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                                           

Train ride with Grandma

 The high-speed rail flew past the place I called home many years ago. It was called the Beeliner back then, a passenger train with different class seating. The nicest was at the back of the train, where the sound of the massive engine wasn't so loud. Then, The dining car was followed by everyday seating and the noise.

I used to stand across the street and wave to the engineer as the mighty Beliner sped past on its way to Niagara Falls, wishing for the day I could be inside looking out. That day finally came when my Grandmother surprised me on my twelfth birthday with round-trip tickets for her and me on the train leaving from the city station and ending up in Niagara Falls.

Climbing aboard, I felt an excitement like never before as the conductor punched our tickets and directed us to take a seat anywhere we liked in the first car, known as the common folks car. The sound of the idling engine was hardly deafening, but Grandma told me it would be much louder once we were underway.

I had a window seat and watched as people said their goodbyes. I noticed some men in uniforms, and I wondered if they were going to war or perhaps coming home. Then the whistle blew a mighty blast that startled both my  Grandma and me as our journey was about to begin. With the rhythm of the steel wheels keeping time, the mighty engine slowly gained speed as my world outside the window sped past like a moving picture show.

Granma offered me a sandwich, but I couldn't eat it with my heart beating so fast, so she smiled and said to save it for later. Just minutes had gone by since we left the station, and the whistle blew, sounding our arrival in ten minutes. Keep looking out the window, "she told me." I have a surprise for you. I couldn't imagine any surprise greater than the train ride, but then, as I looked out, I saw my whole family standing there, where I always stood, waiting for the Beeliner to speed past. They were holding a sign they made that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MIKE. I pressed my face to the glass, watching until they were out of sight.

We had a forty-five-minute wait until our return trip home, so we visited the mighty Niagara Falls and a sweets shop, where Grandma bought three large candy suckers to give to my sisters and one for me. We heard the whistle blow, so we went back to the train, where the same conductor asked for our tickets, smiling at us as he asked if we'd like to ride in the luxury car. Only a handful of people were going back, as their journeys were taking them to various destinations, leaving several seats open.

As we found two seats, all Grandma could keep saying was, 'Oh my, oh my.'With overstuffed seats and space enough between us to stretch our legs, it was all we could do to speak softly and thank our lucky stars.

My train ride that day has stayed with me all these years. Not long ago, the old train was taken out of service and replaced with a high-speed rail system that traveled at speeds up to one hundred miles per hour. What was once a one-hour ride to the Falls took the blink of an eye to arrive.

I take this train five times a week, and each time at a particular place, I still press my face on the glass, hoping to see my family waving at me as we sped past. And sometimes I picture Grandma and the good times we shared riding the rails together. Come to think of it, one of her sandwiches would taste good right about now.

Mike 2025                                               

Beasts from hell

 Tears ran down his face as the force of the first drop, and the screams of the passengers behind him pierced his ears. Each curve was a test of his stomach as breakfast began its journey up, but he fought back and won that time. The sound of brakes screeching and sparks flying from the steel wheels all came to an end at the last curve, slowly creaking to a halt, and the end of another ride on the beast from hell. Riders got off, some looking like they had cheated death, while the operators hurried to clean up the remnants of a few breakfasts. Others scrambled to the end of the line, waiting for another turn.

The line to get on was long, and the faces of the soon-to-be riders were filled with excitement as they pushed their way to the front car or the back, as each promised a whole different feeling. The safety bars were locked down, and the sound of the mechanical arm was released as the beast began another white knuckle ride on the coaster from hell.

When darkness fell and a million colored lights lit up the beast, the riders, some of whom were high on things other than the ride, were rudely brought back to reality as the first drop sent them headfirst into the colors and the promise of a lifetime experience. The music was too loud, drowning out the park's noises. A dozen different smells whipped past your nose, like cotton candy, hot dogs, waffle cakes, and candy apples, all bunched together as one traveling at lightning speed. Some Thrill seekers held their arms up high, braving the beast's deadly turns and dips, their butts rising off the seat as they defied gravity for the ultimate ride experience.

