A tale of the sea

 The sea was rough, violent at times, like a fisherman's bobber when getting a big hit. The swells grew to great heights as the captain fought to keep her upright, knowing that at any time a rogue wave could appear out of nowhere and send the ship to Davy Jones' Locker.

Down below, the crew latched themselves to anything to keep from being tossed around like rag dolls as cargo shifted, posing a great danger to life and limb. The smell of vomit and the cries of the youngest shipmates echoed against the wind that passed through the wooden vessel.
On deck, the giant sails lay scattered and torn, the masts bending with every powerful gust of Neptune's fury. The captain and first mate, blinded by the salt spray, tied themselves to the helm every second, a challenge to stay afloat.
Minutes seemed like hours and hours like days as the crippled ship beat the odds and survived the journey. A new day arrived with calming seas and gentle winds, and the tasks of repairing what they could with what little they had. Portholes were opened, letting the fresh air in, and decks were scrubbed by the youngest of sailors who now knew the meaning of sea sickness.
The ship made port on the seventh day after the storm. Battered but not beaten, and sailors long to feel the ground beneath their feet. Weeks passed, and the ship was repaired and ready to sail once again as supplies were brought on board and a few new sailors replaced the lads whose stomachs couldn't take another round of Mother Nature.
Back at sea, the captain leaned against a rail, smoking his pipe, looking at the calm seas and guiding stars, wondering what this journey would bring. But that wasn't of concern as he knew he and his crew would face anything the gods of the seas threw at them. They were sailors, and sailors would accept nothing less than to be buried at sea should their ship succumb to nature's fury.

One month passed, and one more storm was approaching. Another Nor'easter, more powerful than their last encounter with an angry sea. The captain kept his composure as he shouted commands to the deckhands, some with fear in their eyes, and to other old salts, who sang seafaring songs to ease the fear of the unknown.
It was a rogue wave that beat them. The wooden ship was battered by forces that couldn't be beaten as masts snapped and tons of crushing sea came down upon them with a vengeance. All that remained of the ship were splinters of wood bobbing up and down like that fisherman's bobber. Screams of drowning sailors turned to silence as one by one they found themselves in Davy Jones ' locker, where they remain to this day.
Some say the ship can be seen in all its glory sailing the sea, its captain leaning against a rail, smoking his pipe, as sailors line the deck, singing sea-faring songs. Probably just another tale of the sea, but who's to say?                                                                 

Mike 2026

Old truck new life

 He didn't look up from the task at hand. He had to finish fixing the truck he uses every day around the farm. Mom said he should replace it with something newer, but he argued that his old truck only needed some TLC once in a while, usually sooner rather than later. Today it was the starter, so yesterday he hitched a ride into town, where the auto zone came up with a replacement starter. The kid behind the counter was blowing the dust off the box and laughing when he whispered to him that, from now on, he'd have to special-order any more parts for his old truck.

