My best friend

 These six legs have traveled together for a dozen years, slowing down now but still able to feel the ground beneath our feet and paws. We've braved all kinds of weather, always on a mission to see new things and familiar spots that we must stop to smell. I've tried many times, on walks around the pond, to count how many times he lifted a leg, but gave up after twenty.

We eat our meals together, and I'm aware I shouldn't be giving him people food, but he's more of a person than most humans I know, so people food it is. He knows that when I filled a paper plate with what I didn't eat, it was his for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Oh, he had a bowl of dog food I kept full, but he sometimes showed his dislike for it by shoveling the kibbles onto the floor and waiting for me to scold him with stern words that I knew made him laugh.
He's losing his hearing now, and I have to shout or give him a gentle nudge, so he hears me. His rear quarter is getting worse, and I find myself just handing him a treat rather than making him get up for it. I know he appreciates that. He's always been my shadow, no matter where I go, never out of my sight, even when he has to get up just to make sure I was close by.
He's the same number of years as me in dog life, a couple of senior citizens shuffling through our days, and grateful for each other's company. Did I mention he can talk? Especially when we have a visitor, he lets out sounds much like someone would to welcome someone into their home. He loves the attention, especially from my grandkids, who once threw him a ball that now sits in his toy box because his hips don't work too well. But he loves to be petted and his belly scratched.
I often find myself looking into his eyes, once vibrant and full of energy, now cloudy and straining to avoid obstacles. He means the world to me, and when he's gone, a part of me will go with him. I pray for him every night, asking God to look over everyone I love and care for, hoping he hears me and lets my shadow sniff a hundred more trees, throw his food to annoy me, and look at me through cloudy eyes, making sure I'm close by.

Mike 2026                                                      

Heart and soul

 He watched a spider in its web up in a corner, something he would never have seen without it being there. He watched as bits of dust were blown off a table as a springtime wind came through the window. He never would have seen it if he hadn't been looking out at the rain shower. He heard a cricket somewhere in the house and a frog out in the pond. He never would have heard them if not for the early hour when traffic was all but none.

He smelled the fresh-cut grass and the pasture full of wildflowers and windswept scents of a nearby woods that he never would have smelled living in the city. He heard the little things, like the buzzing of a single bee that had gotten lost and the cry of a baby bird high up in a tree calling for its mother.
He reached his golden years, which meant becoming a wise man with stories to tell to wide-eyed children and postcard memories he would have forgotten about if not for a youngster's voice asking to see what was in the old trunk sitting in a corner. His old Navy blues, some vinyl records of his youth, and sheets of yellowed paper with handwritten poems. His baseball glove and a box of checkers with a red one missing replaced with a red button. His high school yearbook with pictures he had circled for one reason or another, and a stack of postcards from his travels as a sailor, he sent home.
His life was one he was proud of, and although it was nearing an end, he still watched and listened, laughed and cried, sat and read, and wrote about everything he found interesting. He traveled the globe and walked in the footsteps of the ancients. He saw great monuments to heroes and colosseums still intact, as thousands of pictures were taken by those passing by. He saw a bull fight in Madrid and the Rock of Gibraltar. He sat at a French cafe wishing she could have been there with him, but a postcard would have to do. His heart was full of love for his family, their faces seared into his mind forever and a day.
Now it's just a waiting game to see when he'll leave this amazing place, and feel somewhat certain his next journey will be humbling, with a thousand questions finally answered.

Mike  2026                                                             

 

Blank screens

 I sat down in front of a blank screen, a cup of coffee now half-empty.Outside, the roar of a lawnmower cutting through the dirt as the draught continues, but he was paid to cut, so he cuts. Piles of dog droppings were pulverized into fertilizer as the blade cut through the air, sparing the weeds. The TV weather people tried to keep spirits up by saying there was a 20% chance of rain. I guess all that did was tell me there was an 80% chance it wouldn't rain.

There's a pond where I live, man-made years ago, with a fountain that sprays a cooling mist as you pass by and a population of koi and turtles always ready for a piece of bread or stale crackers. There is a walk bridge that passes over the pond where grandkids stand, throwing scraps of dinner rolls and stale bread saved by grandparents, hoping for a visit before mold sets in and they must be discarded.
There are times when words come to me without much effort, and stories are written as fast as I can type. Ideas clash, vying for the win, often leaving me to choose which thought to use. I reach deep inside to find the proper words lying in wait until they are one tap of a key and embedded into the story. But what about titles, you ask? Well, I usually am halfway through a story when I see a phrase or a sentence that seems to fit, and I go with that.
One of the bigger challenges is finding an illustration that conveys the words I've written. I Google a bunch of images for each story, then choose one. like an image of an old man on a bench. I look at dozens of pictures, then, once chosen, I simply copy and paste them into my draft, and that's that, another story was written and added to the many others sleeping until read.
I suppose a blank screen isn't something awful; it's just giving my brain a rest until the word faucet turns back on and flows like a river with the tap of my keyboard. I think my next story will be the lawn guy wiping dust off my new truck from his lawnmower, and me going through images to best show my reaction, like a man in his robe chasing a lawn guy down the street  as he sped away in a cloud of dust. I'll work on that.

Mike 2026                                                    

Long live Rock

 He put an album on the turntable he bought decades ago. It was part of the entertainment center, which also contained a television set and a small cabinet, usually used to keep alcohol of one flavor or another. There was a rack to store records, and with a touch, you could close it, leaving it to look like just another piece of furniture.

The television quit working years ago, but the turntable could still play, even though the sound quality wasn't all that good by today's standards. That was okay with him, as it was the sound, he grew to love, and nothing else could compare.
Led Zeppelin was playing "Stairway to Heaven " as he sat back in his recliner and drifted away to better days when peace was preached, and news was meant to inform you, not petrify you. He remembered when his friends would gather, bringing their own records to play on his turntable, since most of them had only a cheap player with little clarity.
He remembers standing in line, no matter the weather, at the record store on the first day of a new release by bands like Black Sabbath, Jethro Tull, Aerosmith, Deep Purple, and many more that, after all these years, still hold a place in the rack inside his council. Many records had the lyrics printed on the back or on a separate page, so that they could learn to sing along with the music.
A lot of so-called hard rock songs were thought to be the work of the devil, which you could barely make out by playing the record on a slower speed. It was a great marketing scheme to sell albums.
He remembers putting two big box speakers in his car, which he had to camouflage so no one would walk off with them. He and his friends would drive into the country listening to a rock radio station that played hit after hit as they passed around a joint, their ears ringing from the hidden speakers. He smiled, thinking he actually did lose some hearing in his left ear.
That era belongs to those who listened to hard rock and still do. He believed they should call themselves the hearing aid generation. There were times they'd sit on top of a country hill where speakers would be set on rocks a ways from the car. They'd lie down on the soft grass, looking to the stars and pass around a bottle of boons farm, like strawberry hill, goofy grape, and an apple something. Clouds of pot slowly danced around them as they waited for a song, they knew the lyrics to, then they'd all sing along as a couple of guys played the air guitar, trying to capture the moves of Jimmy Page or Hendrix.
As he sits, afraid to look in the mirror, he tugs at his memory book, taking him back to those carefree times when tickets to a live performance were like winning the lottery. They counted the days until the concert came to town and spent hours getting ready, dressed in worn-out jeans and some T-shirts with the band's picture on the front. Their hair was long and usually needed washing, but that didn't matter that night.
They arrived early to the Zepplin concert, scoring some weed and plowing their way to the front of the stage, packed in like sardines. They got in the mood as the warm-up band played cover tunes blasting through the tower speakers, some bigger than a refrigerator stacked high above the stage. And then, behind the curtain, a familiar song began to play. Softly at first, the lights flashing with color as the curtain rises, and there stand the boys of Led Zeppelin. And nothing in his life ever prepared him for what was happening. The sounds were amplified a thousand times over his home system, a bug in a trap, screaming to be set free.
Sixty years later, he still plays his records, some labeled with a ticket stub taped to the album cover, a total of ten. His ears are damaged, his lungs smoked out. And his recollections of those years have all but bid him goodbye. But somewhere inside, he's still a guy who lived for the music and the music lived for him.

