He saw himself laid out on the table, his heart in one place, his backbone and manhood in various containers.
It was hard to get a word in edgewise as his two ex-girlfriends kept dissecting him into little pieces.
Now he finally understood what “We can still be friends” meant!
Connell continues to be upbeat about writing his biography even if others keep refusing to do it for him. However, he knows someone will eventually take up the mantle which will then free him somewhat to concentrate on getting someone to write his 50-word stories as well.
Before dying, she softly whispered, “I’ve never really loved you, and now I can’t make it up to you.”
He already knew, and consoled, “Don’t worry about that now. I’ve loved you enough for both of us.”
That’s when he saw in her eyes the love he’d always waited for.
Connell is always upbeat about putting something in his bio section and personally writes them all by himself as others couldn’t be bothered doing it for him.
As the gates of Hell locked behind him he felt he had one more chance.
He’d lost his job, house, family, and now his soul. Unperturbed, he strode towards Satan and his entourage.
He only needed to think of one more thing to gamble with to make it all disappear.
Connell doesn’t need to gamble, as putting pen to paper is risky enough. He never knows where the words might take him.
The dead got up from the battlefield. Some played with their wounds. Others witnessed the horror of what they had become. As they walked away a young private looked back and saw their bodies where they’d fallen and sighed, “If all this is for that, why did we bother coming?”
Connell writes a bit and no more.
Some wild-eyed vagrant bursts into a studio and tells a young artist about the evil he’s done and his years on the run. He hands the artist a pistol.
The artist listens attentively before recognising the vagrant’s eyes as his.
Terror… Then resignation follows as he slowly squeezes the trigger.
One of Connell’s many dilemmas is whether to write a bit or not before going to bed. When he writes, he’s sleepy the next day, and when he doesn’t, the ideas slip away.
He meticulously unwraps it to find an android of his deceased father.
It self-activates and tells him his father uploaded all his memories and emotions before he died. It loads and says, “Son! I’m back!”
He shoves the imposter away.
The android weeps for a moment, then deletes its memory.
Connell writes a bit and then goes to bed.
After applying for many years he made it into Mensa. Finally, he was among the most intelligent people of his time. Cerebrally unmatched yet socially awkward, he wondered what he’d be doing there until he was told to put on some overalls, get a bucket, and mop out the toilets.
Being alone was the least of his worries. Looking out at the void, the emptiness was hypnotic, enticing him outside.
His crew was sadly gone and two years remained until his arrival. “But who will need rescuing by then?” he thought.
He switched the ship to autopilot just in case.
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.