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                                                      

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