is seeing Care Bears. To stay warm,
I eat her pussy. Cheeks sink in -- our sleepy hollow.
When I give up, she throws up.
We hurt, hugging lightly, and love isn't working,
but it’s still on the brain.
Better, I half-sleep. You know, Platoon.
Susan stands tall, writing on the wall
with fluorescent paints, yelling at the ceiling,
calling it, Mother.
Eyes like cartoon girls, she raises her right arm,
holding up the neon yellow pen. Connect-the-dots
is tough -- her sores are moving again. Shrugging,
Susan smiles and says, If you leave, I just might
kill myself. She draws me that freaky Rainbow Brite girl.
I tell her to tone it the fuck down.
Susan wants to go to prom.
I’m in.
The puppy is sick, and the cat is gone.
C.A. MacConnell
4/22/2015
We Were Going Up
A while back, I was in the elevator at a clinic, and there was this dark-haired kid who soon joined me. He was in a wheel chair, and his mom was pushing him, tucking him into the last empty space in the back. She seemed nervous about brushing against people. Well, everyone was edgy as hell. Isn't that always true about elevators? There's some kind of unspoken "Don't touch me or I'll kill you" rule.
So the elevator was packed, which always makes me nervous, because I, for one, hate the idea of brushing up against someone. Man. It's not really the actual touch that's bad -- it's the anticipation of the possible touch that's bad. The terrible wait for the inevitable accidental shirt sleeve hitting my coat. Shiver.
Anyway, we were going up. Well, we were supposed to be. See, right after we were all set, and all of our correct buttons had been pressed by Suit Man, and we were packed in there like candy in a dish, this blond lady squished her body inside and yelled, "Can you press 'floor one' for me?"
Suit Man growled and pressed the button for her.
With that, the kid in the wheel chair shrugged, looked at Blond Lady right in the eye and said, "Fuck you." Then he started cracking up.
I laughed too. Shit, we all wanted to say it. He was just the only one brave enough to bust out with the choice words. We were jam packed, someone smelled like ass, the weather had been horrible, and for sure, no one was visiting the clinic for any reason that was remotely enjoyable, and here was this woman squeezing her ass on our ride, looking to go down, when we were going up. So yeah, we all wanted to say it.
The kid looked at her and said it again. "Fuck you." Then he really started howling.
I did too. My nose started running. I looked around. A few others had some muffled chuckles going on, but the kid and I were really letting loose.
Then the kid's mom said to him, "Stop it. That's not nice."
From his wheelchair, the kid shrugged again and stared up at me, beaming.
I held up my thumb at him, beaming back at my partner in crime.
When we finally made it to our floor, number four, the kid and I slid on into the waiting room at the same time.
Then I saw the back of his head. A thin scar, a bald patch, stretched from the crown of his head all the way to his neck. Either brain surgery or trauma, I wasn't sure. But what struck me was that there we were, seeing docs for whatever random issues (and obviously he had some serious issues going on), but in that moment in the elevator, none of the physical bullshit really mattered. Our separate lives didn't matter. Our separate problems didn't matter. What mattered was one brave jokester (ironically, the most physically impaired one there), and one shared laugh. Perhaps our laugh was at Blond Lady's expense but hell, sister, we were going up.
When I feel my gut, my heart, my soul tell me what's right, regardless of the crowd, I gotta leave a few behind, join people like this kid, and head for the laughter and the light. See, I want to live my life fully, love, and focus on my dreams, not stay stuck in my head. Change is all around me. Onward and upward,
C.A. MacConnell
So the elevator was packed, which always makes me nervous, because I, for one, hate the idea of brushing up against someone. Man. It's not really the actual touch that's bad -- it's the anticipation of the possible touch that's bad. The terrible wait for the inevitable accidental shirt sleeve hitting my coat. Shiver.
Anyway, we were going up. Well, we were supposed to be. See, right after we were all set, and all of our correct buttons had been pressed by Suit Man, and we were packed in there like candy in a dish, this blond lady squished her body inside and yelled, "Can you press 'floor one' for me?"
Suit Man growled and pressed the button for her.
With that, the kid in the wheel chair shrugged, looked at Blond Lady right in the eye and said, "Fuck you." Then he started cracking up.