As he left the store, he saw a couple of his old buddies lingering around the store. It seemed to have become a meeting place to swap stories about their farms, equipment, and the rising prices. He stopped to chat for a minute, but needed to get the truck running again, so he said goodbye and left.
His son, who just turned eleven, was waiting for him as he got home. It seemed he told him he could help fix the truck, which he had forgotten, but it was okay, as he valued the time they spent together. The boy was learning about the various tools and their uses, and he soon became very well-versed in every tool in the toolbox. The garage became like a surgery room as tools were requested and quickly handed to dad, never once giving him the wrong tool." Fire it up," his dad said as the kid slid into the truck and turned the key, to the sound of a healed victim of age.
Five years passed, and the kid got his driver's license and also inherited the old truck he knew inside out. Some of the kids pointed and laughed as he pulled into the parking lot, asking whether the scrapyard had reported it missing. He didn't respond, but little did they know he had saved enough money from his chores to send it off to the body shop for a complete makeover. New sheet metal and body filler were used, along with primer, and everything was sanded by hand until it was as smooth as a baby's rear end. He had chosen a dark cherry-red color with a black leather interior. A set of deep-dish chrome wheels finished it off, and it was ready to show to his family and friends.
Dad was more excited than anyone else as he walked around the old truck, rubbing its glossy shine and acting like a kid at Christmas. That can't be the same truck, he said as he climbed in and marveled at the chrome instruments and the soft leather seating. The cherry on the cupcake was an antique license tag that only vehicles over twenty years old could display.
On Monday morning, as he pulled into the school parking lot, kids turned towards a rumbling sound some knew as dual exhaust with cherry-bomb mufflers. Some ran towards it in awe at what they were seeing, as he parked and took out a soft towel to rub away any handprints. Even the principal and a few teachers came over to have a look at the beautiful truck, the one he had been asked about, to see if the scrap yard was missing a truck.
His truck rode in the town's parades as well as custom cars and trucks events around the county. He took home his fair share of trophies, and when he went off to college, he wrapped it in a tarp and stored it in the barn. Four years passed, and with a diploma in hand, he returned home and uncovered his truck. His dad helped him change oil and put the tires back on while his little brother softly wiped every inch of it with a soft cloth. The three of them hopped in and headed for town, where people shouted hello with thumbs up and whistles.
He kept that truck to someday give to his son, but that was years away, and he couldn't take it to his new job five hundred miles away, so he put the tarp back on and stored it once again in dads barn where its been said he would start it up sometimes listening to the rumble of the cherry bomb mufflers and the smell of leather. He smiled as he saw a picture of himself and his eldest son standing next to a rusted, almost always broken truck, paperclipped to the visor.

Mike 2026                                                            

Over 1160 very short stories

 Over 1160 very short stories

THAT NUMBER GROWS EVERY DAY.
Are you a lover of stories who is always looking for something to take you away from reality, but the stories are sometimes too long to read in a single sitting? I believe I have that answer.
Over the past years, I have tapped into my creative side and written over 1,000  very short stories on my blog, mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com. Unlike most, which have dozens of paragraphs, mine contain only a few that cover many different life memories from days past.
Go back in time and relive the memories, the friendships, love, and sorrow. and many more topics. Discover times in your life that you've forgotten but can now bring back through my very short stories. With so many different topics, I believe everyone will find something that takes them back in time and evokes memories of long-forgotten people, places, and times we thought were lost forever.
Take a minute to visit my blogs and see why so many readers have chosen my very short stories over lengthy ones. When, after reading a few paragraphs, your memories kick in and leave you wanting to read more.
Thank you to all of you who have commented on my work, telling me how, after reading certain stories, you traveled back in time, reliving times in your life you thought were gone forever. Please leave me your comments, as each story I've written was written with you in mind.

Mike 2026  mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com 

The long road

 I sat on the front porch of the house my great-grandad built over 100 years ago. As a kid, I had to leave the house an hour before the bus arrived because the dirt road to the stop was over a mile from the house. I often wondered why there was so much distance from the house to the county road, and my dad told me that Granddad wasn't very fond of people in general, so he built the house as far back as his property would allow.

On either side of the long road were row upon row of corn that my dad said were grown during the Great War to feed the troops, and to this day still produce corn for worldwide hunger programs. Granddad may not have cared for people, but he cared for his country.

When I sit in silence on the porch, I do hear nature like the songs of birds and croaks of frogs. I hear the cows mooing and chickens cackling, and my dog barking at the wind. Unlike today, when granddad tilled the earth, he used mules and manpower, quite a lot of manpower,  and the only sounds were him giving commands to the mules and the occasional curse words when they didn't listen to him.
Today, I spend hours on a tractor or combine, noisy machines that would have granddad rolling over in his grave and covering his ears. But when my day is done, and the machines go silent, the peaceful moments return to me, sitting on the porch granddad built, and I understand why that road is so long.

