The iron maiden

 The sand beneath my feet dared me to keep going, farther from the shore. The sand seemed to go on forever as I ventured deeper. The people on the beach grew smaller. The sounds of the midway fade, then disappear into the sounds of silent waves. The carousel becomes a spinning top, like a child's toy, and disappears into the sand.

The sea now laps at my face, my feet in a scramble with the bottom to see who goes the distance. It's in plain sight now, bobbing to and fro with every swell another inch forward as my lungs begin to burn and fear creeps up.

Another twenty feet and I'll be able to touch the iron maiden as it takes me for a ride on the waves, but remains anchored safely in place as it has a job to do. I climb up on the small platform, waving my arms towards the shoreline, barely making out a small cluster of boys, and I imagine their shouting their approval for my success.

I had to catch my breath and begin my return journey, as the distance was the same and my body was as rested as it would get. I let go of my grip and started swimming until I felt the sand beneath my feet that gently touched down like the first man on the moon.

The sights and sounds of the midway slowly began coming into view through my salt-filled eyes. My boys are still rooting for me, as I was so close to earning my medal of bravery, which was in reality the bottom of a soda can cut off with a dull knife and strung on a piece of old rope. But it was a right of passage and meant a lot to each of us.

I finally reached shore, collapsing on the still warm sand, mostly for effect, as the crowd of young boys vowed to be the next one to swim out to the iron Maden. And back. But today, the bragging rights belonged to me as they hoisted me upon their shoulders, and I proudly showed off my medal for all to see.

Mike 2026           

                                                                                                                                            

Memories of the Junk man

 Many decades ago, as a kid, I'd watch and listen for the junk man coming down our street, walking next to his horse, which he called Barney. A flat-bed trailer, either bursting at the seams with other people's discarded items or almost empty if he hit the wrong street at the wrong time. It was always on a Thursday when the jingling of bells on Barney's collar announced he wasn't far away. JUNK MAN, JUNK MAN hed sing out as people rushed to the wagon with broken tools and discarded toys. Old pots and pans, worn-out shoes, and mismatched linens.

Days before the junk man's arrival, I would scurry about the house asking my mom what we could give to him, and she seemed to always find an item or two that had seen better days. Tarnished silverware and broken tea cups. Rusted milk jugs and cracked clay pots. As his voice grew farther away, Barney's bells went silent, and the junk man headed home.

Home for the junk man and Barney was an old barn that had been in his family for decades, but disaster struck one night when a fire broke out in the house, destroying everything but the barn. His family left, but he remained behind and began filling the barn with items others no longer wanted. As the years went by, he organized the barn into two sections. The first part of the barn was for newly found treasures that needed fixing, and the other half was filled with finished items ready to sell.

Many people stopped in to have a look at the junk man's handy work, some even recognizing something they had disregarded and considered just junk. They'd sometimes spend hours looking at his massive collection as the kids offered Barney an apple or a carrot, and in turn, Barney would nod his head and ring the bells on his collar, to the children's delight.

I don't remember exactly when the bells quit ringing, and Thursdays went by without the song of the junk man. Some say he passed away in his barn, repairing a toaster or putting new tires on a child's bike. Others like myself just believed he got too old, as did Barney, and they passed away together, roaming the streets of eternity with the sound of jingle bells and the call of the junk man.

Mike 2026                                                           

Withdrawal from anxiety meds

 Withdrawal feels like facing down a formidable enemy, even as we pray for God's help to get through it. I never expected to be someone who experienced withdrawal and actually lived to tell the story.

I've taken numerous medications in my lifetime, each addressing issues like blood pressure, prostate, testosterone, and especially anxiety. The anxiety medication, when taken daily, calmed my racing mind and helped control the endless loop of anxious thoughts.

These anxiety medications come in many names, but all with the same promise of defeating the anxiety monsters that lie in wait for the one time you didn't get a refill, and the pharmacy is closed for an extended holiday weekend. The next four days are my story and mine alone as I prepare for the unknowns of withdrawal that's about to slap me in the face, laughing a sinister laugh from the deepest regions of my being.

Day one was doable with just some chills that came and went along with a decrease in food consumption and a creeping feeling that things were going to get worse, much worse. Day two, I found myself going from bed to couch and back again, dozing off for 15-minute intervals, but not resting my mind, which has begun playing a fast-forward version of my thoughts.

Day three, and the devil was fully awake. My skin felt like it had been turned inside out, and my every glance around the room found me looking at non-reality like dancing lamp cords and my dog's hair balls growing legs and scurrying past me seeking a place to hide. At this point, I was fairly certain I wouldn't make it through another day, and the devil would claim victory.