I laughed too. Shit, we all wanted to say it. He was just the only one brave enough to bust out with the choice words. We were jam packed, someone smelled like ass, the weather had been horrible, and for sure, no one was visiting the clinic for any reason that was remotely enjoyable, and here was this woman squeezing her ass on our ride, looking to go down, when we were going up. So yeah, we all wanted to say it.
The kid looked at her and said it again. "Fuck you." Then he really started howling.
I did too. My nose started running. I looked around. A few others had some muffled chuckles going on, but the kid and I were really letting loose.
Then the kid's mom said to him, "Stop it. That's not nice."
From his wheelchair, the kid shrugged again and stared up at me, beaming.
I held up my thumb at him, beaming back at my partner in crime.
When we finally made it to our floor, number four, the kid and I slid on into the waiting room at the same time.
Then I saw the back of his head. A thin scar, a bald patch, stretched from the crown of his head all the way to his neck. Either brain surgery or trauma, I wasn't sure. But what struck me was that there we were, seeing docs for whatever random issues (and obviously he had some serious issues going on), but in that moment in the elevator, none of the physical bullshit really mattered. Our separate lives didn't matter. Our separate problems didn't matter. What mattered was one brave jokester (ironically, the most physically impaired one there), and one shared laugh. Perhaps our laugh was at Blond Lady's expense but hell, sister, we were going up.
When I feel my gut, my heart, my soul tell me what's right, regardless of the crowd, I gotta leave a few behind, join people like this kid, and head for the laughter and the light. See, I want to live my life fully, love, and focus on my dreams, not stay stuck in my head. Change is all around me. Onward and upward,
C.A. MacConnell
3/11/2015
3/09/2015
Griffin Farm on Sale, Paperback and Ebook
The paperback is only $12.45 new, and it's a lovely creation if I do say so myself. The Kindle version will be a mere $5.95 later tomorrow...still processing at the moment. I wrote, edited, and designed the whole sucker myself, so I'm very proud of this novel. 100% little old me. Many years in the making, that's for sure.
Go here for more details on ordering. There's a full preview, including a few sample pages, so you can check it out (and get hooked! you will, I promise). Also included are reader reviews of the work.
Thanks to anyone who has read it, and if you did, I'd be extremely grateful if you would write a review for me on the site. So far, in person and on the net, the feedback has been magnificent.
Grateful for supporters of my art. Always.
Love, C.A.
2/28/2015
Horror Show: SPEECH 1
For the past ten years or so, I've done a lot of advocacy work, and I've given many talks in front of groups, both large and small. These days, I love being in front of people, speaking, and doing this work; it's probably my favorite thing to do. But what's strange is that all growing up, I was painfully shy, incredibly introverted, and I was absolutely terrified of public speaking. Terrified. I wanted nothing to do with it.
Unfortunately, in high school, I was horrified when I accidentally signed up for a public speaking class called, SPEECH 1. When I was choosing electives, I marked the box for SPEECH 1, but I meant to pick POTTERY 1. Everyone wanted to take POTTERY for obvious reasons -- it was in a different building, so we could walk slow and goof off on our way there, the teacher often had red eyes and said she had "something stuck in her eye," and we could make things like a penis vase without the nuns realizing it. Anyway, by the time I went to change my schedule, of course the hippieland of POTTERY was full, and all of the other electives were full, so there I was, stuck for an entire quarter in the horror show also known as SPEECH 1.
When it came time for our first speech, while madly preparing, my stomach had been in knots for weeks and for some reason, the teacher reminded me of a crazed parrot, which didn't help matters. The first assignment was similar to an acting class; we had to create a three-minute character sketch. Three whole minutes. That night, I guess I saw Jerry Springer on T.V., I dunno, but I picked him as my character. At the time, I think he had a mustache, or maybe I just felt his "inner mustache." So when it came time for the speech, I wore a big, thick, fake mustache.
I hobbled on up to the podium, literally shaking as I went. It started off all right, although I was sort of stuttering. Suddenly, about one minute into the speech, the mustache slid down and got half-stuck in my mouth. I reached up to fix it, but by then, a bunch of hairs were stuck in my mouth. I wasn't sure what to do, so I just did what was natural. I stopped the speech, and I started spitting and picking hairs off of my tongue. This lasted for about one entire minute.
