May I have this dance?

 His body twitched, a slight smile on his face as he slept, dreaming of the times they danced. It was the 1960s, at a junior high school dance, when his buddies egged him on to ask the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen to dance. He felt sick to his stomach with fear that she might say no, and he'd have to walk back to his buddies in shame. But she didn't say no, and they danced again and again.

As time moved forward, they danced at their high school prom and later at friends' weddings, knowing one day he'd ask her to marry him, and that day came when he got down on one knee. She was so beautiful the day they wed, a vision in white, an angel sent to be by his side forevermore. They danced into the night to the songs they loved, wishing each dance would last forever.
Time can be cruel, and time can take away, as it did when she left this world, leaving him alone with memories that return when he sleeps. He'd see her in her wedding dress, floating through the heavens with angels by her side. He feels a gentle kiss on his cheek as she disappears into the light, leaving him alone once more in a world without dancing, in a world without her.
His time came, and his body twitched for the last time as he ascended to the heavens, where she waited for him to ask for a dance. Some say they see a couple dancing in the clouds, moving to the rhythm of the wind, with the sky as their dance floor. What can be said other than he defined the words, "May I have this dance?”

Mike  2026                                                     

A quiet house

 It's quiet in the old house as a man of the same age sits alone, remembering when quiet was just a wish. He looks around at stuff accumulated over time, things that meant something to him, and most wouldn't understand. The Led Zeplin poster from a concert he took his grandson to, not the real deal, but good impersonators just the same.  There was a clay head that looked like Jesus, holding incense sticks, and two ventriloquist dummies sitting in a chair that totally freaked out his daughter. There was an old-school stereo that didn't work, and two speaker boxes sat there in silence. Snow globes and a stack of photo albums that transported him back in time when his skin still fit and his teeth were his own. A steamer trunk filled with stuff that required moving everything that sat on top if he wanted to open it, which he did occasionally, usually on a rainy day for some reason. Inside were forgotten memories like his Navy cruise books, belt buckle, and a Zippo lighter with the ship's name. Two CD demos of songs he wrote, but that few ever heard except himself. Handwritten tablets of poems and two paperback editions of his first published books. A small box containing three bracelets hand-made out of beads he wore for years, along with a wrist watch and a pocket watch that his dad gave to him long ago.

It's quiet in the old house as he dozes off for a bit, awakened by a passing car playing some sort of music way too loud for this retirement community, probably someone's grandchild here for a visit. He shuffled to the kitchen, where he knew every little thing would be when he came looking, like coffee filters that he kept in the pantry and somehow ended up in a cabinet above the sink. Eventually, he'd get the old-school perculator he'd had for too many years to recall put on the burner and forgotten about until he heard the last couple of whatever you call it purks, I guess, when the coffee was ready. No coffee pods or fancy machines for him. The same held true for cooking. He had one black cast-iron skillet in which he made his supper, which never got washed; it was just wiped clean after use. A silverware drawer with two of each fork, knife, and spoon was all he needed, and he couldn't see any reason to have more.
He had a few fridge magnets with drawings his grandkids made for him and some black-and-white pictures taken with a Kodak Instamatic camera, memories of days gone by, but forever in his heart. It's a quiet house, his quiet house, that makes noises from worn-out floorboards and a dripping faucet he'd get around to fixing some day, maybe. There's the quiet snoring of his dog and companion of twelve years, his shadow, and best friend he hopes stays around for a long time, but he finds himself missing him already. Time doesn't stand still, but the quiet never lets him down.

Mike  2026                                                      

Dads snow plow

 I remember snow days when we stayed home from school. And I'll always recall one in particular that turned into a week. I remember staying up late pretending to be asleep, but actually looking out my second-floor bedroom window at black, not white. When sleep took me and the long hours of darkness woke me up, I had to squint my eyes from the brightness that invaded my bedroom. I looked out, and with my mouth wide open, I couldn't believe what I saw. It wasn't a blanket of white; it was a monster that buried everything I couldn't see but knew was there. Drifts so big that only the tips of telephone poles were visible, and dozens of cars parked on the street were just gone. Somehow, a big drift missed my window, letting me see the carnage below as an eerie silence filled the air, broken only by my mom's voice downstairs, shouting for a flashlight. I got my Batman flashlight and headed downstairs, guided by the cape crusaders' light straight into the darkness.

