Author Mike OConnor: Memory or dreams?

Author Mike OConnor: Memory or dreams?: It's usually late at night when the memories of the day come out to say good night. I recall each one as if they were to be my last. I ...

Memory or dreams?

It's usually late at night when the memories of the day come out to say good night. I recall each one as if they were to be my last. I find myself smiling and sometimes holding back a tear as I sort through what I remember as the clock winds down and sleep is luring me closer and closer.

I sit quietly with no distractions except the steady breathing of my dog and an occasional car passing by. I am alone with slowly moving pictures in my mind of things I will never again experience in the same way. Life is like that isn’t it? A constant re-run of our daily lives mostly tucked away for safekeeping and forgotten until we either choose to remember them or, they reveal themselves to us uninvited with vivid detail.

There have been times when I had sat for hours fighting sleep and watched with eyes closed as complete stories unfolded for me to watch with awe and disbelief, wondering if it was memories or a dream? Some might say it was both, that I used my recalls of the day to create a story which was told to me with such clarity I assumed it to be real but was it? I believe the only way to be sure is to keep sitting here and see if I wake up.


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Author Mike OConnor: Words in question

Author Mike OConnor: Words in question: Words in question    I am often asked, “Where do the words come from”?   It’s a good question, one that I believe I can answer. We all ha...

Words in question

Words in question

   I am often asked, “Where do the words come from”?  It’s a good question, one that I believe I can answer. We all have hundreds of thoughts we keep neatly stored in our selves, surfacing when we call upon them, and other times all on their own. They are a part of who we are and the sum of our lives. All minds are a collection of words. Many are used while others lay hidden in the dark.

   As a writer, I have to un-lock vast amounts of memory to retrieve and construct from. Memories become stories and books and another form of words that I extracted from my mind and then using creativity, put them all together with hopefully good results. It becomes a game of word tug of war separating fact from fiction and making it all come together with a winning outcome.

   I believe all writers have a love affair with words. We are continually trying to match up one with another pairing words with other words using that creativity as if it were some magic potion. We spend countless hours digging and searching for words that can complement one another and leave lasting impressions on our readers. Words don’t come from just one place. They sometimes spill onto paper while other times they play hide and seek taunting us to find them.

   Some writers have extensive vocabularies taught to them at the highest levels of education, as well as some who have the gift. Some writers struggle with no mercy grabbing for the right words and phrases in the hope of creating a worthy piece to share with readers. Others like myself rely on being able to construct words we know and concepts we will learn from. For me, it's my memories. Over the decades, I have knocked on memories door so many times I wonder if I truly see those memories, or have I invented some of them? Probably so. I believe that’s why I describe my form of writing “Fiction with a dash of fact.”

   Wherever it is words come from, I'm glad I get to play in their fun-house.

   Mike

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Author Mike OConnor: Eternal flame

Author Mike OConnor: Eternal flame: The spark that hides within me has always glowed brightly, leading me to new places on my journey and still keeping me alive. That spark is...

Eternal flame

The spark that hides within me has always glowed brightly, leading me to new places on my journey and still keeping me alive. That spark is now fading to a dull orange quite the difference from the red and blue flame that drove me to heights I never thought id achieve.

I suppose all our flames burn out eventually, its sad that something once so vibrant and alive now sits in there waiting to be snuffed out in the last blink of an eye. I have thought of the flame as a soul. Everyone is born with one and we control the volume of the flame.

At its peak, the flame cannot be put out. It has a life of its own always one step ahead of us leading as we follow watching as it glows brighter than any star in the heavens. It's then we are at the pinnacle of our journey when everything that matters is with us and nothing can harm or destroy our goals that have been reached.

Then kind of without warning we notice the once-mighty flame is dimming We try to bring it up a notch or two but the effort isn’t within us like it once was when youth ruled. So we adjust and settle for the amber glow within us content with who we are. We marvel at the children whose flames are hot with years and years of fuel left to keep it burning. They don’t realize yet how numbing it is to watch as your glow reverts to a spark where it will remain until you close your eyes for the very last time releasing your eternal flame forever.

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Author Mike OConnor: Innocence lost and found

Author Mike OConnor: Innocence lost and found: He sat in a chair he found at a yard sale back in the day when he loved picking through other people's trash. There wasn’t anything wro...

