Happy birthday America

 HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA, NOW 250 YEARS OLD.

In the scheme of things, our country isn't that old. Not when you consider the time when dinosaurs roamed the land millions of years ago. We are still adapting to new ideas to improve our way of life every single day. We heed new scientific discoveries and marvel at our space programs, which allow us to travel to places no one has ever been. Who would have thought that just a few decades ago, we would say that someday we would go to Mars? America is the land of the brave, where we witness new technologies designed with open minds that work outside the box to make our lives better. Let us remember, on this birthday, those brave men and women who left something behind, each of those 250 years a lesson we learned from and made better, with liberty and justice for all.

Mike 2026                                                                

Seasons in the woods

 The woods and their magic are something I never grow tired of. The moss is rich and green, the air has a hint of moisture, and trees stand at attention as if guarding a fortress. The summer months, when activity is limited as the heat peeks through the canopy, a passing thunderstorm interrupts the quiet, raindrops quench the thirst of the creatures who call it home, and the woods fill with a musty yet welcoming smell.

The Autumn woods are a splash of color, with tired leaves waiting their turn to fall. Red, yellow, and orange drift together towards the waiting earth, where countless others who came before them rest as the ground swallows them, changing their colors to the forest floor, forever forgotten.
The springtime woods are a rebirth of countless species of plants and saplings that lie dormant until the last of the snow melts away, giving the newborns a chance to grow and the bulbs that have transformed into tulips like an artist's palette of colors splashed across the valley, where wildflowers grow and dance to the music of a gentle breeze.
Winter's woods are my favorite woods. The extreme silence, except for the crunching of my boots on a blanket of white or the snap of a branch letting me know I wasn't alone. The winter woods beckon me to walk deep into the trees to a valley where I see a six-point buck doing its best to forage in an unforgiving landscape. I watch him for a few minutes, then take a napkin from my pack and unwrap some carrots, celery, and an apple that I set on top of a large stone, then retreat to continue my quest. I think another reason I like the winter woods is the smell. That smell is coming home with me, and the Christmas tree that will fill my house with winter. Not to forget pine burning in the fireplace, adding to those special winter nights in the woods.
Winter, spring, summer, and fall, you'll find me in the woods marveling at God's handiwork and doing my part to share it with others like myself. By the way, let it be known that every scrap of food I sat on a rock was taken with nothing left behind except for footprints in the snow.

Mike  2026                                                            

Eight to Eighty

 I was somewhere between eight and eighty when I realized I was a writer of words, a spinner of tales with stories to tell. Everywhere I looked was a story waiting to be told. As a young boy, I was always on an adventure, whether it be in the woods or on the river, but mostly in my own backyard using sticks for swords to fend off the mighty pirate captian hook. I used an old bedsheet as my cape and painted the letter S on it with spray paint under close observation by Mom. I ran like the wind, jumping up to fly while humming, "UP UP AND AWAY."Sometimes I was a clown or a ringmaster in the traveling circus, standing on a chair, snapping my invisible whip, and barking orders at the furious lions. My yard was the center of my universe, my book of tales, my domain where my mind ran free, and the words that I would someday write were just memories begging to be told. I could be anything I wanted to be as I grew up, sitting on a lawn chair, the one I once stood on to snap my whip at the lions. I watch my grandkids running around the yard playing their versions of superheroes and dangerous pirates, and my favorite, the tree house I built for them, where they'd spend countless hours as the Robinson family from the classic Swiss Family Robinson, a book I read to them a hundred times. I'm still somewhere between eight and eighty, looking for more adventures, but now I reach into my memory book and write about them from the comfort of my desk. The gift that keeps on giving is as clear as day when I let go and dive headfirst into another story to tell. Another memory pulled back from the darkness, to once again be written. Another story to be told to my grandkids, who will hopefully hand them down to new generations who still believe in backyard adventures as I do, as my 80 years grow close enough to touch.