Mike 2026                                                        

Winter treats

 The woods were white with blankets of snow, the remaining leaves drifting slowly downward towards their final resting place. Silence filled the freezing air like a knife piercing your every breath and every step, the sound of crunching boots as you pushed forward to a valley where early risers grazed on the smallest patches of greenery.

You jump a little as you hear the snapping of a twig, then another closer to you, and you stop dead in your tracks, your undivided attention on high alert. Very slowly, you move forward listening, but only your own noise is audible as you shrug it off and continue.
Finally, the valley comes into view below, and you begin the descent, careful not to spill the cargo you've brought along. It isn't easy going, and you slip more than once, sending you downward much faster than you'd like. Two deer hear you and disappear into the cover of trees as you come to a stop, shaking the snow off  yourself, laughing at all the times as a kid you braved that hill  down to the valley.
It was years ago, and many winters, that you  first came here, walking towards the valley, your backpack bulging with snacks for the deer who called this place home. You unpacked your pack and set out two bowls that you filled with fresh greens you grew in your greenhouse, two apples, and two chunks of salt that they really liked. Then the waiting game began as you found the stump from last winter's visit, which you had to dig out from under the snow. It was maybe twenty yards away, so you sat and waited to see if they felt brave enough to get closer, and you didn't have to wait long.
You sat as still as a statue, even holding your breath as the deer inched closer to you. Very slowly, you held two apples in your outstretched hand, hoping they'd know you meant them no harm, just a winter's morning treat. As time passed, you tossed the apples a few feet ahead of you and put your gloves back on before frostbite set in. Then it happened: the deer walked slowly towards the apples, making a wide circle around you, sniffing the air, and finally realizing you were a friend. The munching of the apples was the only sound in the valley. You slowly got up and moved the bowls closer to them, and in seconds, they had their heads in the bowls, licking them clean, then disappearing back into the safety of the trees.
You sat for a while, the smell of the deer still in your nose, an earthy smell, a smell you liked. They wouldn't come back, he knew, not until you went back, which you did through the cold winter months. They would come out of hiding as they heard you sliding down the hill, avoiding fallen trees until you came to a stop. The deer showed themselves as they walked up to you, sniffing the pack until you opened it, giving them each an apple. They ate the greens and slowly walked to the salt licks, enjoying their winter treats.
Springtime took the snow away, and the woods were alive with the sounds of new births and lush fields of green. You set out on a springtime journey to the valley with your pack full of treats you hoped to give to the two deer you had gotten close to on their terms. You arrived at the hill leading down to the valley and stopped short of descending, as mud and more mud covered the hill. Looking down into the valley, you spotted two deer and their baby, who had gotten stuck in the mud and was calling out to his parents for help. You didn't hesitate; you hurried to the valley and, without hesitation, jumped into the mud and pulled the little one out.
Sitting on the stump, you reached into your pack and came out with two and a half apples. not knowing if the young deer was just drinking its mother's milk. The mother quickly ate the half apple, which told you the little guy wasn't doing grown-up treats. As years passed, you continued your journey to the valley, each year another baby and a growing family. Other animals who called the valley home came up to you, gently taking an apple from your hands and looking at you with big, round eyes as if saying thank you.
We buried you in that valley marked by the stump you sat on, as the deer families kept slowly coming out from the trees, looking for the man with the apples and a gentle, loving soul.

Mike 2026                                                              

Flat pennies

 He held her hand as they watched the train pass by, the sound of the steel wheels on the tracks, looking for the end car where his grandpa, the conductor, would be. As it came into view, the boy jumped up and down with excitement, and for a fleeting moment, he saw his grandpa waving as he passed by. He took his grandmother's hand again as they walked to town on the side of the tracks, a shortcut they usually took. There wasn't enough time to stay and watch for another train as they stepped away from the tracks down a slight hill that led them to town. Don't forget your penny, she would tell him as he reached into his pocket and placed the coin on a track, looking around for yesterday's penny that, if he was lucky, would be close by and flat as a pancake. But not today.

He held his grandma's hand as they walked into town, a quaint little place with no high-rise buildings and no heavy traffic, just wooden buildings that provided most everything they needed. There was the general store, a pharmacy, and a butcher shop. Doc Melvins' office was at the edge of town, and a church stood tall up on a hill.
As they went inside the general store, he let go of his grandmother's hand and pressed his nose to the big glass containers of penny candies. There were jawbreakers, licorice sticks, bubble gum, and tons more to choose from. He handed the shopkeeper five pennies as he took his time choosing just the right kind, not seeing his grandmother's smile as she put three more pennies on the counter.
They left the store and saw Grandpa's train sitting on the tracks in front of the depot, hissing until the next scheduled departure. Out of the cloud of steam, he saw his grandpa looking so good in his uniform, walking towards them, bending down on one knee, his outstretched arms ready to hug his grandson. Did you see me wave? he asked as he handed his grandpa a licorice stick, his favorite candy of all time. I did see you, he answered, and guess what he asked the boy? What he asked. How would you like to come with me on the next train out? It's a short run, and we will be home in time for supper.

He said goodbye to his grama, letting go of her hand and taking grampa's in his as they boarded the last car together. You sit down on that bench, he told him, while I collect the tickets. Then he heard his grampa yelling all aboard and he knew that meant the train would soon depart. Slowly, the mighty engine roared to life as the steel wheels inched forward, building up steam and heading out of town. Grampa joined him in the last car as they looked out the window, seeing other boys waving to them as the train passed. He waved back and heard his friends calling his name, shouting and jumping up and down like they'd seen a movie star or something.