Innocence lost and found

He sat in a chair he found at a yard sale back in the day when he loved picking through other people's trash. There wasn’t anything wrong with the chair, but in the beachside communities, people sometimes trashed things

because they got sick of it. Twenty-five years later, he's still sitting on it.

Alongside the chair was a small table that his son found somewhere in someones trash like father like son, he sanded it and painted it using a mixture of paints he found in the shed, Don’t exactly know what color it was, but he loved it just the same. Twenty-five years later, the little table keeps doing its job holding remotes and countless bottles of beer. There were burn spots pretty much all over it from the old guy falling asleep and dropping a lit cigarette on the top.

He doesn't get out much these days, but when he does, he rides an old bicycle he found in the trash. It took a bit of fixing but turned out ok. It was a girls' bike, and sometimes kids mocked him as he rode past, calling him names and jumping out in front of him trying to make him fall. On nice days he would pack a sandwich and ride his bike the eight miles to his sons' house. He never called him to tell him he was coming. He just figured if he was there ok, if not ok too. At least he got out of the house.

On days he was home, the old man had to hear a long talk about riding that old bike all that way and how after they had a visit, he would put the bike in his truck and drive him home. That was ok because he was pretty tired after eight miles on the old bike that sometimes required him to stop and tighten something and more than once fix a flat tire. Those rides home were mostly silent except for the routine questions like did he get enough to eat, and did he send out the bills for the month? He supposed that talk was ok, better than silence.

His son took the bike to the shed and came inside to say good-bye. The old man was already in his chair, smoking a cigarette. He rolled himself. “You're going to burn the place down one of these days, you know”? He smiled and thanked his son for the ride. Shaking his head the son closed the door behind him as the old man listened to the sound of his truck fade into the night. It's funny how a young boy who once picked trash and made him a gift he has kept for twenty-five years can somehow forget those moments. As for him, his heart melts a little bit more every time he looks at that cigarette and beer-stained gift that will someday be thrown in the trash, hopefully, to be rescued by a child whose innocence and love knew no boundaries.

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Author Mike OConnor: The gift

Author Mike OConnor: The gift: He sat in a chair he found at a yard sale back in the day when he loved picking through other people's trash. There wasn’t anything wr...

The gift

He sat in a chair he found at a yard sale back in the day when he loved picking through other people's trash. There wasn’t anything wrong with the chair but in the beachside communities, people sometimes trashed things because they got sick of it. Twenty-five years later, he's still sitting on it.

Alongside the chair was a small table that his son found somewhere in someones trash like father like son, he sanded it and painted it using a mixture of paints he found in the shed, Don’t exactly know what color it was, but he loved it just the same. Twenty-five years later, the little table keeps doing its job holding remotes and countless bottles of beer. There were burn spots pretty much all over it from the old guy falling asleep and dropping a lit cigarette on the top.

He doesn't get out much these days, but when he does, he rides an old bicycle he found in the trash. It took a bit of fixing but turned out ok. It was a girls' bike and sometimes kids mocked him as he rode past, calling him names and jumping out in front of him trying to make him fall. On nice days he would pack a sandwich and ride his bike the eight miles to his sons' house. He never called him to tell him he was coming he just figured if he was there ok, if not ok too. At least he got out of the house.

On days he was home the old man had to hear a long talk about riding that old bike all that way and how after they had a visit, he would put the bike in his truck and drive him home. That was ok because he was pretty tired after eight miles on the old bike that sometimes required him to stop and tighten something and more than once fix a flat tire. Those rides home were mostly silent except for the routine questions like did he get enough to eat, and did he send out the bills for the month? He supposed that talk was ok, better than silence.

His son took the bike to the shed and came inside to say good-bye. The old man was already in his chair smoking a cigarette. He rolled himself. “You're going to burn the place down one of these days, you know”? He smiled and thanked his son for the ride. Shaking his head the son closed the door behind him as the old man listened to the sound of his truck fade into the night. It's funny how a young boy who once picked trash and made him a gift he has kept for twenty-five years can somehow forget those moments. As for him, his heart melts a little bit more every time he looks at that cigarette and beer stained gift that will someday be thrown in the trash, hopefully, to be rescued by a child and turned into a lasting memory of their youth.


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