Those were the days, my friends, when fears were put to rest, and the anticipation of riding the bigger ride grew every summer when you were tall enough to take on the ultimate coaster. Only the bravest of the brave would defy death in what was called The Tornado. Its presence was everywhere you walked through the park, towering over the tallest rides, making them look like kiddie rides. Some say you could see it and hear its screams a mile away. There were no safety bars on the Tornado, but rather a cage that held four people completely enclosed, with safety harnesses for extra protection. The scariest part for me was the cages rotated up, down, and around while the ride maneuvered you at speeds that made even the strongest of stomachs wish they'd skipped those chili dogs.

Another summer at the thrill park has passed, and another memory has been made as we wait once more for the thrill of a lifetime and the beasts from hell.

Mike 2025

Growing up in Tonawanda

 The raging water passing under a railroad bridge was the one thing every kid with balls jumped into. There was a safety rope made with a length of ship rope someone found before I was even born. Its sole purpose wasn't to swing on the rope but to grab onto it and get you back on the bridge safely. Missing the rope could send you swimming for your life. You see, just a couple of miles downriver was Niagara Falls, and it was certain death. At any given time on a summer day, kids would gather there, a place commonly known as The Shoots. There would be shouts of encouragement to jump, and many kids backed away when they looked down at the swirling water, dark and very spooky. It wasn't unusual to see kids run off the bridge in terror.

It was a rite of passage that, when completed, gave you your fifteen minutes of fame and weeks of shoulder slapping from those ready to try their luck.

On July fourth, 1965, I stood at the edge of the bridge. Kids were shouting for me to jump, but all I could hear was the raging water below me and the unsettling feeling that I was going over the falls and not in a barrel. I was frozen to the bridge as several of my cousins and friends cheered me on, saying it was a piece of cake. So, with a last prayer, I jumped. I saw the rope just inches away, and with a lunge, I had a hold of it and got back on the bridge without being sent over the falls. I knew at that exact moment why nobody ever tried it twice.

Many years have passed, and on every visit home, I stop at the Shoots, where I see kids standing on the edge of the bridge, and I hope somebody has found another piece of rope.

Mike 2025                                                

Ninety something

 His eyes are growing weaker, and his grip is weakening. His steps were a little slower, and his voice was more like a whisper. He beat the odds and lived to be in his nineties. He couldn't remember the date anymore, but what did it matter anyway, as each day was a blessing, but to do what he wondered.

He buried his wife decades ago and suffered the loss of both his children, leaving him broken and never totally healed. He often asked himself what God had planned for him at this late stage in life, but no answers were ever revealed to him. Not yet, anyway.

He had one true friend who called him GGD, short for Great-great-Granddad. His name was William, after himself, which he always thought to be a good choice. Billy, as he called him, came calling every week, always with a bag of food and his favorite Tootsie Rolls. He told Billy he enjoyed them because it took a while without his dentures for one to dissolve in his mouth.

They would sit in silence for a spell, GGD enjoying the company as he unwrapped another Tootsie Roll, as Billy asked him to tell him something about his life he didn't already know. The old man paused from dissolving his candy and seemed to be someplace far from the front porch as he slowly began to speak.

Did you know I was a circus clown He asked. For reels, Billy asked. Yes, back before the circuses were filled with carnival rides, all they had was a tent with a hundred patches, where animals and performers thrilled small audiences with incredible feats of balance. But we weren't just clowns; we were the men who kept the performers safe when an animal got out of control. We ran right up to the beast and taunted them until they charged us all, making it look like part of the act. Once the danger had passed, the clowns threw tootsie rolls to the children, but I always had a good stash in my huge clown pockets for myself. True story, he whispered.

Billy always stayed until dark, sharing a meal before he made the long trip home on his bicycle. Hold on, he told Billy as he went inside and came out with a larger-than-average rubber horn, which he squeezed, letting out noise so loud that the birds in the trees flew away. This here is my clown horn, guaranteed to make a person jump out of their seats. Go ahead and strap it to your handlebars. If a stray dog or an armadillo gets in your way, give them a blast from this. I guarantee they will move out of your way.

As Billy got on his bicycle, he headed down the dirt road. The old man listened as his old circus horn blasted out warnings until it was out of sight and sound. He unwrapped another tootsie roll, letting it dissolve slowly in his mouth as he grinned the toothless grin of a man ninety-something.

