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                                                    

Long live Rock

 He put an album on the turntable he bought decades ago. It was part of the entertainment center, which also contained a television set and a small cabinet, usually used to keep alcohol of one flavor or another. There was a rack to store records, and with a touch, you could close it, leaving it to look like just another piece of furniture.

The television quit working years ago, but the turntable could still play, even though the sound quality wasn't all that good by today's standards. That was okay with him, as it was the sound, he grew to love, and nothing else could compare.
Led Zeppelin was playing "Stairway to Heaven " as he sat back in his recliner and drifted away to better days when peace was preached, and news was meant to inform you, not petrify you. He remembered when his friends would gather, bringing their own records to play on his turntable, since most of them had only a cheap player with little clarity.
He remembers standing in line, no matter the weather, at the record store on the first day of a new release by bands like Black Sabbath, Jethro Tull, Aerosmith, Deep Purple, and many more that, after all these years, still hold a place in the rack inside his council. Many records had the lyrics printed on the back or on a separate page, so that they could learn to sing along with the music.
A lot of so-called hard rock songs were thought to be the work of the devil, which you could barely make out by playing the record on a slower speed. It was a great marketing scheme to sell albums.
He remembers putting two big box speakers in his car, which he had to camouflage so no one would walk off with them. He and his friends would drive into the country listening to a rock radio station that played hit after hit as they passed around a joint, their ears ringing from the hidden speakers. He smiled, thinking he actually did lose some hearing in his left ear.
That era belongs to those who listened to hard rock and still do. He believed they should call themselves the hearing aid generation. There were times they'd sit on top of a country hill where speakers would be set on rocks a ways from the car. They'd lie down on the soft grass, looking to the stars and pass around a bottle of boons farm, like strawberry hill, goofy grape, and an apple something. Clouds of pot slowly danced around them as they waited for a song, they knew the lyrics to, then they'd all sing along as a couple of guys played the air guitar, trying to capture the moves of Jimmy Page or Hendrix.
As he sits, afraid to look in the mirror, he tugs at his memory book, taking him back to those carefree times when tickets to a live performance were like winning the lottery. They counted the days until the concert came to town and spent hours getting ready, dressed in worn-out jeans and some T-shirts with the band's picture on the front. Their hair was long and usually needed washing, but that didn't matter that night.
They arrived early to the Zepplin concert, scoring some weed and plowing their way to the front of the stage, packed in like sardines. They got in the mood as the warm-up band played cover tunes blasting through the tower speakers, some bigger than a refrigerator stacked high above the stage. And then, behind the curtain, a familiar song began to play. Softly at first, the lights flashing with color as the curtain rises, and there stand the boys of Led Zeppelin. And nothing in his life ever prepared him for what was happening. The sounds were amplified a thousand times over his home system, a bug in a trap, screaming to be set free.
Sixty years later, he still plays his records, some labeled with a ticket stub taped to the album cover, a total of ten. His ears are damaged, his lungs smoked out. And his recollections of those years have all but bid him goodbye. But somewhere inside, he's still a guy who lived for the music and the music lived for him.

Mike 2026                                                        

Winter treats

 The woods were white with blankets of snow, the remaining leaves drifting slowly downward towards their final resting place. Silence filled the freezing air like a knife piercing your every breath and every step, the sound of crunching boots as you pushed forward to a valley where early risers grazed on the smallest patches of greenery.

