Cycle of a leaf

 I'm sitting on the porch, sipping apple cider and watching autumn-colored leaves float to the ground in a kind of dance, with an encore performance repeated every year. I watch as they twirl and float with no particular rhyme or reason, just a leaf in flight ending with a soft landing on the ground from which its mother tree stands, letting go of her children as all mothers must do. Soon the tree, with bare branches, will go to sleep, knowing springtime will awaken them with tiny buds she must nourish until they too float away on their own as the cycle repeats itself, and I witness the performance from my porch, sipping apple cider.

Mike  2026                                                    

Monster hill

 A gentle snowfall blankets the ground as you sleep. As you wake up, your eyes are blinded as you look outside at a blank slate ready to entertain children of all ages. You pull on layers of clothing, skipping the buttons moms fasten right before sending you out into the crisp air and virgin snow. Garage doors open as sleds and saucers are pulled from months of disuse and hauled to the hills to be challenged again. You arrive as other kids join in the run to be first down the hill as the smaller kids give way to teenagers on a mission. It's an unwritten law that the smaller hill belongs to the little kids, and anyone older will be warned to stay away. For the little ones, the smaller hill is challenging enough: they make it to the top, sit on their sleds, and push off, gaining speed as they go. They jump for joy, yelling to the older siblings about their success, but the older kids have had only one thing on their minds: to be flying down the untouched snow.

The day wore on, and countless runs striped the hills as blades and runners rained on the once-snowy surface, now just a mix of dirt and snow. Soon the kids left the hills and pulled their sleds to the next hill their parents forbade them to go to, but they knew darn well they would anyway. It was known as the monster hill, and for good reason, as you could see it in the distance, reaching into the clouds, or so it seemed. The little kids could only watch; that was fine by them, as fear gripped them at the thought of sledding down at breakneck speeds. Up on top of the giant hill, a few teenagers sat on their sleds, looking down at the little kids who seemed no bigger than a swarm of ants. Then one by one they shoved off and began the death-defying plunge down the hill. The cold turned their eyebrows to ice, and their heartbeats were almost audible as they passed the little kids cheering them on. Then the unthinkable happened: one of the teens lost control and fell off his sled, tumbling down the hill at breakneck speed, and stopped when he rolled into the field, where bushes softened the landing. It became very quiet as everyone waited to see if he was dead, but he got up and waved, saying he was okay and ready to go again.
Years later, when I visited home, I prayed for a good snowfall, and my prayers were answered: on my first night home, a massive storm blew in, covering everything with the blanket needed to challenge the monster hill. My wife said I was crazy, and my kids begged to go but settled for the little hill. I got my old sled from the garage and began the long walk, each step a chance to turn back. I reached the top and sat on my sled as a couple of teens laughed at the older man who just signed his own death certificate. Then, with one little push, I was gaining speed until I felt my cheeks fluttering and my eyelids icing up to the point of blindness, but I wouldn't abort and kept going, speeding past the teens to the bottom where I was greeted by my wife and kids, happy to see me in one piece. The teens came up to me, all saying one word: respect. My kids thought of me as their hero, and my wife said she'd file for divorce if I ever did that again. I never did go down the hill again, but I watched as kids, including my own, faced the challenge of Monster Hill that only those who've experienced it could live to tell.

                                                                               

Mike  2026
Mike  2026

The smells of autumn

 I lay on the cool autumn grass looking up at the cloud animals that entertained me for a few brief moments. I watched two colorful maple leaves drift by, wondering whether they would land on my face; the autumn air smelled musty, like the old corn stalks lying in the harvested fields. I could also smell woodsmoke from piles of burning leaves, their smoke filling the neighborhood and rising into the sky, on its way to who knows where. Maybe a mom hanging her laundry caught a whiff as the passing smell moved on.

Autumn is like a tease, warning us that all that beauty is short-lived and preparing us for what waits down the road. But for now I'll look the fool as I smell everything autumn gives me: pumpkins and gourds, damp leaves, and tilled soil. I'll smell the trees and the last time the lawn is mowed.
I love the smells of a roadside stand where every scent blends to create a five-star dinner: fresh-baked pumpkin and pecan pies selling out quickly to a few lucky city folks who stopped in on a Sunday drive. As sunset draws near and the last of the harvest is gone, the smells grow faint, and soon the smells of winter will let themselves be known. In the meantime, I stand still, looking up at the last of the fallen leaves as one brushes my face on its way to the ground, and all is well.