Mike  2026                                                                   

A summer storm

 He heard the gentle wind as it entered through a window and brushed his cheek on its way to silence. Unlike most, he kept the window open just enough to let in a mist, which led to a shower. He sat and watched as trees bent, leaves dropped, and the sound of thunder startled him for a brief moment. He was a patient man, waiting for the sky to open, throwing bolts of lightning all around him. The best show in town, he said to himself, as the storm got closer and the rain snuck under the cracked window and into the cat's bed, who ran for cover under the couch. It was upon him now, the winds howling and blowing the old swingset down the block. The rain came down sideways, beating on the tin roof and sounding very much like a 12-gauge shotgun. Ear-shattering thunder and arrows of fire from the sky hitting their mark on a tree hed planted decades ago, now a burning testimony of the power unleashed by nature's fury. Then an eerie silence came in through the window, unfelt but a warning of things to come. He quickly got up and made a bag of popcorn, then returned to his seat and waited for the show to continue.

Mike  2026                                                      

Summer memories

 Riding in the back seat of Dad's 1957 Chevy wagon, along with my sisters, sticking my head out of the window, eating the air with a puffy face, and laughter from everyone. In the summer, with school closed, it was time for a family vacation. The wagon would be loaded up, and a cooler with sandwiches and other goodies remained untouched until Dad said it was time and pulled off to the side of the road under a big tree that offered shade on a hot July afternoon. Back then, the counties placed picnic tables every few miles on the two-way road, as fast food restaurants weren't something you'd see on every corner. Sometimes we'd see a sign for home cooking, and Dad would surprise us and make a quick turn into the entrance. One in particular I remember was just an old wooden structure in need of a good white wash. It had a front porch where a couple of old-timers were smoking their pipes and playing checkers. Inside looked like a scene from Fried Green Tomatoes, nothing fancy, just one waitress in a long dress and high-top sneakers welcoming us with a smile. Hot one, isn't it? She asked, dabbing the tip of her pencil on her tongue, what are we having, but before we could answer, she said, "Burgers, pulled pork, or the special of the day: country-fried steak with potatoes and green beans. "That's your choice, " she said. It was burgers for everybody and five glasses of iced tea to wash them down. Somewhere in my collection of picture postcards, there's one from that old restaurant. I recall there was a rotating stand with postcards, sold for a dime each. It had a picture of the place painted white, which looked nice and inviting.

After driving hundreds of miles, the guessing game of where we were headed ended when we could hear the sounds of the beach and the boardwalk we would grow to love for many more years. We had our own cottage just a short distance from the sandy beach and a stone's throw away from the arcade. There were vendors selling ice cream and burgers, and a small restaurant for a family dinner without having to drive anywhere. Days of fun in the sun, going from looking like a Q-tip to a bronzed statue with sun-bleached hair. We made friends our age and became inseparable as the days passed all too quickly, watching them pull away as they headed home.
When our time came to an end, and we had to leave, we remembered everything we did, storing memories away in our own private vault, things we kept secret, like meeting a girl with jet black hair and the whitest teeth you'd ever seen. We stuck together like glue, finding time to be with each other as time ticked away, but not without one very special kiss you'd been holding inside, realizing you may never see her again. You remember seeing her walk towards her family, who were finishing packing their car, touching her lips, and turning around to look and wave goodbye. I really hoped I'd see her again, maybe next summer, but that didn't happen, and all I have are the memories. I was fifteen years old back then, and like many things, time erases moments you'd probably forget unless you're like me and keep a secret box with momentos like a picture of two kids holding hands in front of an arcade at the beach.                                                            

Mike  2026

The dancers

 I watched as he sat in his favorite chair, his stocking feet shuffling in a sort of pattern, like a dance move. His eyes were closed, and he was smiling the kind of smile reserved for someone special. There was a picture on the mantel of a young couple, he in uniform and she in a wedding dress. Aside from others in the family who knew love. He used to tell me how much they loved to dance and how they met at a USO dance, and didn't yet know what an amazing love story they were going to write as the years passed. He told me they never missed a chance to dance to the old school songs they remembered. He would smile that smile and admit dancing with her meant another chance to have her in his arms. Sixty years together, each one celebrated with a dance and another memory in the making. Their children, all grown now with kids of their own, stand in the shadows, watching what true love means when two become as one, leaving age behind with graceful movements and smiles reserved for someone special. I would see him shuffling his stocking feet and visualize him in shiny shoes and her in heels, gliding across a dancefloor, oblivious to anyone else, alone in the moment until the music stopped. It warms my heart to watch him as he sleeps and shuffles his feet to a special song they must have called their own. I want to believe she's somewhere, waiting for her dance partner to join her on a heavenly dance floor where the music plays forever, and smiles are reserved forever for someone special.                                                                   