You jump a little as you hear the snapping of a twig, then another closer to you, and you stop dead in your tracks, your undivided attention on high alert. Very slowly, you move forward listening, but only your own noise is audible as you shrug it off and continue.
Finally, the valley comes into view below, and you begin the descent, careful not to spill the cargo you've brought along. It isn't easy going, and you slip more than once, sending you downward much faster than you'd like. Two deer hear you and disappear into the cover of trees as you come to a stop, shaking the snow off  yourself, laughing at all the times as a kid you braved that hill  down to the valley.
It was years ago, and many winters, that you  first came here, walking towards the valley, your backpack bulging with snacks for the deer who called this place home. You unpacked your pack and set out two bowls that you filled with fresh greens you grew in your greenhouse, two apples, and two chunks of salt that they really liked. Then the waiting game began as you found the stump from last winter's visit, which you had to dig out from under the snow. It was maybe twenty yards away, so you sat and waited to see if they felt brave enough to get closer, and you didn't have to wait long.
You sat as still as a statue, even holding your breath as the deer inched closer to you. Very slowly, you held two apples in your outstretched hand, hoping they'd know you meant them no harm, just a winter's morning treat. As time passed, you tossed the apples a few feet ahead of you and put your gloves back on before frostbite set in. Then it happened: the deer walked slowly towards the apples, making a wide circle around you, sniffing the air, and finally realizing you were a friend. The munching of the apples was the only sound in the valley. You slowly got up and moved the bowls closer to them, and in seconds, they had their heads in the bowls, licking them clean, then disappearing back into the safety of the trees.
You sat for a while, the smell of the deer still in your nose, an earthy smell, a smell you liked. They wouldn't come back, he knew, not until you went back, which you did through the cold winter months. They would come out of hiding as they heard you sliding down the hill, avoiding fallen trees until you came to a stop. The deer showed themselves as they walked up to you, sniffing the pack until you opened it, giving them each an apple. They ate the greens and slowly walked to the salt licks, enjoying their winter treats.
Springtime took the snow away, and the woods were alive with the sounds of new births and lush fields of green. You set out on a springtime journey to the valley with your pack full of treats you hoped to give to the two deer you had gotten close to on their terms. You arrived at the hill leading down to the valley and stopped short of descending, as mud and more mud covered the hill. Looking down into the valley, you spotted two deer and their baby, who had gotten stuck in the mud and was calling out to his parents for help. You didn't hesitate; you hurried to the valley and, without hesitation, jumped into the mud and pulled the little one out.
Sitting on the stump, you reached into your pack and came out with two and a half apples. not knowing if the young deer was just drinking its mother's milk. The mother quickly ate the half apple, which told you the little guy wasn't doing grown-up treats. As years passed, you continued your journey to the valley, each year another baby and a growing family. Other animals who called the valley home came up to you, gently taking an apple from your hands and looking at you with big, round eyes as if saying thank you.
We buried you in that valley marked by the stump you sat on, as the deer families kept slowly coming out from the trees, looking for the man with the apples and a gentle, loving soul.

Mike 2026                                                              

Flat pennies

 He held her hand as they watched the train pass by, the sound of the steel wheels on the tracks, looking for the end car where his grandpa, the conductor, would be. As it came into view, the boy jumped up and down with excitement, and for a fleeting moment, he saw his grandpa waving as he passed by. He took his grandmother's hand again as they walked to town on the side of the tracks, a shortcut they usually took. There wasn't enough time to stay and watch for another train as they stepped away from the tracks down a slight hill that led them to town. Don't forget your penny, she would tell him as he reached into his pocket and placed the coin on a track, looking around for yesterday's penny that, if he was lucky, would be close by and flat as a pancake. But not today.

He held his grandma's hand as they walked into town, a quaint little place with no high-rise buildings and no heavy traffic, just wooden buildings that provided most everything they needed. There was the general store, a pharmacy, and a butcher shop. Doc Melvins' office was at the edge of town, and a church stood tall up on a hill.
As they went inside the general store, he let go of his grandmother's hand and pressed his nose to the big glass containers of penny candies. There were jawbreakers, licorice sticks, bubble gum, and tons more to choose from. He handed the shopkeeper five pennies as he took his time choosing just the right kind, not seeing his grandmother's smile as she put three more pennies on the counter.
They left the store and saw Grandpa's train sitting on the tracks in front of the depot, hissing until the next scheduled departure. Out of the cloud of steam, he saw his grandpa looking so good in his uniform, walking towards them, bending down on one knee, his outstretched arms ready to hug his grandson. Did you see me wave? he asked as he handed his grandpa a licorice stick, his favorite candy of all time. I did see you, he answered, and guess what he asked the boy? What he asked. How would you like to come with me on the next train out? It's a short run, and we will be home in time for supper.

