Laughter and tears

 I feel her presence almost daily. I see her smile and hear her endless bouts of laughter. I picture how she must look as I fight time and wonder if she will look the same as I remember. My memories have brought me back to forgotten times and places we once shared when we were young and so much in love. And for that I'm grateful.

I feel her presence when a soft wind blows, and her perfume fills the moment, if only briefly. I feel her with me as I say goodnight to an empty space beside me, and I shed tears until sleep eventually comes.
I feel her presence in simple things like a monarch butterfly resting on a branch of the tree I planted for her on her 30th birthday. Or a songbird singing a song when she hushed me so she didn't miss a note. She would clap at the end of its song, laughing that laugh I grew to love and cherish.
I feel her presence everywhere I look, every place we ever went, and every second spent with her for the time we had together. There is such a thing as falling in love at first sight because we did just that. Two hearts beating as one until two became one, along with the memories of laughter and tears.

Mike 2026                                                      

A fisherman's story

 His wife said he was possessed by the fishing bug. Not a day went by since he retired to the lake house they built decades ago that he didn't shove off in his small boat right at sunrise with rods and reels, a cooler, and a favorite cigar. He valued the silence on the lake and therefore didn't have a motor, just oars to move him around to a few choice spots where catching fish was guaranteed. He seldom kept what he caught, throwing them back to grow larger and give him a better fight should they meet again.

The years passed, and he kept fishing, catching his fair share of lake trout and other species, all of which were put back to grow. Occasionally hed see another boat on the lake, usually on weekends when the weekend warriors drank beer and talked loud enough to scare any fish for miles. They would get close enough to him and hold up stringers of dead or dying fish, a few barely legal in size.

He would pull up his anchor and row away as quickly as he could, as the sight of them made him sick to his stomach. He knew they wouldn't eat what they caught, as it was all about bragging rights to them, and he bet that when they called it a day, they tied up at the dock and threw the fish away.

 He had an idea he shared with his wife, who agreed it would be a valuable and expensive lesson for the weekend warriors. He had a good friend who worked for Fish and Game, and he told him about the weekend fish slayers and that he thought they needed a quick lesson in fishing etiquette. The warden hid around a bend until he saw firsthand how they treated their catches, like letting them roll around the deck of the boat until they died from lack of oxygen. Or how one guy put a lit cigarette into a fish's mouth and watched as it looked like the fish was smoking. He had had enough and hit the blue lights as he sped towards the weekend warriors.

He tied off to the boat and pulled out his violations book, asking for ID from everyone. " What's wrong?" one guy asked. "All we're doing is having some fun."Yeah, me to the warden replied and began writing tickets. Seeing as how all four of you violated the law, I'm going to give each of you the same fine. He handed each of them a ticket with a two-thousand-dollar fine.

What happens next he asked his friend. Well, they will have an interesting ride home trying to explain to their wives how their bank accounts are two thousand dollars less. But is what you did legal, charging them so much? Oh, I'll wait a few days and resend the tickets, giving them some time to realize not abiding by the law can be costly. I'll drop the fines to one hundred each, but one thing I'm fairly certain of, you won't be seeing them on the lake for a while. And you can go on fishing in peace and quiet.

About two months later, as he was sitting in his boat, a line out and his favorite cigar nearing the end, he felt his line grow taut, and he grabbed his rod and began what would later be told over breakfast tables across the county, the biggest fight of his life was on. He fought the giant for an hour, his small boat being pulled right alongside it, until finally it wore itself down, allowing him to net the biggest lake trout that had ever been caught in the lake. He carefully removed the hook, and with a few rubs on its belly, the giant swam away to be caught another day.

Mike 2026                                                              

A tale of the sea

 The sea was rough, violent at times, like a fisherman's bobber when getting a big hit. The swells grew to great heights as the captain fought to keep her upright, knowing that at any time a rogue wave could appear out of nowhere and send the ship to Davy Jones' Locker.

Down below, the crew latched themselves to anything to keep from being tossed around like rag dolls as cargo shifted, posing a great danger to life and limb. The smell of vomit and the cries of the youngest shipmates echoed against the wind that passed through the wooden vessel.
On deck, the giant sails lay scattered and torn, the masts bending with every powerful gust of Neptune's fury. The captain and first mate, blinded by the salt spray, tied themselves to the helm every second, a challenge to stay afloat.
Minutes seemed like hours and hours like days as the crippled ship beat the odds and survived the journey. A new day arrived with calming seas and gentle winds, and the tasks of repairing what they could with what little they had. Portholes were opened, letting the fresh air in, and decks were scrubbed by the youngest of sailors who now knew the meaning of sea sickness.
The ship made port on the seventh day after the storm. Battered but not beaten, and sailors long to feel the ground beneath their feet. Weeks passed, and the ship was repaired and ready to sail once again as supplies were brought on board and a few new sailors replaced the lads whose stomachs couldn't take another round of Mother Nature.
Back at sea, the captain leaned against a rail, smoking his pipe, looking at the calm seas and guiding stars, wondering what this journey would bring. But that wasn't of concern as he knew he and his crew would face anything the gods of the seas threw at them. They were sailors, and sailors would accept nothing less than to be buried at sea should their ship succumb to nature's fury.

