A tender age

 He was a boy of tender age, where the smallest of things intrigued him. Floating a paper boat down the street after a heavy rain. Or watching a flock of birds head south for the winter. Every day brought with it something new he'd never seen before, and others of later years took for granted. Footprints in the snow, the warmth of a campfire, and so many stars that made him smile.

He was a boy of tender age who still wanted his mom when he scraped his knee, crying until she kissed away the pain. He learned about numbers and animals from schoolbooks and wanted to be in the circus when he grew up, which always made him smile. Or maybe join the Navy as his older brother did. He missed him especially when he had a bad dream and crawled into bed with him, but now there's just an emptiness.
He was a boy of tender age who wanted to be just like his dad, a superhero who knew so many things. He learned to fix a car, mow the lawn, and repair things around the house until they couldn't be fixed anymore, then he'd buy a new whatever it was. He wore the same kind of ball cap as his dad and carried a red bandana in his back pocket. He rolled a box of candy cigarettes in his t-shirt sleeve, as his dad did with a pack of Lucky Strikes, which made him smile.
He was a boy of tender age when time sped up, and the world grew complex, with many questions asked and many left unanswered. But that young boy remained tender in the hearts of those who knew him, and his dreams sometimes did come true. He joined the circus and made people laugh in towns and cities around the world. He was a man of tender age, with a red rubber nose, floppy shoes, and a smile without paint.

Mike 2026                                                            

Sanctuary

 There was an entire house filled with love and laughter at one time. Plenty of room for kids to run around and play, the sound of their joy faded somewhere in the distant past. Now he sits in a small room, once a bedroom, with no bed, replaced with a desk and chair, and memories hung on the walls for him to stare at, taking him back to times he cherished.

Candles placed around the room gave him a sense of peace as the flames danced in the breeze from a fan that could snuff them out at any time. This room was his sanctuary, where he could write his stories that mostly went unread, but being read didn't matter to him. He wrote because he loved the words that turned into sentences that may or may not become a book.
When he was deep into telling a story, the old house grew silent, no faucets dripping or a boiler that could explode. No creaky floorboards or a house mouse scurrying along the baseboards. It was as if his room was the heart of the house, and the memories he recalled were veins pumping words into every room, every hallway, and every sound of life that he longed for one more time.
As one story ended and another was just a thought away, he let the candles blow out, leaving him in the darkness with only a sliver of light from a crescent moon. He leaned back in his chair, falling into a dream state of sleep that didn't come quickly until the words he sought crept into his head, where a new story was being born.

Mike 2026                                                      

May I cut in?

 Her head rests on his shoulder as the band plays what would become their song. He holds her waist close, feeling her heartbeat in unison with his own as both hope the dance will last forever.

He was a sailor far from home the day he first laid eyes on her. It was at a USO dance where the men outnumbered the ladies twenty to one. And the best way to get a dance was to cut in with a tap on the shoulder of another lonely sailor. He almost felt bad for the girls as each song played, and dozens of men tapped away to be next in line.
He saw her being swallowed up, and he made his way to her with a cup of punch, putting a smile on her face as she pulled away from the crowded floor and accepted the cup. He took her hand and led her to a table away from the swooping buzzards as she wiped her brow and caught her breath. He tried not to stare at her, but her beauty was something he couldn't look away from as she smiled at him and asked if he'd like a dance.
He ignored the taps on his shoulder, and she didn't seem to mind as song after song played and they held each other close. The smell of her perfume, the cherry-red lipstick she wore, and the softness of her hand in his was like a fairy tale come to life as the night wore on. But like most good things that come to an end, so did the dance. He walked her to a taxi with a couple of her friends, saying goodnight to the sailors they had met and danced the night away.
He was just a kid at 18 years and had never kissed a girl except for Mary, his first crush in grade school. What would it be like, he wondered, to taste her cherry lips. Then, no sooner had he finished that thought than he felt her warm lips on his as she kissed him, and his knees grew weak, feeling something that needed no explanation. She said she'd write to him if he wanted her to, and he wrote the address of the fleet post office, with his name, on a scrap of paper lying on the ground. She reached out of the window of the taxi and snatched the paper from his hand as he watched her drive away, looking through the rear window until she was gone in the darkness.
She did write to him often, but it took weeks, even months, for the mail to reach him. When mail arrived, he'd crawl into his rack and read a dozen letters, each one a gift he'd always cherish. She told him about her life, and where it was heading, and hoped somewhere in their travels they could meet up again. Over time, the letters still came, but not as many as there once were. And then they stopped. He wrote to her asking why but never got a reply. With a heavy heart, he tried to forget her, but he didn't know how to forget someone who made him feel as he'd never felt before.
Two years later, his ship pulled into Paris. The city of love, with sidewalk cafes where proposals of marriage were made, and screams of soon-to-be brides filled the night air. As he walked the streets, he came upon a dance club with a marquee welcoming in the troops for a little bit of home. He went inside, greeted by songs he remembered dancing to with her, and his heart twitched a little for a second as his eyes scanned the room, hoping for a miracle that he knew was just wishful thinking. Soon, he was on the floor dancing with several ladies, and, without warning, he saw a lady tap his dance partner on the shoulder. She reached for his hand and placed it around her waist, pulling him closer as she lifted her head, looked him in the eyes, and then softly kissed him with ruby-red lips.
It didn't mean anything to either of them that they let time come between them, as they had this moment on to dance until they were too old to dance, to kiss ruby-red lips and feel the real meaning of falling in love, knowing true love to them will always be a dance with no taps on the shoulder.

