The last performance

 His grandson pushed the wheelchair into the theater. Plush crimson seats lined the space, now threadbare from countless performances. The musty air faded beneath the voices of legends, whose lifelong dream was to stand on that stage and sing.

Golden rope draped around the velvet drapery, a background for the performer to stand looking out at the smiling faces of the well-to-do awaiting his first performance.

Behind the curtains, a small group of people, mostly family, stood quietly smiling with thumbs up as the singer, the son, the brother, and best friend took center stage amid the tuning of the orchestra, now ready to begin.

He was just a young man that first night, but his voice was one of a master whose music was set in stone. He looked out into the bright lights, and the faces looking back showed their approval, wanting more as he walked off the stage. And he returned.

Ready, Grandpa, his grandson asked. He nodded his head and took one last look at his past, hearing his own voice softly sing as the lights went out and the dusty curtains fell for the last time.

Mike 2026                                              

My first haircut

 It was my first haircut at six. My mom and grandma would comb and brush it. Dad looked on, waiting to boil over. He did just that when he came home from work one night, stopping at what he saw. There I was, my long hair flowing as I danced around the room in a dress. That's it, he said, taking me up to my room and dressing me in boys' clothes. He took my hand and softly told me we were going downtown to see Ted the barber. He was just about to close, but he stayed open for my dad because they were in high school together. Ted went to the corner of the shop and came back with a small wooden horse he had modified to fit on the arms of the barber chair. Have a seat, partner, he said, and with Dad's help, I was on the mighty steed pretending to be my favorite TV character, Mr. Roy Rogers. My dad told Ted to turn me back into a boy, and Ted set to cutting and snipping until my long golden locks lay on the floor beneath me. Then, with a soft brush, he dusted me with talcum powder and pulled a cherry lollipop out of his apron.

Upon arriving back home, Mom and Grandma made a big fuss about me losing my mane, but it didn't take long for them to realize I looked like a boy my age should. Years passed, and as a young man in the era of rock 'n' roll and Woodstock, I grew my hair long again, but that was my decision. Mom would make a fuss when I came for a visit, showing me pictures of my first haircut and of me dressed like a girl, and we all got a good laugh, except Dad, of course. He looked up from his newspaper and grunted, telling me he'd better take me back to see Ted the barber, who I imagined had shaky hands after all this time.

I remember that first haircut and Ted the barber, who's long since passed away, his shop now a Subway sandwich shop. I stop in front of it when I'm in town, looking into the glass window, seeing the six-year-old me with flowing locks looking back at me, wishing for a cherry lollipop.

Mike 2026                                              

The iron maiden

 The sand beneath my feet dared me to keep going, farther from the shore. The sand seemed to go on forever as I ventured deeper. The people on the beach grew smaller. The sounds of the midway fade, then disappear into the sounds of silent waves. The carousel becomes a spinning top, like a child's toy, and disappears into the sand.

The sea now laps at my face, my feet in a scramble with the bottom to see who goes the distance. It's in plain sight now, bobbing to and fro with every swell another inch forward as my lungs begin to burn and fear creeps up.

Another twenty feet and I'll be able to touch the iron maiden as it takes me for a ride on the waves, but remains anchored safely in place as it has a job to do. I climb up on the small platform, waving my arms towards the shoreline, barely making out a small cluster of boys, and I imagine their shouting their approval for my success.

I had to catch my breath and begin my return journey, as the distance was the same and my body was as rested as it would get. I let go of my grip and started swimming until I felt the sand beneath my feet that gently touched down like the first man on the moon.

The sights and sounds of the midway slowly began coming into view through my salt-filled eyes. My boys are still rooting for me, as I was so close to earning my medal of bravery, which was in reality the bottom of a soda can cut off with a dull knife and strung on a piece of old rope. But it was a right of passage and meant a lot to each of us.