Mike  2026

Shadow dancer

 It started at an early age when I first saw my shadow dancer. My newborn eyes stared at the ceiling, seeing movement that must have been mine. In the toddler stage of life, I saw a shadow of my hand next to the nightlight that I insisted be left on, and I watched as my hand could be contorted into shapes resembling animals, which began my lifelong love for shadow dancers. I must admit I got very good at making shadows do as I said, creating something I shared with my sisters, who clapped after every shadow leaped from the wall to disappear into the night, only to be replaced by one of many requests. Jumping ahead to my teenage years, my shadow grew alongside me as we danced in my room to the latest songs, each move a mirror of my own, dancing the night away. I recall a time at a school dance when I desperately wanted to ask Mary to dance and finally did. As we danced, my shadow dancer joined us, dancing flawlessly with my every move. I grew up and became a dad who seldom missed a night of tucking my own kids into bed and showing them my shadow dancers to the music playing on the radio. It was like a stage show with dozens of animals and other shapes I learned to make years ago. Now, as time ticks away and the shadows don't come calling like they once did, I keep trying with aged and tired hands to make one last shadow that will sustain me until I walk into the shadow of death, followed by my shadow dancer beside me, who just wants to dance one more time.

Mike 2026                                                    

More than a block of wood

 I remember my dad helping me build a race car out of a small kit that included a block of wood about 12 inches long, two axles the size of a wooden match, and 4 tires no bigger than a silver dollar. It was a Cub Scout project, with the first prize being a trophy and a $20 check, a considerable amount back then. We had a month to finish and register our cars, so we couldn't dilly dally. Dad worked a lot, and finding time to help me with the car was limited, but he somehow found it, as he had so many times before. I wasn't stupid; I knew that doing this project with my dad was meant to be so much more. It was a time we could spend together, talking, listening, and learning. No two cars were alike, so a good amount of thought went into the design. Some of the dads had degrees in design, so they always came up with a car that was scientifically correct, taking into account aerodynamic airflow and other factors that the kid could only watch. As for me, I just cut out the block of wood with a place for the single seat, where I put one of my sister's dolls to act as the driver. And Dad punched out holes where the axles would be. I hand-sanded the block of wood until it was perfectly smooth while listening to dad tell a story about him and his dad doing the exact same thing years ago. Then, painting it fire-engine red with the number 11 in white. It wasn't a thing of beauty by any means, but it was ours, and we were proud of what we had done.

Race day arrived, and we headed to the park, where other dads had set up a racetrack. It was six feet tall at the start, then stretched out for the twenty-five feet of track that ended at a finish line. There were two lanes for two kids to race each other, with the winners advancing to the next race and the losers going home with a race-car key chain and the date. We watched as fancy cars you knew were built by the dads roared down the track, finishing first every time and eliminating cars like ours, but we didn't care because our car was built by both of us, and in our minds, it didn't matter if we won because we did something together that we'd remember for a long time.
When it was our turn, you could hear the kids and their dads laughing at our block of wood with wheels and a paint job done with mom's nail polish. At the sound of the whistle, I gave our car a push, and what happened next surprised everyone, including us. You see, the block of wood was heavy, and when I pushed it, the weight took a second to move, but once it did, it was unstoppable. Something no one expected to happen, as our car not only crossed the finish line first, but it flew off the track and came to rest fifteen feet past the track and onto the grass. We didn't win any more races, but everybody, including the doughty dads, applauded our efforts.
We went home with a keychain that, to this day, sits on a shelf next to the car we built together, a constant reminder of a kid and his dad, and of a block of wood that turned into something special in so many ways.                                                        

Mike  2026

Timeless carousels

 I remember the wind in my face as I sped by my folks on a carousel ride. It was my first time alone on the black stallion I had carefully chosen. A slight jerk, and the ride began to go around, slowly picking up speed to the delight of the riders. The hand-carved figures of not just horses but the likes of ostriches, swans, giraffes, and a few seats disguised as tea cups for weary parents were on their way. The music box played on as the familiar tune repeated over and over until it was burned into my memory, where it remains today.