At the end of the line, they took a taxi back to town, where Gramma was waiting outside the general store with bags of groceries. Just in time, she said, handing the boy a sack to carry. Grampa took the others as they walked up the hill and onto the tracks headed for home. They passed by a penny on the tracks, the one he put there earlier, hoping tomorrow would find it flat as a pancake. The three of them held hands as Grampa whistled a song, and Grama joined in singing, and as for me, I was the luckiest kid in the whole world who got to be a conductor for a day and proudly showed off my junior conductor badge that Grampa traded me for my last licorice stick

Mike  2026                                                             

He held her hand as they watched the train pass by, the sound of the steel wheels on the tracks, looking for the end car where his grandpa, the conductor, would be. As it came into view, the boy jumped up and down with excitement, and for a fleeting moment, he saw his grandpa waving as he passed by. He took his grandmother's hand again as they walked to town on the side of the tracks, a shortcut they usually took. There wasn't enough time to stay and watch for another train as they stepped away from the tracks down a slight hill that led them to town. Don't forget your penny, she would tell him as he reached into his pocket and placed the coin on a track, looking around for yesterday's penny that, if he was lucky, would be close by and flat as a pancake. But not today.
He held his grandma's hand as they walked into town, a quaint little place with no high-rise buildings and no heavy traffic, just wooden buildings that provided most everything they needed. There was the general store, a pharmacy, and a butcher shop. Doc Melvins' office was at the edge of town, and a church stood tall up on a hill.
As they went inside the general store, he let go of his grandmother's hand and pressed his nose to the big glass containers of penny candies. There were jawbreakers, licorice sticks, bubble gum, and tons more to choose from. He handed the shopkeeper five pennies as he took his time choosing just the right kind, not seeing his grandmother's smile as she put three more pennies on the counter.
They left the store and saw Grandpa's train sitting on the tracks in front of the depot, hissing until the next scheduled departure. Out of the cloud of steam, he saw his grandpa looking so good in his uniform, walking towards them, bending down on one knee, his outstretched arms ready to hug his grandson. Did you see me wave? He asked as he handed his grandpa a licorice stick, his favorite candy of all time. I did see you, he answered, and guess what he asked the boy? What he asked. How would you like to come with me on the next train out? It's a short run, and we will be home in time for supper.

He said goodbye to his grama, letting go of her hand and taking grampa's in his as they boarded the last car together. You sit down on that bench, he told him, while I collect the tickets. Then he heard his grampa yelling, "All aboard!" and he knew it meant the train would soon depart. Slowly, the mighty engine roared to life as the steel wheels inched forward, building up steam and heading out of town. Grampa joined him in the last car as they looked out the window, seeing other boys waving to them as the train passed. He waved back and heard his friends calling his name, shouting and jumping up and down like they'd seen a movie star or something.

At the end of the line, they took a taxi back to town, where Gramma was waiting outside the general store with bags of groceries. Just in time, she said, handing the boy a sack to carry. Grampa took the others as they walked up the hill and onto the tracks headed for home. They passed by a penny on the tracks, the one he put there earlier, hoping tomorrow would find it flat as a pancake. The three of them held hands as Grampa whistled a song, and Grama joined in singing, and as for me, I was the luckiest kid in the whole world who got to be a conductor for a day and proudly showed off my junior conductor badge that Grampa traded me for my last licorice stick

Mike  2026                                                                     

Creaking floorboards

 There are days I write in the sunlight and others by the light of the moon. There are often candles lit or maybe an amber bulb in the desk lamp. I need no distractions like traffic or music, just a place in the middle of the house, behind closed doors, where the creaking floorboards beneath my feet are the only sound I hear.

I love writing in the morning when my senses are waking up, and my head hasn't processed anything yet, so the words coming out and onto the paper or screen are as fresh as the coffee brewing in the kitchen.
Nothing to a writer is too crazy or too far-fetched to be written down, and looking at it later, once the caffeine has kicked in and the cobwebs disappear into the shadows.
The characters come alive as you see their faces, and you smile knowing you created them in your mind, yet they seem so real. It's true that some of the people, places, and things you write about are based on real life, but it's you who take an image and watch it mature into something uniquely yours.
I suppose I write because I get so involved in telling stories, I'm detached from reality for a while, and that's a good thing, believe me. But even I know sooner or later, you have to get up from your chair and venture out into the real world. That crazy place where monsters roam the streets and voices hurt your head. A place where new characters are created as you turn around and run back to the room in the middle of the house, and creaking floorboards.

Mike 2026                                                       

A tender age

 He was a boy of tender age, where the smallest of things intrigued him. Floating a paper boat down the street after a heavy rain. Or watching a flock of birds head south for the winter. Every day brought with it something new he'd never seen before, and others of later years took for granted. Footprints in the snow, the warmth of a campfire, and so many stars that made him smile.

He was a boy of tender age who still wanted his mom when he scraped his knee, crying until she kissed away the pain. He learned about numbers and animals from schoolbooks and wanted to be in the circus when he grew up, which always made him smile. Or maybe join the Navy as his older brother did. He missed him especially when he had a bad dream and crawled into bed with him, but now there's just an emptiness.
He was a boy of tender age who wanted to be just like his dad, a superhero who knew so many things. He learned to fix a car, mow the lawn, and repair things around the house until they couldn't be fixed anymore, then he'd buy a new whatever it was. He wore the same kind of ball cap as his dad and carried a red bandana in his back pocket. He rolled a box of candy cigarettes in his t-shirt sleeve, as his dad did with a pack of Lucky Strikes, which made him smile.
He was a boy of tender age when time sped up, and the world grew complex, with many questions asked and many left unanswered. But that young boy remained tender in the hearts of those who knew him, and his dreams sometimes did come true. He joined the circus and made people laugh in towns and cities around the world. He was a man of tender age, with a red rubber nose, floppy shoes, and a smile without paint.

Mike 2026                                                            

Sanctuary

 There was an entire house filled with love and laughter at one time. Plenty of room for kids to run around and play, the sound of their joy faded somewhere in the distant past. Now he sits in a small room, once a bedroom, with no bed, replaced with a desk and chair, and memories hung on the walls for him to stare at, taking him back to times he cherished.

Candles placed around the room gave him a sense of peace as the flames danced in the breeze from a fan that could snuff them out at any time. This room was his sanctuary, where he could write his stories that mostly went unread, but being read didn't matter to him. He wrote because he loved the words that turned into sentences that may or may not become a book.
When he was deep into telling a story, the old house grew silent, no faucets dripping or a boiler that could explode. No creaky floorboards or a house mouse scurrying along the baseboards. It was as if his room was the heart of the house, and the memories he recalled were veins pumping words into every room, every hallway, and every sound of life that he longed for one more time.
As one story ended and another was just a thought away, he let the candles blow out, leaving him in the darkness with only a sliver of light from a crescent moon. He leaned back in his chair, falling into a dream state of sleep that didn't come quickly until the words he sought crept into his head, where a new story was being born.

Mike 2026                                                      

May I cut in?

 Her head rests on his shoulder as the band plays what would become their song. He holds her waist close, feeling her heartbeat in unison with his own as both hope the dance will last forever.

