Her hand in mine

 I remember when I held her small hand as we walked along the beach. Every shell was a treasure, and the waves made a joyful sound. We would guess how long until the sun set, making way for stars in the night sky. She would stand in my footprints and laugh at how tiny her feet were compared to mine.

Another time, I held her hand as she cried over her first breakup. She asked if that’s what a broken heart felt like. I squeezed her hand to show support, without needing to say anything.

Then, I held her hand as I walked her down the aisle. I gave her hand away, trying to hold back tears so she wouldn’t notice.

As the years went by, she started a family of her own. I was left with memories of our walks, late-night talks, and moments spent holding her hand simply out of love.

Now, she holds my weathered hand and asks if I remember our walks. This time, tears come easily as I picture her as my little girl. Her small hand is in mine again, and the waves still make their familiar song. Every shell is still a treasure, and every moment holding her hand is a blessing I will always cherish.  

— Mike, 2025                                 

There comes a time

 There comes a time when even the best storytellers fall silent. When sentences blur together, and silence envelops your mind. 

There comes a moment when memories that were once easy to recall seem lost forever, and faces grow faded. 

There was a time when your pen flowed with grace and elegance, and you never questioned the final result, as you were a storyteller with endless tales waiting to be told. 

There was a time when words came together effortlessly, all seeming so natural for a writer with the abundant gift of memories. 

Now, there is a time when that pen lies idle on a blank sheet of paper, hesitant to be picked up. Beginnings no longer come easily, and endings feel light-years away. 

There is a time for all things, and all things must come to an end. Your life as a storyteller will eventually fade into the past, along with everything else you hold dear. 

But until that time comes, you will delve deep into your memories, waiting for the words to reappear and a story to emerge on that blank sheet of paper that has never failed you before. 

Mike, 2025                                       

Shoeless

 I can walk barefoot if I please on the worn-down dirt road my father walked. He took away my shoes at an early age, encouraging me to feel the dirt on my bare feet, which gave me a sense of belonging to the earth. I would catch him laughing as I jumped up and down, stepping on a small stone or a hardened piece of cow dung. "You'll get used to it, son," he’d say. "You have to toughen those feet up."

My entire family walked barefoot while doing chores that didn’t require machinery, and I have to admit it was soothing on my feet. Mom would always remind us to wash off the dirt before coming inside, so we’d find a mud puddle and rinse it all away.

On Sundays, we went to church, where we were made to wear shoes that felt tight and cumbersome. When the service was over, we would take off our shoes and sling them over our shoulders as we ran barefoot all the way back to the farm.

I remember one time when Dad put a match to his foot while we watched in horror, believing he would burn himself. But his feet, hardened by years of going shoeless, felt nothing. Mom always said that if she caught any of us doing what Dad did, we’d be in serious trouble.

I guess I can say I come from a long line of people who are often seen as crazy, especially when they're shoeless. But unless you’ve tried it, you’ll never understand the feeling of the dirt between your toes and how it connects you to the earth in a small way. Now my kids run barefoot through the cornfields or a valley of wildflowers, letting the energy of the ground embrace them from head to toe, while a pile of boots and shoes remains on the porch, waiting to be called. 

Mike 2025                                               

Whispers

 Whispers in my dreams are filled with thoughts of you and the love that still lingers. I go to sleep with you on my mind and in my heart, and somewhere in the shadows of the night, I speak your name, a soft whisper in my dreams expressing words of love meant for you to hear no matter where you are.

                                                                

Are you resting on a cloud or soaring through the heavens? Can you see me and my tears that never seem to dry? Will you greet me when I arrive at wherever you may be? Will the whispers in my dreams call out your name loud enough for you to hear as you guide me through the heavens to your side?

Mike 2025

The dance

 I first saw her with some friends, sharing laughs and beers as the music played from the jukebox. It was hard not to notice her; her long black hair flowed down her back, shining like a moonlit ocean. I caught her eye for a brief moment, and she smiled before quickly turning back to her friends. A moment of giggles erupted among them, which either meant she found me amusing or that she thought I was cute. Either way, I grabbed a beer and walked toward her. Luck was on my side as a slow song began to play, and I softly asked her to dance. She smiled and said she'd love to.

As we danced, she was in my arms, her hair smelling like a field of lavender. Our movements were in sync, and we held each other close, with no words necessary. When the song ended, I thanked her for the dance and walked her back to her friends, who giggled some more. I was left wondering if she thought I had two left feet or if that dance was one of the nicest she'd ever experienced. Regardless, I made my way to the bar and took a seat, still trying to calm my nerves.

I watched her dance with several guys, her long hair swaying to the music. As she got closer, the scent of lavender brushed past me, and she asked if I was going to ask her to dance again. I jumped off the stool, tapped the guy on the shoulder, and asked if I could cut in. He reluctantly agreed, and she was in my arms once more.

We danced and danced until the clock struck two, and last call was announced. I asked for her phone number and walked her to a car filled with her still-giggling friends. She didn’t join in their laughter, though, as the moment between us was sweet, much like her lips, I thought. She kissed my cheek, and then she was gone, leaving behind the scent of lavender that I would carry with me until it blended into the night.

As time went on, we dated until life intervened and took me away. I wrote to her every day until I could see her again, but life had different plans. All that remained were my memories of dancing to a jukebox with her long black hair moving with the music and the feelings I would always keep alive, along with the smell of lavender brushing past me in the night.

Mike 2025                                             

Stingrays and grape jelly

 As a kid, I couldn't wait for summer vacation. When that last bell rang and the school doors flew open, we felt our freedom return, while teachers breathed a sigh of relief. The year was 1963, a time when kids had bicycles and endless adventures awaited us at every corner of our world. Armed with bags of peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches, we would finish our morning chores and then all meet up, eager to explore the forgotten roads and trails winding through the woods that surrounded us for miles.

Our bicycles were our horses, our race cars, and anything else we imagined them to be. Most of us rode Stingrays with banana seats and ape-hanger handlebars, which were all the rage back then. Typically, girls weren’t included, but a couple of them had the girl version of a Stingray, and we let them tag along if they could keep up with us.

We had no real sense of time, but our stomachs signaled when it was time for lunch, and when the sun began to set, it meant we needed to start heading home for supper. I remember my mom saying, “Hold on right there, young man! Look at yourself. Go clean up before you sit at my table.” Looking in the mirror, I would laugh at my grape jelly-covered shirt and mud-stained pants, my once white sneakers now brown. After a quick shower and clean clothes, I would sit down at the table as Dad peered over his evening newspaper with a grin.