What does a lad of six feel as he rides the mighty steed, a dark knight, you say, or maybe a bad guy galloping away from the sheriff as I let go of the pole and with one hand and a finger as a gun, I shoot all the bad guys, blowing smoke from the barrel as I pass my folks. Round and around we went for a longer time, if I recall, as the older man in greasy coveralls who sat on a chair in the pit woke, startled, for a minute, then pushed down on the throttle to slow the ride. I got off my fearless horse and ran to my mom's open arms as dad snapped another picture for the family picture album.
I loved the magic of the carousel as a boy, and I still marvel at the magnificence of the figures. The ornate carvings and bright colors, and the slits on the floor where pennies falling out of pockets ended up. These days, when everything is computer-operated, the older man has been replaced by a circuit board and an operator who controls everything. The music still sounds like old organ music, but it's lost its old-school feel, replaced by a continuous loop of programmed music. I suppose everything changes with time, like the figures once hand-carved by true craftsmen are now made of plastic, but to a kid, it's still a carousel ride where they chase bad guys on a mighty steed or go on safari seated on a giraffe. Tired parents still sit on benches disguised as teacups, and the magic of a carousel lives on.

Mike  2026                                                           

Saturday morning noise

 A lawnmower a couple of doors down distracts my writing, I mean, who cuts grass at seven in the morning? Probably a kid doing chores he forgot to do yesterday. I guess I'll have another cup of coffee and glance through the morning paper to see who's killing who and other tidbits of news that go in one ear then out the other. I set it down and looked out of my kitchen window at the kid barely tall enough to get a grip on the lawn mower, cussing under his breath, leaving me to wonder what he did to deserve this so damn early on a Saturday morning. Then I saw his dad on the porch with a glass of something, he handed to his kid, who drank it down in a couple of gulps and handed the glass back to his dad, who I thought was going to relieve him of the lawn cutting, but he walked back inside, and the kid kept mowing.

As I sat looking at him, my writer's mind went to work, trying to figure out what led to this early-morning chore. Maybe he hit his younger brother or stole some change from Mom's cookie jar. Maybe he skipped school and got caught or found behind the house smoking a cigarette he stole from his dad's pack. I don't suppose I'll ever know the reason, but at last the noise sputtered out, meaning he ran out of gas. I said a quick prayer; he didn't have any gas left in the can and would have to make a trip to the gas station to fill it up. But no such luck, as he retrieved the can from the garage and filled the damn thing up.
I'd have to say the kid kept going until every blade of grass was cut, and he shut down the Saturday morning monster that invaded my ears and my brain. Truth be told, the silence that eluded me seemed eerie as I kept waiting for some other distraction to prevent me from writing. But nothing did. I tried to be creative, but my paper was blank, along with the imagination that usually didn't disappoint me. Then, without warning, the sound of a couple of my neighbors cutting their lawns, and, as if in harmony with each other, the dueling machines roared to life, invading my ears again. Well, there was just one thing to do, so I got dressed and went to my garage where my 1947 Harley-Davidson sat covered with a tarp. It was illegal as hell with straight pipes that could wake the dead when throttled up. I backed it out onto my driveway and, with a sinister plan, started it up. Almost instantly, kids started screaming as windows rattled and birds flew away to safety. People stood on their porches screaming over the noise, telling me to stop or they'd call the cops, who I knew would take a good twenty minutes to show up. which they did and told me to shut it off or take a ride to the station. I wholeheartedly agreed to go with them. Once in a cell by myself, with the only noise being my own breathing, I continued to write the next best seller that came with coffee and silence.

