I write because...

 Sometimes, I have to close out the world around me and dive head-first into a story. Sure, life goes on as usual, but I'm a million miles away without sadness or grief. Just the emotions I wish to convey. Sometimes, in my mind, I choose a quiet town or a cottage in the forests I go to as my pen begins its journey into storyland. I can venture anywhere I please, really, like a sidewalk cafe in France where a beautiful lady sips her tea and catches me looking at her and quickly looks away, a bit embarrassed. Or maybe I'll let my mind wander from place to place, only stopping when a feeling beckons me to write.

Most of the time, I know right away how a story will unfold, as I write quickly without hesitation until it's complete. The characters in my stories were thought of not in advance but spur of the moment because I felt they must be named as such to complete the tale.

I'm not a great writer, and truth be told, I won't be remembered as such, and that's okay with me. As I write, I release the thoughts that crowd my mind and heart, leaving me with a momentary sense of fulfillment yet an emptiness that awaits the next story.

Mike 2025                                              

Lazy river of words

 Wildflowers swayed with the gentle breeze as honey bees were fast at work. Powder-blue skies and a puppy cloud only you can see made you smile, as it looked a lot like old Blue.

Last night, the rain came as you dozed off to the tap, tap, tap of raindrops hitting the old tin roof, waking to the sunshine and another country day. Bacon sizzled in the cast-iron skillet, and the biscuits stayed warm, wrapped in a kitchen towel. Eggs sunny side up and a spoonful of homemade strawberry jam topped off with a cup of coffee and a silent belch made for the perfect meal.

It was Sunday, so the heavy chores could wait as you joined your neighbors in prayer at the same chapel your ancestors built brick by brick so many years ago. Once back home, another cup of coffee and a notebook open to a blank page, waiting for inspiration to strike. It didn't take long with the view before you, all God-given, to be amazed at with every gaze.

The words jumped onto the paper, flowing like a lazy river, never knowing where they might lead. You never understood why you were given the gift of storytelling, but you didn't question it as it belonged to you, and you cherished every sentence, every memory, and every stroke of your pen.

As darkness began to fall, you read what you've written, giving up on an answer that would never be answered, at least in this lifetime. The closest you ever came to understanding why you write what you do is that somewhere in your brain, a lazy river flows through your heart, and it's flooded with words that are given to you to create a story that you will continue to write until the lazy river runs dry.

Mike 2025                                           

Train ride with Grandma

 The high-speed rail flew past the place I called home many years ago. It was called the Beeliner back then, a passenger train with different class seating. The nicest was at the back of the train, where the sound of the massive engine wasn't so loud. Then, The dining car was followed by everyday seating and the noise.

I used to stand across the street and wave to the engineer as the mighty Beliner sped past on its way to Niagara Falls, wishing for the day I could be inside looking out. That day finally came when my Grandmother surprised me on my twelfth birthday with round-trip tickets for her and me on the train leaving from the city station and ending up in Niagara Falls.

Climbing aboard, I felt an excitement like never before as the conductor punched our tickets and directed us to take a seat anywhere we liked in the first car, known as the common folks car. The sound of the idling engine was hardly deafening, but Grandma told me it would be much louder once we were underway.

I had a window seat and watched as people said their goodbyes. I noticed some men in uniforms, and I wondered if they were going to war or perhaps coming home. Then the whistle blew a mighty blast that startled both my  Grandma and me as our journey was about to begin. With the rhythm of the steel wheels keeping time, the mighty engine slowly gained speed as my world outside the window sped past like a moving picture show.

Granma offered me a sandwich, but I couldn't eat it with my heart beating so fast, so she smiled and said to save it for later. Just minutes had gone by since we left the station, and the whistle blew, sounding our arrival in ten minutes. Keep looking out the window, "she told me." I have a surprise for you. I couldn't imagine any surprise greater than the train ride, but then, as I looked out, I saw my whole family standing there, where I always stood, waiting for the Beeliner to speed past. They were holding a sign they made that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MIKE. I pressed my face to the glass, watching until they were out of sight.