Dinner at my house was always a feast because my mom believed it was the most important meal of the day, providing all the food groups necessary for growing strong and healthy. Each supper varied, usually consisting of pot roast with mashed potatoes, a garden salad, and bread and butter, or pork chops with boiled potatoes, and, of course, a garden salad along with celery and carrots. My favorite meal was spaghetti and meatballs, which my mom would simmer all day. With warm Italian bread and, yes, a garden salad, she was a fantastic cook, and my friends could hardly wait to be invited over for supper. This made me incredibly proud that my mom was the best cook in the neighborhood.

Not only could she cook, but her baked goods were also among my favorites, including pies and cakes. One of my favorites was her jelly roll, made using scraps of dough left over from pie crust, filled with grape jelly, rolled up, and baked to a golden brown. I can also still recall the glorious smell of bread baking on a cold winter day, greeting me at the door with a slice covered in butter, waiting for me at the table.

Summer vacation meant swimming in the river or creek, gathering worms at night by wetting the grass, and using a flashlight to grab them as they surfaced. We’d go fishing down by the canals, sometimes catching a fish or two to bring home for Mom to fry up.

There were no Game Boys or social media, no flat screens or computers. The only time we watched television was Saturday morning for cartoons and maybe one family night watching a black-and-white show, especially during Christmas, when several shows aired on the only three stations we had.

I remember each season and what they brought, but summer vacation in particular allowed us to explore our world on the coolest bikes around. We knew each day would end with a great supper and a bowl of hot popcorn while watching something on television as a family. These are memories that have become deeply embedded in my heart, remaining a part of who I grew up to be and the wonderful memories I cherish.

Mike 2025                                                 

Why I write

 I've often been asked where I find the ideas for my stories. Much of what I write comes from memories, enriched with a touch of fiction, half-truths, and dreams. I believe I have a remarkable memory—perhaps not completely perfect, but I can recall vivid glimpses from my youth and different stages of my life that linger long enough to inspire a story.

Sometimes, these memories feel so real, like a dream that leaves you pondering whether it truly happened. Years ago, when my life was consumed by work and the fast-paced lifestyle, I didn't write as much as I do now. I could have written more, but I kept my words locked inside, brewing like a pot of coffee, until the urge to write finally overwhelmed me.

For me, writing is essential for my sanity. Without it, it's like trying to breathe with a bag over my head. Stories must be told and recorded for future generations, which is why I started my blog eight years ago. Over that time, I've shared more than eight hundred very short stories. My hope is that anyone who reads them will walk away with a smile or perhaps a tear, but always with some sort of emotion.

Memories are precious gifts that connect us to those who came before us. As writers, it's our responsibility to keep those memories alive through the power of the written word.

Mike 2025                                           

Sea legs

 He was born with sea legs and called the sea his home. His face, weathered by salt spray, made him look older than he was, and the countless storms he faced wreaked havoc on his body, tossing him around like a ragdoll. 

They called him a sea dog, an old salt, and other names all of which were compliments, as they were true. The sea was his home, his lover, and his reason for living. He often heard the mermaids' calls and told himself that someday he’d see one when his time came to be offered to the sea and Davy Jones's Locker, where sailors' tales came to dwell.

His tattoos told his story, each marking representing a chapter of his life, with a girl in every port and a drink in every pub. He didn’t shy away from a good fight, which always ended with a shared drink and a handshake. He was a sailor, a deckhand, a squid; each title was true, and all he ever wanted to be.

On board, he had brothers for life who always had his back, just as he had theirs. They fought side by side until they won their battles, and the calls of victory rang out as the enemy ship sank from sight, destined for the bottom of the sea.

He was a sailor who traversed the seven seas and lived to tell many tales. Some were embellished for entertainment, but most were true. Now, on any given night in a faraway pub, he was just an old salt, his hair turned white and his beard stained with tobacco. His sea legs may be gone, but he was always ready, if called upon, to defend the flag. He was a sailor who navigated the seas with pride and a love he could never replace.

Mike 2025                                                

Special days

 The convertible top was down on my mom's 1949 Plymouth. Just a car back then, but how I wish I had it today. It was just me and her on that warm summer day as we drove to get me some school clothes; I was outgrowing everything I had. Patsy Cline was playing on the radio, and her scarf blew in the breeze as she sang along.

With three kids close in age, it was rare to have alone time with her, but when we did, it was always special to me. Going into town was a treat in itself. I got to look in store windows as we walked together, holding hands and pointing out things we liked, but money was tight, so we headed for the men’s and boys’ store. Back then, the store clerks, as we called them, were helpful in ways not often seen today. Mr. Klein owned the store for over thirty years and knew just about everybody in town, calling them by name. He had a yellow measuring tape draped around his shoulder to ensure we had the correct sizes. When it came to pants, he made sure there was plenty of length sewn in so Mom could let them down as I continued to grow.

With some shirts, socks, and underwear, we were all set and said goodbye to Mr. Klein, heading to our favorite soda fountain for a chocolate shake and an egg salad sandwich that I still think about. In the basement of a big department store was the shoe department. Once again, a friendly clerk measured your feet while you stood up and placed your foot into a silver contraption that looked like a giant shoe, allowing the clerk to adjust the width and size. Mom picked out a pair of brown tie shoes, asking me if I liked them. I said yes; what kid wouldn’t want new shoes? Besides, there were only brown or black to choose from. Next came a pair of sneakers for gym class, and again, I had a choice of red or white high-tops, better known as red ball jets.

Once shopping was completed, we carried the bags to the car, where Mom locked them in the trunk. Then we walked to the river and sat on a bench, watching boats pass by as the day wound down. I picked a flower from the grass a weed, really but she smiled a big smile when I handed it to her. She held onto it the whole way to the car, placing it on the dashboard when we got there.

We pulled into our driveway, where my dad and sisters greeted us, asking if we had gotten lost. At supper, we told everyone about our day, with my sisters asking when it would be their turn to go shopping with Mom. Dad chimed in, saying he needed to make some money first before we spent it all.

I’ll never forget the days I spent with Mom, as well as the other times with my parents. Going to the barber shop on Saturdays with Dad, grocery shopping with Mom to help with the bags, and shooting hoops with Dad before supper were all cherished moments. I learned how to wash and wax the car, cut the grass, and shovel snow properly, along with Dad teaching me how to shine my shoes and comb my hair.