The whole class was rolling. Everyone thought I was doing it on purpose, so I kept spitting out hairs and really owning the character. By the time I was done with my three minutes, they thought I was a genius.
Well, I made it through SPEECH 1, and I recall my final speech, a "persuasion" speech, was a fifteen minute rant on the anti-fur movement. The last line was this: "Fur isn't cool. It's cruel." We weren't allowed to dress up for that one, but I totally wanted to wear a bear suit.
Anyway, I made it out of SPEECH 1 alive, but I still didn't like speaking until I was at Hollins University for college. Poetry and fiction readings were weekly performances really, even if they didn't seem like it, and for sure, these events involved a lot of whiskey. After attending a slew of them, I realized that authors often used this weird tone that rose at the end of lines for emphasis, stuff like that. So I'd show up half-wasted, wearing all black (and black Chucks of course), and I'd really use my voice to hammer home "deep lines." I totally embraced that high brow madness. I ate it up.
Weird, the last time I gave a talk, which was two weeks ago, it came out damn raw and afterwards, I felt quite exposed. It's not always like that, but for some reason, I was in a mood. Speaking of moods, here's a picture of the cool, Vertigo-ish stairs in the Moody Student Center at Hollins University:
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Pretty rad. Hey, I'm giving a talk tonight actually. Wish me luck. Don't think I'll wear a fake mustache this time. I learned my lesson. A mustache is damn hard to pull off; however, just to be creative and embrace the memories, I may slip in some anti-fur propaganda.
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. Man, I should totally be an script editor on TV or a movie or some crap. I could iron that shit out, just sayin.
Unfortunately, in high school, I was horrified when I accidentally signed up for a public speaking class called, SPEECH 1. When I was choosing electives, I marked the box for SPEECH 1, but I meant to pick POTTERY 1. Everyone wanted to take POTTERY for obvious reasons -- it was in a different building, so we could walk slow and goof off on our way there, the teacher often had red eyes and said she had "something stuck in her eye," and we could make things like a penis vase without the nuns realizing it. Anyway, by the time I went to change my schedule, of course the hippieland of POTTERY was full, and all of the other electives were full, so there I was, stuck for an entire quarter in the horror show also known as SPEECH 1.
When it came time for our first speech, while madly preparing, my stomach had been in knots for weeks and for some reason, the teacher reminded me of a crazed parrot, which didn't help matters. The first assignment was similar to an acting class; we had to create a three-minute character sketch. Three whole minutes. That night, I guess I saw Jerry Springer on T.V., I dunno, but I picked him as my character. At the time, I think he had a mustache, or maybe I just felt his "inner mustache." So when it came time for the speech, I wore a big, thick, fake mustache.
I hobbled on up to the podium, literally shaking as I went. It started off all right, although I was sort of stuttering. Suddenly, about one minute into the speech, the mustache slid down and got half-stuck in my mouth. I reached up to fix it, but by then, a bunch of hairs were stuck in my mouth. I wasn't sure what to do, so I just did what was natural. I stopped the speech, and I started spitting and picking hairs off of my tongue. This lasted for about one entire minute.
The whole class was rolling. Everyone thought I was doing it on purpose, so I kept spitting out hairs and really owning the character. By the time I was done with my three minutes, they thought I was a genius.
Well, I made it through SPEECH 1, and I recall my final speech, a "persuasion" speech, was a fifteen minute rant on the anti-fur movement. The last line was this: "Fur isn't cool. It's cruel." We weren't allowed to dress up for that one, but I totally wanted to wear a bear suit.
Anyway, I made it out of SPEECH 1 alive, but I still didn't like speaking until I was at Hollins University for college. Poetry and fiction readings were weekly performances really, even if they didn't seem like it, and for sure, these events involved a lot of whiskey. After attending a slew of them, I realized that authors often used this weird tone that rose at the end of lines for emphasis, stuff like that. So I'd show up half-wasted, wearing all black (and black Chucks of course), and I'd really use my voice to hammer home "deep lines." I totally embraced that high brow madness. I ate it up.