He was a sailor far from home the day he first laid eyes on her. It was at a USO dance where the men outnumbered the ladies twenty to one. And the best way to get a dance was to cut in with a tap on the shoulder of another lonely sailor. He almost felt bad for the girls as each song played, and dozens of men tapped away to be next in line.
He saw her being swallowed up, and he made his way to her with a cup of punch, putting a smile on her face as she pulled away from the crowded floor and accepted the cup. He took her hand and led her to a table away from the swooping buzzards as she wiped her brow and caught her breath. He tried not to stare at her, but her beauty was something he couldn't look away from as she smiled at him and asked if he'd like a dance.
He ignored the taps on his shoulder, and she didn't seem to mind as song after song played and they held each other close. The smell of her perfume, the cherry-red lipstick she wore, and the softness of her hand in his was like a fairy tale come to life as the night wore on. But like most good things that come to an end, so did the dance. He walked her to a taxi with a couple of her friends, saying goodnight to the sailors they had met and danced the night away.
He was just a kid at 18 years and had never kissed a girl except for Mary, his first crush in grade school. What would it be like, he wondered, to taste her cherry lips. Then, no sooner had he finished that thought than he felt her warm lips on his as she kissed him, and his knees grew weak, feeling something that needed no explanation. She said she'd write to him if he wanted her to, and he wrote the address of the fleet post office, with his name, on a scrap of paper lying on the ground. She reached out of the window of the taxi and snatched the paper from his hand as he watched her drive away, looking through the rear window until she was gone in the darkness.
She did write to him often, but it took weeks, even months, for the mail to reach him. When mail arrived, he'd crawl into his rack and read a dozen letters, each one a gift he'd always cherish. She told him about her life, and where it was heading, and hoped somewhere in their travels they could meet up again. Over time, the letters still came, but not as many as there once were. And then they stopped. He wrote to her asking why but never got a reply. With a heavy heart, he tried to forget her, but he didn't know how to forget someone who made him feel as he'd never felt before.
Two years later, his ship pulled into Paris. The city of love, with sidewalk cafes where proposals of marriage were made, and screams of soon-to-be brides filled the night air. As he walked the streets, he came upon a dance club with a marquee welcoming in the troops for a little bit of home. He went inside, greeted by songs he remembered dancing to with her, and his heart twitched a little for a second as his eyes scanned the room, hoping for a miracle that he knew was just wishful thinking. Soon, he was on the floor dancing with several ladies, and, without warning, he saw a lady tap his dance partner on the shoulder. She reached for his hand and placed it around her waist, pulling him closer as she lifted her head, looked him in the eyes, and then softly kissed him with ruby-red lips.
It didn't mean anything to either of them that they let time come between them, as they had this moment on to dance until they were too old to dance, to kiss ruby-red lips and feel the real meaning of falling in love, knowing true love to them will always be a dance with no taps on the shoulder.

Mike 2026                                                      

Mr. Sam the harmonica man

As a boy, I remember riding in the 1959 Chevy wagon to the barbershop where men from town gathered to gossip, even though they called it "town business. "Along the way, we passed empty factories that had once been booming with jobs for those who wanted them. Dad said the war claimed many men, and their wives took their place in factories making fighter jets and other military hardware. But once the war was over, things just changed. That's all he said in a whisper. Things just change.

Up ahead was the old train depot, once alive with people waiting for the train that linked the city with small whistle stops, but now weeds grow between the tracks, and the tap-tap of the telegraph office is silent, replaced with telephones. I strained my eyes looking for Mr. Sam, the harmonica man who Dad told me is one of the last veterans alive from the big war. Some say that a long time ago, he waited at the depot for his soon-to-be wife, who was a mail-order bride. Dad said it was common in those days, as women from Europe who lost their husbands sought out a new life in America.
Mr. Sam came to the old depot every day for years, playing his harmonica and singing the blues. At the barber shop, some said he had lost his mind, but he was just a harmless, lonely old man, wishing on a star that his bride-to-be would show up on the platform, her suitcase in hand. Town folks would toss loose change into his upturned hat, which he always received with a smile.
He passed away a couple of years later when I was 17 years of age, and it was I who came upon his lifeless body tucked away in a corner, his hat upturned and his harmonica in his hand. The town gave him a veteran's burial, and I suggested his hat and harmonica be put in the historical museum along with his story. I visit that museum whenever I'm in town, looking at the displays of fallen soldiers and brave men and women who had an impact on the small town. But I spend most of my time in front of a glass case displaying two items from Mr. Sam, the harmonica man. a turned-up hat, and his harmonica, and I can still close my eyes and hear him play the lonely blues from his heart, a reminder to his mail-order bride that he will be waiting on the platform until it's just dust beneath his feet, and the blues go silent.

Mike 2026                                                               

Burned wood and ashes

 Sitting in a bombed-out cafe in France, he was surrounded by nothing but ashes and memories. He found a single table and chair that survived somehow, where all the others lay scattered and burnt, never to be sat at again. He came back to that place, hoping by some miracle she would come and find him, but he sat alone until the darkness set in with only his memories of a sunny Saturday afternoon waiting as he said he would.

He was just eighteen, and she was sixteen. He had bumped into her, knocking the bouquet she carried to the ground, and quickly gathered it up and handed it to her. Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and she smiled a girlish smile that melted his heart. He tried to speak to her, but his words seemed frozen as she pointed to a cafe and, in broken English, told him they could meet there next Saturday for coffee. He nodded his head and smiled, pointing to the cafe.
Two days until Saturday, and the bombs dropped, destroying almost everything in the village, including the cafe where they were going to meet. And although he knew she wouldn't come, he held onto hope and the belief they were meant to be. He had just a couple of memories of her innocence, her beauty, and the effect she had on his heart. And he cherished each one, knowing those memories would be burned into his head with every passing day. He picked up a menu with chard corners and wrote her a note, which he left tacked to a board, hoping she might find it and find him.
He was 23, and she was 21 when he received a letter from France postmarked from the small village where their eyes met, and his words froze. The letter read, "I hope this finds you well, and you know how hard I looked for you." When the bombs fell, my family escaped just in time as we hid underground until the soldiers went away. I ran to the cafe but found only ashes and smoldering wood, and my heart sank until, years later, the cafe and other buildings were rebuilt with help from the villagers, including myself. It was then, in a brief moment, that I was compelled to turn over a board and found your note.
She went on to say how much it would mean to her if we could meet at the same cafe two Saturdays from now, and that he would recognize her by the bouquet of flowers on the table. The letter was signed, Victoria. He made the journey to France, amazed by the village's rebuilding, including the quaint cafe with outdoor seating, where he saw her with a bouquet on the table as she nervously looked in all directions. He walked over to her table, standing in silence as their eyes met for the second time in five years.
Theres was a happy ending, married for fifty-two years. They lived in America but often traveled to France, where they'd find a table at the old cafe, where time stood still, and a hint of burned wood and ashes a reminder that they were meant to be.

Mike 2026                                                     

Just another number

 One day, you awake and realize you don't have to wake up to an obnoxious alarm, a real alarm, the kind that you bought at Wallgreens, wrapped so you could see the face. I don't know why the faces come in different colors, like who's going to see it, even you don't, until it sounds like a four-alarm fire going off in your head, just inches from your face.