My memories of my youth and my love for both Mom and Dad have shaped me into who I am today in many ways. If you were to look in my closet, you’d find one pair of brown shoes, one pair of black shoes, and a pair of red ball jets. 

Mike, 2025                                                    

Grandmas table

 I miss sitting at my grandma's red and white checked table. It was where I'd listen to her stories about growing up in a time without all the luxuries of today. She attended school for five years before quitting to help her mother, who had six children, with her being the oldest. I'd trace the squares with my finger as she went on to tell me how happy they were as a family and how their faith got them through hard times. She talked and I listened to her as her memories spilled out, each as precious to her as the last.

I can close my eyes and smell the small kitchen where a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies and a glass of cold milk sat on the table, and her telling me not to eat them all. It took me a while to learn she had put just enough on the plate, with the rest going into a cookie jar out of my reach.

Sometimes she was quiet as I played with my toy soldiers using the squares on the table to make a battlefield between red and white. I'm not quite sure when that table became just a table, but it meant a lot to me back then and remains a reminder to me of my grandma's stories and how she seemed so wise.

I came across a table at a yard sale that was exactly like the one I remembered, and I instantly bought it. I discarded my table and replaced it with the red and white checked table that my grandkids now sit at, playing with their toy soldiers and listening to my stories of growing up. My life came full circle as I put a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table, telling them to save some for later, but little did they know I'd put some in the cookie jar my grandma gave to me many years ago.

Mike 2025                                               

First Love

 First love is incredibly special; it encompasses all the emotions rolled into one. It’s the thrill of your first time holding hands while walking together, sometimes in silence, with your heart beating so loudly that you wonder if she can hear it. 

Then there’s the awkwardness of your first kiss, where you find yourself questioning whether you should kiss her like they do in the movies or just go for it and hope everything goes well. Your first “fight,” which wasn’t really a fight at all, becomes memorable, especially when making up afterward feels epic. 

There’s the nervous anticipation of bringing her home to meet your family, praying that your siblings don’t embarrass you by telling stories from your childhood. You worry that your mom might pull out the picture album, proudly showcasing your baby photos. 

Meeting her family for the first time over dinner is another milestone; you try to engage in conversation while avoiding her father's intense gaze, which seems like he’s sizing you up. Yet, with a reassuring smile, she leans in and whispers, “You’re doing fine. He grew to like you over time, but there’s always an air of impending doom whenever you pick up his little girl, accompanied by a firm warning to have her home by curfew.” 

Your first love means spending countless hours together, discovering intimate moments in ways you’ve only read about. When the time comes, the passionate love you share is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, setting the bar incredibly high. 

Time may not always be fair, and first loves can fade, but they are never truly forgotten. You remember those silent walks and the first kiss as if they happened yesterday, yearning to taste her lips and feel her softness again. You strain to hear her laughter and recall the way she wore her hair back then, and as memories wash over you, you find yourself shedding a tear or two. 

Decades have passed since you last saw her, and your life has taken many different paths, some good, others not so much. Yet, she lingers in subtle ways: the scent of her perfume on a gentle spring day or the sound of your favorite song from senior prom. 

She was your first love, and you gave her your heart, holding onto the hope that one day you’ll meet again in a place where true love endures and first loves define eternity. 

Mike, 2025                                        

Farming family

 She fanned herself, although the air was warm and offered little relief. She took a drink of sun tea, but the ice had melted, and it didn’t do much to quench her thirst. It was incredibly hot, and she wondered if she had ever experienced such heat before, but she couldn’t recall when.

She worried about her husband and son out in the fields, where the sun bore down on them as they did their chores. Neither heat nor cold could stop them. They had been working since before sunrise, and now the noon hour approached. She knew it was time for them to stop and eat what she had prepared. She rang the bell on the post of the front porch, and in a few minutes, she heard the silence of the tractor and watched as her two men slowly walked toward the house, wiping their brows and stopping at the water pump to clean up a little.

The small fan sitting on the counter did little to cool anything off, but it was a welcome addition as they ate their sandwiches and slices of cool watermelon. “I guess we need to get back to it,” her son said. “There are only so many hours of daylight.” They put on their ball caps, soaked with sweat, but not before dunking them in water, which helped keep their heads cooler for a few minutes. “See you for supper,” she said, kissing her husband and smiling at her son, who kissed her cheek before walking back out into the triple-digit heat.

She heard the school bus stop and walked to the end of the drive to meet their daughter, who had only one more week of school before summer break. She was soaked with sweat but managed a smile as her mother handed her a glass of sun tea with a few small ice cubes still in it. “I suppose I can’t skip chores today,” she thought, looking out at the fields and seeing her dad and brother working harder than she ever had. “I’ll get to my chores as soon as I change into something dry.”

The sun was setting when the noise of the tractor stopped, and her men once again took the long walk home, where the porch light had come on and the smell of pot roast filled the air. “Good work today, son. I know it wasn’t easy,” his father said. “I lost a few pounds from sweating all that water out,” his son replied, taking off his ball cap and dunking it in the horse trough. They washed off at the water pump and changed clothes before sitting down at the supper table. Outside, the crickets began their evening chirps, and the cows grazed in the field, where the sun had once made it too hot to eat.

They sat together on the porch, sharing stories about their days, hoping that tomorrow would be cooler. Then, out of nowhere, the air got cooler as rain began to fall. “Now, where did that come from?” Dad asked. “There wasn’t any rain forecast for days.” They all got up and stepped out into the rain, looking up at the heavens and giving thanks for such a welcome blessing. 

The following day, the temperature was twenty degrees cooler, and the chores didn’t seem so bad. Mom turned on the oven to bake a pie while her men joked around as they headed for the fields, playfully shoving each other and making light of the situation, saying that the rain had settled the dust, making their work less dirty. Mom walked their daughter to the bus, wishing her a great day but questioning why she needed a sweater.

Tomorrow the temperature would soar again, but at least they had been granted a little reprieve today, and that was all any farming family could hope for.

Mike 2025                                                   

The memory table

 I sat at a picnic table weathered by years of use, wondering who had sat where I now sat and what stories they had shared. Who were the first people to gather here? Whose initials were carved into the wood, and who were the lovers behind the crudely carved hearts? This table should be called a "memory table," speaking through the pocket knives of first loves and promises of a shared future. I wondered how many love-struck kids had come and gone over the years and whether they still visited this table to relive memories held dear.

If the table could talk, how many promises would it recount? How many quarrels were had, and how many “I’m sorrys” were spoken? This old table, sitting alone among the park's trees, was like a beacon calling out, “Don’t leave yet; sit and visit for a while. Share your stories of love and leave your mark, just as dozens before you have done.”