He said goodbye to his grama, letting go of her hand and taking grampa's in his as they boarded the last car together. You sit down on that bench, he told him, while I collect the tickets. Then he heard his grampa yelling all aboard and he knew that meant the train would soon depart. Slowly, the mighty engine roared to life as the steel wheels inched forward, building up steam and heading out of town. Grampa joined him in the last car as they looked out the window, seeing other boys waving to them as the train passed. He waved back and heard his friends calling his name, shouting and jumping up and down like they'd seen a movie star or something.

At the end of the line, they took a taxi back to town, where Gramma was waiting outside the general store with bags of groceries. Just in time, she said, handing the boy a sack to carry. Grampa took the others as they walked up the hill and onto the tracks headed for home. They passed by a penny on the tracks, the one he put there earlier, hoping tomorrow would find it flat as a pancake. The three of them held hands as Grampa whistled a song, and Grama joined in singing, and as for me, I was the luckiest kid in the whole world who got to be a conductor for a day and proudly showed off my junior conductor badge that Grampa traded me for my last licorice stick

Mike  2026                                                             

He held her hand as they watched the train pass by, the sound of the steel wheels on the tracks, looking for the end car where his grandpa, the conductor, would be. As it came into view, the boy jumped up and down with excitement, and for a fleeting moment, he saw his grandpa waving as he passed by. He took his grandmother's hand again as they walked to town on the side of the tracks, a shortcut they usually took. There wasn't enough time to stay and watch for another train as they stepped away from the tracks down a slight hill that led them to town. Don't forget your penny, she would tell him as he reached into his pocket and placed the coin on a track, looking around for yesterday's penny that, if he was lucky, would be close by and flat as a pancake. But not today.
He held his grandma's hand as they walked into town, a quaint little place with no high-rise buildings and no heavy traffic, just wooden buildings that provided most everything they needed. There was the general store, a pharmacy, and a butcher shop. Doc Melvins' office was at the edge of town, and a church stood tall up on a hill.
As they went inside the general store, he let go of his grandmother's hand and pressed his nose to the big glass containers of penny candies. There were jawbreakers, licorice sticks, bubble gum, and tons more to choose from. He handed the shopkeeper five pennies as he took his time choosing just the right kind, not seeing his grandmother's smile as she put three more pennies on the counter.
They left the store and saw Grandpa's train sitting on the tracks in front of the depot, hissing until the next scheduled departure. Out of the cloud of steam, he saw his grandpa looking so good in his uniform, walking towards them, bending down on one knee, his outstretched arms ready to hug his grandson. Did you see me wave? He asked as he handed his grandpa a licorice stick, his favorite candy of all time. I did see you, he answered, and guess what he asked the boy? What he asked. How would you like to come with me on the next train out? It's a short run, and we will be home in time for supper.

He said goodbye to his grama, letting go of her hand and taking grampa's in his as they boarded the last car together. You sit down on that bench, he told him, while I collect the tickets. Then he heard his grampa yelling, "All aboard!" and he knew it meant the train would soon depart. Slowly, the mighty engine roared to life as the steel wheels inched forward, building up steam and heading out of town. Grampa joined him in the last car as they looked out the window, seeing other boys waving to them as the train passed. He waved back and heard his friends calling his name, shouting and jumping up and down like they'd seen a movie star or something.