I finally reached shore, collapsing on the still warm sand, mostly for effect, as the crowd of young boys vowed to be the next one to swim out to the iron Maden. And back. But today, the bragging rights belonged to me as they hoisted me upon their shoulders, and I proudly showed off my medal for all to see.

Mike 2026           

                                                                                                                                            

Memories of the Junk man

 Many decades ago, as a kid, I'd watch and listen for the junk man coming down our street, walking next to his horse, which he called Barney. A flat-bed trailer, either bursting at the seams with other people's discarded items or almost empty if he hit the wrong street at the wrong time. It was always on a Thursday when the jingling of bells on Barney's collar announced he wasn't far away. JUNK MAN, JUNK MAN hed sing out as people rushed to the wagon with broken tools and discarded toys. Old pots and pans, worn-out shoes, and mismatched linens.

Days before the junk man's arrival, I would scurry about the house asking my mom what we could give to him, and she seemed to always find an item or two that had seen better days. Tarnished silverware and broken tea cups. Rusted milk jugs and cracked clay pots. As his voice grew farther away, Barney's bells went silent, and the junk man headed home.

Home for the junk man and Barney was an old barn that had been in his family for decades, but disaster struck one night when a fire broke out in the house, destroying everything but the barn. His family left, but he remained behind and began filling the barn with items others no longer wanted. As the years went by, he organized the barn into two sections. The first part of the barn was for newly found treasures that needed fixing, and the other half was filled with finished items ready to sell.

Many people stopped in to have a look at the junk man's handy work, some even recognizing something they had disregarded and considered just junk. They'd sometimes spend hours looking at his massive collection as the kids offered Barney an apple or a carrot, and in turn, Barney would nod his head and ring the bells on his collar, to the children's delight.

I don't remember exactly when the bells quit ringing, and Thursdays went by without the song of the junk man. Some say he passed away in his barn, repairing a toaster or putting new tires on a child's bike. Others like myself just believed he got too old, as did Barney, and they passed away together, roaming the streets of eternity with the sound of jingle bells and the call of the junk man.

Mike 2026                                                           

Withdrawal from anxiety meds

 Withdrawal feels like facing down a formidable enemy, even as we pray for God's help to get through it. I never expected to be someone who experienced withdrawal and actually lived to tell the story.

I've taken numerous medications in my lifetime, each addressing issues like blood pressure, prostate, testosterone, and especially anxiety. The anxiety medication, when taken daily, calmed my racing mind and helped control the endless loop of anxious thoughts.

These anxiety medications come in many names, but all with the same promise of defeating the anxiety monsters that lie in wait for the one time you didn't get a refill, and the pharmacy is closed for an extended holiday weekend. The next four days are my story and mine alone as I prepare for the unknowns of withdrawal that's about to slap me in the face, laughing a sinister laugh from the deepest regions of my being.

Day one was doable with just some chills that came and went along with a decrease in food consumption and a creeping feeling that things were going to get worse, much worse. Day two, I found myself going from bed to couch and back again, dozing off for 15-minute intervals, but not resting my mind, which has begun playing a fast-forward version of my thoughts.

Day three, and the devil was fully awake. My skin felt like it had been turned inside out, and my every glance around the room found me looking at non-reality like dancing lamp cords and my dog's hair balls growing legs and scurrying past me seeking a place to hide. At this point, I was fairly certain I wouldn't make it through another day, and the devil would claim victory.

Day four arrived with my mind racing so fast my eyeballs rolled around in my head as I tried to focus on anything other than what was going on inside of me. All I had to do was get through until the mail arrived with my medication. Meanwhile, I became fixated on the wall clock in my living room, with a face that talked and arms and legs that did an Irish jig. I had enough sense left to know it was all in my head and gaining ground quickly, trying to take total control of all my thoughts.

Late on day four, I swallowed my medication finally and lay down on the couch for the devil to leave with his spiked tail dragging behind him in defeat. Not long after, I began to feel like I was once again in control of my thoughts as the medication flowed through my mind and body, and the picture show stopped moving fast forward.