As the years have passed, too many to count, I find myself sitting at that old table, reminiscing about my first love and the heart I carved for us. Discovering it was like finding buried treasure as I ran my hand over the symbol of our love. We didn’t have a future together, but our lives were complete, and the heart carved into that old table will always remain a memory for anyone to see.

Mike, 2025                                               

Lady of the valley

 She placed the wildflowers she had just picked in a blue glass vase on a table that overlooked the fields and meadows she loved so dearly. The whistling of the teapot brought her back to the moment as she put loose tea into a tea bulb and allowed it to brew.

She hummed a song she had sung for decades, a tune from her youth when she lived in a commune with a dozen people who sought to live in peace and harmony with nature, escaping the chaos of the rest of the world. 

"Sweet memories," she said aloud, reflecting on the many years that had passed, finding herself now in a small cottage in the forest, alone with her thoughts and all that nature provided. She wasn't a recluse; she often ventured into town for supplies and to chat with others who had settled there long ago. They were called "flower children," a fitting name, she thought, as her love for flowers was evident throughout her cottage and in the clothes she wore. Every day, she would place a flower in her hair, its sweet perfume accompanying her throughout the day. Each night, she would set the flowers in a dish with others to dry, filling the air with the fragrance of nature.

On this particular night, as she sat in front of a mirror brushing her long, white hair, she heard the soothing sounds of the forest, a lullaby reminiscent of the songs her mother sang to her under the stars in a valley filled with love.

She cherished her simple life, reveling in being part of God's creations, which provided her with decades of pleasure and freedom from the lost souls and their conformist mentality. Occasionally, people would stare and whisper about the old lady from the valley her long, white hair, her flowered dress, and her joyful singing of her favorite song without a care for what others thought. She felt happiness inside, and her heart was big and kind. One thing she possessed that they did not was an absence of anger towards anyone; there simply was no room for that in her life.

People often asked her if she had ever been in love or if she had ever married. She would respond that she had been in love her entire life—with the trees, the valleys, the meadows filled with wildflowers, and the tranquility of the nights. She found love in every waking hour and promised herself she would seek happiness in every discovery she made.

When asked about marriage, her eyes would well with tears as she remembered a boy who had passed through the commune one summer. He stayed for the season, writing songs and playing his guitar. His voice was like that of an angel, and his poetic words remained with her to this day. One morning, she awoke to find he had left with the sunrise, and for the first time, she felt the pain of losing someone she loved.

If you ever find yourself in that small mountain town, browsing through the little stores that cater to a lost generation, look for her. Listen for the lady with long white hair singing a tune written by the boy who left with the sunrise. 

Mike, 2025                                                 

Fourth of July picnic

 On July 4th, the sun blazed down relentlessly on a small farming community. Every year, the residents held a family picnic in the backyard, with tables set up beneath the large tree that Great-Grandad had planted when he first settled in the area. Inside, Mom, several aunts, and their older daughters prepared food in the sweltering heat, frequently wiping their brows with aprons and fanning themselves with dish towels. With no air conditioning available, the open windows brought in more flies than fresh air.

The horseshoe game was left untouched, as the iron shoes would burn anyone who tried to pick them up. The makeshift baseball field also sat idle, with the players gathered under the tree, sipping lemonade and Coca-Cola from glass bottles.

Granddad, along with a few other farmers, mostly his brothers, some younger men, and lifelong friends, wiped their brows with handkerchiefs from their pockets. This habit puzzled some of the women, who could never understand how the men could put used handkerchiefs back in their pockets after using them.

Two teenage kids holding hands disappeared behind the barn for a bit too long. Mom surprised them while they were kissing, quickly shooing the boy away and pulling her daughter by the ear to bring her back inside to help with the food.

When the table was finally set, the food was brought out to everyone's delight. They exclaimed that they hadn’t seen such a spread since the last Fourth of July. There were two roasted chickens, fresh vegetables from the garden, potato and macaroni salads made with a family secret recipe, and freshly baked dinner rolls were just a few of the dishes prepared in the now cooling kitchen, as the ovens were turned off and the ladies could take a well-deserved break with a cool drink, proud of their efforts.

After the desserts were served, several of the men took naps under the great tree, only to be awakened by the sonic booms of fireworks that the older boys had retrieved from the garage—perhaps a bit too early for such things, but still entertaining. As darkness fell and the air cooled, the real fireworks show began. Dad and his brothers would bring home a variety of fireworks every year from a man who made regular trips to Canada to purchase the best available explosives.

Gathered together, the women and children looked up to the sky, clapping and shouting their approval as each display grew bigger and louder than the last. Mom yelled each time Dad lit a fuse, cautioning him not to blow off a finger, as she wanted him around for a while longer.

The fireworks show was a resounding success, marking the end of the party and bedtime for the little ones. Afterward, the tables were cleared and stored away until the next gathering, and the used fireworks were placed in a bucket of water for safety. Goodbyes were exchanged as everyone departed.

“Hope tomorrow is cooler,” Dad said to Mom as he kissed her cheek and went to bed, shooing away the pesky flies.

Mike 2025                                            

The Harley

 As the last remnants of winter's snow melted away, he uncovered his pride and endless joy: a 1969 Harley-Davidson. Over the years, he rode along mountain and coastal roads, the sound of his pipes roaring through country towns, making people jump as he smiled and waved at children who waved back. He would leave home with a sleeping bag strapped on and small leather saddlebags filled with only the essentials for his road trips to places unknown. 

He would ride for hours, the warm breeze gently slapping his face, a reminder of the many memories he had created over the years. Riding into the darkness until his eyes burned and muscles ached, he sometimes had to stop, not by choice, but by necessity, to rest. He would find a spot in the forest beneath a giant tree, where he could relax as the exhaust of his mighty steed crackled and then fell silent, joining him in sleep. 

The bike was a part of who he was, connected in a way only a true biker could understand. It served as his escape from a chaotic world that poisoned the soul, and it was the miles traveled that cured him, as long as rubber met the road. He kept a journal of the places he visited, including parks, campgrounds, lakes, oceans, small towns with just one traffic light, and out-of-the-way dirt roads that led to hidden spots welcoming bikers like himself, who treated him like a brother. They would share stories about their bikes and the places they had traveled, sipping cold beer and enjoying warm meals together. He would sleep under the stars and awaken to the sunrise and the smell of campfire coffee. As the roar of a dozen bikes came to life, he would thank them and say he hoped to see them somewhere on the road. 

