What becomes of a writer?

 Where does a writer go when the words stop? Do they become just another lost soul forgotten, or will his words live on in the minds of those who faithfully followed his craft? What will become of the readers who found themselves within his stories feeling as if he was speaking only to them?

Where does a writer go when he realizes that soon, the ink won't flow, and the words that once came to him so easily will become a battle to conquer?

What becomes of a writer who can't write? How will he fill his days without words? Will he live for his dreams where words once again flow, and new stories will be told only to wake up and can't be remembered?

In this writer's mind, I would find a peaceful place where the water flows downstream through a quiet village, with a cottage tucked away in a meadow with lush grass and wildflowers as far as the eye can see.

I would welcome the quiet, sit on the porch with a blank piece of paper, and stare at it, wishing for just one more sentence.

Mike 2025                                          

Day drinkers

 The basement bar was smoky and damp. The regulars crammed together, bellied up, with the common goal of forgetting their day. The barmaid had been slinging drinks for so long that she knew everyone's choice of liquid courage and sat it down before the customer could ask. She must have been a looker in her day, and she still tried hard to use her charms, often getting her a good tip, but mostly just a half-baked attempt at a smile.

An old Wurlitzer jukebox played the same songs. It mainly featured hits from the fifties, but no one seemed to care, as it was better than silence. At eight o'clock, the three-piece band played requests as the bar began to fill up with a younger crowd as the day drinkers finished their drinks and said goodnight. A much younger barmaid took over with plenty of skin to show off as the day bartender left without fanfare and a half-filled tip jar.

A few day drinkers stayed until their money was gone, trying to act half their age and usually making a fool of themselves as the crowd turned away in disgust, not realizing that they would probably become day drinkers themselves one day.

Closing time meant last call, and although nobody needed another drink, the barmaid filled their glasses and poured more beers assuring her a good tip to top off her already overstuffed tip jar.

Once the bar had closed and everybody had left, some with a sure thing if they could make it home without getting sick, and one lone ranger who believed his flirting with the barmaid would make for a lucky night found himself being shown to the door by the night janitor.

Just a few hours, and the day drinkers would file in as the barmaid stocked the liquor shelves and tapped a new keg. Sometimes, she would fill wooden bowls with peanuts or some salty treats to keep them thirsty in an attempt to make them happy and donate to her tip jar.

She looked around the joint, happy with what she saw, and plugged in the old jukebox, which played the same old songs nobody noticed. As the door opened and the bell above it rang, her day drinkers, whom she knew by name, bellied up and smiled, and her shift began once again.

Mike 2025                                              

If I couldnt write anymore

 If I couldn't write anymore, I imagine I would find myself among the tallest trees in the forest, whose lives, like my own, have almost completed the circle of life gifted to them. Together, we could share stories like how many seasons we have lived, how many storms we have braved, and whether anybody will hear us when we fall to the ground.

If I can't write anymore, does it mean I have nothing more to say, or did the words go to sleep, and the quiet takes over until my entire world finally rests after decades of late-night thoughts and early-morning coffee? Will I still remember the circus and the oceans of the world? Will I see the faces of those I love in my dreams and feel the warmth of a child's hug?

If I can't write anymore, how will I express all the beauty and wonders of life that fill my every waking hour, and how will I know when my last sentence will be written? Will I just know, close my laptop, and walk away? I know that day is not that distant, but I do know it's not today.

I still have words to write, stories to tell, and the endless hope I've touched those who get lost in my world of words.

Mike 2025                                               

Last ride

 He pulled off to the side of a country road, his throat parched and his goggles dust-caked. Climbing off his bike, he brushed the dirt from his chaps and grunted at the sight of his steed, which hours ago had shined like the morning sun. Standing and looking out over the wonder of nature, he was happy for the first time in a long time.

They told him he was too old to ride anymore and that he should sell his bike, but he ignored anybody who agreed. He rode his first bike at age seven, and countless bikes followed, each holding a special place in his heart but never any fear.