Weird, the last time I gave a talk, which was two weeks ago, it came out damn raw and afterwards, I felt quite exposed. It's not always like that, but for some reason, I was in a mood. Speaking of moods, here's a picture of the cool, Vertigo-ish stairs in the Moody Student Center at Hollins University:
Pretty rad. Hey, I'm giving a talk tonight actually. Wish me luck. Don't think I'll wear a fake mustache this time. I learned my lesson. A mustache is damn hard to pull off; however, just to be creative and embrace the memories, I may slip in some anti-fur propaganda.
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. Man, I should totally be an script editor on TV or a movie or some crap. I could iron that shit out, just sayin.
1/22/2015
1/19/2015
One Year Anniversary: GRIFFIN FARM
Hi there, we're celebrating the one year anniversary of my debut novel, GRIFFIN FARM. Actually, it's been a little over a year, but it still calls for a celebration! If you haven't checked it out yet, you can find it HERE ON AMAZON, paperback or Ebook. I've been getting amazing feedback, and I'm very grateful for everyone's support. Thank you readers! Thanks so much for taking a chance on my art. Love to you this beautiful day, C.A. MacConnell
Lexington
1/12/2015
Raw
Singer, you gave me
The mint. Sure, I was a cowboy
Killer. The den light
Burned pink,
Like raw skin,
Like a room tongue.
I kissed you once, twice, maybe lucky three
Times, telling you to leave
Before the roommates woke up and
Found us
Passed out on the couch again.
Humming, whistling.
That night, the storm
Was wild. Surely, somewhere, horses dashed
Across slippery fields.
Surely, somewhere, wind slid through the
Cracks
Of a screaming barn.
C.A. MacConnell
The mint. Sure, I was a cowboy
Killer. The den light
Burned pink,
Like raw skin,
Like a room tongue.
I kissed you once, twice, maybe lucky three
Times, telling you to leave
Before the roommates woke up and
Found us
Passed out on the couch again.
Humming, whistling.
That night, the storm
Was wild. Surely, somewhere, horses dashed
Across slippery fields.
Surely, somewhere, wind slid through the
Cracks
Of a screaming barn.
C.A. MacConnell
11/20/2014
Only a Few More Run-Throughs on THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR! Sexy.
Here's a silly little video for you about my writing process, ha. In reality, I am thrilled to say that I am very close to finishing THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, my second book. Let's see...currently, I am on p. 37 of 405, revision nine. Only a few more run-throughs to go. And then comes the process of seeking the right agent and publisher. Sweet. Whatever happens with this, here's the way I see it: setting an unbelievable, lofty goal, plugging away at it, and finishing book #2 is no small deal! Also, this thing is chock full of rich brilliance. The story is so crafty, so layered, definitely hard to resist, and fast-paced. The characters are absolutely colorful and engaging. And sexy.
I am so pleased with how this monster of a novel turned out! To me, it is like entering another world. So keep your fingers and toes crossed for me as I go forward from here. I'm sure gonna need some energy, luck, you name it! Dayum, I put in the time, endless work, many years of focusing on the craft, the schooling, the living, and on and on. So in my heart I know I've done (and am doing) my part.
And that feels rad.
Hope you are happy. Hope you feel a lot of love in your heart. I do.
C.A. MacConnell
1/24/2014
Book Release #2. GRIFFIN FARM NOW ON KINDLE.
Hi there. Well, got it all set to go for you eBook lovers. Now you can purchase my book, GRIFFIN FARM, in electronic form at the link here. Damn, this publishing experience has taught me so much! Now I see how important it was for me to get this work out there, and I also feel that it was necessary for me to wade through the whole time-consuming process all by my lonesome. Sometimes I learn best by diving into the madness. And now it all feels pretty slick. In case you haven't noticed, "slick" is one of my favorite words. There's even a horse in the book named "Slick." And I once rode a real horse named Slick, and man, he was gorgeous -- a handsome, wild, black thoroughbred. At the time, I had no idea what I was doing. I just hung on, feeling the wind. Sometimes life is like that, eh?
Hang on, feel the wind.
