Ice cream horror

 He stopped in his tracks, bending his head towards a familiar sound. Faint in the distance but growing louder with an occasional stop in time as it grew closer. He tried to run towards his house, but his legs wouldn't respond to his brain's call as he joined the others screaming that he was coming, and the noise grew louder. With his legs now in a full-out sprint, he barged through the kitchen door, causing his mom to jump and scold him not to run up on her like that. He tried to form the words as his mom removed a quarter from her apron pocket, which he snatched up, giving her a quick kiss on her cheek. DON'T SLAM THE DOOR, she yelled after him, but he was already joining the other kids, ears tuned to that sound every kid wants to hear on a hot summer evening. THERE HE IS, one kid yelled. I see its head. The music grew louder as it inched closer: the painted-red mouth and the massive blue-and-yellow head, a young kid's worst nightmare. And just like that, the ice cream truck stopped and a man dressed as a clown opened the window, taking orders from kids of all ages. It's the simple things that give us pleasure, like waiting for an ice cream truck, that have all the ingredients of a PG-rated horror show.

Mike 2026                                                          

American dreams and promises

 The year was 1933, a few years into the great depression, and he remembered it well. Thousands were going to bed hungry, only to get up again, searching for any job that might pay enough for a loaf of bread that you'd have to stand in line for, hoping they didn't run out as you waited. Children still played in the streets, girls playing hopscotch while boys too young to work used discarded pieces of board as bats and well-guarded baseballs. Across the river, life was sweet, as those of privilege rode in fancy cars, ate at fine restaurants, and wore anything but the finest clothes. He remembers sitting on the docks, where, in the distance, music played, and the twinkle of bright lights lit the sky. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine it was you over there, a man of success with a cigar sticking out of your mouth, sitting at a shoeshine stand where the attendant had black, stained hands from years of applying polish with his fingers.

Reality found him back on his side of the river and the endless pursuit of employment. Hundreds of men pushing at the gate where a guy with a clipboard selected five of them and said, " That's all for today. You lucked out one morning getting chosen for a road crew to dig dirt that paid two dollars for nine hours of hard work. With those two dollars, he bought a loaf of bread and six potatoes, with enough left for a bottle of milk, something his kids had gone without. That night they gave thanks for the food and to the man who worked so hard, but knowing tomorrow would be another day of empty stomachs and hope.
Time moved forward, and life began to improve as he dug on the road project, becoming a foreman with a six-dollar-a-day paycheck, which allowed his family better food and shelter. From there, change became the norm as government jobs became more plentiful, and the endless days and nights were just memories soon to be left behind. Years passed, and his country was at war. And like thousands of other men, he joined up to fight. But by the grace of God, he came home and started a new life, where times got better, and the American Dream became reality.
He passed away at home, his family beside him, leaving behind a legacy of a man who never stopped looking after his family, never gave up on his promise always to provide the best he could, and never once thought only of himself. He was the poster guy for dreams and promises kept.

Mike 2026                                                           

Mike  2026

What Ive done in life

 I've known love a hundred times over, each time the best time. I've climbed many a mountain only to climb another taller. I've seen war and peace, highs and lows, all of which taught me more about life in some manner. I've had good thoughts and bad, reminding me of good angels and bad, a constant battle going on in my soul. I've taught lessons and was taught by others. I've bared my very soul and begged others to share theirs. I've tried to be a good man, but sometimes I veer off course, lost for a minute until I straighten myself out. I've grown to accept the things I can't change, but I don't have to like them. I've aged with my dignity intact and my mind still sharp enough to recall the happiness I've been blessed with. I've written tens of thousands of words, some morphing into books, some read, others forgotten under layers of dust. I've traveled to faraway places, each one a notch on my belt, a scar on my heart and another story pulled from somewhere in my mind to be shared. I've lived a life I'm mostly proud of, with some reservations about its status as good or evil. I've learned that life is a road with many turns, all of which I've traveled through words I've sometimes thought were magic falling from the heavens and landing on a blank piece of paper. I've only had one true love that's always there for me: my writing, when my heart and mind open up, and my addiction rears its head trying to hide the results. It comforts me in times like that to write happy stories and leave the darkness on the other side of the door. I've found myself wondering at times what will become of my life's work of spinning tales and writing words with an impact that touches like I've been touched. I don't suppose I'll ever have that answer, but I'll never give up until I do.

