Author Mike OConnor: Just a number

Author Mike OConnor: Just a number:      I don’t walk like I did a ways back. I kind of shuffle hearing each step so I don’t trip and fall. I keep my hands deep in my pock...

Just a number

     I don’t walk like I did a ways back. I kind of shuffle hearing each step so I don’t trip and fall. I keep my hands deep in my pockets like I did as a kid, guarding my change. I look down more than up I figure I might find something that way, besides people don’t smile at you much anymore, guess they have a lot on their minds and can't express some happiness to an old man. When it rains, and everybody hurries for shelter, I walk slower looking up and letting the drops fall into my thirsty mouth. Some might say I’m a bit odd, but I just think I’m me and I’m ok with that. When the snow comes, I lay down and make snow angels laughing and remembering fun times past. I don't think about getting sick, and if I do, well I drink some good whiskey and sweat it out guess that's why I never minded coming down with  something. Life is full of surprises and spur of the moment decisions and age won't stop me from experiencing as many as I am given. There’s a hurricane coming they say, I wonder if those old wings my brother and me made decades ago are still hanging in the garage?

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Author Mike OConnor: The last tear

Author Mike OConnor: The last tear:     He didn’t recall the moment he got old. He only saw his reflection in the mirror and thought it was his dead grandfather playing ga...

The last tear

    He didn’t recall the moment he got old. He only saw his reflection in the mirror and thought it was his dead grandfather playing games again. Inside he was still a lad growing up on the streets of Dublin where survival meant being tuff and full of Gods grace. He learned to fight from his grandfather under the watchful eye of his dad, who also was taught by granddad. Mom didn’t like the fighting and got her fair share of time picking bits of gravel from fresh wounds. It was a rough life back then as he walked away from the reminder of age. He lived here all his life and saw wars against brothers who shared different values and beliefs, never knowing when and where they may meet up again exchanging blows and eventually gunshots. Like most things, time heals but never to the very core as some beliefs we take to our graves. He lit his pipe and had a seat on the porch looking out over the land he fought for and the land that would consume him when the last tear fell from his face.

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Author Mike OConnor: Sleep can wait

Author Mike OConnor: Sleep can wait:        Sleep can wait as I still have minutes to fill. Closing my eyes only brings darkness and my wish is for the light. I am tired, but...

Sleep can wait

     Sleep can wait as I still have minutes to fill. Closing my eyes only brings darkness and my wish is for the light. I am tired, but most are when age runs past you so quickly you didn't notice. Now is the time when all I want is to see my babies grow and listen to their wisdom as they listened to mine. I’m not much of a late person anymore, but I can remain awake long enough to watch a movie with a small hand holding onto mine. My slightly shaking hands can still throw a ball or remove the training wheels from a hand me down bicycle that so many happy moments were made on. My steps are slowing, but they haven't stopped so I look for chances to take a slow walk with the young ones who still look up to  me. Yes, sleep can wait there are minutes to be filled, walks to be taken and love to be shared in stolen moments in the light.

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Author Mike OConnor: In the cards

Author Mike OConnor: In the cards:      Some moments in life can’t be measured by how good they were, or how bad. Some just have to stand alone and be remembered as a once i...

In the cards

     Some moments in life can’t be measured by how good they were, or how bad. Some just have to stand alone and be remembered as a once in a lifetime feeling.

     He saw her standing at the bus stop on a dreary winter day. She was shivering, her small frame no match for the bone freezing winds that almost toppled her over. She had a scarf around her neck that covered half her face only leaving her eyes exposed with frozen lashes. He sat in his warm car stopped at the light wanting so badly to go to her rescue, but he knew that wasn’t in the cards.

     Sitting at the light on a beautiful summer day he saw her again standing at the bus stop. She wore a colorful dress with red high heels. Her hair was long and pulled back with a ribbon of blue. There was no scarf hiding her face this time, so he saw how beautiful she was and how deeply he wanted to offer her a ride but knew how foolish that would be. It wasn’t in the cards.

     Today he stood at the bus stop as his car broke down and it was going to take days to repair. He had taken a little extra time this morning making sure his clothes were clean and his face shaven. He wanted to make a good impression. He looked at his watch every few seconds it seemed, but she was nowhere in sight. His heart sank a little as the bus approached and people filed in. He was last to climb on board looking one last time, but he guessed it just wasn’t in the cards.

     It was a Saturday, and he usually didn't work but a large project was coming due, and he decided a quiet day at the office was what he needed. It was a beautiful Autumn day, and he decided to walk to the bus stop and let someone else do the driving. He was in no hurry, so before going into the office, he stopped at a small café for a coffee. It was busy for a weekend with quite a line waiting, so he decided to try the next café down the block a bit. Entering he stopped dead in his tracks, it was her. Standing behind the counter was the girl from the bus stop. She smiled at him asking for his order, but words wouldn't come to him, not yet anyway but they would, it was in the cards.

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Author Mike OConnor: Last laugh

Author Mike OConnor: Last laugh:       He walked alone down a dusty country road, his shoes collecting dust, his shirt damp with sweat. He had taken off his jacket a ways ...