At the end of the line, they took a taxi back to town, where Gramma was waiting outside the general store with bags of groceries. Just in time, she said, handing the boy a sack to carry. Grampa took the others as they walked up the hill and onto the tracks headed for home. They passed by a penny on the tracks, the one he put there earlier, hoping tomorrow would find it flat as a pancake. The three of them held hands as Grampa whistled a song, and Grama joined in singing, and as for me, I was the luckiest kid in the whole world who got to be a conductor for a day and proudly showed off my junior conductor badge that Grampa traded me for my last licorice stick

Mike  2026                                                                     

Creaking floorboards

 There are days I write in the sunlight and others by the light of the moon. There are often candles lit or maybe an amber bulb in the desk lamp. I need no distractions like traffic or music, just a place in the middle of the house, behind closed doors, where the creaking floorboards beneath my feet are the only sound I hear.

I love writing in the morning when my senses are waking up, and my head hasn't processed anything yet, so the words coming out and onto the paper or screen are as fresh as the coffee brewing in the kitchen.
Nothing to a writer is too crazy or too far-fetched to be written down, and looking at it later, once the caffeine has kicked in and the cobwebs disappear into the shadows.
The characters come alive as you see their faces, and you smile knowing you created them in your mind, yet they seem so real. It's true that some of the people, places, and things you write about are based on real life, but it's you who take an image and watch it mature into something uniquely yours.
I suppose I write because I get so involved in telling stories, I'm detached from reality for a while, and that's a good thing, believe me. But even I know sooner or later, you have to get up from your chair and venture out into the real world. That crazy place where monsters roam the streets and voices hurt your head. A place where new characters are created as you turn around and run back to the room in the middle of the house, and creaking floorboards.

Mike 2026                                                       

A tender age

 He was a boy of tender age, where the smallest of things intrigued him. Floating a paper boat down the street after a heavy rain. Or watching a flock of birds head south for the winter. Every day brought with it something new he'd never seen before, and others of later years took for granted. Footprints in the snow, the warmth of a campfire, and so many stars that made him smile.

He was a boy of tender age who still wanted his mom when he scraped his knee, crying until she kissed away the pain. He learned about numbers and animals from schoolbooks and wanted to be in the circus when he grew up, which always made him smile. Or maybe join the Navy as his older brother did. He missed him especially when he had a bad dream and crawled into bed with him, but now there's just an emptiness.
He was a boy of tender age who wanted to be just like his dad, a superhero who knew so many things. He learned to fix a car, mow the lawn, and repair things around the house until they couldn't be fixed anymore, then he'd buy a new whatever it was. He wore the same kind of ball cap as his dad and carried a red bandana in his back pocket. He rolled a box of candy cigarettes in his t-shirt sleeve, as his dad did with a pack of Lucky Strikes, which made him smile.
He was a boy of tender age when time sped up, and the world grew complex, with many questions asked and many left unanswered. But that young boy remained tender in the hearts of those who knew him, and his dreams sometimes did come true. He joined the circus and made people laugh in towns and cities around the world. He was a man of tender age, with a red rubber nose, floppy shoes, and a smile without paint.

Mike 2026                                                            

Sanctuary

 There was an entire house filled with love and laughter at one time. Plenty of room for kids to run around and play, the sound of their joy faded somewhere in the distant past. Now he sits in a small room, once a bedroom, with no bed, replaced with a desk and chair, and memories hung on the walls for him to stare at, taking him back to times he cherished.

Candles placed around the room gave him a sense of peace as the flames danced in the breeze from a fan that could snuff them out at any time. This room was his sanctuary, where he could write his stories that mostly went unread, but being read didn't matter to him. He wrote because he loved the words that turned into sentences that may or may not become a book.
When he was deep into telling a story, the old house grew silent, no faucets dripping or a boiler that could explode. No creaky floorboards or a house mouse scurrying along the baseboards. It was as if his room was the heart of the house, and the memories he recalled were veins pumping words into every room, every hallway, and every sound of life that he longed for one more time.
As one story ended and another was just a thought away, he let the candles blow out, leaving him in the darkness with only a sliver of light from a crescent moon. He leaned back in his chair, falling into a dream state of sleep that didn't come quickly until the words he sought crept into his head, where a new story was being born.

Mike 2026