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.
Jones looked for God in organised religions, in a bottle, and at fast food outlets. He searched high and low until, desperate, he finally found her where he thought she would never be.
Now God has to look for a better place to hide, or take out a restraining order.
Connell enjoys reworking and reimagining quaint comical expressions he has heard.
A friend came back from six months away and we talked about his European adventures.
Then he asked me about my fiancée and our wedding plans.
I happily told him the wedding was on track, and for a brief moment it felt great
as I pretended she was still alive.
Read more from Connell at paragraphplanet, home.wtd-magazine.com and postcardshorts.com.
“Has mummy really gone?”
“I’m afraid she has, sweetie.”
“I miss mummy.”
“So do I. Don’t cry.”
“Let’s go get mummy, right now!”
“We can’t do that sweetie.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s in a much better place.”
“She’s gone to get a facial in a nice, quiet beauty salon.”
Connell explores the trauma of childhood separation and the joy it can bring parents who can escape for a few moments. While not believing in bribes, he’ll send an imaginary dollar for every ‘Like’ he receives with the full knowledge that he’ll probably receive imaginary ‘Likes’ or worse in return.
“I’ve been up all night. I couldn’t sleep.”
“We know what’s wrong,” they winked. “You’re in love!”
“No, I’m not…”
“You’re a sly one. Tell us who she is.”
“If you’d let me finish, I’d tell you it was diarrhea.”
“Oh, that’s a pretty name. Is she foreign?”
Connell believes that words can get in the way of meaningful communication. See more of his “Communication Breakdowns” at paragraphplanet, home.wtd-magazine.com and postcardshorts.com.