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.”
“WHERE?”
“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?”
“BLOODY HELL!”
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.
“Thank God that’s over.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, it’s bloody hard getting the right gifts. No one’s ever satisfied, although I must admit the drinking and the food’s not bad. I think next year I’ll give Christmas a big miss.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“You’re Santa!”
Connell would deny writing this, if it wasn’t for the fact that his name is plastered all over it. His son, six years old, in a deeply reflective moment, said, “You know, everyone’s special.” And Connell, in a less reflective one, replied, “And you know, after Christmas everything’s on special.”
Barbara bent over the dumpster. “There’re some good pickings tonight, Ken.”
Ken was mesmerized by the extravagance of the food. “It must be Christmas!” he lamented. “I remember a time when I had all this and a warm home…”
“Hurry, Ken, if you want any. The others have spotted us!”
Connell chose to write about this, unplanned until a few minutes ago, because he has (long) realized that if we all ate a little less then perhaps others could eat a little more.
“Private Robertson!”
“Yes sir!”
“Where’s your moustache?”
“It’s under my nose, sir!”
“I can’t see it.”
“Maybe you’re not looking hard enough, sir!”
“I won’t have insolence or insubordination!”
Robertson brazenly drinks some of the captain’s milk, “Here sir!”
“Dismissed, Robertson!!”
Sporting the unit’s best ever (milk) moustache, Sally leaves.
Connell believes that it doesn’t matter if you are male or female: if you’ve got it, flaunt it. Read more of his fractured words right here at 50WS or at paragraphplanet, home.wtd-magazine.com, and postcardshorts.com.