One month passed, and one more storm was approaching. Another Nor'easter, more powerful than their last encounter with an angry sea. The captain kept his composure as he shouted commands to the deckhands, some with fear in their eyes, and to other old salts, who sang seafaring songs to ease the fear of the unknown.
It was a rogue wave that beat them. The wooden ship was battered by forces that couldn't be beaten as masts snapped and tons of crushing sea came down upon them with a vengeance. All that remained of the ship were splinters of wood bobbing up and down like that fisherman's bobber. Screams of drowning sailors turned to silence as one by one they found themselves in Davy Jones ' locker, where they remain to this day.
Some say the ship can be seen in all its glory sailing the sea, its captain leaning against a rail, smoking his pipe, as sailors line the deck, singing sea-faring songs. Probably just another tale of the sea, but who's to say?                                                                 

Mike 2026

Old truck new life

 He didn't look up from the task at hand. He had to finish fixing the truck he uses every day around the farm. Mom said he should replace it with something newer, but he argued that his old truck only needed some TLC once in a while, usually sooner rather than later. Today it was the starter, so yesterday he hitched a ride into town, where the auto zone came up with a replacement starter. The kid behind the counter was blowing the dust off the box and laughing when he whispered to him that, from now on, he'd have to special-order any more parts for his old truck.

As he left the store, he saw a couple of his old buddies lingering around the store. It seemed to have become a meeting place to swap stories about their farms, equipment, and the rising prices. He stopped to chat for a minute, but needed to get the truck running again, so he said goodbye and left.
His son, who just turned eleven, was waiting for him as he got home. It seemed he told him he could help fix the truck, which he had forgotten, but it was okay, as he valued the time they spent together. The boy was learning about the various tools and their uses, and he soon became very well-versed in every tool in the toolbox. The garage became like a surgery room as tools were requested and quickly handed to dad, never once giving him the wrong tool." Fire it up," his dad said as the kid slid into the truck and turned the key, to the sound of a healed victim of age.
Five years passed, and the kid got his driver's license and also inherited the old truck he knew inside out. Some of the kids pointed and laughed as he pulled into the parking lot, asking whether the scrapyard had reported it missing. He didn't respond, but little did they know he had saved enough money from his chores to send it off to the body shop for a complete makeover. New sheet metal and body filler were used, along with primer, and everything was sanded by hand until it was as smooth as a baby's rear end. He had chosen a dark cherry-red color with a black leather interior. A set of deep-dish chrome wheels finished it off, and it was ready to show to his family and friends.
Dad was more excited than anyone else as he walked around the old truck, rubbing its glossy shine and acting like a kid at Christmas. That can't be the same truck, he said as he climbed in and marveled at the chrome instruments and the soft leather seating. The cherry on the cupcake was an antique license tag that only vehicles over twenty years old could display.
On Monday morning, as he pulled into the school parking lot, kids turned towards a rumbling sound some knew as dual exhaust with cherry-bomb mufflers. Some ran towards it in awe at what they were seeing, as he parked and took out a soft towel to rub away any handprints. Even the principal and a few teachers came over to have a look at the beautiful truck, the one he had been asked about, to see if the scrap yard was missing a truck.
His truck rode in the town's parades as well as custom cars and trucks events around the county. He took home his fair share of trophies, and when he went off to college, he wrapped it in a tarp and stored it in the barn. Four years passed, and with a diploma in hand, he returned home and uncovered his truck. His dad helped him change oil and put the tires back on while his little brother softly wiped every inch of it with a soft cloth. The three of them hopped in and headed for town, where people shouted hello with thumbs up and whistles.
He kept that truck to someday give to his son, but that was years away, and he couldn't take it to his new job five hundred miles away, so he put the tarp back on and stored it once again in dads barn where its been said he would start it up sometimes listening to the rumble of the cherry bomb mufflers and the smell of leather. He smiled as he saw a picture of himself and his eldest son standing next to a rusted, almost always broken truck, paperclipped to the visor.

Mike 2026                                                            

Over 1160 very short stories

 Over 1160 very short stories

THAT NUMBER GROWS EVERY DAY.
Are you a lover of stories who is always looking for something to take you away from reality, but the stories are sometimes too long to read in a single sitting? I believe I have that answer.
Over the past years, I have tapped into my creative side and written over 1,000  very short stories on my blog, mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com. Unlike most, which have dozens of paragraphs, mine contain only a few that cover many different life memories from days past.
Go back in time and relive the memories, the friendships, love, and sorrow. and many more topics. Discover times in your life that you've forgotten but can now bring back through my very short stories. With so many different topics, I believe everyone will find something that takes them back in time and evokes memories of long-forgotten people, places, and times we thought were lost forever.
Take a minute to visit my blogs and see why so many readers have chosen my very short stories over lengthy ones. When, after reading a few paragraphs, your memories kick in and leave you wanting to read more.
Thank you to all of you who have commented on my work, telling me how, after reading certain stories, you traveled back in time, reliving times in your life you thought were gone forever. Please leave me your comments, as each story I've written was written with you in mind.