He spent nine months traveling and three long months snowbound, during which he dismantled his bike, cleaned every part, and replaced worn-out components—all a labor of love for its faithful service. Come spring, when the last bit of snow had disappeared, he would pack up once again and head out on the open road to explore new places and create fresh memories while others faded away. 

Mike 2025                                          

As a child

 As a child, life is full of joy every day. You play in the sun and rain, which creates mud to splash around in, making it even more fun. Everything around you is new, leading to adventures with every turn you take in your backyard. You allow yourself to slow down and observe the trees, grass, birds, and the squirrels that always seem to outrun you. Lying on the ground, you gaze up at the sky, captivated by the endless shapes of the clouds that keep you entertained for as long as you like.

As a child, you explore textures like tree bark and dandelions. You feel the warmth of the sun and the gentle breeze on your face just before the rain begins. You capture these experiences and tuck them away in the early stages of your memory box as it's forming.

You get to be Superman, Batman, and Spider-Man all in the same day, as your imagination knows no bounds—just a thirst for learning and discovering everything that your young mind can absorb. As a child, you are unaware of hatred, heartbreak, anger, or pain because your mind has not yet learned those emotions. 

Wouldn't it be great if we could see the world through the eyes of a child finding joy in the simple things that bring a sense of happiness in a world where growing up isn't always what we expected it to be.

Mike 2025                                               

Sea glass

 Every piece of sea glass I find makes me question its origin and what it once was. Could it have been part of a pirate's bottle of booze, or perhaps a fragment of a dinner plate from a hundred years ago, tossed overboard in a fit of anger? My mind wanders as I continue my walk along the deserted beach, salt spray hitting my weathered face. I stumbled upon a piece of rose-colored glass, once part of something beautiful, as it came to rest on the sand and found its way into my pocket.

I never tire of searching for sea glass, even if most of my finds are not very old and likely came from a cruise ship, where bottles are thrown overboard and become part of the sea. They tumble between the waves and sand like clothes in a washing machine before eventually making their way to shore. One of my better discoveries was a Coca-Cola bottle that, against all odds, washed ashore completely intact.

The sea holds onto treasures but sometimes releases them to be found and admired by old salts like me, whose imaginations run wild with questions that are sometimes answered but often just end up in my pocket, another pretty piece of glass.

Mike 2025                                       

Little red wagon

 The old truck sat, covered in branches and leaves, behind the barn owned by my grandpa. In its day, it was a delivery truck and even had wooden spoke wheels, which gives you an idea of how old it was. Over time, with several owners, the truck had been used for various purposes: as a delivery vehicle hauling goods around town, as a fruit and vegetable truck making stops for customers, and even as a plumber's truck. It had been painted more than a few times, and the years had taken their toll on it.

My grandpa acquired the truck through a trade, giving a week's worth of work to the previous owner, who needed help getting his tractor up and running. Grandpa had a wanderlust and a passion for the carnival life, and he told me his plan to transform the old, worn-out truck into what we now know as a food truck. For months, he worked on it with my help after school and on weekends. We traveled to auctions looking for equipment like cotton candy machines, a grill for cooking, and a popcorn machine. We found a small fridge to keep the meats cold and a bun warmer for hot dogs and burgers. The deep fryer we wanted was too expensive, so with a bit of ingenuity, we created our version using a steel drum cut in half and a propane flame source. It worked great for fries and even deep-fried donuts.

Once the inside was nearing completion, we tackled the outside. It took hours to scrape through layers of rust and various colors until it was finally ready for paint. We chose a bright red that could be seen for miles. We brought the wooden wheels back to life with linseed oil and elbow grease, and when we finished, they looked as good as new.

I suggested it needed a name, and I came up with "Little Red Wagon." Grandpa loved the name and had signs made for both sides, and he even printed food wrappers with the logo and name. It was a beautiful truck that drew attention wherever it went.

With summer carnivals coming out of hibernation, Grandpa suggested we join one to see how things went. After some persuasion, my parents agreed to let me go and help out. I’ll never forget pulling up to a carnival and parking in front of the owner's trailer. A large man, smoking a cigar, came outside, smiling as he looked over the truck. He said we were more than welcome to travel the circuit with them for the small fee of fifteen percent of our daily earnings. Grandpa managed to negotiate it down to ten percent, and a deal was struck.

Our first day was a mix of chaos and fixing broken machines, but by the end of it, we had improved in every area, and our little red wagon was a huge success. Grandpa continued to travel with the carnivals, taking him across many states, and I often joined him during my summer breaks. However, I was soon accepted at the state college, and he had to hire someone else to help out. I received postcards from everywhere he traveled, but soon they stopped coming. I learned from my parents that Grandpa had passed away peacefully in his sleep. He left me the little red wagon in his will, which I parked in my backyard as a reminder of the work we did together and the countless hours of fun we shared, turning nothing into something and fulfilling Grandpa's dream of traveling with the carnivals. Who knows? Maybe some of his spirit rubbed off on me, and I’ll put the little red wagon back on the trails of the carnival life.

Mike, 2025                                                             

                                                       

The percolator

 Long before the sun rose, she began brewing coffee in the percolator her mother had given her. It took about half an hour to brew; as each minute passed, the clear water turned black, and the aroma grew stronger. And then the sound grew quiet. And finally, the coffee was ready to drink.

She had visited the henhouse to gather half a dozen eggs, which she planned to scramble as soon as he came downstairs. She set out a tray of real butter, a jar of apple butter she had canned the previous autumn, and some strips of bacon, covered with a cloth to keep them warm.

Hearing the floorboards creaking, she greased the iron skillet and poured in the eggs, knowing he would walk into the kitchen any minute and kiss her cheek while saying good morning. His morning newspaper sat folded on the table, which he opened as she poured his coffee.

All of her hard work was consumed in just a few minutes, but that didn't bother her as she tended to the dirty dishes, already preparing dinner in her mind. After finishing his meal, he got up from the table, kissed her cheek, and said goodbye, before heading out the door.

Her day was full and well-planned, with only a little time to sit down and enjoy a cup of coffee from the old percolator her mother had given her. It didn't taste as good as his first cup, but she didn't mind. She glanced at the newspaper, opened to a half-page ad for new cars, and chuckled a little, wondering if he was planning to surprise her with one. However, he had been driving the same car for as long as she had known him, and he wasn't one for change very often.