Well, I hope some people relate to and/or learn from this book. I wholly believe that the story is engaging and so far, the most consistent comments are the following:
I can't put it down.
It's intense. I'm hooked.
Man, that chapter was a surprise.
There are a lot of levels buried in this sucker if you take a closer look, just sayin'. That's all I'll say. Enough of that. Anyway, if you haven't read the work yet, give it a try online now if you like...it's all ready to go.
Now, time to move on to my next project. I am so excited! Onward and upward! Have a beautiful day! Hope you get a chance to check out my book!
Slick, slick, slick,
C.A. MacConnell
Hang on, feel the wind.
Well, I hope some people relate to and/or learn from this book. I wholly believe that the story is engaging and so far, the most consistent comments are the following:
I can't put it down.
It's intense. I'm hooked.
Man, that chapter was a surprise.
There are a lot of levels buried in this sucker if you take a closer look, just sayin'. That's all I'll say. Enough of that. Anyway, if you haven't read the work yet, give it a try online now if you like...it's all ready to go.
Now, time to move on to my next project. I am so excited! Onward and upward! Have a beautiful day! Hope you get a chance to check out my book!
Slick, slick, slick,
C.A. MacConnell
12/24/2013
Griffin Farm Now Available.
Love,
C.A. MacConnell
11/04/2013
All for Show: Full Circle
They say some things live in the blood, you know. Just the other day, I was taking a walk, and I randomly ran into one of my first riding instructors. It was a quick encounter that immediately sent me back in time. Reminiscing about horse people and barns, I thought about my first horse show, which was a true disaster, and the memory of it made me start cracking up in my car...
I was little, in the four foot tall range, and I was supposed to ride this small, chestnut gelding, a schoolhorse named Blazen Two Socks, who was a pretty good fit for my stubby legs. Usually, he wasn't too difficult to maneuver. The horse was appropriately named, since he had a pronounced white blaze and two white socks. He wasn't complicated, but the little guy definitely wasn't my favorite, and I think he sensed that. Late Night, a calm, sweet, dark bay gelding, and Honda, a little, wild, neurotic, white gelding, were my favorites, but neither of those guys did jumping lessons for some reason (probably for good reason).
I was little, in the four foot tall range, and I was supposed to ride this small, chestnut gelding, a schoolhorse named Blazen Two Socks, who was a pretty good fit for my stubby legs. Usually, he wasn't too difficult to maneuver. The horse was appropriately named, since he had a pronounced white blaze and two white socks. He wasn't complicated, but the little guy definitely wasn't my favorite, and I think he sensed that. Late Night, a calm, sweet, dark bay gelding, and Honda, a little, wild, neurotic, white gelding, were my favorites, but neither of those guys did jumping lessons for some reason (probably for good reason).
Now, schoolhorses at Red Fox Stables were usually extremely reliable; the staff was ultra-experienced and utterly careful, but when dealing with horses, of course there was always the unknown factor. Seems that old Blazen had a few secret tricks stored up in his compact body.
We had been practicing for weeks, and I had the course down, so I thought. The day before the show, we had a "schooling session," otherwise known as practice. Waiting behind the indoor ring, the students sat on their horses, checking stirrup length, tightening girths, and trying to stay still. No one wanted his/her horse to shift too close to someone else's. No one wanted a horse fight. Still, horses pinned back their ears here and there, flattening them, looking tough. And yeah, some creatures let out half-hearted kicks and squeals. The people didn't talk much. I was mute, and as was my custom, I was way too intense.
Usually, the instructors didn't open the enormous indoor ring back door, but that day, with great effort, the staff slid it wide open so we could practice coming in the back one at a time. In the real show, we'd have to enter this way. It was my turn to practice, so I trotted right into the indoor ring, then picked up a canter, and Blazen and I practiced the jumping course like superstars. Well, at first. After the last jump, old Blazen was pretty bored and/or excited about his performance, so instead of calmly stopping and walking outside to join the rest of the riders and horses, Blazen went momentarily insane, madly galloping out the back door, running smack into several horses, shaking everybody up. That's right, everyone was yelling at me, pissed as hell.