Mike 2026                                                        

 As a storyteller, I write mostly from thousands of memories I call untapped resources, then sprinkle in some fiction to enhance the reading experience. Let's say I'm writing a story of my childhood where we searched for the elusive giant pumpkin. That part was easy to write, since it truly happened

. But it doesn't make for a very good read. So first I'll tell you what led up to looking for pumpkins: conversations with the family about which patches offered the biggest inventory, and then we jumped in the station wagon with a picnic lunch Mom made for the day trip into the country. Next, I'd probably dedicate some words to describing the pumpkins my siblings chose and the corn stalks Mom wanted for decoration. I'd include Dad loading a bushel of just-picked apples that Mom would make pies and cinnamon applesauce from, and a jug of apple cider us kids could drink until it became an adult drink only. I'd go on to explain how we'd draw faces on our pumpkins that Dad would carve with a large kitchen knife, and Mom would stand by to dress a wound Dad said was okay. I'd tell of trick-or-treats at neighbors' houses, dressed in costumes Mom made, some of which took a whole year to complete. This whole story began with the first few sentences I wrote, then I sat back and let my imagination run wild.

Every one of my thousand-plus stories began with a thought or memory I unlocked; then I let them grow, and I didn't finish them until I read them and either threw them in the trash bucket or tuned them up the way I saw fit. That makes you, the reader, long for more. I purposely keep each very short story to a maximum of three paragraphs, with some a tad longer if I felt it needed more to create a moment in time you may have forgotten but can now experience once again with a smile and anticipation for the next story, just waiting for you to remember something the story told that reminded you of years gone by.

My work is more than a short story with a beginning and an end; my very short stories send you back to some of your greatest memories, pulling you from your surroundings and leaving you wanting more. I call them one-cup-of-coffee reads, meaning that by the time you finish that cup, you can read several very short stories I guarantee will start your day with a smile.

If you'd like to see over one thousand of my stories, visit my blog: mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com. My plan is to publish my thousand-plus stories, then begin with a clean slate for volume number two. It took me eight years to complete volume one so dont be in a hurry to read volume two. Thanks for all the wonderful comments I've received, as they inspire me to keep going.

Mike  2026

Three months of a farmer

 It's that first morning with frost on the fields, and you're thankful you got the harvest in on time. Scattered pumpkins no one wanted lie there and go back into the ground as nature intended, while remnants of corn stalks litter the fields.

The apple trees are bare, but they've provided bushels of fruit that will be the stars of the table, including applesauce, pies, and cobblers. School lunch bags and one for the teacher, a sweet delight.
Time to give thanks for family and friends who share your table, filled with nature's bounty, as children shout for a drumstick. An afternoon football game and a turkey sandwich end the day as the last of the embers glow in the fireplace and kids say their prayers.
December says hello with an early snowfall as the roadside stand of Christmas trees comes alive with fresh paint and colored lights. This is the first year your son is old enough to cut trees with the chainsaw, under close supervision from Dad. Trees of all sizes are cut and stood up as city folks stop and hunt for the perfect tree. Christmas Eve, with all but a couple of trees left, the stand closes, and you join your family to decorate your tree, a balsam fir the kids agreed on.
Three months of hard work pass quickly as you wait for the springtime thaw and the beginning of another cycle of planting, tending, and harvesting. This is your way of life, filled with the good and the bad as Mother Nature decides your fate. Prayers are said at every mass or service for a bountiful harvest, but you realize not every prayer will be answered—broken machinery that costs too much to repair, bad seeds that will never grow. Invasions of bugs stopped, but at a cost. All part of being a farmer: doing what he loves with the people he loves, in a place he will never leave.

Mike 2026                                                           

Mike  2026

The last picture

 There are good things about growing older; the best thing is growing older and waking in the morning to the smell of coffee your late wife made every morning, which you now prepare before going to bed on a timer and waking up with a smile, thinking about her before you even wipe the sleep from your eyes. Growing older means having time to browse through old school photo albums and seeing those faces you loved so very much. Time passes so quickly you dare not blink as children become adults with their own babies, and those who've passed on are now just shadows in a yellow-stained picture of your past.