Her life wasn't perfect, and she often wished for more than just a kiss on her cheek three times a day, but that was her reality, and she never complained—at least not to him. There was a whole world outside her house, but as her mother once told her, life is like a percolator and you have to be patient if you want to reap the rewards.

They grew old together, but little had changed over the years. She went through the motions so familiar by then she could do them while her mind was a million miles away. The eggs were scrambled, and the bacon was covered with a cloth. Her dinners were planned, and her cheek waited for the first kiss of three.

He passed away before she did, and she found herself no longer cooking breakfast. A slice of toast was all she wanted, and that first cup from the percolator her mother had given her so very long ago.

Mike 2025                                             

Reel-fun

 The small waves brushed against the boat anchored in the harbor. It was a great morning to relax with a fishing pole and a cup of coffee. Then, in a crackling voice, the radio warned of an approaching storm. A severe one was on the way, the forecasters said. He secured everything on deck and took a last look around before climbing into the dinghy to head for shore and the safety of shelter. But in a moment of disbelief, he noticed the small craft was halfway to the shore.

Rain had begun to fall, and the winds were picking up enough to rock his boat and get his sea legs working. The ship-to-shore radio broadcasted warnings to seek safe shelter and keep the lines open for boats in need of help. If ever there was a time to remember his days in the Navy, it was now.

He couldn’t risk washing ashore, so he pulled up the anchor and headed out to sea. He had faith in his boat, built to withstand bad weather, but he had never faced a storm with predicted swells of twenty feet. The name of his boat was Reel-Fun, and it usually lived up to its name, but today it would be put to the test.

In his gut, he welcomed the challenge, relying on his sailing skills and the blessing of King Neptune to guide him. Salt spray pelted his face as he headed into an oncoming wave, riding the crest and shooting straight down like a world-class surfer. As the waves grew and the sea became angry, he thought of the promise he once made to be buried at sea and wondered if that fate might be coming true.

Through the night, the storm raged with pounding waves and gale-force winds as he stood ready at the helm for whatever the sea had to offer. Suddenly, he froze in his tracks as he looked ahead at a wave towering over twenty feet high. There was no time to think; he had to act quickly and turn the boat into the wave, using all the power the boat could muster. It felt like an eternity as the boat began its descent, and when it did, the bow disappeared into the sea, popping back up time and again. For some reason, he found himself riding the massive wave back toward the shore. One might think that was a good thing, but he knew better. At the speed he was maintaining, he would hit the beach like a truck hitting a wall. The keel would break, and he would lose steering, eventually coming to a stop somewhere in the dunes, hopefully upright.

All he had now was faith in his boat and memories of his Navy days. He could see the shoreline clearly now as each swell decreased in size, and the boat gave all it had to stay afloat. She was more than seaworthy; she was a force to be reckoned with and a skipper that would never give up.

A little bit further, the seas began to calm. He guided his boat onto the beach, jumped off, and secured it with heavy lines to trees that could withstand nature’s fury. He examined the damage, knowing that Reel-Fun would need attention. The keel was damaged, as were the two props. The salt spray had stripped the paint off, leaving her looking more like an abstract painting than a boat. The outriggers had disappeared somewhere at the bottom of the sea.

A crowd gathered, looking at his boat and asking him how he managed to keep it from sinking. “It was Reel-Fun,” he answered as the crowd began to leave, some shaking their heads in disbelief at the crazy man with a lot of luck. 

- Mike 2025                                         

The old tree

 There’s an old tree in the forest that, for hundreds of years, has never seen a single human being. Alone, it has grown and learned what to fear and what to welcome as shelter deep within its branches. 

It never feels lonely, as birds perch upon its limbs, and small animals of the forest find safety to nest and raise their young. 

This old tree drops acorns to the ground, where they are gathered and stored for the cold winter months. It communicates with the other trees in a secret language of its own.

When darkness falls, the tree sleeps as crickets chirp, owls hoot, and mothers softly sing their babies to sleep, all protected by the old tree in the forest.

I wish I could visit that tree and sit on its ancient roots, my back against its bark, looking up at centuries of growth and knowledge. I would be still and wait for the life within its branches to sing, knowing I meant no harm. I would wrap my arms around the ancient tree and say goodbye as I left it to its kingdom deep in the forest, where solitude is a welcome feeling. 

— Mike, 2025                                            

Summer memories

 The smell of hot dogs cooking on the backyard grill and the sounds of the neighborhood on a sunny summer day are the things I remember most. I can still hear the endless opening and closing of the screen door as Mom brings out enough food to feed an army. The laughter of kids splashing in the pool we had just set up a few weeks ago echoes through my mind, even though the water hadn’t quite warmed up in the sun yet.

I recall the smell of varnish from the neighbor's boat as he prepares to launch it once it dries. There’s the sound of a street rod coming from the house across the street, where a teenage boy is showing off the work he did during the cold winter months. I remember the long phone cord that nearly reached from our house to the street, where my sister would talk privately with a boy from school.

I can picture friends and family dropping by for a swim in the new pool, while Dad shared how affordable it was with the other guys. As the sun began to set, the pool ladder would emerge, signaling the end of swimming for the day. We kids, all wrinkled like prunes, had to clean up the yard and put away the pool toys while Dad skimmed the pool to remove the leaves.

Afterward, we would take a bath to wash off the chlorine, enjoy some Jiffy Pop, and settle in for a movie, marking the end of a perfect summer day. Even if we sometimes fell asleep in front of the television before the movie was over, those memories will always stay with me. They were the best years of my life, and I can relive them whenever I catch the smell of hot dogs cooking on the backyard grill.

Mike, 2025                                              

Greatest show on earth

 Like most summers growing up, the anticipation of the circus coming to town consumed our thoughts. We knew it was imminent when the vibrant pre-arrival posters went up all over town. The colorful advertisements, featuring elephants leading the way and unique clowns, made every kid jump for joy. Some of the older boys would get paid fifty cents to help raise the big top by pulling on ropes, while the younger boys eagerly watched, waiting for their turn in the summers to come.

On the day of the circus's arrival, we positioned ourselves on our bicycles at the edge of town, waiting for the music that signaled it was getting close. Then it happened: we heard the music and the sound of elephants almost within our sight as we sped off to meet the greatest show on Earth. It was a fantastic sight to behold—the circus band, dressed in their colorful costumes, led the way as beautiful ladies twirled their batons, some throwing them so high we could barely see them drop back into waiting hands.