Mike 2025                                                  

For my eyes only

 A small cottage on the edge of the forest is where I want to be..A place where the air is clean and the view is like no other, inspiring me to write the words I've chosen to be shared. There would be a bubbling brook to help me keep the rhythm flowing through my mind as I begin the making of a story.

There would be acres of wildflowers blowing back and forth to the music only they could hear, and the leaves of the trees would join them, some falling to the ground in a dramatic climax.

I can picture myself perched on the front porch, one leg on the floor and the other on the rail, with a pencil in my mouth chewed on like a dog's bone. Dressed in the clothes of that time, not to be fashionable but comfortable. Leather shoes and a button-down shirt, freshly ironed and creased trousers, all create in my mind what I'd look like if I were to become a character in my own story.

Perhaps I'm living a country life, a man with sandpaper hands and a deep love for the earth, or a woodsman who harvests trees. Maybe a maple syrup farmer who tapped the trees and brought great pleasure to those having pancakes for breakfast.

However, I choose to live alone, as past experiences have shown me that no two people will get along forever, and if they do, then they deserve a chapter or two before I bid them a forever farewell.

I would cherish my time in the small cottage, welcoming the changes of the seasons and all they bring to the cravings of my mind that call upon me to write. Even the smell of the cottage, with its wooden walls and drafty floorboards, would soothe me as I write from the soft glow of a lantern hissing just beside me.

There were no expectations of a best-selling book, not even a hope that it would be read. It was a story I'll take with me as I venture down the mountain, happy and proud that I was still able to chew on a pencil and create a story, if only for my own eyes.

Mike 2025                                              

One with the Sea

 He stood by the water's edge, the end of the road, for waves. He gazed into the endless black waters that, just minutes ago, had been vivid blue, with children splashing and beachgoers scanning the sand for colored glass and shells.

As the darkness of night crept in and the moonlight cast silver shadows on the inviting sea, he walked further into the calm water, wondering for a split second if, in the blink of an eye, he would become a snack for an unseen predator of the deep.

Now waist-deep, the swells flowed over him like he was a piece of the sea, A sailor he was and always would be. The oceans of the world were his home, and the stars in the heavens his guiding light. He breathed in the salty air and tasted the sea on his lips, knowing in his heart that one day, he would be welcomed into the darkness of Neptune's world.

He listened for the call of the mermaids, their songs beckoning him even deeper. He felt the softness of a dolphin's skin as it brushed against his leg, a welcome he thought from another sailor cast into the sea.

Slowly, he disappeared from the beach, but no one noticed no one cared. Soon, his breathing would cease as his new lungs took over, and a world of wonder would open up before him. Thousands of fish in every color you could imagine, and every creature in the sea living in harmony deep away from the threats from above. The mermaids surrounded him with a song of welcome as they danced the dance in every sailor's dreams.

He was home now, the place he belonged as his last few bubbles washed onto the sand, and he was one with the sea forevermore.

Mike 2025                                                  

Imaginary throttle

 The skin on his arms, where guns used to be, is loose and without definition. His tats, once a nautical story, are a maze of faded ink and imagination. He still wears sleeveless shirts, but not for the same reasons as before; now, they seem to keep him cooler when the hot flashes come to visit.

     His once-full head of dark brown hair is now white and cropped close, so he doesn't have to fuss with it. He wears a baseball hat now to keep the sun off his already weathered face, now looking more like a road map than the handsome man he was always told he was.

     His dentures float in a glass except for when he goes out for a bite. He has become quite good at gumming most foods except raw vegetables, which he used to enjoy so much. The grandkids tease him about having no teeth, and he assures them that if they don't brush and floss, they will have their own glass of teeth.

     On the floor of his clothes closet are several pairs of cowboy boots, military boots, and his favorite pair of engineer boots, which he wore every day he rode his Harley. They have all collected dust and will continue to as far as he is concerned. He slips on a pair of sneakers with no laces, as his fingers no longer cooperate with him much, so tying them is a chore he could do without.

     Dressed in a pair of faded jeans, a white sleeveless shirt, sneakers, and a baseball hat, he was ready to begin his day. He grabbed his walking stick and, closing the door behind him, he ventured out into the beauty of yet another day he had been blessed to have. He made the walk to the corner store, where he greeted several people he knew. People like him who held on to the years they were given and enjoyed each one to the fullest.