Power was out, and the house was growing colder by the minute as Dad built a fire in the fireplace, saying he was glad he had just brought in more wood the day before. My sister turned on her transistor radio to a news station, listening to the announcer talk about the massive storm and what people should do. Lists of places that had closed, seemingly endless, were broadcast on the hour, and emergency services were tasked with getting their equipment out into the neighborhoods where senior citizens and other people in need were told to sit tight as they made their way to them. Plows were out, slowly cutting through the huge drifts with everything they had, but it wasn't enough. The call went out to anyone with a snowmobile or a Four Wheel Drive truck to help, and they responded in the hundreds.
On the second day, Dad decided to head to the garage at the back of the house, where he kept his pride and joy, a 1957 Dodge Power Wagon. It was his project ever since I could remember, and he was very proud of it. He even entered it in car shows, where he won a trophy for the best restoration in the truck class. But that day, it was just another piece of equipment needed to help those in need. He told me to dress extra warmly if I wanted to ride along, and before you could say "snow," I was ready to go. The power wagon was equipped with a six-foot plow that Dad tested, making sure the hydraulics were working, and with the heater blasting hot air, we inched our way out of our driveway and into banks of snow we pushed aside to clear the streets. It was a long and tedious task, as we were joined by others who wanted to help.
Then a call came from the news station that medications needed to be delivered to folks stuck in their homes and couldn't get out to refill them. And everyone with a powerful enough truck to get through to them was to go to city hall, where they'd be given plenty of medicine and the addresses of those in need. " Looks like a job for the power wagon," Dad said as he blasted through drifts and plowed driveways for waiting people, some of whom offered us coffee or hot cocoa, which we usually accepted. Dad and I worked into the night, losing count of the people we helped, but come sunup, the power wagon headed back to our garage, where Dad took care of some minor problems, making sure the old truck was ready for more.
I spent three days with my dad, slowly clearing the streets and helping deliver needed medicines to shut-ins affected by the storm of all storms. I was just a kid, but I felt like a grown-up as we finally finished and went home. A week later, Dad received a letter from the city thanking him for all he had done to help. There was even mention of me that made me feel proud, almost as much as Dad did. Years went by without another mega storm, and the old power wagon eventually became mine. I treated it with the same loving care that Dad did, keeping it show-ready for years to come. But knowing if the snow came again, I'd be ready to roll. I had some pictures taken that day when everything was buried, which I displayed next to the truck, showing me and Dad plowing our driveway with the power wagon and powering through to a snowbound house, where an elderly lady, grateful for her medicines, offered us coffee or hot cocoa.

                                                                                  
Mike  2026

More than just a porch

 He sat alone on the front porch as he had for so many years. It was the one place where troubles seemed to disappear for a while, and the quiet could be broken by children's laughter. The porch was where you and your bride made dreams come true, and tears sometimes fell when a dream was shattered. It was where you had that talk with your son and gave advice to all your children. The porch was hollowed ground, a kind of neutral place where what was spoken remained when you went inside.

The porch had a swing you made when your hands were young, and your back was strong. A labor of love for one of many anniversaries you shared with the love of your life. You remember the sound it made as you slowly rocked back and forth, watching both sunrises and sunsets, holding her hand softly in yours.
The porch welcomed family and friends for no reason, just a place with a welcome mat that read all are welcome here. A half-dozen rocking chairs painted white to match the swing, and a bench for kids to sit on when mom called a time-out. Even the pets liked the porch where they found a ray of sunlight to fall asleep with a torn-up tennis ball close by.
So many memories of that old porch keep his mind busy as he fights hard to remember all it meant to everyone, with kids avoiding three little steps and older folks taking one at a time. The porch had a corner where the Christmas tree stood, waiting to be taken inside, and a place for sleds and bicycles, ready for action. It was where a wooden table was filled with plates of freshly baked cookies and, depending on the season, pictures of iced tea and lemonade in the hot months, and cocoa and coffee when the north winds blew.
It was countless times listening to a ball game on the radio, sitting on the porch as holiday festivities inside were in full swing. It was a place where you could be alone with your thoughts, or times when you hoped the porch would withstand dozens of your people to celebrate a birthday, and not collapse. The porch wasn't just another place to sit; it was an extension of the home and, by far, the choice for many to have a swing, tell a story, or grab a few winks after Sunday dinner.
Now, as he nears the time when all those children are scattered around the globe, and busy schedules prevent frequent visits, he sits alone, wrapped in a blanket she made. He closes his eyes and slowly rocks himself to sleep to the squeaky sound of the swing he never got around to fixing.

Mike  2026                                                       

My best friend

 These six legs have traveled together for a dozen years, slowing down now but still able to feel the ground beneath our feet and paws. We've braved all kinds of weather, always on a mission to see new things and familiar spots that we must stop to smell. I've tried many times, on walks around the pond, to count how many times he lifted a leg, but gave up after twenty.

