I want to laugh again

 I want to laugh again like I used to do back once upon a life.

Fun-filled packed bars with music and laughter that went on all night, leaving you wiped out the next morning that came with two hours of sleep and a mad dash to get to work feeling like crap and looking even worse.

It wasn't difficult to spot your fellow party partners. They were slumped over their desks, rolling their eyes at you as if to say never again. But you knew that was a lie.

It's hard to give up a lifestyle, especially when the consequences of your choices hit you in the face on any typical day. A pain in your arm and the tightening in your chest bought you a ride in an ambulance and the feeling of being scared for the first time in your life.

Your life was never the same after that scare. No more booze, no more foods you loved, and daily exercise you thought was worse than the heart attack itself.

Then, the truth presented itself when you stopped going to your favorite bar, and nobody missed you or at least didn't check up on you. You were out of sight, out of mind, in proper fashion. A few days after your attack, you received a card in your mailbox stained with spilled beer and the oils of peanuts and several lipstick kisses with a name below each one. It was a subtle reminder that your only friends were the day drinkers who spilled into the night, some asking how you were doing and then ordering another shot without any more talk about you. Your life as you knew it ended right there, and then you realized your life was nothing more than people who drowned their troubles until they were gone for a few hours of fun and laughter in a smoke-filled room.

The years passed, and you've been sober for a decade. You stayed away from your old watering holes but did enjoy a nice night out with a new friend who has also been clean for some time now. I suppose there is life after booze, but you have to seek it out carefully so you don't disturb the forces around you to retake control and lead you back down that path you once walked or maybe stumbled.

I laugh again now, more so than I ever did. My mind and body still feel the effects of the abuse I put upon myself, but all the changes I went through were and still are the best life choices I made, and  I stick to that one day at a time.

This story is a self-portrait of my younger life, not just a story. I can still smell the smoke that filled the bar, hear the music, and sometimes wish I could have one more time doing all the crazy things I did. That brings the biggest smile I can muster, but I know it's not to be. Hell, I'd need a bib at my age so I didn't stain my shirt, earplugs to keep me from going deaf, and an Uber waiting outside because I gave up my driver's license ages ago. Life is a bitch, but it wasn't always that way.

Mike 2025                                                   

Word puzzles

 It used to be simple for me to write and tell stories. I would open my mind, and a floodgate would open, spilling so many words that I could hardly keep up. Now, I fear that with older age comes a slowdown of my word river, which now seems but a trickle of its former self.

How is it that something once so powerful as a well-written story can turn into a game of hide and seek for the right words?

Life is like that, I suppose. You start with a young mind filled with ideas and stories to be told. You didn't care back then if people liked your work; it wasn't for them to like; it was meant to sharpen your tools for what greatness awaits. And so the journey begins.

You've lost count of the stories you've written, some just short blurbs and others books that never sold much. Again, you didn't care, as the stories were yours to do with what you pleased, like seeing copies in the library and people looking inside, some smiling before putting it back with the other dusty tales of someone's imagination.

Sitting down at my old desk with a single light flickering in the darkness always seemed to spark an idea that must be told. My words came to me in a flurry, and finally, an abrupt stop told me it was over the end. But I always wanted more.

I've discovered that writing gives my mind a rest from everyday life, which has gotten progressively more confusing. I fear that soon, the words will dry up and be locked away for good. And then what? Crossword puzzles, word find, or staring out a window, begging for inspiration. It's a slow loss that leaves me feeling empty and alone. I try to remember the characters in my books saying their names out loud, which I must admit would probably seem crazy to anyone nearby. Sometimes, I could rattle off dozens of names, each with their own story they allowed me to write. Other times, I struggled to find one name, but my mind was like a blank sheet of paper.

I feel blessed to have had such a long life and the chance to tell the stories I had to write. You have to understand that much of what I've put into sentences didn't always come quickly, but they did come. Some came to me so quickly that I questioned if it was my fingertips pounding out the words.

To date, I have written over seven hundred blog posts, with an overwhelming number of a dozen readers. But that doesn't bother me because one day, one of my kids or grandkids will stumble across a key drive with everything I've ever written. They will read them because they will be a part of who I was: my journey across vast oceans and neighborhood bars, my life as a hippy and a biker, my strong work ethic, and my never-ending love for each of them.

I don't foresee myself whithering away in a guest bedroom or a place for old veterans—not for me. I see my dog lying beside me, the clicks of the keys that put him to sleep, and me pounding out anything that stays on the screen. Jumbled letters that have no meaning make me smile because I'm doing what I do best: searching for words in my puzzled mind.

                                                                                  

                                                                  

Mike 2025

Once again, this is a reminder that I write stories, not so much facts. There's no need to contact me to ask if I'm okay. Thanks for reading.

                                                               

A smile and a wave

 The old man sits on the front porch as he has done for too many years to remember. He watches as children grow and dogs follow, and each passing day brings him closer to the love of his life.

He made some friends along the way but didn't know their names. They were just passersby on an evening walk, smiling and sometimes waving like friends do.