We had a forty-five-minute wait until our return trip home, so we visited the mighty Niagara Falls and a sweets shop, where Grandma bought three large candy suckers to give to my sisters and one for me. We heard the whistle blow, so we went back to the train, where the same conductor asked for our tickets, smiling at us as he asked if we'd like to ride in the luxury car. Only a handful of people were going back, as their journeys were taking them to various destinations, leaving several seats open.

As we found two seats, all Grandma could keep saying was, 'Oh my, oh my.'With overstuffed seats and space enough between us to stretch our legs, it was all we could do to speak softly and thank our lucky stars.

My train ride that day has stayed with me all these years. Not long ago, the old train was taken out of service and replaced with a high-speed rail system that traveled at speeds up to one hundred miles per hour. What was once a one-hour ride to the Falls took the blink of an eye to arrive.

I take this train five times a week, and each time at a particular place, I still press my face on the glass, hoping to see my family waving at me as we sped past. And sometimes I picture Grandma and the good times we shared riding the rails together. Come to think of it, one of her sandwiches would taste good right about now.

Mike 2025                                               

Beasts from hell

 Tears ran down his face as the force of the first drop, and the screams of the passengers behind him pierced his ears. Each curve was a test of his stomach as breakfast began its journey up, but he fought back and won that time. The sound of brakes screeching and sparks flying from the steel wheels all came to an end at the last curve, slowly creaking to a halt, and the end of another ride on the beast from hell. Riders got off, some looking like they had cheated death, while the operators hurried to clean up the remnants of a few breakfasts. Others scrambled to the end of the line, waiting for another turn.

The line to get on was long, and the faces of the soon-to-be riders were filled with excitement as they pushed their way to the front car or the back, as each promised a whole different feeling. The safety bars were locked down, and the sound of the mechanical arm was released as the beast began another white knuckle ride on the coaster from hell.

When darkness fell and a million colored lights lit up the beast, the riders, some of whom were high on things other than the ride, were rudely brought back to reality as the first drop sent them headfirst into the colors and the promise of a lifetime experience. The music was too loud, drowning out the park's noises. A dozen different smells whipped past your nose, like cotton candy, hot dogs, waffle cakes, and candy apples, all bunched together as one traveling at lightning speed. Some Thrill seekers held their arms up high, braving the beast's deadly turns and dips, their butts rising off the seat as they defied gravity for the ultimate ride experience.

Those were the days, my friends, when fears were put to rest, and the anticipation of riding the bigger ride grew every summer when you were tall enough to take on the ultimate coaster. Only the bravest of the brave would defy death in what was called The Tornado. Its presence was everywhere you walked through the park, towering over the tallest rides, making them look like kiddie rides. Some say you could see it and hear its screams a mile away. There were no safety bars on the Tornado, but rather a cage that held four people completely enclosed, with safety harnesses for extra protection. The scariest part for me was the cages rotated up, down, and around while the ride maneuvered you at speeds that made even the strongest of stomachs wish they'd skipped those chili dogs.

Another summer at the thrill park has passed, and another memory has been made as we wait once more for the thrill of a lifetime and the beasts from hell.

Mike 2025

Growing up in Tonawanda

 The raging water passing under a railroad bridge was the one thing every kid with balls jumped into. There was a safety rope made with a length of ship rope someone found before I was even born. Its sole purpose wasn't to swing on the rope but to grab onto it and get you back on the bridge safely. Missing the rope could send you swimming for your life. You see, just a couple of miles downriver was Niagara Falls, and it was certain death. At any given time on a summer day, kids would gather there, a place commonly known as The Shoots. There would be shouts of encouragement to jump, and many kids backed away when they looked down at the swirling water, dark and very spooky. It wasn't unusual to see kids run off the bridge in terror.

It was a rite of passage that, when completed, gave you your fifteen minutes of fame and weeks of shoulder slapping from those ready to try their luck.

On July fourth, 1965, I stood at the edge of the bridge. Kids were shouting for me to jump, but all I could hear was the raging water below me and the unsettling feeling that I was going over the falls and not in a barrel. I was frozen to the bridge as several of my cousins and friends cheered me on, saying it was a piece of cake. So, with a last prayer, I jumped. I saw the rope just inches away, and with a lunge, I had a hold of it and got back on the bridge without being sent over the falls. I knew at that exact moment why nobody ever tried it twice.

