I only married her to get citizenship, paid 15 grand and thought that was it. Then I couldn’t forget her.
She once asked me if I liked blondes or brunettes and I said, “Any colour, as long as she smiles like you.”
Five years later we got married for real.
Connell writes again.
The neighbourhood children around here seemed just like mine.
“What have you been doing, sweetie?” I asked.
“I painted an angel.”
“…And you, sonny?”
“I painted Santa.”
Looking around they explained they were in another room drying, so I entered and there they were… Tied up and covered in paint.
Connell often says too much or too little in his biographies and probably will again. Despite this, he has been inspired, by others, to become a great writer of such, but to date his biographies have been sadly lacking in the necessary achievements required by him to embellish once more.
“When he saw her helpless and forlorn, there was a stirring in his loins.”
“Cut, cut, CUT! His lions started to stir. His lions, Narrator! This is a circus tragedy, not a Nuevo Erotic Romp!”
“What about swear words?”
“I wouldn’t test me if I were you, Sunshine.”
This is perhaps Connell’s first and last ever foray into the steamy world of Erotic literature. He sometimes succumbs to character development, but always to the absurd.
A hundred years on, tumble-weeds race along deserted interstate highways and a gigantic crater tells of unimaginable destruction. As we land and take readings of the surroundings, we discover our home is barely habitable.
“At least it’s recovered more than the red planet.”
“We’ll start terraforming this one first, Adam.”
Connell wrote this late at night.
Driving along he could see how the road separated them yet their leaves and branches bridged the expanse joining in a perfect arch from one side to the other. There were other trees forming grove after grove of arches.
Then he reflected for a moment, and exhaled. “Why can’t we?”
Connell finds little reason to intervene when some of his stories decide to write themselves.
A barren and merciless landscape stretched out ahead, as we kept trudging on until our mouths were parched.
We had to find water, and fast, or we wouldn’t make it out of there alive.
“Why don’t we buy water in that shop”, somebody begged, but we didn’t have any money.
Connell wrote this to comment on something or other, but lost the plot along the way… Or maybe, just maybe, he found it.
He has no control as he falls deeper into the unknown abyss. Its essence finds him, surrounds him, and becomes him until he can scarcely breathe.
The deeper he falls the dimmer his past, but as desperation dies away it’s replaced with something far more stomach-churning yet wonderful… called love.
Connell is known, in some parts, for writing a reasonably eclectic mix of stories.
He was sick of blood.
Meanwhile, the trail of corpses had authorities hot on his heels, so he decided to quit cold turkey. He joined “Bloodsuckers Anonymous”, a little known international self-help organisation with their head office in Transylvania.
Problem was, there wasn’t a vampire amongst them, just corporate leaders.
Connell has previously written about Frankenstein and zombies on 50-word Stories. This is his first, and perhaps last, foray into the shadowy world of vampires.
She exhales into a brand new year, fresh and vibrant. Each beat of her heart expels any niggling suspicions of staleness. The morning rays flicker through, brightening the room, and she feels the picture’s complete, till hubby shatters it with shards of routine: “Morning, Love. Fancy a cup of tea?”
Connell is reassured that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
In the darkness, as outside breezes twirl up leaves along an old worn path, it unsettles the stillness of the night as rattling gates keep some folk awake.
A solitary figure makes his way home, unperturbed by the eerie emptiness of unkempt streets or the shadows closing in from behind.
Connell believes that once a passage has been written it can’t be unwritten, but only added to.