As you drink a second cup of coffee, you realize that while you were running late, all you ever had time for was half a first cup, and the remainder stood on the kitchen counter, a swimming pool for flies. Now the coffee pot is almost always filled with enough to last you the day, but that last cup could probably be used to clean rust off of chrome.
Retirement isn't always what it's cracked up to be, but there are some perks, like boxing up the dozens of ties in multiple colors and designs that you were forced to wear around your neck each and every workday. Donating a closet full of business suits to a charity, but keeping one for funerals or special occasions you hoped would never come along as quickly as they do.
Retirement means retraining our brain to take things slow, as there's no rush anymore, just slow-paced walks to visit nature that you usually only saw out a taxi window. You'd find yourself talking to the trees or laughing at the squirrels fighting over acorns. You wore your bathrobe over your old army coat, which you found while undoing your clothes closet. and finally had a chance to try out the rubber waders your son gave to you at your retirement party, because you said you might take up fishing.
With so much time these days, you took every opportunity to stay in touch with the friends still breathing, meeting at the diner for lunch that somehow managed to stay in business for decades. You'd skip the bacon-and-mayo sandwiches, and water would be the drink of choice to help your kidneys. It looked more like a lady's social than a man's lunch, with several pictures of beer and smoke rings from a hand-rolled Cuban cigar.
All in all, being retired isn't so bad as long as we keep telling ourselves we're just aging like fine wine, saved for the next celebration, not a random number when the final curtain falls. Whether it's 70, 80, 90, or more, we are still who we've always been, except for those pesky age spots we wear with a Grateful Dead t-shirt.

Mike 2026                                                                                   

                        

Fingertips on fire

 Some will say that your life flashes in front of you when you're about to pass. I believe my life's history has been broken into a million pieces that appear in memories I can either call on or that just appear at the ends of my fingers, tapping away and becoming another story. Whatever the reason, I feel blessed to have been given this amazing gift of memory that takes me back in time to places I've been and people I've met along my journey. Using my keyboard, I travel back to summer days and family gatherings where my grandma sits beside me, telling stories of long ago. The keys on fire as I do my best to keep up, but sometimes I can't write fast enough, and that memory fades away.

I sometimes wondered if all the drugs I took in my younger years somehow opened my mind and my heart a little more than those who never partook in those mind-altering moments. They're called flashbacks when something so real comes to me with vivid colors and conversations never spoken, in my case, but written with my keyboard and lightning-fast fingertips.
I can choose what I want to remember, sometimes in just a quick and passing thought that becomes 600 words or more. Sometimes I hear a song from eras long before I was born, and the words are clear, leaving me wondering where they came from. And how did I know them? How can I know the streets of Paris or the artwork in a cathedral I have never visited? How is it that I can clearly remember being three years old and watching jaws drop as I spoke the words of a dream I had?
As I grew, my memories became easier to express, and they grew with me through the countless writings I composed with an open mind and a heart searching for love. Somewhere along the way, I began to write snippets or very short stories that were easy to read and shorter than the average short story. To date, I have over one thousand very short stories that cover over one thousand different topics, all coming from a mind that has to stop one day, but not this day, as another memory seeps into my mind and my fingertips spew flames. 

Mike 2026                                                              

The meatball

 Back in the 70s, I worked for a General Motors radiator plant in upstate New York. I'd made a few friends, one of whom was Anthony Dacrupa. His love for Italian food was well known and usually all he talked about. He said he had tried a dozen Italian restaurants since moving here from Chicago, where there were so many restaurants it would take a lifetime to try them all. One night after second shift, I asked him to come with me to experience what I believed was the very best in Italian cuisine. He was leery of anything I suggested, no matter the topic, but he eventually agreed, and that night we rode down a back-county road and saw what looked like a run-down farmhouse. Set back off the road, mostly a place that time had forgotten. But inside, everything changed. Opening into what was once a large living room with velvet curtains and wine racks in each corner. The walls were papered with paintings of Italy, and the flags from both countries proudly displayed. Red table cloths and napkins on every table, and in the background, the sound of someone singing at the top of his lungs, old songs from the old country. I told Anthony that Geno was the owner and that he would soon come to our table to tell us about that night's menu. What he can't afford, menus we read ourselves, Anthony asked. Just then, a waiter, the only waiter, came to our table with two glasses and a bottle of Chianti. He poured us a glass and disappeared back into the kitchen. Where some angry Italian voices were coming from the kitchen and a broken glass or two, Geno put on his best smile and came to our table. His English was very broken, but we managed to ask what was on the menu, and he replied, meatball. Anthony looked puzzled, as did I, as he went on to tell us that his meatball had won many prizes back home and that he should come to America and open a restaurant where countless people could experience it for themselves. And with a bow, he backed up, then turned to the kitchen, barking out in Italian, Two meatballs.

Good thing there's a 24-hour diner not that far from here. Anthony said, "I don't think one meatball is going to fill me up. We looked around the room at every table and noticed there were no appetizers or bread baskets in front of the people eating. Just a bottle of Chianti and enough glasses. Then, with a bit of fanfare, Geno and his sole waiter pushed carts out of the kitchen and served every guest a plate with the biggest meatball they had ever seen. When I say it was big, I meant huge, the size of a softball, maybe even bigger.

Geno began by saying, " Don't let the look surprise you. Take your fork and gently pull back some of the ball, where you'll find four layers of the finest cheeses anywhere. Let your fork dig deeper as it passes through two layers of fresh tomatoes I grow in the back yard. Have a taste of the sauce mixed with some cheese as I continue. Using a knife and fork, cut further into the ball, where you'll find a layer of veal and a layer of lightly seasoned homemade sausage. Now use your knife and fork to cut the ball into three sections, then use the ladle provided to mix the ingredients in the bowl with a combination of fresh vegetables that have simmered to perfection. Lastly, use the ladle to pour the tomato sauce from the bowl provided all over the best meatball you've ever tasted. Anthony and I became regulars at Genos, along with many friends who had to see firsthand why one meatball was the only thing on the menu.

Mike 2026                                                     

                                                       

My inner kid

 Popsicle sticks bombs, baseball cards in bicycle spokes. Eggs and rotten tomato wars were just a few of the childhood memories of the kid who still resides inside of me. Every so often, I'll embarrass my grandkids by dancing the way we used to when the twist or the limbo were in style. They would beg me to stop, but that just fueled me even more, doing the Watusi and the frog.