Day four arrived with my mind racing so fast my eyeballs rolled around in my head as I tried to focus on anything other than what was going on inside of me. All I had to do was get through until the mail arrived with my medication. Meanwhile, I became fixated on the wall clock in my living room, with a face that talked and arms and legs that did an Irish jig. I had enough sense left to know it was all in my head and gaining ground quickly, trying to take total control of all my thoughts.

Late on day four, I swallowed my medication finally and lay down on the couch for the devil to leave with his spiked tail dragging behind him in defeat. Not long after, I began to feel like I was once again in control of my thoughts as the medication flowed through my mind and body, and the picture show stopped moving fast forward.

Day five and I'm going about my daily routines as usual, checking out emails and maybe crafting a story for my blog, but within me lies a few remnants of the beast, who I suppose was taking a final bow and vanishing to another someone like me who may have forgotten to refill their meds.

There was nothing funny about what happened to me, and I wouldn't wish it on anybody. It's beyond darkness and without reason or understanding, and all you want is to keep your balance until you're stable again. I never thought at 72 years of age I'd be experiencing a skin worn inside out and the scariest visions I've tried to mask with meds. You can bank on the fact I'll never run out again without some sort of backup plan, like a handful of xnax hidden in a coffee can. And a conversation with my doctor, who's preaching to the choir because I've seen both sides, I'll never forget.

Mike 2026                                        

Story box

 Is it writer's block, or have I just said all I want to say? I've likely used every word combination I know, so maybe this is the final stop for story retirement. But what does one do with over a thousand stories stored away in digital clouds—written, saved, and rarely revisited?

When I began my writing journey, I used paper and pen, doubting I'd ever use a typewriter, and never did. Boxes of stories, all handwritten now, rest with other boxes full of memories and are shoved into an empty space in an already cluttered garage.

I opened a box recently, a smile on my face as I picked something out to read, and instantly remembered where and when I had written it. It was written on a bar napkin, the ink smudged a little from a drink that sat on it. I remember asking the barmaid for a topic and writing something for her. Believe it or not, it was a good pickup line. There were literally hundreds of scraps of paper, even paper bags, and a page from a phone book, all with my words, my stories, and my passion for the written word.

I came across a binder of song lyrics I had written over the years, along with a couple of CDs in demo form, but they never went any further and joined the rest of the forgotten word soldiers in the box of the unread. I've never gone more than a few days without writing something. I had to, was compelled to, and lived for the release of a potential story that was filling my head to the point of exploding. And then came my blog.

A place I could tell stories, most only a few paragraphs depicting fantasy with my own life adventures all rolled up into a neat little story I shared with anyone who would take a minute or two and read them. The years passed, and the stories kept coming almost daily. Hundreds of themes that grew to thousands, but sadly never reached the audience I longed for.

So maybe this is the end of my storytelling, and my keyboard, with well-worn keys, should be put in a box, in a well-deserved resting place among the forgotten stories I had such hopes for. Who knows? Maybe one day my box will be found by a family member clearing out my life's stories, and they will take the time to read them and find themselves right where I wanted them to be.

Mike 2026                                        

A grammar school valentine

 She took the small cardboard heart from the shelf where it had sat gathering dust for a very long time. She wiped the top with her sleeve. Then she opened it. The faint smell of chocolate drifted towards her—another trip down memory lane. Grammar school valentines so many alike, but a certain few were kept as they had more meaning than the school's bully card did. She took a card out of the heart-shaped box from Billy, whom she had the biggest crush on in the fourth grade. She traced his name with her finger, recalling laughter in the schoolyard as he smiled at her, melting her heart.

She knew all the verses on the various cards and other reminders of Valentine's past. A red ribbon she wore in her hair at the school dance, a white handkerchief with a red heart embroidered by her grandmother, and even a couple of candy hearts with simple but memorable words like "Be my valentine," hardly legible anymore.

Then there was the stack of red envelopes postmarked over the years. She always kept them for last as funny valentines were replaced with real letters of love. One by one, she read every word slowly as if it were the first time. He wrote about ports he visited and life on a Navy ship. He professed his love for her in words he had often written on a star-filled night, looking at the sky, knowing she would be looking at them with him as tears fell from her eyes, coming to rest on his own tear-stained words.