He chose the days he would ride carefully, only venturing out on sunny skies with no rain in the forecast. He didn't go too far from home, at least until today, when he took off at sunrise and never looked back. It was a cool autumn day when the mountains burst with colors, and the air filled his lungs with a cleansing no medicine could ever hope to do.

He rode throughout the day, taking back roads to avoid traffic and stopping along the way to stretch and gaze upon the beauty of nature and God's gift to us all.

The Road King performed like it always had, never breaking down or failing to get looks of approval from passing bikes of weekend warriors. The rumbling of power beneath him let him know how alive he felt, and not once did he feel too old to harness the wonder of it all.

With his tank almost empty, he unstrapped the gas can he knew he would need, poured it into the tank, and rode on. Nightfall was upon him as he rode further into the darkness and the dangers that lay ahead. He felt like a kid again testing his limits, throwing caution to the wind and never thinking twice about his safety. After all, that was his plan.

A passing truck noticed him around a dangerous curve. He was motionless, his bike on its side, still smoking but running as if to say it wasn't done yet. Per his request, he was buried with his Road King, two warriors at peace, riding through the mountains of heaven's endless curves, the only true freedom he had ever known.

Mike 2025                                            

The mirror

 He looked in the mirror that had been staring back at him for decades. Years ago, he smirked at his image, taking in the youth and confidence to begin a new day. He practiced what he would say to a girl he met at work or a speech he had to give to a crowd of his peers. He'd straighten his tie and comb his hair, and after taking one more look, he'd jump into his day full of possibilities.

He looked into that mirror every day, which was the same but with another wall to hang from. After all, time always follows you no matter where you hang your hat. For him, it wasn't vanity; it was a time clock to remind him his image was changing each time he looked into that mirror.

Wrinkles appeared out of nowhere. His days in the sun were etched across his brow like tiny rod maps of his life.

Today, he leans on the sink, looking at the man in the mirror, a man he barely recognizes, but there is no mistaking that smirk he sees as he remembers his youth and how it played out.

He's not quite sure why he removed the old mirror from the wall and stuck it in a drawer. Maybe he didn't want to see where it took him from this day forward. Perhaps he tried to remember his last time seeing himself as he used to be, but the reflection looking back at him couldn't allow that.

Maybe someday, one of his grandsons will find the old mirror tucked away in a drawer and hang it on a wall where he can look into the glass and practice what they'd say to the new girl at the office.

Mike 2025                                            

The farm

The morning began like any other summer morning on the farm. Chores were done before breakfast, and sunrise brought with it the chance to do something to feed the masses. His dad was a farmer, as was his dad, who worked the land for generations. It was all they knew, and they wouldn't change a thing. Simple things like the smell of fresh-cut hay and the earth itself 

giving you a gift you could never repay.

The sounds of roosters crowing and cows mooing, the distant sound of the combine in the south field, and the school bus tooting its horn as children finish breakfast and run down the dirt road to catch it.

Everyware the farm is work in motion as each job is completed and you move on to the next one as the morning gives way to the noon hour and a ham sandwich your wife packed for you the same as her mom did and hers before. Sometimes, she joined you as you ate, discussing the crops and a teacher-parents meeting tomorrow to discuss your eldest son's education. They both knew he'd be a farmer as it ran in his veins, just like you, your dad, and all who came before him.

You reminded your son about the meeting tomorrow at supper, but he paid little attention, knowing all he wanted to do was farm the land and marry his sweetheart, whom he'd known and loved for as long as he could remember, just like his dad and his before him. No meeting would change his mind as he felt needed on the farm; truth be told, he was.

Nothing else about college was ever mentioned, and their son grew into his own man and took over many of the duties his dad once did, like his dad and his before him. He married his sweetheart, and they were blessed with children who grew up and learned the ways of farming. 