Mike  2026                                                            

Silent until beckoned

 I keep the broken glass in a multitude of colors, a reminder of the countless bottles that have been washed ashore after decades of being tossed around. I  only wish I could find a way to keep ships from spilling a single drop of oil into the sea, so hundreds of newborn turtles could have their first taste of oil-free saltwater. I wish I could swim with the dolphins and be in awe of the coral reefs in all their many colors, a safe shelter from predators. I would dream I found King Neptune and his court, who waved me on, as it wasn't my time, and mermaids guided me back to the beach, only to be awakened by the sound of small waves gently lifting my body with every passing one pushing me back out to sea, where I long to be living the Navy way of life. Faded tattoos and more salt in my socks than most will ever sail in a lifetime. From sea to shining sea, I can actually smell each port, a lasting memory I can relive at any time. The smell of unknown meat on a stick you'd eat after a drunken liberty, the smell of an alley rich in history, with the smell of noodles and sauce seeping through the bricks. From the coast of Africa to the rock of Gibraltar, from the shores of Spain, Italy, and Greece, smells are preserved in my memory that I will call upon when other memories fade to black. I will remember the smell of coffee brewing, bacon sizzling, and homemade bread. I will remember the smell of a baby after a bath and the smell of someone very special, her perfume forever etched in my heart. Hot dogs and cotton candy, apple pie and fresh mowed grass.Campfires and a springtime rain.The smells of Christmas and scented candles. The smells of my life are neatly tucked away in my memories, where they will live on in harmony alongside other memories, staying silent until beckoned.

Mike  2026                                                         

for the love of pedal cars

 He was seven years old when Santa brought him an orange pedal tractor. It was love at first sight, and very difficult to get him off. For hours, he'd go up and down the driveway, shifting the throttle that was just a piece of metal you could push and pull as his mom watched from the kitchen window. She later told him that thing was the best babysitter known to man. He kept it clean by using the same cloth his dad used to wash his car, who could have been upset if it wasn't so cute. Day after day, he rode his tractor until the day he went outside and found it gone. He let out a scream heard around the neighborhood as his Mom came running outside, thinking the worst, like he had been hurt. She found him running around the yard under the picnic table and behind the trash cans, all to no avail, as his beloved tractor was nowhere to be found. She tried to console him by saying they'd take a walk around the neighborhood and look for it, and when dad got home, they'd take the car and look some more. They went from door to door asking people if they'd seen an orange tractor, but no one had, so they went back home just as Dad was pulling in. And so began the search. It seemed like forever with no sightings until Mom yelled, THERE, THERE IT IS as she pointed to a house where an orange tractor was parked on the porch. Dad parked, and they walked up to the house wanting to be sure it was his, as Santa may have brought another little boy a tractor just like his, but he wasn't buying that because when he first got it, he ran into the barbecue and put a scratch on the right side, and the scratch was right there, he pointed to his dad. Just then, the front door opened, and a lady appeared, asking what she could do for us as He spoke loudly, asking why they stole his tractor. The lady, speaking in a low voice, told us her daughter was a special child who sometimes believes everything she likes belongs to her and has, in the past, brought home ice skates, bowling balls, a little red wagon, and more. She meant no harm, the lady said; she's just lonely, as none of the neighborhood kids wanted to play with her because she was different from them. Then a girl brushed past her mom and headed straight for the tractor, which she quickly got into and wouldn't get out of as she began to cry. Dad suggested he let her take one more ride to the corner and back, then we'd put it in the car and go home. He watched as she peddled and worked the throttle, smiling and waving to cars that sometimes honked and waved back. She sure likes it, doesn't she he asked his folks. It was difficult to get her to stop and bring the tractor back, and she cried when Dad started loading it into the car. He thought for a minute, then asked his folks if he could give it to her as a kind of late Christmas present. They agreed that if that's what he thought was the right thing to do, then Dad pulled it out of the car and set it down in front of her as she jumped in and began her trips up and down the street, happier than her mom had ever seen her. He was quiet on the ride home, but noticed they weren't going home as dad parked the car in front of the toy store. Let's go have a look and see if Santa might have left a couple more pedal cars for them to look at. Once inside, he saw a fire-red firetruck with a bell and a working siren. It had a working fire hose and a genuine firefighter's helmet. WOW, he said, "Would you look at that?" The other was a race car with stickers all over it and a set of racing tires. It had just a driver's seat, real harness belts, and a roll bar. So which one do you like dad asked, pointing to the firetruck. Back home, he put on the captain's helmet, filled the water tank, and turned on the siren as he rang the bell that never quit ringing. His folks said he'd done the right thing, and after a conversation with the girl's mom, they agreed to load his firetruck into the car and come over to play. Up and down the sidewalk they'd go, bells ringing, sirens blaring, and smiles as bright as the day itself. A few years passed, and he outgrew his pedal truck, but he made it a point to stop by and visit her, chasing after her cat or just being together as friends. His old tractor now sits on her porch, filled with toys and other treasures she just had to have.