Mike 2026                                                             

                                               

A lifestyle

 He was shy as a boy, tall and lanky with a heart of gold, his mom would say. His dad was strict but fair and always had the last word. His hair was cut by a barber, not a stylist, and his clothes were only replaced when a growth spurt seemed to happen overnight. His Mom would buy him blue jeans that had plenty of room to be rolled down as he grew. Little did she know that rolled-up jeans were all the rage. He remembered the day he went into school wearing what was called a Dickey. He saw it in a magazine and thought how cool it would be to be the first one in school to have one, but that wasn't the case. Dozens of boys began wearing them in all kinds of colors. Just another fad that diminished over time.

Time passed, and the lifestyle changed in many ways, including the rise of bell-bottom jeans and fringed shirts. Tye dyed everything, and peace signs were everywhere you looked. Book covers were plastered with stickers, and long hair for boys and girls was seen on almost everybody. His Dad strongly opposed the hair, but somehow Mom convinced him to let it go, saying he'd outgrown that fad, too. Eventually, it did pass as I was sworn into the Navy after high school and stood in line as ten Navy barbers made quick work shaving my head so short I looked like Mr. Clean.
More time passed, and I was discharged from the Navy, returning home to decide what was next for me. It was 1974, and the hippy lifestyle was still very much alive, something I had wanted to experience since getting a taste of it before my enlistment. With money I had saved in the Navy, I bought a van and tricked it out with a bed and a small fridge. It had a black light, posters everywhere, and a sound system that shook the windows. That first year, I traveled to places I had read about but never seen, like the mountains of Montana, with stars so bright you could read from their brightness.
I'd come upon others like myself in clusters, often joining them around a campfire where guitars filled the night air with song and joints were passed around until daylight broke through the darkness, and most were fast asleep until being woken by someone yelling the cops were coming up the mountain. It was a mad dash to gather your belongings and hit the road as quickly as possible. On one such occasion, I wasn't fast enough and was blocked in by the police and arrested for having weed in my van. They laughed among themselves at the ways we dressed and our long, sometimes braided hair done by a stranger around the campfire. And I didn't do myself any favors by calling them pigs and other choice names. I spent three days in jail and was released after the judge said it was my one and only time, and that he better not ever see me in his courtroom again. I was escorted to the county line by the oinkers and headed down the road to my next stop.
1977 and still on the road. I passed through dozens of small towns where the lifestyle remained a part of the culture, meeting many new friends along the way. I met a girl hitching and picked her up, asking where she was headed. She said her grandma had passed away and left he a cottage in the woods where she planned on living the simple life. I told her I'd love to see her cottage and offered to take her the five hundred miles to get there. We took our time, stopping along the road at places worth seeing, like giant waterfalls and redwood trees. Occasionally, other free spirits who lived in small towns and villages were more than happy to share a meal or a song.
We arrived at the cottage, set on several acres with woods and a small pond, and the peace and quiet we both loved so much. It needed some tlc but I was handy and offered to stay for a while and help her get the place in order. A while turned out to be six months, with a special closeness our hearts felt for one another. I took on carpentry work, and she sold herbs and spices to tourists passing through town. We were happy, and in time, we had a child we named Arrow. When we were target shooting with a bow and arrow, she went into labor, and we delivered baby Arrow in the bathtub, where the warm water soothed both him and his mom.
Many years passed, and the three of us made a good life together. We held on to our free-spirited way of doing things and taught our son the ways of the land and all who inhabited it. The old van finally pooped out and now serves as a modified chicken coupe, providing us with many eggs that we sometimes sell in town or trade for rock candy. I believe I speak for all of us when I say that happiness is a daily emotion we never take for granted. Love is forever, and freedom of choice is so much more than a lifestyle; it's who you are, and that's what's important.

Mike  2026                                                     

Joys of simplicity

 Only those of us who lived this far can truly understand the happiness of simplicity, or the joy of lifelong friendships that weren't solicited on some chat room. We grew up in a post-war society when family was everything and friendship was earned. Manners were expected, as was discipline when a wrong must be made right.