Time has a way of passing down the torch, and his life slowed down once he did. Now, drinking a mug of morning coffee, he sits on the front porch swing with his lifelong sweetheart, listening to the carbine in the south field, the roosters crowing, and the cows mooing, knowing they've helped feed the people who depend on them, just like in his days and his dads before him.

Deep inside, he worried that changes were coming and profits would dwindle as the super farms produced more than the smaller farms could ever do. Some would sell to the big operations, while others would continue to struggle on the land they've farmed for generations.

He felt the changes coming, which could be good in some ways. But for now, sitting on the porch swing with the love of his life, he would remember his dad's teachings and his before him and all the wonderful memories he had, giving his wife's hand a gentle squeeze and a smile as big as the land itself.

They were farmers, and like those who came before them, they worked the land, loved the land, and belonged on the land as much as his dad and his before him.

Mie 2025                                           

The written words

 Since he has survived the last seventy-something years, how little he wanted to retain may surprise you. He chose who and what he wanted in his life, often being labeled as a recluse or a homebody, neither of which bothered him.

Early on, he decided he enjoyed being alone with his thoughts, building a library of sorts to reflect on when he felt the need to learn.

It didn't bother or matter to him that while the other kids were playing, he walked deep into the woods and spent time with the trees and everything else the woods had to offer.

It was there in the quiet that he wrote about what he was feeling at any given time. Propped up against a giant pillar of wood, he opened his eyes and his mind to everything around him, and the words flowed. When he needed inspiration, he would read a book, but only those he connected with, like the cedars of Lebanon or the prophet, two of his favorites that he read many times.

Years and decades passed, and he still found great comfort and joy deep into the world of tree soldiers where the songs of birds always greeted him, along with the squeaks of small animals and, on more than one occasion, the glare of a wolf who stood his ground as if to say, "I welcome you here.

Soon, he will write his final chapters and reflect on the times he didn't join in with others but remained alone with the knowledge that mattered to him.

Were you ever lonely? He was asked. Never, he replied. My life has always been filled with adventure, surprises, and a love for all living things. Through books and my mind, I traveled the world and filled my heart with wonder. I've seen more in a day in the woods than most would ever see in a lifetime on a crowded street or at a picture show.

I am the designer of my life and will continue to live it through my mind as long as the words flow, my heart beats, and the wonder of the written word thrills me.

Mike 2025       

                    

Winters blanket

 He thought to himself, " Winter came early." Then he noticed some lingering leaves trying to hold off being buried in the deep snow and hanging on for dear life.

The pond would be frozen soon, and his grandkids would come and skate for hours while their mom and dad would sit with me by the fire pit drinking hot chocolate, but I preferred a different kind of liquid warmth.

My daughter remarked that it looks so barren this time of year. The trees are bare, and the lush woods are a field of wooden soldiers. The green grass is now a colorless landscape of frozen mud.

I took a drink and smiled a bit before saying, There is beauty all around you if you know where to look, even in the harshness of winter. The first real snowfall covers everything with a blanket of white, waiting to be disturbed by curious creatures and kids seeking fun building snowmen and making angels.

The stream that runs through the property is taken for granted most of the year until a snowfall covers the rocks, and tiny ice cycles attach themselves, leaving a picture any artist would love to capture.

The thing I find the most soothing is the quiet. There are no construction crews hammering away and saws screaming. Traffic is all but lost, as only the emergency vehicles will be heard, but hopefully not.

The crackling of a fire in the pit and the laughter of the children as they race around the frozen pond, unaware of anything else.

To me, winter is a time for cleansing the earth and allowing time for Spring to be reborn, rising from the once-frozen ground. A blanket to protect what waits below to dazzle us after the snow leaves until next time.

Mike 2025                                    

The dance

 Fifty years had passed since that Saturday night school dance. He was seventeen, and she was sixteen, and little did they know that someday they would marry. She looked so beautiful in a blue chiffon dress her mother made for her, and he in a shirt and tie he borrowed from his older brother.

The school gymnasium was decorated with streamers and balloons. When no one looked, a refreshment stand served fruit punch sweetened with booze. A band was hired and played all the favorites the kids loved dancing to, giving the chaperones a lot to look out for.