Many years have passed, and on every visit home, I stop at the Shoots, where I see kids standing on the edge of the bridge, and I hope somebody has found another piece of rope.

Mike 2025                                                

Ninety something

 His eyes are growing weaker, and his grip is weakening. His steps were a little slower, and his voice was more like a whisper. He beat the odds and lived to be in his nineties. He couldn't remember the date anymore, but what did it matter anyway, as each day was a blessing, but to do what he wondered.

He buried his wife decades ago and suffered the loss of both his children, leaving him broken and never totally healed. He often asked himself what God had planned for him at this late stage in life, but no answers were ever revealed to him. Not yet, anyway.

He had one true friend who called him GGD, short for Great-great-Granddad. His name was William, after himself, which he always thought to be a good choice. Billy, as he called him, came calling every week, always with a bag of food and his favorite Tootsie Rolls. He told Billy he enjoyed them because it took a while without his dentures for one to dissolve in his mouth.

They would sit in silence for a spell, GGD enjoying the company as he unwrapped another Tootsie Roll, as Billy asked him to tell him something about his life he didn't already know. The old man paused from dissolving his candy and seemed to be someplace far from the front porch as he slowly began to speak.

Did you know I was a circus clown He asked. For reels, Billy asked. Yes, back before the circuses were filled with carnival rides, all they had was a tent with a hundred patches, where animals and performers thrilled small audiences with incredible feats of balance. But we weren't just clowns; we were the men who kept the performers safe when an animal got out of control. We ran right up to the beast and taunted them until they charged us all, making it look like part of the act. Once the danger had passed, the clowns threw tootsie rolls to the children, but I always had a good stash in my huge clown pockets for myself. True story, he whispered.

Billy always stayed until dark, sharing a meal before he made the long trip home on his bicycle. Hold on, he told Billy as he went inside and came out with a larger-than-average rubber horn, which he squeezed, letting out noise so loud that the birds in the trees flew away. This here is my clown horn, guaranteed to make a person jump out of their seats. Go ahead and strap it to your handlebars. If a stray dog or an armadillo gets in your way, give them a blast from this. I guarantee they will move out of your way.

As Billy got on his bicycle, he headed down the dirt road. The old man listened as his old circus horn blasted out warnings until it was out of sight and sound. He unwrapped another tootsie roll, letting it dissolve slowly in his mouth as he grinned the toothless grin of a man ninety-something.

Mike 2025                                                  

For my eyes only

 A small cottage on the edge of the forest is where I want to be..A place where the air is clean and the view is like no other, inspiring me to write the words I've chosen to be shared. There would be a bubbling brook to help me keep the rhythm flowing through my mind as I begin the making of a story.

There would be acres of wildflowers blowing back and forth to the music only they could hear, and the leaves of the trees would join them, some falling to the ground in a dramatic climax.

I can picture myself perched on the front porch, one leg on the floor and the other on the rail, with a pencil in my mouth chewed on like a dog's bone. Dressed in the clothes of that time, not to be fashionable but comfortable. Leather shoes and a button-down shirt, freshly ironed and creased trousers, all create in my mind what I'd look like if I were to become a character in my own story.

Perhaps I'm living a country life, a man with sandpaper hands and a deep love for the earth, or a woodsman who harvests trees. Maybe a maple syrup farmer who tapped the trees and brought great pleasure to those having pancakes for breakfast.

However, I choose to live alone, as past experiences have shown me that no two people will get along forever, and if they do, then they deserve a chapter or two before I bid them a forever farewell.

I would cherish my time in the small cottage, welcoming the changes of the seasons and all they bring to the cravings of my mind that call upon me to write. Even the smell of the cottage, with its wooden walls and drafty floorboards, would soothe me as I write from the soft glow of a lantern hissing just beside me.

There were no expectations of a best-selling book, not even a hope that it would be read. It was a story I'll take with me as I venture down the mountain, happy and proud that I was still able to chew on a pencil and create a story, if only for my own eyes.

Mike 2025