Last laugh

     He walked alone down a dusty country road, his shoes collecting dust, his shirt damp with sweat. He had taken off his jacket a ways back, hanging it on a branch hoping to remember to pick it up should he come back that way. Corn fields dotted the countryside their height now shrinking with the absence of corn. Most of it stored in silos to feed the cows during the winter months. He did his share of farming in these parts as did his daddy and his daddy too. Generations of rugged men with earth under their nails and sun-soaked wrinkles were their testament to hard work and not much else. He had worn this road down to dirt years ago when it was still just a path to get to another field, one he had meant to plow a long time ago. Someday soon the big city developer would bring in heavy equipment and destroy all his family had built including this old dirt path. They would uproot the fields, knock down the barn and the outbuildings leaving only the old farmhouse which he heard would be staring on one of those "Do over" television shows. With everything plowed over some landscaper would put down sod and fancy named bushes and trees surrounded with a white fence. A prefab barn would be built to look like the big red barn in a mail pouch advertisement. The developer figured he could make five of these homesites and lure city folk with a country lifestyle fit for any young tecky who at the ripe old age of thirty-two was burned out and ready to high tail it to the country. He got to the end of the dirt road and turned around. Taking his jacket off the branch, he reached in and pulled out the check for nine million dollars he received from the developer. He couldn't help but laugh out loud as he figured out how many carefree days in the city that would buy him?

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Author Mike OConnor: Hand puppets

Author Mike OConnor: Hand puppets:       Sleep didn't come easy anymore, the darkness seemed to bring about too many shadows of yesterdays. When he was a kid he wou...

Hand puppets

     Sleep didn't come easy anymore, the darkness seemed to bring about too many shadows of yesterdays. When he was a kid he would make hand shadows in different shapes like a rabbit or a wolf, spending hours (it seemed) until the batteries in his Buck Rogers flashlight burned out, or his mom opened the door throwing back the cover he had over his head, scaring the bee-jeepers out of both of them! Sometimes if he were home, dad would climb under the covers with him and  make his own puppets. Those were special times. Now as an old man he tries to sleep but the shadows of death dance across the walls playing tricks on his tired eyes. He had a mind to get his Buck Rogers flashlight out of the bedside stand and cover his face waiting for mom to come in and tell him to go to sleep

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Author Mike OConnor: Riding it out

Author Mike OConnor: Riding it out:       He boarded the windows the best he could. The neighbor kid gave him a hand, and he did appreciate the  kindness. He went yesterd...

Riding it out

     He boarded the windows the best he could. The neighbor kid gave him a hand, and he did appreciate the  kindness. He went yesterday to the wall mart getting water and dry goods to last a few days. People were kind not pushing and grabbing for those last few loaves of bread. He did miss out on a case of water, but there was plenty at  home. He got batteries and a backup flashlight knowing the power would go out for a spell. His wife was inside preparing sandwiches that were going to be their primary source of food for  a while, but that was ok with him, nothing like peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich on a stormy night. He just hoped the milk stayed cold for a while. They could evacuate like so many others, but the last big storm found them separated at the shelter they were sharing with seven hundred people, two hundred children and God only knows how many pets? This one they will ride out together at their home of forty-seven years. Her bible was open to her favorite passage, a flashlight beside it. He had cleaned two of his favorite pipes and filled them with "Captain Black" tobacco, and they now rest in the old orange glass ashtray she had gotten for him so long ago he couldn't remember when. They laid in bed that night listening to the winds pick up and the rain hitting their roof like a million cannonballs. The boarded windows creaked, and the back screen door was ripped off its hinges and could be anywhere or nowhere at all. They held hands and listened and waited and told each other how deep their love was. The following afternoon it had passed. The sun came out, and people ventured outside to inspect for damage. There was a fair amount to be truthful but the house they loved made it through except for that damn screen door. They opened the cooler and offered their neighbors peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches. 

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Author Mike OConnor: Four empties

Author Mike OConnor: Four empties:      He hung up the phone and slowly walked to the fridge and got a beer. It was the third call today from the family that lived so man...

Four empties

     He hung up the phone and slowly walked to the fridge and got a beer. It was the third call today from the family that lived so many miles  away. Each had things to talk about, usually each other. Our bodies and minds grow old, and drama doesn't fit in anymore like it once  did or didn’t really matter. He sat down at the old table in the old Mobil home in the old folk’s park in old town USA. Sipping the beer and taking a drag from the sticks of tobacco he pondered those conversations and realized why he had chosen to be alone in a silent world in a silent way in silence. He always was a good listener listening more than he spoke which was a good thing as he didn’t want to respond to the not very important jibber jabber of siblings and friends who only called to see if he was still above ground? By mid-day, four empty beer bottles sat on the table. One for each conversation and one just because of the conversations. He put on a jacket and walked outside stopping long enough to zip up as the late afternoon was chilly, winter was  coming. He walked the three blocks to his favorite tavern and sat down on his favorite stool across from his favorite barmaid and smiled as she put a bottle of his favorite beer in front of him. Darkness came quickly as he left and slowly walked back the three blocks to his empty trailer with four empty beer bottles on the table. He shrugged his shoulders and reached into the fridge for another as he picked up the phone.