     They sat in a group at the outside tables, sharing stories of their younger days and the adventures they remembered. He explained each of his tattoos and the ports of call in his Navy days, where another one was added. He carried a worn, old picture in his wallet, showing a young man with a sleeveless shirt sitting on a Harley somewhere in the mountains so long ago. He smiled at the image and put it safely back where it belonged.

     The slow walk home made him tired, but his mind was filled with great stories his friends had shared, giving him the energy boost he needed to climb the stairs to his bedroom and lie down. He drifted off to sleep only to be awakened by the throaty sound of a Harley passing by his open window. He twisted the imaginary throttle and went peacefully to the place he had hoped he would.

Mike  2025                                            

The old fan

 The small fan, which sounded like it would die any moment, was her only way of keeping cool, or at least keeping the hot air moving. She didn't grow up with conveniences like air conditioning and numerous other gadgets to make life easier. It was all she knew, and it was okay with her. Not many people came for a visit in the heat of summer, and that was okay with her as well.

Today was laundry day, and it didn't take long for everything to dry on the clothesline. After all, it was just three flowered sundresses, some undergarments, and a few pairs of socks she needed in her shoes that were a little too big, but she bought them that way as she knew she would grow into them.

She put on her sun bonnet and got her basket, then walked to the garden, where she weeded what the sun hadn't killed and sparingly gave each plant a drink of water from the bucket she had brought along. With any luck, she would have vegetables for the winter if prayer and hope worked in her favor.

She only ate once a day as the heat took her hunger away. Midday, she made a tuna and tomato sandwich with lots of pepper, just like the one her mother used to make for her on hot summer days. Out on the porch was one good thing the sun gave to her: a big glass jar of sun tea. She kept an eye on the color of the water so it wouldn't over brew, which made for a strong taste she didn't care for. Sometimes, she would splurge and put two ice cubes in her glass, enjoying the cool liquid sliding down her parched throat.

As the fireball known as the sun went down, she sat on the porch looking up at the stars in silence with the night birds singing her to sleep. More than once, she awoke in the middle of the night in her chair on the porch, scolding herself, knowing it would be hard getting up. But with a few groans, she stood up and went inside, where the old fan hadn't died yet, and she was okay with that.

Mike 2025                                                

Carousel maker

 His bib overhauls didn't get washed very much, but he didn't care. He thought every oil stain, paint stain, and who knows what else showed character. His late wife thought otherwise, saying, 'What would the parents think? You look like an old street artist?' They would think there's a man who loves his work. After all, how many people can say they make carousels?

He learned the craft from his father and grandfather, who carved his last horse at the age of ninety-one. Some believe it was his best work. It was his grandmother's idea to build a children's amusement park, with the carousel serving as its centerpiece. As the years passed, the park grew into a favorite destination for families to visit on Saturdays and Sundays, where, for a fee of twenty-five cents each, they could ride as many rides as they wanted.

Inside the big red barn is where the magic happened, a place where artists transformed wood into many barnyard animals, among them magical steeds with flared nostrils. There were swans and ostriches, pigs and sheep, and every so often, a bench where parents could take a break. In the center of the carousel, unseen, was the magical music box playing the melodies one would associate with the biggest show on earth.

Over time, the little park in the country stopped growing as he got older, and the constant upkeep was all he could do to keep things looking and operating as they had on the first day they opened.

Just a couple of years ago, A big theme park opened not far from his park, offering towering Ferris wheels and a screaming rollercoaster. And some contraptions he thought belonged in outer space. Where were the handmade animals and the little boats that went round and round in a pool he made? And what about the music that assaulted his ears? There was no magic box, just towering speakers blasting rock and roll music, if you could call it music at all.

It wasn't long before people longed for the lovely little park with its country charm and a feeling that could only be had when going round and round on the hand-carved animals, each one a labor of love.

Today, the old man has gone to join his wife in the most beautiful amusement park ever built. After all, who but Jesus the carpenter could carve such beauty? Together, they look down on their park, which still opens on Saturdays and Sundays, where, for just a quarter, kids can ride all day. Their grandchildren keep up on maintenance now, some wearing bib overalls stained with oil and paint. And a love passed down.

Mike 2025                                                   

Springtime splendour

 The laundry blew in the wind on the backyard clothesline. The smell of springtime fills the senses with a treat almost forgotten during the harshness of winter.