I loved fooling around with them, like when I told them I'd take them for ice cream and come out of my room in basketball shorts, white knee-high socks, and sandals. They said they wouldn't go anywhere with me dressed like that. Oh, good times.
I treasure the inner kid in me because there are a thousand memories I can look back on that bring joy to my heart and put a big smile on my face. I still like Saturday morning cartoons and reading cereal box labels. I laugh at the funny pages in the newspaper, and even after all these years, you can still buy a plastic egg of silly puddy that I flatten out and press onto a comic character.
I still make paper boats that I keep handy for when it rains, and my rubber wader boots stand tall waiting for me to put on and wade through the flooding waters in the street and in my backyard. I never grew tired of waving to the engineer and the conductor as a train roared past me just yards from my boyhood house, where I still reside.
My daughter once told me how much the grandkids liked visiting me because there was always something crazy to do that beat playing video games. That had always been my goal: to show them how to make paper boats and popcycle bombs, and our favorite was putting baseball cards in the spokes of our bicycles, then roaring through the neighborhood like a pack of wild bikers.
Water balloons, snowball fights, games of hide-and-seek, and my attempt at Twister that almost sent me to the emergency room.Swinging on a rope and letting go to splash down in the creek. and finding night crawlers in the darkness of night with a flashlight put in a can, saved for first light, when we fished for hours.
Penny candies like fireballs and peach pits, Long pieces of white paper with colored candies somehow glued on them, root beer hard candies, and wax bottles filled with different flavors. Double bubble gum and licorice in red or black. Gooden plenty and milk duds, tootsie rolls and taffy suckers, all those and more at the corner general store sitting in glass canisters waiting to fill our paper bags for a penny each.
I could go on, and on reliving my memories and bringing them back to life, but at some point, I have to return to reality, even if I don't want to. I suppose one day I'll have to be content to watch my grandkids do all the things I taught them to do as I sit on my porch waiting for the ten o'clock train so I can wave to the engineer and the conductor, who smile and wave back.

Mike 2026                                                              

Good bones

 I remember, as a boy, walking through a vacant house on the outskirts of the city. It sat empty at that time, but not always by any means. During construction in the early 1890s, it was dubbed the elegant lady as no expense or extravagance was spared. I recall how it smelled like varnish and wax that kept the woodwork looking new, and I imagined the countless hands that gripped the banister as they descended the stairs, making a grand entrance.

Every wall, ceiling, and floor was crafted by the best woodworkers whose reputations were put to the test with every room an expression of their talents. As I walked down the long, narrow hallways, I ran my finger along the artistic carvings that ran the length of the walls, only pausing at a door, of which there were many. Most bedrooms were large enough to accommodate furnishings, giving the appearance of a sitting room with a sofa, dressing tables, full-length mirrors, and four-poster beds. I imagined the lady of the house serving tea to a family member who came to her room for needed conversation.
Downstairs, a crystal chandelier hung in the foyer that led to the living room, where, upon entering, you were awe-stricken by a fieldstone fireplace, each stone carefully chosen by a mason who worked his magic to create a one-of-a-kind masterpiece. As I continued my walk, my eyes were drawn to the stained-glass windows, each pane bursting with color as sunlight pierced them, splashing the room with light.
I entered the large kitchen, where I imagined the kitchen staff preparing everyday meals as well as holiday feasts and birthday meals. Marble countertops, wooden cutting boards, and empty ceiling hooks where pots and pans once hung. An ice box sat in a corner, requiring a worker to go to the icehouse in town and bring back large blocks of ice to keep food fresh. The stove was made of cast iron with several heating surfaces, once fueled by wood and later replaced by electricity. There was also a space for workers to eat. A long table with benches, I assumed.
Every room had a story to tell as I looked around, picturing a huge Christmas tree in the living room, a roaring fire in the fieldstone fireplace, and family and friends gathered around the piano, singing holiday favorites. I saw men sitting in leather chairs, smoking pipes and talking about the day's events. In my mind, I watched as history brought changes to the house, but the house itself stayed true to itself in ways that mattered. She had good bones, people would say, and as I walked away, I think I heard her whisper, " Don't be a stranger.

Mike 2026                                                              

Crazy days of summer

 As the late great Nat King Cole sang, break out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer. I remember all too well the last bell before vacation and trading in my school clothes for a pair of shorts and sneakers. We kept a T-shirt in our saddlebags strapped to our bicycles in case we had to go into a store or the soda fountain, which we did a lot. I close my eyes and open my memory bank to withdraw moments in time that seemed to stand still so I could revisit them.

I remember long, hot days and muggy nights, praying for a breeze to enter my bedroom through the window, with a fan that made more noise than it blew air. With my eyes closed, I can go back in time, listening to the neighbors up late, gathered with friends on the porch, and ladies fanning themselves with a folded magazine. The clanking of empty bottles as another ice-cold beer was opened, and would eventually be disgarded with the others already stacking pretty high on the porch.

I recall the first day the public swimming pool opened for the summer as dozens of kids waited in line with their towels and goggles, talking among themselves to see who would be the first one to brave the giant slide that emptied into the deep end. The lifeguards were mostly high school seniors making a couple of dollars as summer jobs, and there was always a group of giggling girls around them. Some were going to extremes, faking they were in trouble, so a lifeguard had to jump in and get them back to the deck, where they miraculously made a full recovery.

Summer meant baseball, and every kid old enough to hold a bat and throw a ball joined the city leagues. We received uniforms donated by various companies and businesses, and we got to pick our team names. Our uniforms could only be worn for games, but our hats stayed glued to our heads the entire summer. We would practice almost every day in a field that, over time, had been trampled down and looked just like the city field except for the absence of chalk lines and sand-filled bags as bases. For those, we used flat rocks.

With my eyes still closed, I wandered back in time once again to camping out in the woods, where we pitched our tents, handed down by older brothers who pretty much wore them out. My dad was in the army reserves, and one day he surprised my friends and me with almost-new tents he claimed were only slightly damaged. We left it at that. Camping meant eating too many snacks and reading comic books with a flashlight that some of us won by answering questions on the back of a cereal box. We would usually go exploring in the darkness of night on the hunt for trools and other scary things that went boo in the night

In the morning, we'd go to the lake and wash off the sticky mess that s'mores left on our hands and mouths, then it was time to mount our steeds and head out exploring parts unknown, but always an adventure. We came across an old field that had once grown corn but now lay in waste, with four rusted tractors just sitting there. We played on those until the thrill wore off, then headed into town, where we put on our t-shirts and stepped inside the soda shop for a burger and fries smothered in brown gravy.

My times as a kid will be with me forever, as will the faces of my friends who scattered across the country seeking their callings, just as I did, ending up thousands of miles away with a wife and three kids. We've made our own memory book, and sometimes I'll pull out my photo albums, mostly in black and white, that once had my daughter asking me why we didn't have colored clothes and cars.

I feel so lucky to remember those lazy, crazy, hazy days of summer spent with some lifelong friends, and to have a memory like a steel trap.

Mike 2026                                                                         

Closepin memories

 The sheets are drying on a backyard clothesline. A gentle breeze and golden sunlight, a mixture of clean and fresh late into the day. Tomorrow, the colored clothes will take the place of linens, trying harder to catch the breeze, and some will need extra clothespins. The bag they are kept in is just a simple bag Mom put together from old sewing materials and hangs on the line for easy access. There were two different kinds of clothespins, the basic wooden ones and the ones with a spring that, as a kid, would pinch your fingers sometimes by accident as you handed one to mom, and other times when nobody was around, and you tried to be a brave little soldier and pinch one on your nose.

