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

 Inspiration comes in many forms. Good days, bad days, jokes. Sometimes, current events lead to daydreams. - MM It wasn’t the bombs that woke him. Those were background noise now. Ritual detonations. Nations flexing like bored gods. The sky coughed fire somewhere every week, but it was theater - a reminder of what he had normalized. The world had learned from him. The world had improved the trick. No, it was the television that woke him. The cell was seven feet by twelve. Poured concrete. Floor. Walls. Ceiling. Bed. The slab understanding weight better than mercy. No mattress. No pillow. No shadow. A four-inch window glowed with artificial light - steady, sterile, unblinking. It offered no sky. No Colorado blue. No dawn. No dusk. Time had been amputated. The television never turned off. He did not control it. Today it played his arrest again. The self-declared greatest leader in history dragged in chains across a tarmac. Hair whipped sideways. Face pulled tight with panic. His voic...

 The power is out. It has been for some time. He cannot tell how long. The television is black. The clock above it is frozen at 2:17. The second hand died mid-twitch. He faces three walls and a dark screen. The silence presses. He knows madness. He has visited it before. He used to deliver it. Now he sits in his chair - strapped, angled, parked - a monument to gravity. Once, one of the aides called him an oversized paperweight. She thought he was asleep. She had laughed into her phone, her words thick with shortcuts and swallowed consonants. He had wanted to correct her. Once he would have corrected her with volume. Or a hand. He had solved most of his life with hands. Pain was how he communicated. Now he cannot even clear his throat. Once, he emptied rooms. Now he occupies one. The last time he stood on his own two feet, he had blood on his hands. He had broken a beer pitcher across a man’s face because the man laughed too loudly. There had been blood in the foam. Then came the fr...

 Well Now! and a big ol' MERCY! Just checked the stats on the ol' bliggetty blog. (I knew there was a way to do it - I'd just never bothered before) Almost 1300 people have been reading it this month alone...and it's only the 18th! That gets a big ol' WOW! from me. As internet numbers go, that number isn't particularly high...but I'm also extremely lazy and not really interested in self-promotion. That's always been the case. I never cared for the business end of anything I've been involved in. I'm NOT a salesman. Sure, I might post the occasional link on antisocial media or share a link with someone...but where 1300 people are coming from - I just don't get it. I've written a few things in Bulgarian, and those seem to catch people's attention. Maybe folks are just nebby and hit the old 'right click - translate to English' to see what I'm rambling about. Like I said, I just don't get it. I can only hope I get numbers l...

Старицата беше позната гледка в квартала. Мъничко нещо. Леко прегърбена, сякаш облегната на вятър, който само тя можеше да усети. Тъмен шал, вързан под брадичката ѝ. Тъмно палто, независимо от времето. Износена пазарска чанта. Обувки, купени преди десетилетия, практични и неразрушими. Тя говореше само когато беше необходимо. Акцентът ѝ принадлежеше на страна, която никой вече не можеше да назове. Не беше нужно да говори. Познаваше квартала си по-добре от всеки друг. Знаеше кой магазин продава любимия ѝ хляб. Коя аптека е отворена във вторник. Кои тротоарни плочки са напукани. Кимаше веднъж всяка сутрин на стареца на вестникарската будка. Това беше достатъчно. Освен това, тя беше част от пейзажа. Тя рядко говореше. Акцентът ѝ идваше отнякъде, което вече не изискваше обяснение. Тя познаваше улиците. Познаваше вратите. Знаеше кой принадлежи и кой не. Всяка котка в квартала я познаваше. Те я наблюдаваха с немигащо доверие. Те ѝ разчистиха път. Никое куче не лаеше по нея. Когато се приближи...

  My old buddy S.A. Baker, possibly Canada's finest author of creeptastic fiction , has a deep spot in his literary heart for the town of Winterbourne, Ontario. Read his books and you'll find out why! If you've been following along on the home version, you're familiar with some of my own writing. Well, last night turned into a mini marathon of scribbling! I fell asleep on the couch for a few hours, woke up, knocked out the final story for a collection I've been working on - watched some TV - but couldn't sleep. The brain was still in writing mode! So, I wrote this little piece for my buddy up north! Don't worry Sidney, I ain't horning in on your territory! We'll just call this either a tip O the hat OR a bit of literary jagoffery! Enjoy! I drink too much coffee. I know this, my wife knows this, and my doctor frequently reminds me that he too knows this. I haven't 'partied' in years, hell I can't remember the last time I had a beer...s...

  За моите български приятели! Насладете се на тази малка приказка, която съчиних, заимствайки от вашата история и фолклор. Позволих си някои творчески волности. Опитах се да запазя „гласа“ на историята възможно най-автентичен... но всички знаем, че познанията ми по български език не са най-добрите. Но продължавам да опитвам! - MM 40 дни близо до Сливен (разказ) от Мемфис Майк   (© 2026) Бяха изминали почти десет години, откакто комунистите свалиха Муравиев. Налагаше се нов ред, който достигаше навсякъде - от София до най-малките села, които не се появяваха на картите. И все пак в България промяната идваше бавно, ако изобщо се случваше. Вълкът можеше да сменя козината си, но не можеше да промени темперамента си. Това, което се промени първо, не бяха вярванията, а документите. Известието пристигна сгънато в кафяв плик, подпечатан с виолетово мастило, печатът беше счупен веднъж и отново притиснат, сякаш самата хартия можеше да бъде поправена. До другаря Петър Киров  , ...