He asked her for a dance, holding out his hand, which she took as he led them to the crowded dancefloor. I'm Mary, she told him. I know, he answered back. Who wouldn't know the name of the most beautiful girl here? They danced the night away, telling each other about their dreams and plans until the lights went on and the dance ended.

Her best friend's dad was picking them up, and they both hoped he was running late. They exchanged phone numbers on pieces of napkin, which she put in her purse and his in his pocket. He watched her pull away, seeing her look back and smiling at him as he began his long walk home.

Her father didn't allow her to date yet, so all they could do to be close was talk all night until they fell asleep. A year passed, and he was called to serve his country. They wrote to each other sometimes, wondering if the mail would find him in a faraway jungle. But she kept writing, and he did his best to respond.

He came home at the age of twenty-two, and she was twenty-one. She met him at the train station, seeing him immediately as he ran towards her and scooped her into his arms, which he had longed to do for so long.

They married that day and began a lifetime together as if no time had passed at all.

As the years passed, they found themselves chaperoning the high school dance, remembering theirs as he gave his hand to her and led her to the dance floor. They danced until the lights went on, then took a taxi home with her in his arms, both smiling.

Mike 2025                                 

Forgotten

 His big toe ripped a hole in his sock, but it didn't bother him unless it got really cold, then he felt the difference between a hole and not. His shirt, one of just a few, was stained with the menu of the week, but he didn't care; he called it his taste test of meals.

He didn't know what a manscape was; he thought it meant somebody had escaped from prison. His beard was white, and there was some mystery about what may be living in there, but he didn't care.

A small family of mice made their home in his home, and that was okay with him; everything breathing needs shelter somewhere. He'd hear them on the counters at night, their tiny feet running from one place to another, landing on a scrap of something he dropped, but he didn't care.

His house was small and needed many repairs, like the roof that leaked and the pipes that corroded almost daily. Trying to fix things was a constant battle until he quit fixing them and let them be what they would be, much like himself.

He expected to be found one day living in a state of disarray that swallowed him up and spit him out, lying on a stained carpet with a giant hole in his sock and a shirt with the day's menu splattered all over it. The paramedics would wear masks to help with the stench as they tried in vain to revive him, but he was gone.

The city tore down the place as a family of mice raced to the house next door for shelter and food scraps. It was just another story of being forgotten in a world where what should matter does not.

Mike 2025                                        

Pickled eggs

 I ducked into a corner bar to escape the blizzard and unbelievable cold that chilled me to the bone. I'd been here some time back with my dad, who propped me on a barstool with an orange soda and a handful of quarters to play the one-armed bandit, but it was a long time ago, and I forgot about the place. There wasn't any live music, just an old jukebox spitting out the classics of days long gone. The place smelled of cigarette smoke and dampness. Cheap perfume filled the air worn by a few elderly women sipping their cocktails and hoping someone wanted to dance.

Two old men sat hunched over, staring into their glasses, wondering whether they should have another. After looking at the bartender, another round was ordered. A large glass jar filled with pickled eggs and a rack of potato chips that had probably been there for a long time was the menu that I passed on, choosing Hunger instead.

The bartender, who also happened to be the owner, asked me my father's name. When I told him, he scratched his bearded face and smiled. I knew your dad very well. He said it seemed like yesterday he was standing exactly where you stand now. I can't count the times your mom came and picked him up. Yeah, I said she did that a lot.

As the storm stopped, I played a few songs on the jukebox and drank too many beers, and nobody cared. I finally left, but not before telling the owner thanks and saying I'd make it a point to come back no matter the weather.

Walking home, I realized how much I had in common with my dad. Someday, I'd have to try a pickled egg and some stale chips.

Mike 2025                                          

quiet

 I was so much younger than when life was lived for the next moment. There were no limits, only adventure, fun, and the never-ending feeling of never getting old.