He's seen the trees grow from saplings he planted when he built their house, and now, they tower over the roof, heading in the same direction he hopes to go. He rocks slowly in the swing he made for her one Christmas, remembering the look on her face as she embraced him and told him it was perfect. They sat on that swing every evening when the sun was setting her hand in his as the world around them passed in front of their eyes with a smile and a wave.

It's just him now as he slowly swings, keeping one hand on the spot she sat beside him, leaving the other hand free to wave as the passerbyes looked his way, knowing that swing would soon be still except for times the gentle winds blew. When he passed, They sat together once more on the swing he made for her one Christmas many years ago, her hand resting in his as they rose beyond the tree tops to a place where everyone waved and smiled and true love had no end.

Mike 2025                                       

Unread words

 When I walk away from writing, it's as if I have left a piece of myself behind. My pen leaves everyday sights and sounds untouched, and my imagination hides itself.

I feel like a half-written song whose melody stops halfway home, leaving someone to pick up where I left off.

I purposely do this to myself to understand how important it is for me to continue even if my words are never read.

I sometimes wonder if centuries from now, my work will be discovered in an old cardboard box tucked away in a hoarder's garage, doomed to a moldy death, or maybe discovered by a bargain hunter who cashes in on the stories of a simple man from years past whose only wish was to tell his stories and bring a smile, maybe a tear, to a reader he'd never meet.

Mike 2025

                                                                    

Call of the flute

 Ringlets of smoke rose from the simple shelter as the sounds of a flute melted into my soul. Each note is a message that found me in a place of solitude and reflection, away from the city's hustle, walking a long, winding road upward to where the ground and the sky kiss hello.

The smell of patchouli and campfire smoke stirs memories of years long past but never completely forgotten a culture of peace, love, and harmony with nature.

That life stayed with some as they continued the journey, while others, like myself, strayed, leaving with memories and a burning desire to return.

Now, here I am again, high atop a mountain, walking until I find the small group of yesterday's people sitting around the fire and listening to the sound of a flute close enough to pierce my soul once again.

We are few now older and maybe wiser, but we agree that time didn't win; we did. We may have walked down the mountain a long time ago, but the footprints we left behind us will continue to attract others who once lived in the grassy meadows among the trees and the stars, returning one last time to hear the call of the flute.

Mike 2025                                           

 He never thought he would live somewhere over ninety, but he was blessed. He often remembers people and places he should have forgotten, but they are as clear as a bell. His movements aren't as well-oiled as they once were, but give him time, and he will reach his destination.

Sometimes, he would have to think very hard to pronounce a name or put a face to it, but give him some time, and he would speak to them as if it were a gift.

He often wondered what it must have been like when he could dress himself, but that seems so unimportant now. And the stains on his shirts are just reminders of last night's supper or a midnight snack.

He shows little emotion when his grandson shaves his week-long whiskers or his granddaughter makes his favorite dessert, but he is smiling inside.

The days mean little to him as each one runs into the next, but he knows his family will visit him one day, and he patiently waits. One by one, they file in, holding his favorite dishes and speaking to him as if he's deaf as well as old. Little did they know he could still hear the buzzing of a fly landing on his piece of apple pie.

He looked at all of them, each a story he could tell as they grew up and he grew old. His great-grandchild would sit close to him, whispering in his ear that she knew he was very old, but she loved him just the same. She asked him why he had no teeth and if he was always this old. Her parents would tell her to quit asking so many questions, but he waved them off and told her to ask him anything, and he'd do his best to remember.

This was his life now, and when they left the house they grew up in, he cried a little, knowing the time would come when he had to say goodbye to everybody and everything he had tried so hard to remember.

His family honored his wishes to stay in his house, where all of his memories live, but time was growing short when he'd have to live in a strange place with people he didn't know, and he prayed to God to let him stay home.

He was ninety-four years old when the angels came to him and took him to a place he had always prayed he would go—a place where he could feel young again and look down at those faces he now remembered so well. Sometimes, he would pay a visit to his great-grandchild as she slept, answering all of her questions and telling her stories of her Mom, whom he missed so much.

She would tell her parents about her talks with him in so much detail that they would pause in disbelief.

Everything is good now as he begins his journey to the place he prayed to go. And he wonders if he will find his grandmother, who made the perfect peach cobbler.

Mike 2025                                         

His shadow

 Growing up, I craved his approval. I followed him around like his shadow, wanting to be just like him. I wore a baseball cap that said John Deer, just like his, and work boots handed down by my older brother, the same kind dad wore.

He taught me to throw a ball and take a punch, to work hard, and to mind my elders' words without question. He also taught me a darker side of him, evident in my Mother's bruises and the empty bottles thrown in anger at anything in their way, including me.

My brother left home after high school, leaving me alone to take the brunt of his anger, but I promised myself one day I would make him stop. That day came when I was Seventeen.

I woke to hear my Mom's cries and found her curled up on the kitchen floor, clutching her arm in pain. I'm okay. She said don't make a big deal out of it. Your father is a good man. He drinks too much, that's all.