We eat our meals together, and I'm aware I shouldn't be giving him people food, but he's more of a person than most humans I know, so people food it is. He knows that when I filled a paper plate with what I didn't eat, it was his for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Oh, he had a bowl of dog food I kept full, but he sometimes showed his dislike for it by shoveling the kibbles onto the floor and waiting for me to scold him with stern words that I knew made him laugh.
He's losing his hearing now, and I have to shout or give him a gentle nudge, so he hears me. His rear quarter is getting worse, and I find myself just handing him a treat rather than making him get up for it. I know he appreciates that. He's always been my shadow, no matter where I go, never out of my sight, even when he has to get up just to make sure I was close by.
He's the same number of years as me in dog life, a couple of senior citizens shuffling through our days, and grateful for each other's company. Did I mention he can talk? Especially when we have a visitor, he lets out sounds much like someone would to welcome someone into their home. He loves the attention, especially from my grandkids, who once threw him a ball that now sits in his toy box because his hips don't work too well. But he loves to be petted and his belly scratched.
I often find myself looking into his eyes, once vibrant and full of energy, now cloudy and straining to avoid obstacles. He means the world to me, and when he's gone, a part of me will go with him. I pray for him every night, asking God to look over everyone I love and care for, hoping he hears me and lets my shadow sniff a hundred more trees, throw his food to annoy me, and look at me through cloudy eyes, making sure I'm close by.

Mike 2026                                                      

Heart and soul

 He watched a spider in its web up in a corner, something he would never have seen without it being there. He watched as bits of dust were blown off a table as a springtime wind came through the window. He never would have seen it if he hadn't been looking out at the rain shower. He heard a cricket somewhere in the house and a frog out in the pond. He never would have heard them if not for the early hour when traffic was all but none.

He smelled the fresh-cut grass and the pasture full of wildflowers and windswept scents of a nearby woods that he never would have smelled living in the city. He heard the little things, like the buzzing of a single bee that had gotten lost and the cry of a baby bird high up in a tree calling for its mother.
He reached his golden years, which meant becoming a wise man with stories to tell to wide-eyed children and postcard memories he would have forgotten about if not for a youngster's voice asking to see what was in the old trunk sitting in a corner. His old Navy blues, some vinyl records of his youth, and sheets of yellowed paper with handwritten poems. His baseball glove and a box of checkers with a red one missing replaced with a red button. His high school yearbook with pictures he had circled for one reason or another, and a stack of postcards from his travels as a sailor, he sent home.
His life was one he was proud of, and although it was nearing an end, he still watched and listened, laughed and cried, sat and read, and wrote about everything he found interesting. He traveled the globe and walked in the footsteps of the ancients. He saw great monuments to heroes and colosseums still intact, as thousands of pictures were taken by those passing by. He saw a bull fight in Madrid and the Rock of Gibraltar. He sat at a French cafe wishing she could have been there with him, but a postcard would have to do. His heart was full of love for his family, their faces seared into his mind forever and a day.
Now it's just a waiting game to see when he'll leave this amazing place, and feel somewhat certain his next journey will be humbling, with a thousand questions finally answered.

Mike  2026                                                             

 

Blank screens

 I sat down in front of a blank screen, a cup of coffee now half-empty.Outside, the roar of a lawnmower cutting through the dirt as the draught continues, but he was paid to cut, so he cuts. Piles of dog droppings were pulverized into fertilizer as the blade cut through the air, sparing the weeds. The TV weather people tried to keep spirits up by saying there was a 20% chance of rain. I guess all that did was tell me there was an 80% chance it wouldn't rain.

There's a pond where I live, man-made years ago, with a fountain that sprays a cooling mist as you pass by and a population of koi and turtles always ready for a piece of bread or stale crackers. There is a walk bridge that passes over the pond where grandkids stand, throwing scraps of dinner rolls and stale bread saved by grandparents, hoping for a visit before mold sets in and they must be discarded.
There are times when words come to me without much effort, and stories are written as fast as I can type. Ideas clash, vying for the win, often leaving me to choose which thought to use. I reach deep inside to find the proper words lying in wait until they are one tap of a key and embedded into the story. But what about titles, you ask? Well, I usually am halfway through a story when I see a phrase or a sentence that seems to fit, and I go with that.
One of the bigger challenges is finding an illustration that conveys the words I've written. I Google a bunch of images for each story, then choose one. like an image of an old man on a bench. I look at dozens of pictures, then, once chosen, I simply copy and paste them into my draft, and that's that, another story was written and added to the many others sleeping until read.
I suppose a blank screen isn't something awful; it's just giving my brain a rest until the word faucet turns back on and flows like a river with the tap of my keyboard. I think my next story will be the lawn guy wiping dust off my new truck from his lawnmower, and me going through images to best show my reaction, like a man in his robe chasing a lawn guy down the street  as he sped away in a cloud of dust. I'll work on that.

Mike 2026