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                                                              

The meatball

 Back in the 70s, I worked for a General Motors radiator plant in upstate New York. I'd made a few friends, one of whom was Anthony Dacrupa. His love for Italian food was well known and usually all he talked about. He said he had tried a dozen Italian restaurants since moving here from Chicago, where there were so many restaurants it would take a lifetime to try them all. One night after second shift, I asked him to come with me to experience what I believed was the very best in Italian cuisine. He was leery of anything I suggested, no matter the topic, but he eventually agreed, and that night we rode down a back-county road and saw what looked like a run-down farmhouse. Set back off the road, mostly a place that time had forgotten. But inside, everything changed. Opening into what was once a large living room with velvet curtains and wine racks in each corner. The walls were papered with paintings of Italy, and the flags from both countries proudly displayed. Red table cloths and napkins on every table, and in the background, the sound of someone singing at the top of his lungs, old songs from the old country. I told Anthony that Geno was the owner and that he would soon come to our table to tell us about that night's menu. What he can't afford, menus we read ourselves, Anthony asked. Just then, a waiter, the only waiter, came to our table with two glasses and a bottle of Chianti. He poured us a glass and disappeared back into the kitchen. Where some angry Italian voices were coming from the kitchen and a broken glass or two, Geno put on his best smile and came to our table. His English was very broken, but we managed to ask what was on the menu, and he replied, meatball. Anthony looked puzzled, as did I, as he went on to tell us that his meatball had won many prizes back home and that he should come to America and open a restaurant where countless people could experience it for themselves. And with a bow, he backed up, then turned to the kitchen, barking out in Italian, Two meatballs.

Good thing there's a 24-hour diner not that far from here. Anthony said, "I don't think one meatball is going to fill me up. We looked around the room at every table and noticed there were no appetizers or bread baskets in front of the people eating. Just a bottle of Chianti and enough glasses. Then, with a bit of fanfare, Geno and his sole waiter pushed carts out of the kitchen and served every guest a plate with the biggest meatball they had ever seen. When I say it was big, I meant huge, the size of a softball, maybe even bigger.

Geno began by saying, " Don't let the look surprise you. Take your fork and gently pull back some of the ball, where you'll find four layers of the finest cheeses anywhere. Let your fork dig deeper as it passes through two layers of fresh tomatoes I grow in the back yard. Have a taste of the sauce mixed with some cheese as I continue. Using a knife and fork, cut further into the ball, where you'll find a layer of veal and a layer of lightly seasoned homemade sausage. Now use your knife and fork to cut the ball into three sections, then use the ladle provided to mix the ingredients in the bowl with a combination of fresh vegetables that have simmered to perfection. Lastly, use the ladle to pour the tomato sauce from the bowl provided all over the best meatball you've ever tasted. Anthony and I became regulars at Genos, along with many friends who had to see firsthand why one meatball was the only thing on the menu.

Mike 2026                                                     

                                                       

My inner kid

 Popsicle sticks bombs, baseball cards in bicycle spokes. Eggs and rotten tomato wars were just a few of the childhood memories of the kid who still resides inside of me. Every so often, I'll embarrass my grandkids by dancing the way we used to when the twist or the limbo were in style. They would beg me to stop, but that just fueled me even more, doing the Watusi and the frog.

I loved fooling around with them, like when I told them I'd take them for ice cream and come out of my room in basketball shorts, white knee-high socks, and sandals. They said they wouldn't go anywhere with me dressed like that. Oh, good times.
I treasure the inner kid in me because there are a thousand memories I can look back on that bring joy to my heart and put a big smile on my face. I still like Saturday morning cartoons and reading cereal box labels. I laugh at the funny pages in the newspaper, and even after all these years, you can still buy a plastic egg of silly puddy that I flatten out and press onto a comic character.
I still make paper boats that I keep handy for when it rains, and my rubber wader boots stand tall waiting for me to put on and wade through the flooding waters in the street and in my backyard. I never grew tired of waving to the engineer and the conductor as a train roared past me just yards from my boyhood house, where I still reside.
My daughter once told me how much the grandkids liked visiting me because there was always something crazy to do that beat playing video games. That had always been my goal: to show them how to make paper boats and popcycle bombs, and our favorite was putting baseball cards in the spokes of our bicycles, then roaring through the neighborhood like a pack of wild bikers.
Water balloons, snowball fights, games of hide-and-seek, and my attempt at Twister that almost sent me to the emergency room.Swinging on a rope and letting go to splash down in the creek. and finding night crawlers in the darkness of night with a flashlight put in a can, saved for first light, when we fished for hours.
Penny candies like fireballs and peach pits, Long pieces of white paper with colored candies somehow glued on them, root beer hard candies, and wax bottles filled with different flavors. Double bubble gum and licorice in red or black. Gooden plenty and milk duds, tootsie rolls and taffy suckers, all those and more at the corner general store sitting in glass canisters waiting to fill our paper bags for a penny each.
I could go on, and on reliving my memories and bringing them back to life, but at some point, I have to return to reality, even if I don't want to. I suppose one day I'll have to be content to watch my grandkids do all the things I taught them to do as I sit on my porch waiting for the ten o'clock train so I can wave to the engineer and the conductor, who smile and wave back.

Mike 2026