I found him in his workshop, his head tilted back, getting the last drop of whiskey. He saw me and threw the bottle towards me, aiming at my head, but I was faster than him and caught it in mid-air. Without any thought at all, I threw the bottle at him and struck his head with a thud I hear to this day.

My Mom testified at my trial, showing the court her many scars at the hands of my father, who she buried on the family plot where only three people gathered to pay respects. I was not one of them.

Years passed, and Mom grew old and silent most days. She rocked on the front porch swing until I got supper ready and helped her inside. She passed at Eighty-nine and was buried alongside her husband on the family plot. I said my goodbye, sitting next to her on that swing she loved so much, but I didn't go to the gravesite, which would only bring back memories of a man I once loved and followed around like his shadow.

I did my time, losing thirty years of my life. I'm not angry at anyone and admit my crime without remorse. I'm forty-seven years old, wondering what's next as I sit on the front porch swing, taking the last sip from the whiskey bottle, looking for something to throw it at. 

                                                                      

Mike 2025

               Like all of my stories, this one is fiction. I always combine details of truth with fiction to create the story I'm trying to convey to readers.

Ocean treasures

 We are walking on a beach, your tiny hand in mine, as quiet footsteps disappear behind us. The rhythm of the waves breaks each with its own melody that sometimes bears gifts from the farthest reaches of the sea.

You let go and run towards something the sea will reclaim if you don't grab it. You hold it to your ear, walking slowly back to me, a smile on your beautiful face as you put it in your bag with other treasures.

You said a small bottle could be that of a pirate, and a piece of wood covered in barnacles could be a piece of a treasure chest lost at sea until a storm washed it ashore. Colored pieces of glass hundreds of years old, made smooth by the tides, could have been bottles or glassware from a king's table.

Soon, the sun will set, and the beach will sleep until dawn, when my little treasure hunter and I will venture out again, leaving our footprints to be washed away behind us and a world of adventures waiting ahead.

Mike 2025                                                  

Gift of memory

 I can close my eyes and see the endless sea, the vast forests, and the majestic mountains reaching to the sky. I can smell the salt, the pine, and the wildflowers that grow in the meadows.

I can reach into my memories and pull out pictures of a simple life when Mom stood at the kitchen window watching me play and Dad reading the Sunday paper his unlit pipe in the clay ashtray I made for him.

I can walk down the streets of my youth and remember each store and soda shop where I went as a teen, listening to the jukebox play my favorite songs. I stop at the ball field and can hear the crowd's roar and feel the parents' pride under the Friday night lights.

I see the day I boarded the bus to boot camp, leaving the boy behind and becoming a man. I remember seeing the ship that would be my home for three years and marveling at its size and power.

Memories can take me anywhere I wish to go and to anybody I want to see, all in a fleeting but very real thought. I sometimes find myself so deep into the thought that I'm actually there, smelling breakfast cooking as Mom scurries about the kitchen making school lunches and Dad reminds me today is trash day. I see myself getting on the school bus and seeing the faces of my friends so very young.

I've always thought that I lived two lives: the present and the hidden memories I can recall and put pen to paper for the world to see.

The best thing about memories is that you get to choose the ones that brought you joy and happiness. These will always be there when you call upon them. And the bad memories will only stay as long as I allow them to.

My wonderful life of memories has been a gift that I cherish beyond anything else, and I hope they remain with me until I am but a memory.

Mike 2025                                              

Once upon my time

 I was happy once upon a time. I would laugh so hard my mouth hurt, and tears would roll down my face so hard I thought I'd drown in them. I was wild back then when age was just a number and fun was what I lived for. I was charming, yet I could be hurtful if I didn't think before I spoke. I thrived on danger, riding my bike down mountain roads and living just to do it again. Jumping off bridges into rapids, But I also tried to avoid harm when I realized I was getting closer to an ending I didn't write.

Then, as if time took a giant leap forward, I was old. The thrill days were behind me, as was the lifestyle I lived with a passion and will never forget.

If you saw me today, you would see the scars, some hidden beneath the wrinkles of age while others stand out, leaving you wondering about the life I lived. Where once vivid tattoos adorned my skin are now faded roadmaps to nowhere covered with age spots.

I didn't want to grow old, but nobody does. But If I try, I can still find some happiness in the eyes of my grandchildren, whose innocence and energy find their way into my heart. Moments like that take me back to the times spent with my children as their teacher, their friend, and the one person on this earth who never stopped loving them.

I often wonder what I'll miss the most, and the list is long and includes hearing the roar of a waterfall, the serenity of the forests, a baby's cry wanting to be held, and those three little words that never get old.

I'll miss morning coffee with the one I love, a stroll down a country road, and the smell of freshly mowed grass, muscle cars, Harleys, chocolate cake, and Ferris wheels.

Every day, I remember and forget my journey as my hourglass slowly stops moving and my life fades to black. Now, moving on to my next chapters, I know I will write someplace dreams are made of, and those around me will voice their approval, bringing a smile and tears to their eyes as they hear my words that went unnoticed and unread until now.

Mike 2025