Usually, the instructors didn't open the enormous indoor ring back door, but that day, with great effort, the staff slid it wide open so we could practice coming in the back one at a time. In the real show, we'd have to enter this way. It was my turn to practice, so I trotted right into the indoor ring, then picked up a canter, and Blazen and I practiced the jumping course like superstars. Well, at first. After the last jump, old Blazen was pretty bored and/or excited about his performance, so instead of calmly stopping and walking outside to join the rest of the riders and horses, Blazen went momentarily insane, madly galloping out the back door, running smack into several horses, shaking everybody up. That's right, everyone was yelling at me, pissed as hell.
I held on until Blazen jumped over a huge ditch, and my little body went flying right into the ditch. Like a cartoon character, I sat there shaking my head, confused and embarrassed. I checked my arms and legs, moving everything. My body seemed to be working all right, so I sat there, chilling in the ditch, covered with mud. Like a wild mustang stallion, Blazen ran off to freedomland. No worries. Someone tracked him down before he got flattened by a semi truck barreling down Route 50.
Now, since my adventures with Blazen took a lot of time, I wasn't able to practice on Redford the day before. So the plan was that I would just show him cold turkey the next day. Well, the next morning, the morning of the big show, since Redford was so damn slow, the instructors handed me a crop, told me to canter him around fast, and then they sent me off to the side ring to gear up Redford for the ride. Get his attention, were the last instructions I heard. Well, I suppose I did a good job getting his attention because when the time came for me to ride Redford in the show ring, that horse was freaking flying. I remember hanging on to his mane, feeling the wind in my face even though we were in an indoor ring. Basically, throughout the course, I didn't do anything at all. I didn't move. I didn't steer. I was frozen, hanging on to that mane. Really, he did the course all on his own. Good thing he knew where to go. How, I have no idea.
And then there were all of the grins, chuckles, and out-right cackles.
The instructors mulled it over, and I guess they felt sorry for me, so they decided to give me a new horse for the show day. Old Blazen went back to his stall where he belonged, but that guy had a shit-eating grin on his muzzle, I swear. Now the new plan was for me to ride Redford -- not because he was awesome, but because no one wanted to ride him. On the ground, Redford was known for being mean as hell. Like Blazen, Redford was also appropriately named; he was a strange pinkish, godawful red color. Part draft horse and part dinosaur, Redford was damn ugly and huge. Well, his head was huge, and it was definitely out of proportion to his body. To me, since I was so vertically challenged, he looked like a red monster. I'd heard that Redford bit people when they tried to tack him up, but I knew that once I got up on his back, there shouldn't be too many problems other than that he was super slow. Usually, a rider had to start up a jet plane under Redford's ass just to get him to trot. Usually.
Now, since my adventures with Blazen took a lot of time, I wasn't able to practice on Redford the day before. So the plan was that I would just show him cold turkey the next day. Well, the next morning, the morning of the big show, since Redford was so damn slow, the instructors handed me a crop, told me to canter him around fast, and then they sent me off to the side ring to gear up Redford for the ride. Get his attention, were the last instructions I heard. Well, I suppose I did a good job getting his attention because when the time came for me to ride Redford in the show ring, that horse was freaking flying. I remember hanging on to his mane, feeling the wind in my face even though we were in an indoor ring. Basically, throughout the course, I didn't do anything at all. I didn't move. I didn't steer. I was frozen, hanging on to that mane. Really, he did the course all on his own. Good thing he knew where to go. How, I have no idea.
At a hunter horse show, a course is usually comprised of eight jumps; that usually means four "lines." A "line" means one jump followed by another, and there are a certain number of canter strides that you must do in between the jumps in the line. Well, where we were supposed to do five strides, we did four (or a little less) each time, which means that we were going so fast, Redford took up some amazing ground. I finished the jumps, and we exited the ring like champs, but I was still clutching his mane. My fingers were bluish.
When I went out the back door, the instructors all looked at me in shock; their mouths all turned into big "O's." I heard things such as this:
When I went out the back door, the instructors all looked at me in shock; their mouths all turned into big "O's." I heard things such as this:
"Wow, that was fast! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha."
"I've never seen Redford go that fast, ever."
"You looked like a speedy peanut up there!"
"Whoa."
"Oh my god."