Mike  2026                                                           

One wild ride

 

Windchimes hanging from a rusty hook chime a song born of wind and pending storms.  Old spoons of silver plate dangle and collide, growing louder as they test the hook, and you remember days of a chime or two on a quiet Sunday morning.
The sky is shades of gray, and a black line on the horizon speeds towards you with no mercy. You're no stranger to storms, and each one becomes a memory filled with fear. The chimes now break the hook, and spoons blow across the porch, scattered here and there, forever forgotten as their melodies go silent.
You face the fear inside as you grab hold of the arms of your chair, your beard blowing backward, and your ball cap ripped off your head, joining other airborne debris in a race to get far from home.  You know you should escape and seek shelter somewhere safe, but you're glued to your chair by the fury of its strength, and you realize this is how it ends.
You know what a jet pilot must feel like as he ejects from his aircraft, as a violent blast propels him up and out of his seat. Your chair is shaking violently, but you somehow manage to stay seated as a deadly gust of wind pulls you and the chair into a swirling mass of destruction. You should be dead by now, but you and your chair are as one as you brace yourself for the worst that's surely going to come.
Some may call it a miracle, and others just dumb luck that the chair came to rest on a bale of hay upright and unscathed. As for you, you sat there for a minute before your hands came unglued from the arms of the chair, and you could walk away in search of your home. It was one hell of a ride, you told yourself with a grin on your face. I think I'd like to go again, he said out loud, but not today.

Mike  2026

Maple leaf cycle

 A maple leaf floated to the ground from which it was born. Rich soil untouched by man or machine, alone in birth and alone in death. What purpose did a leaf serve as it grew into maturity, clinging to its union with the tree? It wasn't alone, as hundreds of others like itself grew and died with who knows how much time in between. I wonder what they felt as they changed from green to crimson and gold, and in that split second when their lifeline snapped, sending them down to lie together at the foot of the mighty tree. In time, their colors would fade into the ground and be forgotten until the snow gave way to a new generation of baby buds that held on tightly when the winds blew, and the rains pelted them; some were knocked down, while the strong survived to grow another day.

A maple tree fell in the forest today, a victim of God's light show, as lightning slammed into its trunk and fire burned into its very core. Some of the leaves were spared as they unhinged themselves on the way down, floating away from the destruction, while most went up in flames that would eventually become dust from which, in time, new growth would climb upward as a young sapling struggled to take the place of its ancestor. It took hundreds of years to become just another tree, surrounded by elders who had survived what nature threw their way for unknown years. They provided shade for the saplings and wrapped their limbs around them to protect them from the wind. Slowly, and with no one watching, the little maple became a strong, beautiful adult tree. Filled with countless leaves that would honor it with a parade of colors floating downward, some touching in a final goodbye as one by one they detached and floated back to the ground from which they came. And the cycle continued.

Mike  2026                                                       

Remembering Dad

 You've been gone a while now, Dad, but I still have countless memories of us together. I recall the crazy little things, like trying to roll up a cigarette pack in my t-shirt sleeve or opening a bottle with my jackknife—the important things you taught me.

I remember you teaching me how to shave with a kids' shaving kit, which included a shaving mug, a bar of soap, and a wooden-handled brush you used to lather your face. I'd stand next to you at the sink, watching what you were doing so I could do the same. When we were finished, you would pat my face with a few drops of aftershave so I smelled good for the ladies, he'd say in just a whisper.
I remember going to church on Sunday and dressing up. I guess God liked well-dressed women, men, and even kids. You tried to teach me how to tie a tie, but after many failed attempts, you bought me a new invention called a clip-on tie, pure genius. Shined shoes were a must at our house. Mom was in charge of my sisters' patent-leather shoes, wiping them off with a damp rag, but yours and mine had to pass inspection. It seemed your military life taught you to make your shoes shine with two fingers wrapped in a soft cloth, usually an old T-shirt cut into small pieces. On Saturday evenings, you'd get the wooden box filled with several tins in different colors: black, brown, cordovan, and natural. Different colors for different colored shoes. There were several sizes of brushes with wooden handles that you'd dip into a tin, slowly work around the shoe, and then set aside to dry. While one shoe was drying, the other shoe went through the same thing. Then came the big brush, made of horsehair. You would show me how to get your rhythm, like the sound of a locomotive, as you brushed and brushed until the shoe began to shine like glass. Next came the toes. Using the pieces of cloth you'd wrap around two fingers, dip them into the polish, then into the tin filled with a little water. Slowly, you got your rhythm as you went around the toe over and over until it began to shine, but it had to outshine the rest of the shoe, which took a long time to accomplish. When my shoes were done, I put them next to yours at the door. Let me tell you, I had the shiniest shoes in school.
I could go on and on about our times together, but anymore and I'd have to write a book. You were a great dad, and I still love and miss you every day. Happy Father's Day in the sky, Dad. You are missed.

