The old school

 He ignored the yellow tape surrounding the school he attended decades ago. The wrecking ball sat quietly in the distance, waiting for sunrise. It seemed smaller than he remembered, and he thought for a moment about what the long hallways were like when you were late for class. He walked from one area to another, looking through old metal lockers, hoping to find something left behind, then to the gym, where he could hear the whistles of a coach and the squeak of sneakers on hardwood floors. A rope still hung from the ceiling, and a basket of deflated basketballs was all that remained.

He remembered his homeroom class and made his way there, walking with memories of faces by his side, endless chatter and teasing, the pulling of ponytails, and books dropped on the floor with a bang. He had a seat at a lone desk he barely fit on, seeing his teacher, Mrs. Clark, reading from a book as she walked slowly around her class, taking a folded note from someone and throwing it in a trash can along with a squirt gun, a comic book, and a dead frog. He remembered the classroom being hot in the last few days before summer vacation, when the windows were opened, because there was no air conditioning back then.
He moved on to the auditorium, which had seemed huge then but now looked small, with seats gone and the stage standing alone where recitals and plays, award ceremonies, and graduations had once been held. He remembered walking onto that stage to receive an award he didn't know he was receiving and seeing his parents in the audience clapping as his name was called.
He heard the wrecking ball coming to life outside, so he made his way out into the light of day and joined others to watch the school crumble to dust, bringing silent tears of remembrance as his youth crumbled with it, never to be forgotten.

                                                                              

Mike 2026

Mike  2026

Last leaf of Autumn

 I love to write about autumn with its cool weather and colorful leaves, sitting on the porch with a morning cup of coffee, saying to myself Come along, winter Im ready for you. I love long walks through the woods, as falling leaves brush against me on their way to the ground, and the sound of squirrels gathering nuts to sustain them during the cold months of winter.

I love the smells of the woods in autumn that you have to smell to understand, and how the breeze blows through the trees, carrying crimson leaves floating downward to their final resting place and leaving behind naked branches to sway in cold winter winds.
I love my autumn walks as the quiet embraces me, a welcome change from the summer noise echoing through the trees as city folks claim their picnic tables and children's voices carry as they play hide-and-seek among the mighty trees. Soon the cold will arrive, and city folks will head back to their lives, as will I, taking one last walk on autumn leaves bidding me goodbye as the last leaf slowly drifts downward and brushes my face like a lover's last kiss.

Mike  2026                                                

My attic room

 As a boy, our family lived in a two-bedroom house with five people. Because I was the only boy, the attic became my bedroom. It was the perfect place for me: large, with an octagonal window I could look out of at the world below. I liked that adults had to duck their heads, since the rafters were only a few feet higher than me, so they usually just called my name from downstairs to come down for a meal or do chores.

To me, my room became a playground, with plenty of room to ride my pedal car, set up battlefields for games of war, and keep my collections of comic books, jars full of marbles, and kites hanging from the rafters. There was only one light, the one in the stairwell that barely lit my room, so Dad helped me hang Christmas lights throughout the space, which eventually helped my fear of shadow people disappear.
On the far side, things were stored: boxes labeled Grandma and Grandpa, old dishes, an old hat rack, and two sleds that would be retrieved when the snow arrived. An old rocking chair sat there, used to rock several babies over time, and a birdcage I was told belonged to my great-grandma, who loved birds that sang the most beautiful songs. As the years passed and I grew taller, I had to crouch around my room, but it was a small price to pay for my sanctuary away from the chaos of two sisters who shared a room downstairs.
I was fifteen when my folks sold the little house and moved into a large four-bedroom across town. My room was nothing like my attic room; it lacked character, but with some imagination, I turned it into a quiet space I called my own. I had an aquarium with different kinds of fish and that old bird cage where my lovebirds sang to me. I had a shelf filled with books I loved, like Moby-Dick, Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Swiss Family Robinson, and many more. And my pride and joy: a collection of comic books dating back years, some in plastic to preserve their pristine condition. Little did I realize many of them would be worth hundreds of dollars and more. Decades passed, and I did a hitch in the army, going home on leave a couple of times a year and thanking my baby sister for feeding my fish and lovebirds, who always sang loudly whenever I came home. More time passed, and I married my high school sweetheart. We spent many days looking for our first house, mostly in my old neighborhood, when we came upon my old house for sale. There was an open house sign, so we went inside. A realtor greeted us and told us to look around, but I headed straight for the attic, where my childhood bedroom was. I had to crouch like Dad, and although it was smaller than I remembered, it was everything I remembered.
We bought that house, started our family, and eventually had to put our son in my old attic room. I would be on bended knees as we played with my old toy soldiers and read my favorite books on a shelf handed down to my son to read and enjoy as I did a long time ago. I strung colored lights to brighten his space, promising no shadow men would lurk in the darkness or peer through the octagon window. We had a million memories of the attic room that we both remembered and promised each other we'd never forget.                                                              As a boy, our family lived in a two-bedroom house with five people. Because I was the only boy, the attic became my bedroom. It was the perfect place for me: large, with an octagonal window I could look out of at the world below. I liked that adults had to duck their heads, since the rafters were only a few feet higher than me, so they usually just called my name from downstairs to come down for a meal or do chores.