Growing older makes you pause as you contemplate doing something you probably shouldn't, like riding your bicycle in the rain or sledding down a winter hill, as grandkids cheer you on and your child hides the view with her hands over her eyes. Those kinds of things are designed for much younger people; at least that's what you're led to believe as you shut out everything around you and become a kid again, probably for the last time.
I remember hearing a song by Tobi Keith titled Don't Let the Old Man In. That rang true for what I believed as I looked at my weathered face in the mirror, trying to convince myself it wasn't me, even though I knew it was. Staring back at me as each wrinkle told a story of my past, some I'd rather forget while others I accepted as my life journey with no regrets. Growing older and remembering the important parts of your life takes you back to the old photo albums time and again to look deeply into the faces that fulfilled your life and the memories you know will one day fade away.
Your children and grandchildren will browse through those books, laughing with love, seeing you racing down that snow-covered hill with a smile as big as life itself, and the last picture of you riding your bicycle on a rainy day, arms stretched out and looking to the heavens. Growing older is a series of should-I-or-shouldn't-I moments, and you lean toward the should-I, craving one last crazy hurrah for your picture book.                                                

Mike 2026

Winters fury and then some

 He woke to a chill in the air, a sign that autumn was nudging out summer's blistering heat. He took a breath and smelled the earth again as summer said goodbye for a long winter's nap. Soon the leaves would turn colors of burnt orange and crimson as they floated to the ground, leaving naked branches behind. The sound of rakes piling leaves into mounds beckoned children to jump and disappear into the darkness of autumn fun. The smell of burning leaves filled the air, and the last of summer's cookouts could be heard as burgers and dogs sizzled on grills for the last time this year.

Neighbors gathered at a picnic table, pulling on sweaters they'd brought along and watching the sunset sink into the sky as the first cold air settled beside them. The elders were covered in blankets to keep them warm and refused to go inside, claiming they felt invigorated by the crisp air. They used fire pits for the first time in a while, and kids made s'mores with a little guidance from moms and dads. Each moment was captured and remembered as autumn disappeared into the darkness of night and was replaced with a blanket of white that covered everything and left behind paper plates filled with scraps of burgers and dogs quickly gathered by the small creatures of the night to be added to their gatherings needed to sustain them during the frigid months of winter's fury.
He woke covered in a quilt his wife made for him, so warm and cozy he didn't want to get up. Still, the brightness of the morning seemed brighter than usual, so he got up wrapped in the quilt and went to the window of his upstairs bedroom, and his words wouldn't form- just a muttering of sorts as he looked out, seeing nothing but snow that covered everything as far as he could see. He reached for his sunglasses to dull the glare and saw only the tips of telephone poles with drifts over two stories tall. He knew there were cars parked on the streets, but none were visible, buried beneath the mountains of winter's first attack. Still in shock, he heard the kids' laughter as a no-school-today message blared on the radio, but they wouldn't be going outside until they cleared fallen trees and downed power lines.
Drifts covered the windows, and with no power, the house seemed like a prison, dark and cold. He built a fire in the fireplace, burning through wood as fast as it went, fearing they'd run out altogether. They agreed they'd burn furniture if need be, as the kids pleaded with them not to burn their wooden bunk beds. One day became two, and then three, as hope dwindled, but on day four the sounds of work trucks and snow removal vehicles slowly made their way across town, clearing the roads and leaving behind giant piles of snow at the foot of driveways for homeowners to clear one shovel at a time.  Day five arrived, and things leaned towards recovery, but not soon enough, as cabinets once filled were now empty and the only things in the fridge were almost empty ketchup bottles and a jar of sweet pickles with two that escaped hungry hands.
Dad and his sons worked to clear the drifts and eventually claimed victory, turning to the car buried in the street. A few good neighbors lent a hand pushing him out to the screams of victory. The main streets were OK to drive on now that the dangers were gone. The family jumped in as Dad headed for the grocery store only to find that many had been there before them. Mom gathered what she could but realized it would only last a couple of days. But on the 6th day, another radio announcement told people the National Guard was setting up drop zones where trucks full of food and water were available to everyone in need. By day 10, temperatures were rising and melting large quantities of snow, allowing crews to plow the streets so work could be finished and traffic could get back on track. On day 11, school opened again, a blessing for moms who had run out of games to play and stories to tell. Dads went back to work, and grocery stores were full again. No one would ever forget that early winter storm, but they made the best of it by sliding down gigantic snow piles and building snow forts that sometimes spanned a hundred feet. I guess autumn couldn't wait to be over, but did she have to drop in like an atomic bomb? Will we see it happen again? I guess we will have to wait to see.

Mike  2026                                                                

Mike  2026