Mike  2026                                                              

Paper boats and airplanes

 It took forever for him to make his paper boat the way his older brother had taught him. Just the right creases and folds to be perfectly level as it floated down the gutter after a good rain. When the rains came, and the street became a fast-moving river, or so it seemed to him, he set the boat carefully down and counted to three as he let it go speeding down the street not far from a sewer drain that he hoped wouldn't swallow it up. He ran beside it as it dodged small branches and debris like leaves and discarded pieces of trash like candy wrappers and empty cigarette packs. It was a fine boat that stayed upright for almost the entire length of the street. He almost lost it when a passing car made a wave that seemed like a tidal wave to him, but it remained upright, continuing its journey until it reached the end of the street, and he had to make a decision if he'd let it continue across the street where cars went by every few minutes, and the odds of it making it across were slim to none. Or picking it up and taking it safely home to sail another day. He made up his mind to go for it, set it down, and looked both ways for cars. He let it go, watching as it picked up speed and raced across the street, hopefully to the other side, where victory would be his. He was halfway across when he saw a neighbor's dog running towards him at breakneck speed, taking a giant leap into the gutter, grabbing the boat in its jaws, and setting it at his feet, its tail wagging, thinking it was a game of fetch. All in all, it was a fun time for him as he headed home into the garage, where at least ten paper boats waited on a shelf to be launched after the next rains came. And sitting next to the paper boats were another dozen paper airplanes his older brother had taught him to build for sunny days with just enough wind to make them soar around the backyard, sometimes doing loops and other maneuvers he longed to try. The perfect day arrived, with conditions as close to ideal as he could hope for. His brother took a plane and held it ready to let it go up into the sky, catching a thermal that kept it climbing, then nosediving straight down that would surely cause him to crash, but at the last moment, another breeze caught up to it, and it came to rest in an apple tree unscathed and ready to fly again. Then it was his turn as he went over in his mind the lessons he received, and without hesitation, he let it go straight at first, surely going to crash until a sudden gust took hold of it and sent it high in the sky, nearly being knocked out by a flock of passing birds. His paper plane was doing loops and dives until it crashed into a light pole too high to retrieve. He remembers looking up at his plane every day, hoping it would fall, and it did just that on a cold winter's day, when iced wings sent it crashing. Today, he and his brother sit in lawn chairs with a cold beer and fond memories, seeing their kids float boats and fly paper airplanes, a family tradition never to be forgotten.

Mike  2026                                                                       

Where have the comments gone?

 I don't often experience writer's block. It's just that sometimes I don't believe I have any more stories to tell. With well over one thousand already written, how many can there be? In my younger years, I'd get a thought and write it down on bar napkins, paper bags, or anything I could find before it left me. I was spitting out tales like a broken copy machine on the brink of a meltdown.

I've written about every emotion, every age, eternal love, and endless ideas that roll around in my head, just waiting to be chosen and brought to life through my characters. My mind and heart work together to form the words that led to a story that led me to write. It became easy for me to sit down and write two or more tales in one sitting as candles burned out and the sun rose, my fingers trying to keep up with words waiting to be written through my eyes, with no sense of time.
When I decided to write a blog, I imagined a book of very short stories one could read in mere minutes from beginning to end. But who could read just one and stop? Some of my readers told me they would read four or five stories and set the book down to return to later. Someone else told me he had read a few stories on a plane and planned to read that night when he was back at the hotel. It made me extremely happy that people from all walks of life were reading my work, but I couldn't understand why readers weren't commenting on the stories they'd read.
I'm not a computer-friendly person, but I'm just curious why this is happening. My settings are correct, I think, as I have received a few comments from the same few people, very few. I have about 1500 viewers on my blog, and you'd think at least a few would comment, good or bad. If anyone has an answer to my dilemma, reach out to me. I'd appreciate your help.

Mike 2026    mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com                                                                                                                             

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Mike  2026                                       mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com