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 These days, when everything is computer-operated, the older man has been replaced by a circuit board and an operator who controls everything.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