About

Evie Connolly is a freelance writer and equine therapist. She has had poetry and short stories published in literary journals, magazines and anthologies, including Beatdom Literary Journal, Decanto Magazine, CUT UP! Oneiros Books, O Ecuador das Coisas, Network Ireland Magazine, Eat my Words (Gumbo Press), Scraps : A Collection of Flash Fictions (Gumbo Press) and Elsewhere Literary Journal. Her poem, 'The Elephant is Contagious' was adapted into a short film.

Monday 11 February 2019





As a student, he learned to befriend the city, the sirens and traffic, the twisting iron carriages and steam flumes. The city horse became his companion. Together they navigated the concrete grid, traversing vibrating sidewalks and zebra crossings, exploring Central Park's looping bridle paths.

Over time, as obstinate dog walkers and vainglorious joggers seized the old wagon paths, the war horse came to be bred outside the city. 

Cartophiles Log © 2019

Solace

Through smudged paint and charcoal, he found safe haven within a city whose stories are dreamed up by runaways.

Later, they followed him into the shining firmament, and, between the glass towers and streams of traffic, found solace.


© 2019 Cartophile's Log

Early adventures were confined to the farmyard, where we'd gallop on sticks around the silage barn. The outbuildings with their ramshackle windows and half doors were street houses brimming with hustle and bustle, and the haggart, a market square that held us securely inside its crumbling walls.

As we grew, the river became a sea we'd cross with makeshift rafts to explore the wet splinter of woodland on the horizon. With rope strings, we'd swing into its heartland and make safe caves under fallen branches.

We ached for the intimacy of the city, where friends were just a skip and jump away instead of across fields and over barbed wire fences. We longed to blend into the milieu of sameness, where our country words and ways dissolved into the ether and we became just like everyone else.



image: Cartophiles Log ©

Cabinet of Curiosities

With their bright colours and smudged postmark portals, they were miniature works of art, whose albums we'd file meticulously on library shelves. They shared space with adventure novels and worn out encyclopedia personalised with crayon signatures. 




On the top shelf was an antique sewing box, its contents an assortment of postcards and letters stack tied with string. The faded ink with its neat curls contained stories we knew not to read.