High atop the mountains, the warmth of the sun begins to thaw the land, and raging streams come alive with a thunderous song.

Frozen ponds and country streams thaw as new life is born everywhere you look. The winter forests turn green, and animals of all types rejoice as nature's table returns once again.

The sounds of tractors plowing the fields and the smell of the soil embrace you with promises of a good crop. The rains bring a smile, as they are the one saving grace to nourish the seeds.

Windows are opened, letting the fragrances of Spring replace the stale winter air. Children shed their winter wear and replace them with knee-high rubber boots. A must on a springtime farm.

Picnic tables are pulled from the barn, getting ready for family and friends to gather on Sunday after church. The ladies would all bring a dish with barely enough room on the table for the last two.

The conversation among the men centered on the forecasts and rain totals, and the price of hay and feed costs were always a concern. The smell of the smoker filled the air as hungry children gathered close to the table, hoping to snag a deviled egg or biscuit but usually got a slap on the hand from a smiling Mom.

With a full belly and a happy heart, the late afternoon picnic ended with a slice of apple pie and chocolate cream, if you dared. Dad said he wouldn't be able to fit on the tractor seat if he ate one more bite of anything.

With the guests gone, Mom and Dad took a slow walk down the country lane, holding hands just as they had when they were kids, grateful for every little thing, especially the kids who got to wash the dishes.

Mike 2025                                           

Grandads farm

 His kids would be coming by today with little ones in tow. They loved the farm and told him he must be the farmer in the book their Mom read to them before bedtime. But they asked why Grandad's name wasn't McDonald's?

He was ready for them with ice cream churned this morning and chocolate chip cookies still in the oven. But the real fun began with a tour of the barn and a carrot for Danny, the miniature donkey, some feed for the chickens, and most fun of all, jumping out of the hayloft into a wagon below stacked with hay.

Lunch was simple, consisting of ham sandwiches and ice-cold lemonade that he had made with real lemons. Afterward, it was time for driving lessons on the old tractor, the same one he had taught his kids to drive, and for the older boys, a turn at the combine they had been waiting for, what seemed like forever, to arrive.

He and his kids sat on the porch, watching as their children chased the chickens, played fetch with the dogs, and made short work of the plate of cookies. As the day went on and the kids grew tired, it was time for a bowl of ice cream, which was eaten on the porch in silence as every last scrap of the bowl was consumed. And now it was time to say good night.

Goodbyes were said, and hugs were given, with a reminder from Mom to thank Grandad for everything. He stood on the porch as the last little face pressed against the car window disappeared into the distance, then began the task of washing dishes that his daughter had offered to do, but he was pretty direct when telling her he'd do them.

As night arrived, he sat in his favorite chair, remembering the day and the happiness on the children's faces. He remembered the talks he had with his daughter and son, telling them he was considering selling the farm. But his daughter said he'd been saying that for ten years. He fell asleep with a half-eaten bowl of ice cream on his lap and a picture his granddaughter drew for him, featuring Danny the donkey and a title that read "Old McGrandad's Farm."

Mike 2025                                                   

The front porch swing

 He often finds himself slowly swinging on the wooden swing he made for her decades ago. It was a place where laughter and tears came together, a sanctuary from the rain, a spot for savoring iced tea in summer and steaming coffee to watch the winter sunrise.

The swing had secrets, and rightfully so, as it was the one place where emotions coupled with unspoken words seemed to soothe and relax to the sound of the squeaking swing.

Apologies were made, love professed, and holding hands in silence, the warmest feeling in the world.

She would sit there, slowly cutting off the ends of snap peas, looking out at the place she called home. The sights and smells of the farm, along with the rocking in the chair, brought her great comfort as she laughed a little, watching him kick the tractor that obviously wouldn't start.

Her entire world could be seen from the swing he made for her so long ago.

Now alone, he had no words to express how much he missed her and their times swinging together. A simple thing that told their life stories one chapter at a time. There are moments when he leans against the railing, looking at the empty swing, stopping for a minute to picture her there smiling and cutting snap peas, professing her love for him as he lets the tears flow and whispers I love you too.