Time had taken its toll on the faded letters, just as it had on her heart, when she realized she'd read for the last time, the final expression of love from her childhood crush, Billy. She put the letters back into the heart-shaped box where they'd remain until next year, gathering dust and a few more tears of both sorrow and joy, knowing she was loved when she traced his name on a grammar school Valentine.

Mike 2026                                                 

66 years between them

 There were 66 years between them; her life just beginning, his like sand in an hourglass. He adored her as he did all his grandchildren, near and far. He remembers, as if yesterday, his first grandson, now 21, stealing a part of his heart he had never known. As years passed, more blessings and love arrived with every newborn.

Decades of birthdays and holidays, and hundreds of memories filling his days with special moments, stolen hugs and kisses, and rare moments lying on the floor with coloring books and stickers. It took her a while to warm up to him, but it wasn't his first rodeo, and he knew if he just waited long enough, she'd ask him if he was staying for dinner or going to her school, as she was receiving an award, and would he let her ride with him and stop for a treat?

It never ceased to amaze him the wonders of a child's life as they began to absorb the world around them, wanting answers to countless questions, like where the stars come from or how fish breathe underwater. Their growing minds are starved for knowledge, and they will go to great lengths for answers.

Rides home from school with her brother and endless chatter about who's her friend and who isn't, one sentence spoken with another close behind as her little mind must speak when the thought is there, lest she forget it. Her older brother, now a teen, sits beside her, doting on her and, with great kindness, always answering her questions, no matter how many times she asks. It wouldn't be a proper ride home without stopping at the food mart for a treat, which always meant several trips around the store for a snack and a drink of her favorite juice, while her brother tried to help her select the right treat with patience for his baby sister.

Five minutes of silence as snacks are eaten, and then the questions come back in doubletime. Will you stay with me until mommy gets home? Will you stay for dinner with us? Can we color together? Can we play with my dolls and put makeup on them? So I put on my grandpa hat and wear a cardboard crown left over from a trip to Burger King. She picks out the colored crayons, leaving me with one green one and her with an entire box.

Time flies, and her mommy arrives home, tiny legs running to greet her with papers flying all over as she shows her what she and Poppi had colored. Poppies are green, but mine are all colors. Poppi is staying for dinner, right, Poppi? she asks. He smiles at his daughter, who knows all too well that her child never gives up when she wants something. So an extra plate is set at the table, the coloring books and stickers are put away, and you can bet your last dollar the conversation will be memorable.

Mike 2026                                             

Painted faces

 He stood in a field that is barren now, remembering days long passed when the crowd cheered him as he played the part of a circus clown. He closed his eyes and pictured all the colorful costumes, the stage makeup, and brightly painted wagons he called home. He could hear the barkers and vendors selling their goods just outside of the big top as people lined up for the evening performance.

He saw himself so much younger when he first signed on as a laborer with a wish to become a clown. Time passed, and he held onto his dream, watching and learning from some of the greats, and from one particular clown named Emmitt Kelly. Truly a legend whose inner clown was expressed so quietly that the world could only look in awe at his performance.

More time passed as he worked his way into the clown quarters and was allowed to practice his own makeup and a routine he could call his own. He practiced every day, slowly improving, until the day finally arrived when his name was added to the list of full-time clowns. He wore a happy face and flowered clothes, floppy red shoes, and a purple wig. He wore a horn on a string around his neck that he'd blow at unsuspecting guests who would jump up out of their seats laughing and spilling popcorn to the delight of everyone close by. And they called him Mr. Floppy.

As he stood in the field, memories washed over him, and he saw the faces of the other clowns, without makeup or costumes, just ordinary men trying to express a part of themselves hidden beneath the surface of sometimes-damaged souls. But when the costumes were put on and the makeup painted on their faces, the clowns of the circus came alive. Dancing and jumping around the tent, getting both applause and cries from little ones whose parents might find it hard to get them to sleep that night.

He stood in that field, wondering where everyone could be now. Some had passed while others resided in circus housing, a place where help was given and afternoon performances were put on, with shaking hands, putting on makeup, and wigs, ready one more time to entertain. The beep of the van's horn signalled it was time to leave, as he took one more look at where the once majestic big top once stood. He breathed in the smells of peanuts and cotton candy and saw the human cannonball fly away into the clouds he had always pursued.

Come on, Mr. Floppy, the driver yelled. We have a show to put on. hed almost forgotten that every other Thursday, the remaining clowns of the greatest show on earth would visit a children's home where, in full costumes, they would make balloon animals, toot their horns, and throw candy into waiting hands. It meant the world to the children, but also gave the tired old clowns one more chance to paint on a happy face.

Mike 2026