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Author Mike OConnor: Nimble fingers

Author Mike OConnor: Nimble fingers:       Her nimble fingers toyed with her long braided hair, something she had done most of her life. The afternoon sun was warm on her fac...

Nimble fingers

     Her nimble fingers toyed with her long braided hair, something she had done most of her life. The afternoon sun was warm on her face as it passed through the glass window as if on a mission to warm her. She cocked her head when she thought she heard a song from her past, but it wasn't, just another daydream. She woke early this morning as her son was coming for a visit. She asked the nurse to help her with her dress and hair that she preferred braided as that’s how he would remember her. She smiled when telling the nurse she wouldn’t be taking lunch today as her boy was taking her to a restaurant they use to go to many years ago. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and saw the woman she had become in so many journeys around the sun. There was no vanity or sadness, she had grown old like fortunate people did and anticipated each day with grace and patience. She knew her time was drawing to an end, but she held no regrets as her life was full and with meaning. Her beautiful son came and got her slowly walking the grounds in autumn splendor. They spoke of memories each had held onto and sometimes no words were needed the only sound being the wheels of her now only chair. He took her to their favorite restaurant that may seem odd to some, but it was a place she could afford back then, and it was a place where they could talk and listen. He stood at the counter placing their orders that hadn’t changed in fifty years. Two fish platters with slaw and a couple of root beers. He looked at her as she looked around tasting freedom again never wanting this moment to end. They ate slowly and spoke of days gone by each adding a remembered vacation, or a new suit for graduation. They filled their time together with laughter and love until it was time to take her back. He sat with her for a while longer then softly kissed her forehead taking in the scent of her perfume and the softness of her hand as she held onto him as tightly as she could. Her boy left, and a part of her went with him. She knew he would be shedding a tear or two just as she was doing when the nurse came in and wanted to hear all about her day. She wiped her tired eyes, smiled and  began to speak.

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Author Mike OConnor: Blank page

Author Mike OConnor: Blank page:      Writing anything takes patience and skill along with a dash of luck. When you write, you tell the world they truly need to read it, ...

Blank page

     Writing anything takes patience and skill along with a dash of luck. When you write, you tell the world they truly need to read it, can’t go on without it, and must tell their friends to do the same. You throw your finished book out to the waiting eyes of critics who can destroy you with harsh words and little praise. You tell your family and friends to get a copy but only a few do, so you go forward with a bit of sadness, but you keep going.

     Writing is a business like any other and should be treated as such. From conception to marketing everything is put into place waiting with great anticipation for the big reveal, that can be accepted with favor, or dark rejection. Either way it is your book, your hard work and in your mind a great achievement that will collect dust for years to come.

     Becoming a successful writer is the dream of every story teller who puts ink on paper. Unlike most a writer’s gift to the world is to take them, the reader, to places only they imagine. A place where reality can be thrown away and fictional tales written especially for them make up a special time of day. When the last chapter has been read the book is laid down and memories of its characters remain for days to come.

     I am a writer, a teller of tales, a person of words. I am searching the vastness of life memories to bring meaning to blank pages.

Michael O’Connor

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Author Mike OConnor: I am a story teller

Author Mike OConnor: I am a story teller:       I am a storyteller. It all began when I was a young boy of twelve. Everyday things caught my attention in ways that made me want to ...

I am a story teller

     I am a storyteller. It all began when I was a young boy of twelve. Everyday things caught my attention in ways that made me want to write them down. An October tree whose colors beckoned me to tell a tale, A small child holding his mothers’ hand as they crossed the street, A little red wagon sitting by itself on a street corner, anything and everything was to me a story waiting to be told. At first, I had no knowledge of proper grammar or structuring sentences, I was just a sponge filled with words that had to be put on paper which is exactly what I did for over five decades.

     As I grew up and faced the challenges of life my desire to tell stories grew with me and sometimes in the strangest of places.I would take a bar napkin and write something about a bar maid or server just to see their reactions. I would ask for a small paper bag at the supermarket and jot down a tale of the old lady in the produce department. I even recall picking scraps of paper off the street if the urge to write was so overwhelming. No paper product was safe with me around.

     My grandmother had the foresight to keep all these scribblings tucked away in a box for safe keeping, but I do believe she had the idea the day would come when these collections of my thoughts would rise again in some way. Little did I know how right she was. After I retired, I decided to compile a book from the old scraps of writing in that box, so I  proceeded to go through all of them, which was no small task as I had accumulated hundreds of tales and snippets from my past through my present. Once the task of separating everything into a few topics was completed, I began to re-write everything making some changes here and there but keeping true to each story as I told it all those years ago.

     I titled my book "Raw emotions" as I felt every story demanded the reader feel something whether it be sadness, joy, or maybe even  some pain. I wanted the reader to take that journey with me, feeling the emotions I tried so hard to convey. I am a writer, and if I can find a scrap of paper and feel something stirring inside of me, I will keep writing.

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