We followed the parade along the sidewalks, ringing our bicycle bells to warn people that we were coming and to encourage them to move aside. The local beat cops waved us off and occasionally gave chase with smiles, reminiscing about their youth doing the same thing. Then came the circus wagons, accompanied by the sounds of roaring lions and tigers that made everyone take a few steps back as the mighty cats passed by.

The parade ended at the fairgrounds, a name given to Farmer Brown's cornfield, which he leased to the circus every year for as long as we could remember. My dad said Farmer Brown made more money from the circus than he would from a corn crop, so it became known as the fairgrounds.

That night marked the first performance, with everyone in town eagerly awaiting the ring announcer's booming voice, welcoming each and every one to the greatest show on Earth. We watched in awe as horses with riders standing on their backs went round and round the ring, trying unsuccessfully to catch the peanuts we had bought for a nickel. We laughed until we cried as we watched the clowns clamber into a tiny car together, wondering how it was possible.

There were lion and tiger trainers cracking whips to direct the big cats over obstacles, braving danger with every snap. Not to be forgotten were the massive elephants, shaking the ground with every step as their trainer climbed onto their trunks and circled the ring, sitting atop their enormous heads to the delight of everyone.

The show ended with every performer circling the ring, waving to the audience, who truly got their dollar's worth. The circus stayed for three days, then marched out of town with the band playing and big cats roaring, as we rode our bicycles alongside them while the beat cops turned away. I managed to take down a pre-circus poster that I still proudly display in my house—a reminder of my youth and the greatest show on Earth. 

— Mike, 2025                                              

A gift

 I don't question why I can recall moments in time; I see it as a precious gift that was somehow bestowed upon me at a very early age. While most boys were busy playing baseball or football, I occasionally joined in, but my heart wasn't in it. Instead, I preferred to spend my time writing about everything around me. At the tender age of seven, I wrote a poem for my grandma, who tucked it away in her memory box. She told me I had a gift and encouraged me to listen to my heart, rather than the people who said I was strange. I took her advice and continued to write as often as I could, stashing my work in drawers and eventually in boxes, as the volume grew rapidly.

As I grew up, I often found myself writing on bar napkins, paper bags, envelopes, and just about anything I could find to quickly capture the thoughts racing through my mind, sometimes faster than I could write.

During my carefree days in the sixties and seventies, with the help of some mind-altering substances, I wrote pieces that, upon revisiting them, left me wondering if I was truly alone in the words I had put to paper. An English professor once read some of my work and remarked that he thought I was channeling a great writer named Kahlil Gibran. After reading some of his work, I was both shocked and pleased, as it seemed plausible; his spirit resonated in the deepest parts of my writing. I recognized this as an important event in my life, a call to action to delve deeper into my thoughts.

To clarify, I continued to write almost every day without relying on chemicals, weed, or anything else to inspire me. For decades, I've accepted that I must write something every day. As a result, I've penned three books and blogged over a thousand stories so far. To refer to this as my passion doesn't do it justice, nor does it help to think of myself as crazy, but sometimes that thought occasionally crosses my mind.

While some people need that first cup of coffee in the morning to get their wheels turning, I need to sit down and write something, no matter how short or long. As long as my fingers are tapping away on the keys, I'm in rhythm with my own drummer.

Mike 2025

People have asked me why I write and where the ideas come from. What you just read is as good an answer as I can think of.                              

I miss the times

 I miss the days when men held doors open for women and walked on the street side of the sidewalk. I miss Sunday dinners at Grandma's house, where I could hardly sleep the night before, dreaming of her homemade cherry pie. I miss the department store windows at Christmas, especially the little red wagon that stared back at me as I hoped it would be under the tree.

I miss driving through the countryside with no particular destination, stopping along the road to enjoy a picnic lunch. I miss the smell of new clothes on the first day of school and the haircuts I got the Saturday before. I miss long conversations with Granddad, who, in my eyes, was the smartest person I knew, and I still miss him.

I miss autumn nights and Friday night football games under the lights. I miss my mom's laughter, her kindness, and our walks on warm summer evenings. I miss the ice cream man whose bell meant he was nearby, prompting my mad dash to Mom for a quarter. I miss sledding down hills and skating on a frozen pond that Dad made for us.

I miss my first love, who taught me patience as we discovered each other in the warmth of affection. I miss my years in the Navy, the countries I visited, the friends I made, and the unique feeling of being out at sea as saltwater weathered my face. I miss my children when they were babies, gazing into my eyes and melting my heart.

I miss driving lessons with my dad, who patiently showed me how to use a clutch and reassured me that it was alright, even when I failed the first test. I miss so many things, but I am grateful that I can still remember countless moments from my life that hold great meaning.

Life moves quickly; children grow up, parents and loved ones pass on, and before you know it, you find yourself alone with your memories, wishing for just one more ride on the carousel of life.  

Mike 2025                                                      

As he remembered

 A single tear fell to the thawing ground as he remembered. The tulip bulbs he planted were beginning to bloom, piercing through a patch of snow, while the trees were in labor as new leaves were born, and beauty took the place of winter's sorrows.

He came there often to sit by her, sometimes talking and other times in silent whispers, professing his love that knows no end. As he looks around this resting place for hundreds of souls, he sees others leaving flowers or mementos of a life passed on, and it somehow soothes his broken heart, knowing he wasn't alone in his grief.

It was lightly snowing as he got up to leave, probably the last time for a while. He ran his hand across her stone, brushing away the snow as a frozen tear fell to the thawing ground as he remembered.

Mike 2025                                                    

Ocean night

 Hot grains of sand turned cool as the ocean tide came in. In the distance, a Tarpon jumped with the sun's reflection, and a school of sharks came dangerously close to claiming my feet. Still, there is no better place on earth than sunset on the beach.

Far off into the vastness of blue waters, a sailing ship heading due South makes me wonder where its destination is and wish I were its captain. A salty dog who's rung more salt out of his socks than most have ever sailed on.

Down the way, a bonfire glows in the darkening sky as one of many beach parties gets underway. Laughter and singing bring a smile to my face as I remember a song and the bonfires of my youth.

Darkness has fallen, turning everything black except for the white caps that glow from the moonlit sky. Time for this old sailor to head back home, as the cool sand washes between my toes, leaving my footprints behind to be claimed by the sea.

Mike 2025                                                

The cafe

 She was sitting at an outdoor café when he first saw her. Dressed in a red sundress and matching high heels, her golden-brown hair was tied back with a yellow ribbon. Her lips were cherry red, almost waiting to be kissed. A car backfired, startling her, and she let out a small yelp, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. That's when her gaze met his.