Men walked on the outside of a lady just in case a passing car hit a puddle, and always held her car door open, while tipping their hats was a show of friendliness and nothing more. Cat's calls and whistles were all in good fun, as the construction workers just wanted her to know she was a looker.
Don't mistake me: there are a lot of beautiful women today who go to great lengths to look amazing through surgery, but back then, natural beauty was in the lady herself. The way she carried herself and the confidence she had in her clothing choices. Like June Cleaver on the Leave It to Beaver television show, always wearing a simple dress, high heels, an apron, and a stylish hairdo.

It was a time when Saturday night meant dancing at a large dance hall with a live band that played all the day's hits. No screaming guitars or fireworks, just couples in love, others looking for it. It was always crowded as a slow dance brought couples closer and the smell of perfume and aftershave collided in mid-air.
Those days of courting a girl and asking her father for permission to marry her made more than one guy gulp his words as he came face-to-face with a father's stern warning: have her home by eleven, not one minute later.

Friday nights at the drive-in movies meant some heavy kissing, but no meant no, and stop meant stop as she fixed her lipstick and brushed her hair, asking him to get her some popcorn and a Coke. which he did, talking under his breath as he walked away, knowing even first base wasn't going to happen.

Back then, after the war, men who served came home to offers of new jobs in many factories that had been converted to the war effort, now producing steel, paper, and dozens of other things the country needed to rebuild. Others dressed in business attire searched for jobs in the business sector, where many succeeded. New houses sprang up like tulips on a late spring day, creating row after row of cookie-cutter houses nestled together in what was named subdivisions.

Backyard swimming pools and Sunday picnics, brand-new automobiles proudly shown off as the men gathered around the owner, explaining every little detail. While inside, a new bride shows off all the modern conveniences, like an electric coffee pot and an automatic ice maker in the freezer. And her most prized possession was the washer and dryer that made her life so much easier.
From there, as the years passed and things began to change, life seemed to get easier, maybe even too easy. More gadgets that saved time and less time with family. Although many of us tried to go along with the changes, we also tried to keep certain traditions alive for the next generations.

Then everything changed at lightning speed as the computer arrived in our world. A magical machine capable of solving complex mathematics and allowing scientists to explore new horizons they never could before. In the scope of things, every home had a computer, making schoolwork much easier and shopping possible without going to a store. Video games were designed, and every kid in America and around the world would soon have handheld controllers in their hands as zombie-like looks replaced backyard games, ushering in the age of obesity.

But I realized in time that if I was going to live in this new age, I'd have to adapt to certain things. My grandson did his best to show me how to send emails, browse, and Google, and even hooked me up with a dating app for seniors looking for love. That backfired when I saw the picture he posted on the site, taken when I was 20 years younger. Needless to say, the first meeting didn't go very well.

I'm 72 years old now and content with living the way I always have. I like the simple life of opening a lady's door, and I always walk on the outside in case of a passing car going through a puddle. On occasion, I put on my best suit, splash on some Aqua Velva, and head to the old dance floor, still standing with a thousand stories. With any luck, I'll ask a lady of my age to have a dance or two.

Mike 2026                                                            

The sky as I see it

 To most, looking at the sky means little. But to me, it's like looking at an artist's renderings of barnhouse animals or a rabbit chasing something. The sky is a gathering place for stars and the ever-changing shades of blue. The sky can be calm, with clouds as soft as a pillow, but it can also become angry, surging over the calm, crushing it with darkness and the roar of thunder. It moves quickly and with a purpose until it runs out of juice and disappears, sometimes leaving behind destruction and heartbreak.

The sky will make you pause as you look upward and see jet trails and flocks of birds.  It gives off a scent as rain begins to fall, sometimes on one side of the street and not the other. It's like a child at times, turning the bathroom faucet on, off, and on again.

At night, when a million stars are visible, we look up and try to understand just how vast the sky really is and how small we are. We make wishes on a shooting star whose lifespan is over, dropping from the heavens in one last ball of fire, soon to be extinguished somewhere around the globe, as it no longer belongs in the sky.

To most, looking at the sky is just something that's there, but to me, it's a place where earth meets sky, and imaginations run wild.

Mike 2026