Mike 2026  mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com 

The long road

 I sat on the front porch of the house my great-grandad built over 100 years ago. As a kid, I had to leave the house an hour before the bus arrived because the dirt road to the stop was over a mile from the house. I often wondered why there was so much distance from the house to the county road, and my dad told me that Granddad wasn't very fond of people in general, so he built the house as far back as his property would allow.

On either side of the long road were row upon row of corn that my dad said were grown during the Great War to feed the troops, and to this day still produce corn for worldwide hunger programs. Granddad may not have cared for people, but he cared for his country.

When I sit in silence on the porch, I do hear nature like the songs of birds and croaks of frogs. I hear the cows mooing and chickens cackling, and my dog barking at the wind. Unlike today, when granddad tilled the earth, he used mules and manpower, quite a lot of manpower,  and the only sounds were him giving commands to the mules and the occasional curse words when they didn't listen to him.
Today, I spend hours on a tractor or combine, noisy machines that would have granddad rolling over in his grave and covering his ears. But when my day is done, and the machines go silent, the peaceful moments return to me, sitting on the porch granddad built, and I understand why that road is so long.

Mike 2026                                                             

                                               

A lifestyle

 He was shy as a boy, tall and lanky with a heart of gold, his mom would say. His dad was strict but fair and always had the last word. His hair was cut by a barber, not a stylist, and his clothes were only replaced when a growth spurt seemed to happen overnight. His Mom would buy him blue jeans that had plenty of room to be rolled down as he grew. Little did she know that rolled-up jeans were all the rage. He remembered the day he went into school wearing what was called a Dickey. He saw it in a magazine and thought how cool it would be to be the first one in school to have one, but that wasn't the case. Dozens of boys began wearing them in all kinds of colors. Just another fad that diminished over time.

Time passed, and the lifestyle changed in many ways, including the rise of bell-bottom jeans and fringed shirts. Tye dyed everything, and peace signs were everywhere you looked. Book covers were plastered with stickers, and long hair for boys and girls was seen on almost everybody. His Dad strongly opposed the hair, but somehow Mom convinced him to let it go, saying he'd outgrown that fad, too. Eventually, it did pass as I was sworn into the Navy after high school and stood in line as ten Navy barbers made quick work shaving my head so short I looked like Mr. Clean.
More time passed, and I was discharged from the Navy, returning home to decide what was next for me. It was 1974, and the hippy lifestyle was still very much alive, something I had wanted to experience since getting a taste of it before my enlistment. With money I had saved in the Navy, I bought a van and tricked it out with a bed and a small fridge. It had a black light, posters everywhere, and a sound system that shook the windows. That first year, I traveled to places I had read about but never seen, like the mountains of Montana, with stars so bright you could read from their brightness.
I'd come upon others like myself in clusters, often joining them around a campfire where guitars filled the night air with song and joints were passed around until daylight broke through the darkness, and most were fast asleep until being woken by someone yelling the cops were coming up the mountain. It was a mad dash to gather your belongings and hit the road as quickly as possible. On one such occasion, I wasn't fast enough and was blocked in by the police and arrested for having weed in my van. They laughed among themselves at the ways we dressed and our long, sometimes braided hair done by a stranger around the campfire. And I didn't do myself any favors by calling them pigs and other choice names. I spent three days in jail and was released after the judge said it was my one and only time, and that he better not ever see me in his courtroom again. I was escorted to the county line by the oinkers and headed down the road to my next stop.
1977 and still on the road. I passed through dozens of small towns where the lifestyle remained a part of the culture, meeting many new friends along the way. I met a girl hitching and picked her up, asking where she was headed. She said her grandma had passed away and left he a cottage in the woods where she planned on living the simple life. I told her I'd love to see her cottage and offered to take her the five hundred miles to get there. We took our time, stopping along the road at places worth seeing, like giant waterfalls and redwood trees. Occasionally, other free spirits who lived in small towns and villages were more than happy to share a meal or a song.
We arrived at the cottage, set on several acres with woods and a small pond, and the peace and quiet we both loved so much. It needed some tlc but I was handy and offered to stay for a while and help her get the place in order. A while turned out to be six months, with a special closeness our hearts felt for one another. I took on carpentry work, and she sold herbs and spices to tourists passing through town. We were happy, and in time, we had a child we named Arrow. When we were target shooting with a bow and arrow, she went into labor, and we delivered baby Arrow in the bathtub, where the warm water soothed both him and his mom.
Many years passed, and the three of us made a good life together. We held on to our free-spirited way of doing things and taught our son the ways of the land and all who inhabited it. The old van finally pooped out and now serves as a modified chicken coupe, providing us with many eggs that we sometimes sell in town or trade for rock candy. I believe I speak for all of us when I say that happiness is a daily emotion we never take for granted. Love is forever, and freedom of choice is so much more than a lifestyle; it's who you are, and that's what's important.

Mike  2026