On windy days, you'd run through the clothes, smelling the freshness as mom watched from the kitchen window, remembering doing the same thing as a young girl. It's funny how we recall childhood memories that are somehow passed down from one generation to another with little change. Your great-grandmother used wooden clothespins that her husband made by carving sturdy sticks into equal lengths, then slicing them down the middle so they fit snugly on the line.

Your grandma used those until seeing a bag of clothespins in the hardware store, all pre-cut and sanded, ready to use. It even had a handle on top to hang on the line, ready when needed. Your mom used store-bought ones like her mom, but one day, while window shopping, she saw the latest in clothespin design, made of plastic and available in a multitude of colors. Truly a great invention, not just for hanging clothes but also for toy soldiers: some in colorful uniforms and others in no color at all, engaged in battle until mom needed one or two, and we had to choose which fallen soldier would give its life.

My generation doesn't hang clothes outside when they have a gas or electric dryer to do the job, unlike most people. But call me old school because my wife and I still hang clothes to dry in the fresh air and golden sunlight. Our kids make toys from clothespins, mostly wooden, by the way, with a bag of colored ones, so they can play soldiers just as I did. I would imagine that my kids' kids will be left wondering just what in the world those odd-looking wooden and plastic things they found in a box in the garage were used for. I'll search my memory bank and tell them we used wooden pins to attach baseball cards to the spokes of our bikes so we'd sound like a bunch of wannabe bikers. Good times, good times. I'll let their mom and grandma tell them the other side of the coin in their stories.

Mike  2026                                                       

Childhood memories of Aunt Elda and uncle joe

 As a boy, when my dad went off to the army reserves in the summer, my mom and I, along with my two sisters, went to Michigan to visit my mom's aunt, Elda, and uncle, Joe. They lived quite a ways back from a country road in a modest but very nice house. They had a few acres that bordered a corn farmer, who let us run through the rows and rows of corn so sweet we ate it until our bellies ached. Uncle Joe had a small tractor that he used to cut the large yard with, and he would hoist me up and sit me on his lap as we mowed and mowed until Aunt Elda called us in for lunch. Any meal Aunt Elda served was a three-course meal. Breakfast consisted of fresh eggs from her chicken coup, toast made with her homemade bread, and her homemade jellies. Fresh orange juice or tomato, if you prefer. And Uncle Joe's favorite: a thick slab of Canadian bacon. Aunt Elda knew my mom's favorite was a nice, hot bowl of grits with a dab of real butter, prepared just for her.

Lunch meant a huge bowl of fresh-cut fruit, a selection of lunch meats and cheeses from the butcher shop, as pre-packaged meats never saw their table. Each of us kids got a tall, chilled glass of whole milk with a spoonful or two of chocolate syrup to wash everything down.

Dinner was a work of art, featuring an entire turkey or a glazed ham that Uncle Joe had hand-carved, along with mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, a dinner salad, and fresh corn from the neighbor. Homemade dinner rolls and fresh-squeezed lemonade. The desert was a cake Aunt Elda baked with whipped cream frosting, topped with an assortment of her famous chocolate chip and butter cookies, another of Mom's favorites.

Uncle Joe was a successful businessman who owned a large plumbing business, which afforded them a comfortable life. He was a hunter and owned a trailer in a private hunting club that we went to for the weekend. Nestled deep into the woods, the trailer had everything Aunt Elda needed to prepare the same wonderful meals the same way she did at home. All of us wore bright orange vests so we could be seen by other hunters, even though his plot of land was over five acres and posted with a no-hunting sign. If I remember, I heard Aunt Elda tell my mom Joe didn't plan on killing a deer when we were there, he just didn't want us kids to believe he shot Bamby.

I loved our visits to Michigan, the sights and sounds of country living, and the sound of crickets and star-filled nights. Waking up with the sound of a rooster and bellowing cows waiting to be milked. Our time there went by too fast as we talked about next summer and how it couldn't come fast enough. With bags full of sweet corn and a variety of foods, Aunt Elda made sure we ate well on the ride home. As for Uncle Joe, he handed each of us kids a twenty-dollar bill, more money than any of us had ever had. He slipped mom a small wad of cash, pressing it into her hand, knowing she could use it.

The ride home was long, giving us the time we needed to recall all the great things we did and the food, oh my lord, the food. Some years later, we stopped going to Michigan. I suppose time caught up with us, and hanging out with friends was more important. But they came to visit us once a year, and our time together was as wonderful as always. Aunt Elda took over Mom's kitchen, and Dad took Uncle Joe to the firing range to shoot paper targets. He still gave us each a twenty-dollar bill and pressed a wad of cash into Mom's hand. Memories are a beautiful thing, especially when you have an aunt, Elda, and an uncle, Joe.

Mike 2026                                                           

                                                                                                                                                           

The smells of each season

 The smells of any given season are etched in my mind as I walk down a country road. In winter, the air is crisp and pure with a scent that's frozen in the ground until Spring arrives. Springtime creates a botanical garden of countless plant species and grass. Tulip bulbs planted in the fall crash through the ground and come to life in splashes of colors as wildflowers fill an entire valley with a fragrance to rival any high-priced perfume. Springtime rains that smell fresh make you want to stand in them as tiny drops shower your gardens, helping everything in the ground grow.

Summer brings with it the smells of everything outside. The charcoal grill and fresh-cut grass houses are being painted, and the swimming pools that smelled of chlorine. Summer means the smell of tanning lotions in many scents and the intoxicating smells of fair food. Summer means trail rides through the woods, smelling the ancient pine trees and layers of moss that carry the scent of something old.
Autumn smells like colored leaves, if that's even possible. The hay bales now stacked away in a barn leave behind empty fields plowed under with the dead corn husks that will enrich the ground for the next planting. Piles of raked leaves will be burned, the smell traveling from one house to another until only black spots on the ground are all that's left. Autumn smells like a pumpkin stand, an apple orchard, and sticking your head out the car window to let the smells fill your nose.
Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall each have their own scents that we can enjoy throughout the year if we take the time to breathe deeply, slow down, and savor every little thing that's ours to smell.
Mike  2026                                                              

Uncertainty of time

 He sat at his kitchen table, the one he found curbside. He didn't understand why someone would throw it away, as the legs were sturdy and the surface only needed some sandpaper and elbow grease. He worked on it until he was satisfied, then replaced the old table with another curb find he had come upon years ago.

He ate a bowl of oatmeal with the maple or brown sugar flavor, which was his favorite. The box said to add hot water and stir until a creamy texture appeared, but he liked the little clumps, so he didn't stir it too much. And it wasn't uncommon for him to find some of those clumps later in his beard, pick them out, and eat them.

He didn't do much these days, probably because he'd done about everything a person could do in seventy-some years. A circle of life, he said, the joys of childhood and the years leading up to adulthood, filled with memories in the making. Successes and failures too numerous to say and falling in love more times than he cared to remember. Now, as he enjoys his life with few distractions, all that remains is the uncertainty of time.