Mike 2025                                                     

                              

Unforgetable moments

 The young man skipped rocks across the pond he had grown up by that seemed so small now. The trees he once climbed have lost their branches to age, and a frayed piece of rope, once a tire swing he would swing on, dropping into the cool waters of the pond, was now just a memory of his childhood.

He walked into the woods past the old bridge, where he had kissed his first girlfriend, who ran away afterward, he guessed, to tell her friends. He couldn't walk on it anymore as time had given it back to nature, but that couldn't stop the memories.

He scanned the tree line, looking for his old tree house, and finally spotted it a far cry from its beginnings, with a couple of boards still hanging by a thread as the rest had fallen to the ground, taking it with it the summer nights with his friends reading comic books with flashlights and scary stories that remained with them for quite a while.

His mind raced as he remembered the first fish he caught and a broken arm he got from falling out of that tree house. He remembered the smells of the woods and the night sounds that sent chills down his spine. He remembered Mom's apple pie and Dad's Captain Black pipe tobacco, which he could close his eyes and smell for a passing moment.

Fresh-cut wildflowers and fireflies in mason jars. Homemade kites and freshly churned ice cream on a hot summer night.

He emerged from the woods as the sun began to set, and the man in the moon lit his way home. I never thought a visit back home would bring back lost times so vividly, but they did, and I made a promise to myself to take the memories with me, no matter where my journey leads.

Mike 2025                                                

A writers life

 Growing older and writing can sometimes be a challenging combination. It's like a race to see who retains the most memory before the story comes to an end.

That never-ending search for the oftentimes elusive word or sentence screaming to get out and me screaming when it does.

Writing as a younger man had few distractions; a clear mind came easily, and the words followed.

How do I describe in detail what I want to say if I keep being interrupted by words begging me not to be left behind?

How do I pull back memories buried so deep inside of me that they stay locked up as if they never happened?

Writing is like many other crafts that flourish at the beginning but lose their brilliance over time. But we keep on trying, as quitting isn't who we are. We dig deeper and try to relive our past, grateful that we could and hopeful we still can.

This world we live in is a million stories waiting to be told. AI will write some, and those with average intelligence, like my own, will continue to reach into our hearts, minds, and souls to bring words to life in ways an algorithm cannot.

The life of a writer can be described as someone who sees with their eyes and their heart, writes with their emotions, and touches their readers with memories they had all but forgotten. I don't believe any computer can replace someone who can pluck a word from the depth of a soul and craft a story.

Mike 2025                                                

First kiss

 Everyone remembers their first love and their first kiss, which you can still taste if you close your eyes and remember.

Mine was at a Friday night football game. We were both fifteen and on our first date. After being scared to near death when meeting her Dad, we held hands and walked to the school stadium. I had never held a girl's hand, and I can honestly say it sent shivers up my spine. We found seats high in the bleachers and sat so close to each other that we barely needed two seats.

I didn't know what was happening with the game as all my attention was on her and her gloved hand holding mine. She said she was cold, so I wrapped my jacket around her, and in doing so, I just reacted and kissed her. She didn't pull away but returned my kiss, her warm lips and the taste of cherries pressed firmly against mine.

That first kiss was one of hundreds as our teenage love blossomed into a love like I've never known since. Today, decades later, I often think of her and our first kiss on those cold bleachers. Her hand in mine and the taste of cherry forever on my lips.

Mike 2025                                                     

Milk can stories

 Raindrops fell into an old milk can with something growing in it. I don't know what. I liked how it looked in the milk can, so I just let it do its thing. It reached a point where people who saw it commented on how unusual and pretty it was. When asked what it was, I told them it was a story plant. They would say, 'Very nice.

I spent many hours of my adult life writing stories about various things, and I usually wrote on the front porch, as it was a soothing place with views of the hills and endless forests, all of which were topics for the stories I loved to write.

I decided my porch needed more milk cans, so I found some at a farm that was no longer in operation and offered the farmer five dollars apiece, which he agreed was fair. I set them on the porch with the original can I've had for many years, giving them time to grow into something, and I didn't care what it was. It didn't take long, and sprouts began to show, trying to turn into something no one could put a name to. Some say they were weeds that sustained themselves on the dried milk inside the cans.

Others said they were air plants that didn't need soil to grow; that was interesting. In time, each milk can had blooms of all shapes and colors, and people kept coming to my porch to see these strange and beautiful plants.