When I think back at the years and all they brought with them, I smile a little and cry at times, both from joy and sorrow. So many have passed before me, and it doesn't seem fair sometimes that I was left here to be the caretaker of so many souls. To keep their flame burning bright and to remember them.

There's so much quiet now as a once full house is replaced with different-sized frames and people staring back at me. Is it odd I talk to them? I don't think so. How else will I remember their voices?

On cold winter nights, I listen for the silence to speak, but it doesn't make a sound, as even the snow treads softly.

I've found peace within myself as I look back on all the memories I made, and I even retain some of them, which is a welcome surprise. Getting old isn't that bad. It's just lonely at times until a child and grandchild stop by and disturb the silence so I can join life again in a world that isn't meant to be so silent.

Mike 2025                                      

Peaceful souls

 If you ever lie in a summer valley looking up towards the heavens and find yourself lost in the stars or make a paper boat and set it free with the current, then you've known peace.

If you've camped in the forests or mountains and smelled campfires burning and music playing to a beat of its own, then you've known joy.

If you grew your hair, wore tie-dyed shirts, cut off jeans, smoked a little weed, and dropped some purple haze or brown barrel, you've experienced the joy of finding places in your mind you never knew existed.

We were a generation of exploration, with the freedom to do as we pleased and the desire to let the system know we had a voice that would be heard. We gathered by the thousands to absorb the music others saw as the devil's work, but to us, it was a part of who we would become, and we welcomed it with a loudness that shook the ground beneath our bare feet.

Love was shared, and casual sex was another part of our culture. Babies were born and loved riding shotgun in vans painted with flowers and incense billowing out of the windows. We were gypsies who always got a funny look from people who looked down at us as being a bunch of freaks hell-bent on destroying the comfortable life they lived, pretending to have all the answers, and all the while jealous of our happiness.

We condoned war and saw it as an action of the war machines who answered disagreements with missiles and bombs, killing women and children for reasons only the old war dogs knew. Some refused to go and escaped to Canada to live in peace and our way of life.

But only a few continued living in the forests or traveling the countryside, finding refuge among the cedar trees and lush valleys we fell in love with as our children grew.

Eventually, the groups began to disband and go their separate ways, some choosing to live among those who hated us while others held on to their beliefs and traveled to what we called relocations to small towns, where we opened bakery shops and record stores. We wore our tie-dye shirts and had long hair. We burned a joint when we wanted to and turned once boring towns into tourist traps and income sources. Decades later, the towns remain a part of our culture we loved so much with our kids, sometimes keeping our chosen life alive and following in our footsteps.

As for this old writer, I will always have that period of my life to remember what I fell in love with. I burn incense and have long hair, and when I need a reminder, I put on a tie-dyed shirt, roll a fat one, spin Zeplin on the record player, and send a paper boat down the river of my youth.

Mike 2025 

                                      

Memory box

 His desk was a collection of unread mail and several coffee cups. A stapler that hasn't been used for years and five different color notebooks, each a potential book. An eight by-eleven framed picture of his kids and grandkids and a box he called his memory box. When his mind went blank and the words wouldn't come, he reached inside the box and imagined grabbing not just air but a phrase or a sentence that would latch on and give him the right words. He knew that sounded silly, but as a writer for many years, he knew it sometimes took a lot of imagination, which he had plenty of.

Sometimes, he would reach into the box and, with his eyes closed, picture his Mom or Dad, bringing back good and bad memories, but always truthful. Other times, he would reach into the box and see the faces of loved ones and lovers. A gateway to his past, a black hole where his mind and heart would travel in search of the memories that made up the stories he wrote.

Everyone needs a memory box—a place to go when the ink has dried, and the words won't flow, an imaginary portal into yesterday's you never want to forget. At least, that's true for me. Although I always think outside the box, I usually find myself deep inside my memory box, where the good stuff dwells, waiting for me to see deep inside a magical and memorable place I can put on paper and hopefully add to a colored notebook.

Mike 2025