The Real Memphis Mike (don't settle for imitations)

 Just a little experiment for the more visual readers 😁 copyright notice © 2026 Michael C. Metzger If you'd like to read the full story, it's right HERE

The photo was old and scratched up. It looked like it had been handled and mishandled for years, and it probably had. Passed from hand to hand, tucked into scrapbooks, displayed in frames, stuffed into drawers, and rescued again. It had been looked at thousands of times. It was still his favorite. It wasn't historically important. Just a photograph of friends sitting in someone's back garden, sharing a few laughs and a few cold beers. The image was every bit as grainy as the memories attached to it. The colors had faded with age, drifting toward reds and yellows. Time had left its fingerprints everywhere. He was the only one left in the photograph. When his time came, would anyone remember those old glory days? Those years when importance itself seemed unimportant. When photographs weren't taken to prove anything, advertise anything, or preserve a carefully crafted image. They were taken simply because someone thought a moment was worth keeping. There was no guarantee the p...

 'Twas the Fourth of July when the thunder rolled in,  Not from heaven above but from bombers and men. The flags still hung proudly from porches and rails, But the smoke hid the sun and the screams drowned the bells. The papers all told us there'd be nothing to fear, That the gunfire was distant, not something we'd hear. But the rent had come due on the farms and the towns, And the men who had sold us had skipped out of town. Oh the mountains they trembled, And the rivers ran red, While the ghosts of old soldiers Turned uneasy in death. For the country they'd fought for Wasn't dying in war It had been sold out for profit Less than two years before. Well the leader appeared on the television screen, With his practiced cold smile and his old face scrubbed clean. He said, "It's a hoax," and he boarded his plane, But a bullet soon settled what remained of his reign. Then the columns came marching through valley and field, With their rifles held high and no...

I was recently asked to consider giving a talk about writing. For the time-being, I’ve declined. My reasoning is simple: I don’t think I’ve done anything to warrant boring people with my opinion on the subject, especially not in the format suggested to me. As with any public performance, I asked why I should be interested. I was given no valid reason to leave the house. That said, I’m surprised I was asked. Yes, I write. I enjoy writing. I always have. It’s only in the past 18 or so months that I’ve really put any effort into it. Sure, I’ve written poetry, prose, lyrics, music, liner notes, reviews, and my own column - but I don’t think any of that was any good, nor does it validate any opinions I have. I’m NOT an expert. I do, however, think I write some interesting stories. Fiction has never been a big part of my world. My reading habits lean more towards biographies, history, and essays. I love reading theology texts too. As far as fiction goes, I’ve read all of Conan Doyle’s w...

 In his native America, he'd always had a shady reputation. As a young man, he worked as muscle for hire, worked as a bouncer in gambling houses and brothels, and always had a side hustle moving drugs or weapons. He could always be counted on to find a buyer for stolen goods, too. He was smart enough to see the cracks forming in the government long before most. Within days of the First Attack, he'd made plans to leave the country. Some of his cohorts with Sicilian lineage helped him get to Europe. From there he was on his own. He managed to bring along a tidy sum in cash and jewels. This gave him the advantage of time to form new contacts. He was told time and time again that the capital of Bulgaria - Sofia - would be a good place to set himself up. There were gangs there who could make use of his skills, and provided he kept out of trouble and his name out of the local gossip, he would do fine.  And he did. He pretty much became, as he liked to call himself, a consultant. He ...

He gathered up his books then set them all on fire.  Leather bindings curled like dying hands. Gold-lettered promises blackened and split. The words of prophets, kings, apostles, and madmen rose together in the smoke as though heaven itself had finally exhaled. He burned every righteous word in one last righteous twist of fate. Had the words lost their meaning? Or had mankind simply outgrown the burden of truth? Truth had become unfashionable. An antique thing. A cracked photograph in a junk drawer. It had been traded away for bumper sticker theology, for slogans screamed through flickering screens, for easy little lies soft enough to swallow whole. No one wanted weight anymore. No one wanted consequence. Every phrase was disposable. Every conviction rented by the hour like a whore in a motel room on a forgotten highway. The world no longer spoke of commandments. It communicated in advertisements. He stood silent as Zechariah while each syllable ignited. Paper peeled inward like sk...