Each plant told me a story about someone or something  I found interesting, and I ended up including them as a character in my writing. One after another, characters were born sitting on my porch, and stories were written. The milk can stories began with one milk can and dozens of people from all walks of life freely sharing their stories with me for reasons unknown. 

Maybe it was the way they just were, or perhaps the milk cans reminded them of something on their granddad's farm. I don't know. I do, however, know I was inspired to write more stories and buy more milk cans.

Mike 2025                                                      

Bank on it

 She walked slowly down the dirt driveway to the mailbox as the postal worker waved. She waved back and smiled a smile nobody would see. Junk mail and a utility bill were all for today, so she put them in the pocket of her apron and started the long walk back home. 

What would this day bring, she asked herself, looking up at the sky, which was turning gray. Maybe some rain, she said out loud. We can use a good soaking you can bank on that.

Back in her kitchen, she sat down with a mountain of snap peas that needed tending and a batch of biscuits that wouldn't make themselves. Her grandson was coming for dinner tonight, so she wanted to make all his favorites, something she had not done in a while.

With everything in the kitchen under control, she got herself ready, putting on that new dress she had splurged on a while back. Her granddaughter's christening, if she remembered right.

A quick bit of dusting and some fresh wildflowers put in her favorite vase, and she was ready.

He arrived right on time with a box of chocolate-covered cherries, her favorite. She hugged him, amazed at how he had grown since their last visit. They ate dinner, talking about his life in the city, but not much about her, as her life hadn't changed in too many years to count.

Time flew, and he said he had to get back home, thanking her for the dinner and all his favorites and, of course, the leftovers she packed for him.

She stood on the porch waving until he was out of sight, wondering how long it would take for him to eat another biscuit. She got started on the dishes, even though he offered to help more than once, but she told him it gave her something to do once he left.

Sometime late into the night, she awoke to rain pounding on the roof, a sound she had always liked. Maybe a good soaking, she said out loud. We do need it, and you can bank on that.

Mike 2025                                               

In a dream

 In a dream, I was walking down a long, dusty country road. On either side, fields of wildflowers stretched as far as the eye could see. Bees buzzed on a mission, and small swarms of butterflies gracefully danced across the air.

In the distance stood a once-proud house now beginning to crumble as its last days were numbered. I heard the voice of what could have been an angel singing softly, alone in her thoughts. I got closer, noticing she wore a white linen dress, and her hair was long and curly like Shirley Temple's all those years ago.

I stood firm on the dusty walkway, rubbing my eyes to see if she was real or just my imagination playing tricks on me. She was putting cut wildflowers on a worn-out trestle, aged and paintless like the rest of the small house. They're beautiful, I said as she continued to sing softly, taking a moment to smile at me, which found its way straight to my heart.

I didn't want to walk away, but my feet began to move, and she grew smaller until she was out of sight. Her song stayed with me throughout the darkness of the night, when everything was quiet until tomorrow came again.

Mike 2025                                                        

The treasure fence

 I see a lot of myself in my son, that long-legged whisp of a boy who stole my heart so many years ago. We used to walk the beach, collecting treasures from the sea and taking them home to what we called our treasure fence: discarded flip-flops, a child's scuba mask, frisbees, and chewed-up tennis balls. Colored pieces of glass worn smooth by the tides and lengths of a ship's rope so heavy it took both of us to drag it home. There were countless broken fishing poles and nets, coolers covered in barnacles, and sunglasses galore.

Over time, the fence evolved into an attraction, and people from the neighborhood brought us their beach finds, which we added to our treasure fence. One day, when he was in his teens, my son chose friends and skateboards over our walks on the beach. Although I was disappointed, I was happy to have had those times and even more proud of his accomplishments in life.

One day, as I was taking a ride through our old neighborhood, which I often did, I came upon our old house and saw a large pile of items at the curb waiting for the garbage truck. It was our treasure fence that was replaced with a metal one, which was cold and boring. I told my son what I had seen, and I believe I saw a look of sorrow on his face. It's okay, Dad he said. I still have fond memories of our walks and treasure-hunting, which I'll cherish for a long time.

I still walk the beach, although a lot slower, but it gives me plenty of time to look for treasures both in the sand and within my heart.

Mike 2025