Day five and I'm going about my daily routines as usual, checking out emails and maybe crafting a story for my blog, but within me lies a few remnants of the beast, who I suppose was taking a final bow and vanishing to another someone like me who may have forgotten to refill their meds.

There was nothing funny about what happened to me, and I wouldn't wish it on anybody. It's beyond darkness and without reason or understanding, and all you want is to keep your balance until you're stable again. I never thought at 72 years of age I'd be experiencing a skin worn inside out and the scariest visions I've tried to mask with meds. You can bank on the fact I'll never run out again without some sort of backup plan, like a handful of xnax hidden in a coffee can. And a conversation with my doctor, who's preaching to the choir because I've seen both sides, I'll never forget.

Mike 2026                                        

Story box

 Is it writer's block, or have I just said all I want to say? I've likely used every word combination I know, so maybe this is the final stop for story retirement. But what does one do with over a thousand stories stored away in digital clouds—written, saved, and rarely revisited?

When I began my writing journey, I used paper and pen, doubting I'd ever use a typewriter, and never did. Boxes of stories, all handwritten now, rest with other boxes full of memories and are shoved into an empty space in an already cluttered garage.

I opened a box recently, a smile on my face as I picked something out to read, and instantly remembered where and when I had written it. It was written on a bar napkin, the ink smudged a little from a drink that sat on it. I remember asking the barmaid for a topic and writing something for her. Believe it or not, it was a good pickup line. There were literally hundreds of scraps of paper, even paper bags, and a page from a phone book, all with my words, my stories, and my passion for the written word.

I came across a binder of song lyrics I had written over the years, along with a couple of CDs in demo form, but they never went any further and joined the rest of the forgotten word soldiers in the box of the unread. I've never gone more than a few days without writing something. I had to, was compelled to, and lived for the release of a potential story that was filling my head to the point of exploding. And then came my blog.

A place I could tell stories, most only a few paragraphs depicting fantasy with my own life adventures all rolled up into a neat little story I shared with anyone who would take a minute or two and read them. The years passed, and the stories kept coming almost daily. Hundreds of themes that grew to thousands, but sadly never reached the audience I longed for.

So maybe this is the end of my storytelling, and my keyboard, with well-worn keys, should be put in a box, in a well-deserved resting place among the forgotten stories I had such hopes for. Who knows? Maybe one day my box will be found by a family member clearing out my life's stories, and they will take the time to read them and find themselves right where I wanted them to be.

Mike 2026                                        

A grammar school valentine

 She took the small cardboard heart from the shelf where it had sat gathering dust for a very long time. She wiped the top with her sleeve. Then she opened it. The faint smell of chocolate drifted towards her—another trip down memory lane. Grammar school valentines so many alike, but a certain few were kept as they had more meaning than the school's bully card did. She took a card out of the heart-shaped box from Billy, whom she had the biggest crush on in the fourth grade. She traced his name with her finger, recalling laughter in the schoolyard as he smiled at her, melting her heart.

She knew all the verses on the various cards and other reminders of Valentine's past. A red ribbon she wore in her hair at the school dance, a white handkerchief with a red heart embroidered by her grandmother, and even a couple of candy hearts with simple but memorable words like "Be my valentine," hardly legible anymore.

Then there was the stack of red envelopes postmarked over the years. She always kept them for last as funny valentines were replaced with real letters of love. One by one, she read every word slowly as if it were the first time. He wrote about ports he visited and life on a Navy ship. He professed his love for her in words he had often written on a star-filled night, looking at the sky, knowing she would be looking at them with him as tears fell from her eyes, coming to rest on his own tear-stained words.

Time had taken its toll on the faded letters, just as it had on her heart, when she realized she'd read for the last time, the final expression of love from her childhood crush, Billy. She put the letters back into the heart-shaped box where they'd remain until next year, gathering dust and a few more tears of both sorrow and joy, knowing she was loved when she traced his name on a grammar school Valentine.

Mike 2026