To me, my room became a playground, with plenty of room to ride my pedal car, set up battlefields for games of war, and keep my collections of comic books, jars full of marbles, and kites hanging from the rafters. There was only one light, the one in the stairwell that barely lit my room, so Dad helped me hang Christmas lights throughout the space, which eventually helped my fear of shadow people disappear.
On the far side, things were stored: boxes labeled Grandma and Grandpa, old dishes, an old hat rack, and two sleds that would be retrieved when the snow arrived. An old rocking chair sat there, used to rock several babies over time, and a birdcage I was told belonged to my great-grandma, who loved birds that sang the most beautiful songs. As the years passed and I grew taller, I had to crouch around my room, but it was a small price to pay for my sanctuary away from the chaos of two sisters who shared a room downstairs.
I was fifteen when my folks sold the little house and moved into a large four-bedroom house across town. My room was nothing like my attic room; it lacked character, but with some imagination, I turned it into a quiet space I called my own. I had an aquarium with different kinds of fish and that old bird cage where my lovebirds sang to me. I had a shelf filled with books I loved, like Moby-Dick, Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Swiss Family Robinson, and many more. And my pride and joy: a collection of comic books dating back years, some in plastic to preserve their pristine condition. Little did I realize many of them would be worth hundreds of dollars and more.
Decades passed, and I did a hitch in the army, going home on leave a couple of times a year, thanking my baby sister for feeding my fish and lovebirds, who always sang loudly every time I came home. More time passed, and I married my high school sweetheart. We spent many days looking for our first house, mostly in my old neighborhood, when we came upon my old house for sale. There was an open house sign, so we went inside and were greeted by a realtor who told us to look around, but I headed straight for the attic, where my childhood bedroom was. I had to crouch as Dad did, and although it was smaller than I remembered, it was everything I remembered.
We bought that house, started our family, and eventually had to put our son in my old attic room. I would be on bended knees as we played with my old toy soldiers and my favorite books on a shelf handed down to my son to read and enjoy as I did a long time ago. I strung colored lights to brighten his space, promising no shadow men would lurk in the darkness or peer through the octagon window. We had a million memories of the attic room that we both remembered and promised each other we'd never forget.
Mike  2026                                                        

                                                                          

 

One last look behind you

 He saw her at the bus stop, her gloved hands holding her coat tight against the early evening cold. He recognized her from a distance, wondering if he was mistaken until he got closer and saw her eyes. Time had taken its toll on both of them, and he wondered what her life had become. Did she have a family, as she told him she wanted years ago? Did she have the house with a white picket fence and a rose garden, a dog and a cat and a home filled with grandkids? Did she have a husband who worshiped the ground she walked on?

He was close enough now, mingling in the crowd waiting for the bus, to see her beauty had only grown more through the years. Her long silver hair flowed in the breeze, and the lines of age were a roadmap of her life that he wondered and hoped was a life well lived with the love and happiness she deserved. They were just a few feet apart when he saw her looking his way. Did she notice him? Did she doubt herself, wondering if, after all these years apart, it was actually him? He felt a pit in his stomach as he tried to speak, but the crowd suddenly rushed onto the bus, and she was out of his sight for a brief moment until she found an empty seat, and he practically jumped over people to claim the seat beside her.
For what felt like an eternity, they stayed quiet until she softly asked, "Is that really you, Sam?" It certainly felt like a lifetime, didn't it? They took turns talking about their lives and their past when they thought they'd have a life together, but it wasn't meant to be, as he was a young man focused on his career with no time for her dreams. He whispered he was sorry, but she cut him off, saying she'd had a full life, a happy life that she wouldn't trade for anything.
Thirty minutes on a city bus, a lifetime of shared stories, and the sadness of knowing they were given this moment that would never be given to them again. As her stop drew closer, he told her he thought of her often and always wondered if, had he asked for her hand in marriage, she would have said yes, would she have given up her dreams to follow him wherever he went. She touched his face and shook her head, saying goodbye, as he watched her walk away, turning just once to see his face one last time.

