Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Concerning Conn: The name that tells a tale.

I wanted to see if it was possible to write a short fictional story about President Paul Conn using every modern root word in the English language that begins with the letters C and O and N.

It has indeed been accomplished, using each word, in fact, only once in the story. See how many you can count:

I must confess that it was a controversial move when Dr. Paul Conn, president of Lee University, converted the construction of Lee's newest building into the world's biggest conservatory.

Consequently, it was of foremost concern for Conn to conduct a confidential survey of incoming students to confirm the continuance of his concept.

While the board of directors gave their consent, they had asked Conn to consider his contract and consult his conscience before continuing as well.

The day the new but nameless building was consecrated Conn contacted the Church of God congregation to congratulate all on the conclusion of the project.

Confetti fell while the last bit of concrete was poured into a concentric circle contour conjoining the structure with the concourse.

Years later, a connoisseur of conquest, Conn was consoling a concert pianist who had just conducted his final concerto, when he conceived of another idea. He would hold a congressional hearing consisting of both congressmen and the constituency of Lee faculty. Perhaps they all could conjure a constitutional solution that would provide for all possible contingencies, no matter the context.

After all, his great great great great grandfather was a conquistador who conquered the Congo through a conspiracy involving a contaminated conch and a condemned, but congenial mad man carrying contraband pandas. If his ancestor could concoct such a scheme of consummate conflict, why couldn't he confront the halls of Congress to convey his point?

Conn was so confident in his plans that he confided them with his confidant the pianist, who unfortunately happened to be a conniving con man who confiscated the documents in a colorless container to carry to a convention for convicted felons.

President Conn realized that the condition of the documents must be controlled to prevent prospective Lee consumers from contra dancing in conga lines across the continent.

Not content with simply contending to constrain what his plans contained, Conn opened a contest the week before convocation to convince students to conform their thoughts and concenter their conversations toward a consecutive goal.

Conscious of the fact that the plans were the most consequential evidence of his plans to unite the campus, Conn concurred with his wife that convoking all pianists across the globe for a conference would take a concerted effort.

The big day came, concessions were sold at Alumni Park (despite a lack of condiments), students contributed their time, even Condoleezza Rice showed up to contemplate the plan with fellow conservatives.

Rice had just gotten off of a train and waved goodbye to the conductor when she realized that he too was among the confederacy of pianists. As the convoy of instrumentalists began to appear and convene (contrary to what many were constantly whispering would happen), Conn met with Rice to express his condolences for the end of her term.

It was then that Conn spotted the confounded contortionist of a pianist who stole his constructive master plan for the institution. Rice stared at him with contempt, peering past the contrast of black and white into the contaminant beneath: a continual heart of black.

At that moment Conn yelled "Go!" and the consortium of conspicuous piano players surrounding the thief condensed around him, confining him to a consequence worse than any conscientious judge would ever concede to in an act of conciliation.

Connecting his wrists in handcuffs, the angry mob cast his body upon the dining hall conveyor belt, where he conjugated with the dirty dishes as onlookers congregated to watch, concentrating on the ugly scene before them.

Suddenly, the plans (which had previously been concealed in his convex-turned-concave pocket), popped out before he reached the convection oven in the kitchen.

Then all of a sudden, the crowd's contagious detestation was no longer construed as anger but with a completely different connotation.

President Conn delivered a concise but empowering message to the onlookers and in congruency the crowd shut off the belt, just before the conceited thief rolled into the barrel of juice concentration not yet prepared for consumption.

Despite a fit of consternation from a local concierge, Conn, rice, and the pianist drove a convertible to a local convenience store to buy fig pudding for an evening feast beneath the stars where faculty and students alike would sit on the condensation-covered grass and point out constellations.

Later that night Conn met with the forgiven thief in a conclave at the campus greenhouse built only a few years before. The greenhouse was a conjunction of conception and construct, Conn explained to weeping tears. In the same way, a friendship is contrived from the convergence of consolidated efforts. The consolation was more than the pianist could comprehend, but he accepted it regardless.

The next day, as Conn was walking down the stairs of the Humanities Center, he realized that he might have come off as a bit condescending the night before, despite his efforts to contradict the behavior. After weighing the pros and cons of the situation, he decided that the conundrum had become a convolution, and the consistency of his morals depended on a quick apology.

Using the campus concordance to find his longtime friend, Conn met with him in the conservation room of the new building. A considerate and polite chat ensued and by the end of it the building was finally named, in honor of the prodigal pianist.

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