Mike 2026                                                      

Mr. Sam the harmonica man

As a boy, I remember riding in the 1959 Chevy wagon to the barbershop where men from town gathered to gossip, even though they called it "town business. "Along the way, we passed empty factories that had once been booming with jobs for those who wanted them. Dad said the war claimed many men, and their wives took their place in factories making fighter jets and other military hardware. But once the war was over, things just changed. That's all he said in a whisper. Things just change.

Up ahead was the old train depot, once alive with people waiting for the train that linked the city with small whistle stops, but now weeds grow between the tracks, and the tap-tap of the telegraph office is silent, replaced with telephones. I strained my eyes looking for Mr. Sam, the harmonica man who Dad told me is one of the last veterans alive from the big war. Some say that a long time ago, he waited at the depot for his soon-to-be wife, who was a mail-order bride. Dad said it was common in those days, as women from Europe who lost their husbands sought out a new life in America.
Mr. Sam came to the old depot every day for years, playing his harmonica and singing the blues. At the barber shop, some said he had lost his mind, but he was just a harmless, lonely old man, wishing on a star that his bride-to-be would show up on the platform, her suitcase in hand. Town folks would toss loose change into his upturned hat, which he always received with a smile.
He passed away a couple of years later when I was 17 years of age, and it was I who came upon his lifeless body tucked away in a corner, his hat upturned and his harmonica in his hand. The town gave him a veteran's burial, and I suggested his hat and harmonica be put in the historical museum along with his story. I visit that museum whenever I'm in town, looking at the displays of fallen soldiers and brave men and women who had an impact on the small town. But I spend most of my time in front of a glass case displaying two items from Mr. Sam, the harmonica man. a turned-up hat, and his harmonica, and I can still close my eyes and hear him play the lonely blues from his heart, a reminder to his mail-order bride that he will be waiting on the platform until it's just dust beneath his feet, and the blues go silent.

Mike 2026                                                               

Burned wood and ashes

 Sitting in a bombed-out cafe in France, he was surrounded by nothing but ashes and memories. He found a single table and chair that survived somehow, where all the others lay scattered and burnt, never to be sat at again. He came back to that place, hoping by some miracle she would come and find him, but he sat alone until the darkness set in with only his memories of a sunny Saturday afternoon waiting as he said he would.

He was just eighteen, and she was sixteen. He had bumped into her, knocking the bouquet she carried to the ground, and quickly gathered it up and handed it to her. Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and she smiled a girlish smile that melted his heart. He tried to speak to her, but his words seemed frozen as she pointed to a cafe and, in broken English, told him they could meet there next Saturday for coffee. He nodded his head and smiled, pointing to the cafe.
Two days until Saturday, and the bombs dropped, destroying almost everything in the village, including the cafe where they were going to meet. And although he knew she wouldn't come, he held onto hope and the belief they were meant to be. He had just a couple of memories of her innocence, her beauty, and the effect she had on his heart. And he cherished each one, knowing those memories would be burned into his head with every passing day. He picked up a menu with chard corners and wrote her a note, which he left tacked to a board, hoping she might find it and find him.
He was 23, and she was 21 when he received a letter from France postmarked from the small village where their eyes met, and his words froze. The letter read, "I hope this finds you well, and you know how hard I looked for you." When the bombs fell, my family escaped just in time as we hid underground until the soldiers went away. I ran to the cafe but found only ashes and smoldering wood, and my heart sank until, years later, the cafe and other buildings were rebuilt with help from the villagers, including myself. It was then, in a brief moment, that I was compelled to turn over a board and found your note.
She went on to say how much it would mean to her if we could meet at the same cafe two Saturdays from now, and that he would recognize her by the bouquet of flowers on the table. The letter was signed, Victoria. He made the journey to France, amazed by the village's rebuilding, including the quaint cafe with outdoor seating, where he saw her with a bouquet on the table as she nervously looked in all directions. He walked over to her table, standing in silence as their eyes met for the second time in five years.
Theres was a happy ending, married for fifty-two years. They lived in America but often traveled to France, where they'd find a table at the old cafe, where time stood still, and a hint of burned wood and ashes a reminder that they were meant to be.