Mike  2026                                                                                                                

Whats a Dad?

 This is just one man's opinion of what it means to be a dad. My childhood was memorable to me in many ways. My dad was mostly around, except when he traveled for his job, but he never forgot to bring my sisters and me a little gift he'd buy at the airport store. A coloring book or puzzle, and always a Whitman sampler box of chocolates. And he never once forgot to get my mom some perfume.

My dad was someone I could always depend on to be seated at a band concert or school play, and sometimes showed up breathing hard as mom took his hand and squeezed it with a smile on her face. I can remember seeing him, still in a suit and tie, leaving his office, trying not to be too late.
My dad spoke quietly most of the time, especially when he was trying to get a point across to us. To me, that was worse than yelling, but he didn't believe in yelling unless we did something really bad, like kicking out the streetlights and getting caught by the town policeman, who was larger than life and very scary. He yelled about that, and if you think a five-foot-seven man couldn't instill the wrath of God, you'd be mistaken.
My dad listened to my questions and always gave it a minute or two to answer. I suppose he was just searching for the right words, not just making up a response. He could be firm and didn't shy away from giving me a good whooping with his belt, but I believed he went easy on me out of love that always trumped violence.
My dad was a fair man, a loyal man, and a man I aspired to be and follow in his footsteps the best way I could. I'm older than dirt now, and my dad's been gone for a long time, but his face is always on my mind as I play back all the moments, we shared, and I'm always thankful for the time we had together. What inspired me to write this was an empty Whitman's chocolate sampler I found in my treasure box of memories. I'll admit I wiped a tear away but did so with a smile. Happy Father's Day, in heaven, Dad. I love you every day.                                         

Mike 2026

The old desk

 The old desk bore the scars of kids with pocket knives. It had been handed down for generations and, per his request, finally reached his house because he'd actually use it for what it was meant for: writing. It would need some TLC as the years had taken their toll, but nothing some elbow grease and sandpaper couldn't fix. He decided to leave the top as it was, with all those little hearts and initials carved by mischievous boys throughout the years. There were four small drawers that he used to store paper and folders, hard copies of his writing, and ink cartridges for the printer. The fourth drawer held finished stories he had written over the months and years, a resting place for characters he had given life to but who now stayed silent in the darkness of the closed drawer.

He had cleared out his soon-to-be writing room, where the finished desk would sit, allowing him to see out the window. He was often inspired by the weather or the quiet, interrupted by a flock of birds or by his dog barking for him to let him inside when he lost track of time and the words begged to be written. He believed in keeping things simple and distraction-free, where he wrote. A two-tiered shelf held a model motorcycle and a large snow globe beside a framed picture of his grandmother, who was the first person to tell him he had a gift for words. A desk lamp sat at the edge of the desk, its beautiful green globe filling the small area with soft light, and a candle on the shelf, with dancing flames that dared him to write.
His first story with the old desk was everything he had hoped for. Its history fired up his imagination, and he sometimes stopped for a minute to trace a heart with his finger and wonder where that boy was today. Did he go on to become a famous artist after school gave him all he needed, or maybe a woodworker who built wooden boats? He traced another heart that read "Billy loves Susan," and he wondered whether they were just high school sweethearts who had parted ways, or had gotten married and raised a family.
Many years flew past as he continued to write at the old desk, filled with youthful inspiration by the tips of pocket knives gouging out slivers of old wood meant to last forever, just like the desk.

Mike   2026                                                           

May I have this dance?

 His body twitched, a slight smile on his face as he slept, dreaming of the times they danced. It was the 1960s, at a junior high school dance, when his buddies egged him on to ask the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen to dance. He felt sick to his stomach with fear that she might say no, and he'd have to walk back to his buddies in shame. But she didn't say no, and they danced again and again.