He once told someone that old age allowed you certain privileges, like sitting around all day in your pajamas, not showering for days until you smelled yourself, and putting on more deodorant just because you had to run some errands. It meant eating in front of the television and yelling at the news caster that he didn't know what he was talking about. One time, so upset he'd knock over his drink that splashed the cat, who went screaming away.

He knew the trash pick-up days and planned accordingly, which days he'd back up his old truck out of the garage and head to an area he knew all too well, as it was where he once lived a long time ago. He would keep a sharp lookout for hidden treasures buried in piles of unwanted items being thrown out just because something had quit working. He never had to buy small appliances; he'd just fix the ones he found, making them as good as new.

His was a simple life, one he chose with little regret, even though he sometimes found himself drowning in memories he couldn't erase. Joys that turned to sorrow, love that turned to hate, and time that wouldn't slow down. Today, he sits at the old table he found on the curb and, with a pocketknife, carves his initials into the sanded surface, a reminder of who he was for the guy who picks it out of his trash.

Mike 2026                                                       

                                                     

RUN!

 When I close my eyes, I see you alone in a small wooden room painted white with only a straight-back chair for you to sit. Your long hair lies perfectly still across your shoulders, and your eyes half open or closed, looking out the only window at the freedom you know awaits you.

I speak softly, just loud enough that I know you can hear me, and inch closer to you so I can smell your scent of wildflowers that you must have bathed in before I arrived.

They had you dressed in white, which made it seem you blended with the room itself, a peasant dress, I believe it's called. No slits or short lengths, just white clinging to your body like a windblown sheet that's as still as the room itself.

I whisper your name, but you remain with eyes half open or closed, looking straight at that window as if planning your escape. I thought for a brief moment I saw your lips part just a bit as if wanting to speak, but no words were spoken, just as it's been for six months. I take your hand in mine, feeling your softness as no fingers move, no words spoken, and no idea if you'll ever come back to me.

A nurse comes in asking if I'd like the window open for some fresh air, and I saw her turn ever so slowly, only visible to me. Her lips parted, and she whispered RUN!

Mike  2026                                               

A writers mind

 The flame from a candle danced across the room as he tried to find the words that were eluding him for the moment. He watched the flame, which he could change with a soft blow in its direction. It became a sort of game he played watching the flame dance to the right and then to the left, bending too far with the fear it would snuff itself out. Childish, he thought to himself as he picked up his pen and searched some more for his next sentence that refused to show itself.

Then his eye landed on the glow of the fireplace. A beautiful orange in color, glowing one minute and dimming another. The crackling of the burning wood keeps time like a base drum as the falling embers crash down to the floor in one big final. It amused him for a moment or two, but the words still wouldn't show themselves.

He glanced at the window, the pane frozen with a hundred ice crystals that, one by one, began to melt in the heat of the fireplace. Sliding across the glass as if it were their own skating rink. In his mind, he heard their voices like those of the munchkins on The Wizard of OZ, causing him to laugh out loud at his own foolishness. But the words wouldn't come.

He grew tired and blew out the candles, stoked the fire, and went to bed. Lying in the darkness, he suddenly sat upright and reached for his pen. The words began to flow like a mighty river with no end in sight. Guess all he needed were some dancing candles, a musical fire, and a bunch of munchkins skating on a frozen windowpane that somehow made sense.

Mike 2026                                                    

The wanderer

 His eyes were hollow from so many years on this earth. His skin was weathered and thin, which happens when you go without food, but he always has enough coins to buy a fifth of cheap booze. He was a wanderer, they say, with holes in the bottom of his shoes and tattered clothing. He rarely took off except for those times he landed in jail, charged with something stupid like drinking in a public park. The guards had a good laugh at his expense, taking bets on who would be the lucky one to take his clothes to be burned. They found some clothes in the donation box that mostly fit him, except for the boots, which were a bit too large. He'd been there before and had asked for some newspaper, which he stuffed into the toe area, and all was well. They gave him a sandwich from the vending machine, a stale egg salad sandwich that he gratefully accepted. If only he had a snort to calm his nerves, but that wasn't happening.

The following day, he went before the judge. He stood staring ahead as the judge read the charges against him and asked how he pleaded. I don't know," he answered softly. You don't know, the judge asked in a tone that was anything but nice. Well, your honor, I drink a lot, don't know why, really. I suppose because it helps me forget the things that have haunted me for some time now. And that would be what the judge asked.

I went off to war a long time ago. He began. I wasn't prepared for the things I saw and had to do. Each round that exploded around me took a little piece of me, and the fear welled up inside of me, and I ran off the battlefield and never stopped until the military police found me hiding in a burned-out truck. They threw me out of the army, giving me a ticket home and seven dollars, which I used to buy a fifth. The judge was silent for a moment, then softly spoke, saying he found it wrong the way they treated me. I was just a kid fighting a man's war with no compassion at all. He found me not guilty and released me back into the world I seemed to have found peace in. The guards confronted him at the door, handed him a bag filled with clothes and a pair of boots that fit him, and an envelope with one hundred dollars in twenties that they knew he would drink up in no time.

He's still out there somewhere chasing something he will never catch, as the memories will always be with him and the longing for an egg salad sandwich forever on his mind.

Mike  2026                                                  

The wooden monster

 The once mighty rollercoaster, a wooden wonder of engineering back when, now sits abandoned among the other rides that brought so much joy and laughter to all who dared. He walked around in the silence, with only the occasional squeak of a kiddy ride moving slowly in the breeze. He came here often growing up. First, with his family as he waited with great expectation for the day he would reach the proper height on the big measurement sign and be able to ride. On his twelfth birthday, as he grew several inches, he was ready. His dad reluctantly agreed to ride with him, but no amount of asking would change his mom's mind as she watched in horror as they climbed the first giant hill, preparing to do a nose-dive that would take them on a journey of both excitement and sheer terror. When the ride was over, and Dad looked like Casper the Ghost, he begged them to let him go again, but his mom said she couldn't bear to watch that ever again.

The years passed, and trips to the amusement park were spent with friends who rode the coaster over and over until they felt perfectly safe holding their hands in the air as the force of the ride lifted them a couple of inches off their seats. He continued his walk, remembering the sights and the smells of popcorn, candy apples, and corn dogs all blending together to create the perfect menu. As more time passed, attendance at the park dwindled because a very large water park was being built just on the outskirts of town. Aside from the giant slides, there were a few rides meant for season riders, and a kiddy land as well. It didn't take very long, and the park he loved shut down. Some of the rides were sold, but some remained just as they were on the last day. Rust had claimed many of the rides, and once colorful signs lay in the weeds, forgotten forever.

As he was about to leave, he took one last walk to the wooden coaster, and hanging by one screw was the measurement sign that either allowed or forbade you entrance. He took the sign with him and would give it a good home in his workshop. Right alongside his other treasures, he found as he walked through the closed and now quiet park of his youth.

Mike  2026