He was dressed in a soldier's uniform, his trousers neatly pressed, his jacket adorned with medals, and his hat cocked slightly to the side. Was he waiting for someone? She wondered; it was funny because so was she. He took a seat and ordered something, smiling at the waitress, who noticeably blushed as she hurried away.

Both of them glanced at their watches several times, and then, as if by some magic, they stood up just a few feet from each other. Their eyes locked for a brief moment before they went their separate ways.

Twenty years later, she found herself at the same outdoor café where it all began. She wore a red sundress and matching heels, with a yellow ribbon in her hair—a somewhat crazy thing to do, she told herself, but something stronger than her had drawn her there. At that exact moment, as she looked around, she noticed a man sitting not far away; he was strikingly handsome, with pressed trousers and a jacket in a shade of army green. His hat was tilted a little to the side, just enough to catch her attention.

Slowly, he stood up and walked toward her. Placing a photograph on her table. She picked it up and saw that it was an image of him after the war, still in his uniform. "I've been looking for you my entire life," he said, as tears began to roll down her cheeks, one landing on the photograph, which she gently wiped away.

Call it fate, call it luck, or call it whatever you like, but on that day, two souls came together, each searching for a timeless love that was meant to be. He softly kissed her ruby-red lips, a taste he had dreamed of for all those years, hoping she wouldn't pull away as his lips met hers in a kiss that brought applause and even a few tears to those in the café. They were last seen holding hands, walking down the streets of a once war-torn village where two hearts had finally become as one.

Mike 2025                                                

Fallen soldier

 He lost a big part of himself to the bottle, and the anger he kept to himself until he couldn't. A once-proud man with many achievements is now just another drunk who never gets a second glance. I wonder if he remembers his past and those who shared it, or if he is a blank slate living in the moment with uncertain steps and no memories of yesterday.

It is a story that goes full circle from riches to rags, a tale of a man who lived large, never knowing or perhaps caring what tomorrow would bring, never planning to fail, yet failing to plan.

I visit him sometimes, but not often enough, as it breaks my heart to see him. His small apartment is dirty and neglected by his slumlord, who never responds to my inquiries about the forty-year-old carpet that poses a health hazard and the kitchen stove with only one working burner. I bought him a flat-screen TV that he parks himself in front of for hours on end, or until he has to make a liquor run to the corner store, thankfully not far from home, as he walks everywhere he goes.

I gave up trying to get him sober as it became a battle I could never win. So I sit with him among the cigarette smoke and balls of dust on every hanging picture. I make him his favorite lunch, a liverwurst sandwich with a dill pickle that he promised he'd eat in a little while. However, I often returned days later to find it untouched, now overrun by flies.

To this day, I wish there was more I could do, but he was determined to kill himself with the bottle, and on a cold day in November, I found him in his stained recliner, the TV on, and six empty bottles scattered on the floor. I sat with him for a while before calling the coroner, looking at his wrinkled face that had weathered many storms and battles, now resting peacefully somewhere he was meant to be. He was buried a hero, having earned many medals and awards as a proud soldier. I pass by that old run-down apartment when I'm in town, sitting in my car, remembering him and the fight he couldn't win, and I silently whisper to myself, don't let it be me.

Mike 2025                                             

Embers to Ash

 Walking in the autumn woods, the leaves crunch beneath your feet while a cool breeze aids their fall from the trees to the soon-frozen ground. The scent of pine fills the air from a log cabin, and a fire crackles in the fireplace as night gives way to dawn, turning embers into ash.

Dressed warmly, you sit on the front porch with a good book in hand, gazing out at the snow-capped mountains—a prelude to the winter wonderland that will soon blanket every inch of the landscape. It’s the perfect time and place to write as your cold hands put pen to paper, searching for inspiration that strikes as hard as a tree limb crashing to the ground.

The mountain is quiet, with small animals scurrying around in search of food to sustain them through the harsh winter. They call out to one another when they discover a food source, and if you're lucky, you'll spot a rabbit whose fur turns white to blend in with its surroundings.

As darkness descends, another fire crackles in the fireplace as you read another chapter in your book. You close your eyes for just a minute but find yourself drifting off to the sound of wood turning to ash and the almost silent autumn of the year.

Mike 2025                                             

I write because...

 Sometimes, I have to close out the world around me and dive head-first into a story. Sure, life goes on as usual, but I'm a million miles away without sadness or grief. Just the emotions I wish to convey. Sometimes, in my mind, I choose a quiet town or a cottage in the forests I go to as my pen begins its journey into storyland. I can venture anywhere I please, really, like a sidewalk cafe in France where a beautiful lady sips her tea and catches me looking at her and quickly looks away, a bit embarrassed. Or maybe I'll let my mind wander from place to place, only stopping when a feeling beckons me to write.

Most of the time, I know right away how a story will unfold, as I write quickly without hesitation until it's complete. The characters in my stories were thought of not in advance but spur of the moment because I felt they must be named as such to complete the tale.

I'm not a great writer, and truth be told, I won't be remembered as such, and that's okay with me. As I write, I release the thoughts that crowd my mind and heart, leaving me with a momentary sense of fulfillment yet an emptiness that awaits the next story.

Mike 2025                                              

Lazy river of words

 Wildflowers swayed with the gentle breeze as honey bees were fast at work. Powder-blue skies and a puppy cloud only you can see made you smile, as it looked a lot like old Blue.

Last night, the rain came as you dozed off to the tap, tap, tap of raindrops hitting the old tin roof, waking to the sunshine and another country day. Bacon sizzled in the cast-iron skillet, and the biscuits stayed warm, wrapped in a kitchen towel. Eggs sunny side up and a spoonful of homemade strawberry jam topped off with a cup of coffee and a silent belch made for the perfect meal.

It was Sunday, so the heavy chores could wait as you joined your neighbors in prayer at the same chapel your ancestors built brick by brick so many years ago. Once back home, another cup of coffee and a notebook open to a blank page, waiting for inspiration to strike. It didn't take long with the view before you, all God-given, to be amazed at with every gaze.

The words jumped onto the paper, flowing like a lazy river, never knowing where they might lead. You never understood why you were given the gift of storytelling, but you didn't question it as it belonged to you, and you cherished every sentence, every memory, and every stroke of your pen.

As darkness began to fall, you read what you've written, giving up on an answer that would never be answered, at least in this lifetime. The closest you ever came to understanding why you write what you do is that somewhere in your brain, a lazy river flows through your heart, and it's flooded with words that are given to you to create a story that you will continue to write until the lazy river runs dry.

Mike 2025