As time moved forward, they danced at their high school prom and later at friends' weddings, knowing one day he'd ask her to marry him, and that day came when he got down on one knee. She was so beautiful the day they wed, a vision in white, an angel sent to be by his side forevermore. They danced into the night to the songs they loved, wishing each dance would last forever.
Time can be cruel, and time can take away, as it did when she left this world, leaving him alone with memories that return when he sleeps. He'd see her in her wedding dress, floating through the heavens with angels by her side. He feels a gentle kiss on his cheek as she disappears into the light, leaving him alone once more in a world without dancing, in a world without her.
His time came, and his body twitched for the last time as he ascended to the heavens, where she waited for him to ask for a dance. Some say they see a couple dancing in the clouds, moving to the rhythm of the wind, with the sky as their dance floor. What can be said other than he defined the words, "May I have this dance?”

Mike  2026                                                     

A quiet house

 It's quiet in the old house as a man of the same age sits alone, remembering when quiet was just a wish. He looks around at stuff accumulated over time, things that meant something to him, and most wouldn't understand. The Led Zeplin poster from a concert he took his grandson to, not the real deal, but good impersonators just the same.  There was a clay head that looked like Jesus, holding incense sticks, and two ventriloquist dummies sitting in a chair that totally freaked out his daughter. There was an old-school stereo that didn't work, and two speaker boxes sat there in silence. Snow globes and a stack of photo albums that transported him back in time when his skin still fit and his teeth were his own. A steamer trunk filled with stuff that required moving everything that sat on top if he wanted to open it, which he did occasionally, usually on a rainy day for some reason. Inside were forgotten memories like his Navy cruise books, belt buckle, and a Zippo lighter with the ship's name. Two CD demos of songs he wrote, but that few ever heard except himself. Handwritten tablets of poems and two paperback editions of his first published books. A small box containing three bracelets hand-made out of beads he wore for years, along with a wrist watch and a pocket watch that his dad gave to him long ago.

It's quiet in the old house as he dozes off for a bit, awakened by a passing car playing some sort of music way too loud for this retirement community, probably someone's grandchild here for a visit. He shuffled to the kitchen, where he knew every little thing would be when he came looking, like coffee filters that he kept in the pantry and somehow ended up in a cabinet above the sink. Eventually, he'd get the old-school perculator he'd had for too many years to recall put on the burner and forgotten about until he heard the last couple of whatever you call it purks, I guess, when the coffee was ready. No coffee pods or fancy machines for him. The same held true for cooking. He had one black cast-iron skillet in which he made his supper, which never got washed; it was just wiped clean after use. A silverware drawer with two of each fork, knife, and spoon was all he needed, and he couldn't see any reason to have more.
He had a few fridge magnets with drawings his grandkids made for him and some black-and-white pictures taken with a Kodak Instamatic camera, memories of days gone by, but forever in his heart. It's a quiet house, his quiet house, that makes noises from worn-out floorboards and a dripping faucet he'd get around to fixing some day, maybe. There's the quiet snoring of his dog and companion of twelve years, his shadow, and best friend he hopes stays around for a long time, but he finds himself missing him already. Time doesn't stand still, but the quiet never lets him down.

Mike  2026                                                      

Dads snow plow

 I remember snow days when we stayed home from school. And I'll always recall one in particular that turned into a week. I remember staying up late pretending to be asleep, but actually looking out my second-floor bedroom window at black, not white. When sleep took me and the long hours of darkness woke me up, I had to squint my eyes from the brightness that invaded my bedroom. I looked out, and with my mouth wide open, I couldn't believe what I saw. It wasn't a blanket of white; it was a monster that buried everything I couldn't see but knew was there. Drifts so big that only the tips of telephone poles were visible, and dozens of cars parked on the street were just gone. Somehow, a big drift missed my window, letting me see the carnage below as an eerie silence filled the air, broken only by my mom's voice downstairs, shouting for a flashlight. I got my Batman flashlight and headed downstairs, guided by the cape crusaders' light straight into the darkness.