   Mike 2026                                                                      

Mike  2026

Old school biker

 His old Harley sat covered in the garage, now a reminder of his younger days riding on mountain roads and country miles he wanted to last forever. It wasn't about fancy paint jobs or a thousand pieces of chrome; he remembered the bike itself. An old Panhead with a kick-start and a seemingly never-ending machine with oil leaks. If you owned a bike like his, you never went anywhere, even to the corner store, without a burlap sack of tools. He wasn't a fair-weather biker; his rubber met the roads in every condition. During the harsh winters, he'd rebuild his bike from the ground up, a painstaking task but one he loved as much as he did riding. He will never forget the first ride of spring, stopping along the road to tighten something he'd forgotten, saying to himself, crap happens, with a smile.

It wasn't just the ride but riding with other bikers, some known, others met, having a beer in one of many biker bars along the way. Most conversations focused on their bikes in detail only a true biker would know. In the summer months, he carried a sleeping bag tied to the back and had no fixed place to go, as long as there were forests and rivers where he could sleep under the stars. He'd often go back to camps he'd visited before, where bikers gathered in peace to share stories of the open roads and party until the sun came up, then fired up their bikes to continue their journey to no place special.
Back in the day, a lot of people hitchhiked, and it was common to offer a girl a ride on the back to where she was going even if it was out of your way. He had many memories of long-haired beauties who smelled like patchouli and sun-drenched skin. Now all he has are memories, as age has stopped him from riding after he finally listened to his kids and grandkids that his reflexes weren't what they once were. Now, every so often, he uncovers his steel pony and swings a leg over to sit, but dares not start it, as the kick would probably break his leg. It's enough to sit on it, reliving the country roads and mountain curves that challenged the best riders.
When he passed, he wished to be buried beside his bike, where the heavens would greet him with the sounds of other bikers kick-starting their steeds and traveling endless roads in good weather, where the rubber meets the road, and real bikers ride forever. 

                                                                                          Mike  2026

Mike 2026

Pumpkin creations

 He planted acres of pumpkins on the farm, watching them grow in every shape and size. Every October, cars filled with smiling faces as kids rushed in to select the perfect pumpkin that would glow brightly through crooked mouths and triangle eyes as they sat on the porch, the scent one more memory that began in the ground and ended up on someone's porch next to a bowl of candy.

Some families went all out, letting dad carve out an award-winning face or use stencils for the perfect pumpkin. At my house, my siblings and I would use a crayon to outline their faces, and with a lot of supervision we'd use a kitchen knife to cut what we had drawn, mistakes and all. I can still feel the goop I took out of the insides, saving the seeds so Mom could soak them in salt water, then bake them to a golden brown. I think they were gone before we even collected all the candy.
The day after Halloween, the pumpkins that glowed so brightly now sat on the porch, a shadow of their former selves, with eyes and mouths, one big gaping hole becoming one with melted candles. Into the trash they went with little remorse and a thought of next year's pumpkin creations.

Mike 2026                                                      

The final showing

 Ready, Pops? he heard his son ask. If we hurry, we can get in line first. It was the last day the old movie theater would be open after seventy-five years of entertaining the people of this once small town. He was eight years old when the doors opened, and a silent movie played on the huge screen. He remembered newsreels playing during the war, asking boys to enlist and folks to buy war bonds to support the cause.

He relived the first time he asked his high school sweetheart, Mary Jo, to a Saturday matinee showing Gone with the Wind, holding her hand and sharing a box of popcorn. At seventeen, they sat in the balcony stealing kisses, and at eighteen, she promised to write to him every day until he returned.
Bring back memories, Pop, his son asked. He didn't need to answer as he wiped away a tear, remembering she didn't wait and how his heart was broken. On this final day, they showed bits and pieces of the past seventy-five years, those that made you laugh with The Three Stooges and The Wizard of Oz that you could watch a hundred times. They played cartoons like Felix the Cat and Superman, King Kong, and Tarzan. All of which were played out in backyards, bringing the movies to life with you as the hero and your friends as villains.
As the last film ended and the lights went on, old folks didn't get up too fast, not because of their age but to soak in for the last time the place that molded their lives. All set, Pops, his son asked. Just a second, son, he answered, reaching into the box of milk duds and throwing one from the balcony, hitting someone on the head who said in a loud voice, I've been waiting for someone to do that for a long time. Thanks for the memory. He took his son's arm to guide him down the steps of the balcony, slowly looking one last time at the movie posters on the walls in the lobby and the smell of popcorn popping, the one constant memory of going to the movies.

                                                                                Mike 2026

                        

Mike 2026