Mike 2026                                                     

Just another number

 One day, you awake and realize you don't have to wake up to an obnoxious alarm, a real alarm, the kind that you bought at Wallgreens, wrapped so you could see the face. I don't know why the faces come in different colors, like who's going to see it, even you don't, until it sounds like a four-alarm fire going off in your head, just inches from your face.

As you drink a second cup of coffee, you realize that while you were running late, all you ever had time for was half a first cup, and the remainder stood on the kitchen counter, a swimming pool for flies. Now the coffee pot is almost always filled with enough to last you the day, but that last cup could probably be used to clean rust off of chrome.
Retirement isn't always what it's cracked up to be, but there are some perks, like boxing up the dozens of ties in multiple colors and designs that you were forced to wear around your neck each and every workday. Donating a closet full of business suits to a charity, but keeping one for funerals or special occasions you hoped would never come along as quickly as they do.
Retirement means retraining our brain to take things slow, as there's no rush anymore, just slow-paced walks to visit nature that you usually only saw out a taxi window. You'd find yourself talking to the trees or laughing at the squirrels fighting over acorns. You wore your bathrobe over your old army coat, which you found while undoing your clothes closet. and finally had a chance to try out the rubber waders your son gave to you at your retirement party, because you said you might take up fishing.
With so much time these days, you took every opportunity to stay in touch with the friends still breathing, meeting at the diner for lunch that somehow managed to stay in business for decades. You'd skip the bacon-and-mayo sandwiches, and water would be the drink of choice to help your kidneys. It looked more like a lady's social than a man's lunch, with several pictures of beer and smoke rings from a hand-rolled Cuban cigar.
All in all, being retired isn't so bad as long as we keep telling ourselves we're just aging like fine wine, saved for the next celebration, not a random number when the final curtain falls. Whether it's 70, 80, 90, or more, we are still who we've always been, except for those pesky age spots we wear with a Grateful Dead t-shirt.

Mike 2026                                                                                   

                        

Fingertips on fire

 Some will say that your life flashes in front of you when you're about to pass. I believe my life's history has been broken into a million pieces that appear in memories I can either call on or that just appear at the ends of my fingers, tapping away and becoming another story. Whatever the reason, I feel blessed to have been given this amazing gift of memory that takes me back in time to places I've been and people I've met along my journey. Using my keyboard, I travel back to summer days and family gatherings where my grandma sits beside me, telling stories of long ago. The keys on fire as I do my best to keep up, but sometimes I can't write fast enough, and that memory fades away.

I sometimes wondered if all the drugs I took in my younger years somehow opened my mind and my heart a little more than those who never partook in those mind-altering moments. They're called flashbacks when something so real comes to me with vivid colors and conversations never spoken, in my case, but written with my keyboard and lightning-fast fingertips.
I can choose what I want to remember, sometimes in just a quick and passing thought that becomes 600 words or more. Sometimes I hear a song from eras long before I was born, and the words are clear, leaving me wondering where they came from. And how did I know them? How can I know the streets of Paris or the artwork in a cathedral I have never visited? How is it that I can clearly remember being three years old and watching jaws drop as I spoke the words of a dream I had?
As I grew, my memories became easier to express, and they grew with me through the countless writings I composed with an open mind and a heart searching for love. Somewhere along the way, I began to write snippets or very short stories that were easy to read and shorter than the average short story. To date, I have over one thousand very short stories that cover over one thousand different topics, all coming from a mind that has to stop one day, but not this day, as another memory seeps into my mind and my fingertips spew flames. 

Mike 2026