Power was out, and the house was growing colder by the minute as Dad built a fire in the fireplace, saying he was glad he had just brought in more wood the day before. My sister turned on her transistor radio to a news station, listening to the announcer talk about the massive storm and what people should do. Lists of places that had closed, seemingly endless, were broadcast on the hour, and emergency services were tasked with getting their equipment out into the neighborhoods where senior citizens and other people in need were told to sit tight as they made their way to them. Plows were out, slowly cutting through the huge drifts with everything they had, but it wasn't enough. The call went out to anyone with a snowmobile or a Four Wheel Drive truck to help, and they responded in the hundreds.
On the second day, Dad decided to head to the garage at the back of the house, where he kept his pride and joy, a 1957 Dodge Power Wagon. It was his project ever since I could remember, and he was very proud of it. He even entered it in car shows, where he won a trophy for the best restoration in the truck class. But that day, it was just another piece of equipment needed to help those in need. He told me to dress extra warmly if I wanted to ride along, and before you could say "snow," I was ready to go. The power wagon was equipped with a six-foot plow that Dad tested, making sure the hydraulics were working, and with the heater blasting hot air, we inched our way out of our driveway and into banks of snow we pushed aside to clear the streets. It was a long and tedious task, as we were joined by others who wanted to help.
Then a call came from the news station that medications needed to be delivered to folks stuck in their homes and couldn't get out to refill them. And everyone with a powerful enough truck to get through to them was to go to city hall, where they'd be given plenty of medicine and the addresses of those in need. " Looks like a job for the power wagon," Dad said as he blasted through drifts and plowed driveways for waiting people, some of whom offered us coffee or hot cocoa, which we usually accepted. Dad and I worked into the night, losing count of the people we helped, but come sunup, the power wagon headed back to our garage, where Dad took care of some minor problems, making sure the old truck was ready for more.
I spent three days with my dad, slowly clearing the streets and helping deliver needed medicines to shut-ins affected by the storm of all storms. I was just a kid, but I felt like a grown-up as we finally finished and went home. A week later, Dad received a letter from the city thanking him for all he had done to help. There was even mention of me that made me feel proud, almost as much as Dad did. Years went by without another mega storm, and the old power wagon eventually became mine. I treated it with the same loving care that Dad did, keeping it show-ready for years to come. But knowing if the snow came again, I'd be ready to roll. I had some pictures taken that day when everything was buried, which I displayed next to the truck, showing me and Dad plowing our driveway with the power wagon and powering through to a snowbound house, where an elderly lady, grateful for her medicines, offered us coffee or hot cocoa.

                                                                                  
Mike  2026

More than just a porch

 He sat alone on the front porch as he had for so many years. It was the one place where troubles seemed to disappear for a while, and the quiet could be broken by children's laughter. The porch was where you and your bride made dreams come true, and tears sometimes fell when a dream was shattered. It was where you had that talk with your son and gave advice to all your children. The porch was hollowed ground, a kind of neutral place where what was spoken remained when you went inside.

The porch had a swing you made when your hands were young, and your back was strong. A labor of love for one of many anniversaries you shared with the love of your life. You remember the sound it made as you slowly rocked back and forth, watching both sunrises and sunsets, holding her hand softly in yours.
The porch welcomed family and friends for no reason, just a place with a welcome mat that read all are welcome here. A half-dozen rocking chairs painted white to match the swing, and a bench for kids to sit on when mom called a time-out. Even the pets liked the porch where they found a ray of sunlight to fall asleep with a torn-up tennis ball close by.
So many memories of that old porch keep his mind busy as he fights hard to remember all it meant to everyone, with kids avoiding three little steps and older folks taking one at a time. The porch had a corner where the Christmas tree stood, waiting to be taken inside, and a place for sleds and bicycles, ready for action. It was where a wooden table was filled with plates of freshly baked cookies and, depending on the season, pictures of iced tea and lemonade in the hot months, and cocoa and coffee when the north winds blew.
It was countless times listening to a ball game on the radio, sitting on the porch as holiday festivities inside were in full swing. It was a place where you could be alone with your thoughts, or times when you hoped the porch would withstand dozens of your people to celebrate a birthday, and not collapse. The porch wasn't just another place to sit; it was an extension of the home and, by far, the choice for many to have a swing, tell a story, or grab a few winks after Sunday dinner.
Now, as he nears the time when all those children are scattered around the globe, and busy schedules prevent frequent visits, he sits alone, wrapped in a blanket she made. He closes his eyes and slowly rocks himself to sleep to the squeaky sound of the swing he never got around to fixing.

Mike  2026                                                       

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