"You looked like a speedy peanut up there!"
"Whoa."
"Oh my god."
"Whoa."
"Oh my god."
"Whoa."
"For the love of god, what was that?"
"For the love of god, what was that?"
And then there were all of the grins, chuckles, and out-right cackles.
No one had ever seen Redford go that fast, and I don't think anyone had ever seen any of the schoolhorses go that fast either. One of the barn workers held Redford while I joined my parents in the barn lounge; they were cheering like crazy. See, they thought the whole point was to be the fastest, and they assumed that I was a child prodigy at riding. But with hunters, the whole point is not to go fast at all. The point is to canter in a nice, smooth rhythm, jump the lines correctly at a sane speed, and get the right striding. To put it bluntly -- I totally screwed it up and none of us had any idea. Basically, it was so bad, it was as if I scored a basket for the other basketball team, and my parents and I were clueless.
Now, later in life I learned about showing and striding and all that, but what I remember most about that first horse show was the speed, the fun, and how ridiculously excited we all were about the horrible ride. That's right, we were oblivious to the reality that my performance was absolutely hilarious. That day, it didn't really matter. Since I didn't know any better, I was just beaming at my ride, my light speed course. In some ways, not knowing was a gift.
Weirdly, I ended up getting third place; this was because the people in 4th, 5th, and 6th place had some major issues that were way worse than mine...like they probably knocked jumps over or trotted by accident. And I believe someone's helmet went flying off and landed in the ring dirt. But I was still pretty proud of my yellow ribbon. When I returned to Redford and showed him our winnings, Redford had a pained, angry look, and I knew he just wanted to go back to his stall and eat. Alas, I didn't feel like the horse whisperer, but I had my damn yellow ribbon, so I gave him a pat on the neck and thanked the jerk.
Weirdly, I ended up getting third place; this was because the people in 4th, 5th, and 6th place had some major issues that were way worse than mine...like they probably knocked jumps over or trotted by accident. And I believe someone's helmet went flying off and landed in the ring dirt. But I was still pretty proud of my yellow ribbon. When I returned to Redford and showed him our winnings, Redford had a pained, angry look, and I knew he just wanted to go back to his stall and eat. Alas, I didn't feel like the horse whisperer, but I had my damn yellow ribbon, so I gave him a pat on the neck and thanked the jerk.
When I returned to the barn lounge, the older kids were cracking up, all whispering about my terrible, speed demon ride. Hearing them, I started coming to, realizing my ride was all wrong, but in my heart, I also knew that it was still the beginning of something, so I shrugged and clutched my yellow ribbon, checking out the snacks, feeling stubborn. And I thought to myself, I'll show you.
However awkward it was, it was definitely a beginning. Sucking at my first show made me work all the harder. And because I had to work hard at it, I didn't even realize it, but I was slowly learning how to pass on the wisdom of many trials and errors. I was learning how to become a good teacher. At fifteen, at the very same farm, I started teaching kids and adults. Years later, I was an assistant trainer there, and I got to watch my students practice for their first horse shows. Full circle. Hey now, wouldn't that be a good name for a horse? Has a nice ring to it...Full Circle. Hm...
However awkward it was, it was definitely a beginning. Sucking at my first show made me work all the harder. And because I had to work hard at it, I didn't even realize it, but I was slowly learning how to pass on the wisdom of many trials and errors. I was learning how to become a good teacher. At fifteen, at the very same farm, I started teaching kids and adults. Years later, I was an assistant trainer there, and I got to watch my students practice for their first horse shows. Full circle. Hey now, wouldn't that be a good name for a horse? Has a nice ring to it...Full Circle. Hm...
Redford wasn't such a bad guy. Simply, he was making his way in the world like the rest of us, and I have a soft spot for him now. Thinking back, something has occurred to me -- Redford took care of me that day, and he did exactly what he was told to do. I took him to the side ring to wake him up, and he responded. Despite his rough looks, and although all throughout the barn he was known for his resentful attitude, wild eyes, and rumored biting and kicking, I think it was all for show. He never tried to hurt me. Not once.
C.A. MacConnell
C.A. MacConnell
9/15/2013
Moving Forward with My Debut Novel
C.A. MacConnell