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

 He was old enough to remember seasons.  Warm, sunny days of summer. Cold, dark days of winter. Spring rains. Autumn leaves. March always came in like a lion. But it no longer left like a lamb. The winds and storms had grown stronger and less predictable every year for the past twenty. Dear Leader said any changes in the weather were a hoax, perpetuated by his enemies just to make him look bad. He said it was part of a natural cycle. He never bothered to give any real proof. When it was convenient, he'd say it was God's will. He'd say anything but the truth. The fact of the matter was much simpler. Humans were destroying their own planet. All in the name of profit. --- He had just received notice that his homeowner's insurance policy was being cancelled. Thirty years without a missed payment. Not once had he filed a claim. The reason? His house was old. There were too many trees near it. Most of his neighbors received the same notice. --- The Wi-Fi and the power were no...

  He was up early. Thunderstorms woke him throughout the night, and once up he’d never been good at getting a good night’s sleep afterward. The sun was out, peeking through the trees beyond his yard. While sitting on the toilet, he looked out the window and saw them. Little patches of bluish-white flowers. Tiny little things. Very pretty - but he’d never seen them before. There were four or five little clumps of them in his yard. He could see them in his neighbor’s yard too. The rain must’ve given them the push they needed. He didn’t give it any more thought. He ate lunch on the front porch. He noticed the little flowers in his front yard too, as well as the yards of all of his neighbors. The little things popped up faster than dandelions. At three o’clock, he went out to grab the mail. The little flowers were popping up around the post of his mailbox. He noticed they were coming up through the cracks in the pavement on the street and sidewalk. Crazy old Mrs. Hughes was trying to t...

The spider knows the world through tension.   Every strand carries information. Every vibration means something. The fly is frantic. The moth is heavy thunder. Gnats are nervous tremors. This one is wrong. It has weight, but no panic. Movement, but no struggle. The spider approaches slowly, legs barely touching the silk. Then the air changes. The warning spreads across the strands - sharp, bitter, chemical. The spider stops. Not food. Never food. The spider withdraws. And begins cutting. The stink bug knows the world through surfaces. Warm means light. Cool means shadow. Vertical means climb. It pushes forward slowly, deliberately, the threads tightening around it. Movement nearby. Presence. Predator. The stink bug releases its defense. The stench spreads. Warning. Stay away. The tension loosens. The surface collapses beneath it. The stink bug climbs. Stink bugs are just nasty. Even the cat knows this. The cat sometimes investigates anyway. Instinct is stronger than judgment. ...

He had never disliked owls. In fact, he had always found them fascinating. Quiet hunters. Ancient eyes. Something old in the way they watched the world. Still...he'd had issues with them. The first time was at his father’s place near Tappan Lake. A storm had blown through the night before. He drove out late in the afternoon to check on the place. The house sat quiet beneath black walnut trees, their branches still creaking slightly in the residual winds. The broken window was easy to spot. A walnut had punched through the bedroom glass. He boarded it up as dusk settled in. The woods behind the house were already dark. The kind of dark that arrived early and stayed. Inside, the house felt colder than it should have. Still. He heard something moving in the bedroom. Small. Quick. He moved toward the lamp near the bunk beds. The floor creaked. The sound stopped. He flipped the light. The owl exploded into motion. Huge wings filled the room. Air rushed against his face. The bird launche...

 Just revisiting and revamping old bits O scribbles. - MM He had always loved Groundhog Day.  It was the day Phil made his prediction. It was also his grandfather’s birthday. He had never quite decided which mattered more. He really loved Groundhog Day. Not loudly. Not with hats or souvenirs. He loved it quietly, the way some people love ghost stories — because beneath the silliness, there was something older. A small animal dragged from the earth. A crowd gathering before dawn. A prophecy. It sounded ridiculous when you said it out loud. But when you thought about it too long, it felt like something older than reason. Punxsutawney was only seventy-five miles from his house. He had never gone. No one ever wanted to make the trip. Too early. Too cold. Too pointless. Until she suggested it. The call came Thursday afternoon. Simple. Casual. "We should go." By Saturday, plans were made. They'd leave around three in the morning. He tried to sleep beforehand but couldn’t. The a...

 It wasn't how he expected to end up. Lost and alone, high up in the Rhodopes. The sun had gone down hours before, and he was sure he'd heard wolves, or maybe jackals. Three days earlier, he hadn't even known jackals were indigenous to Bulgaria! Had they picked up his scent? Of course they had. But would they seek him out? A midnight snack for the whole pack? Maybe. Maybe not. He wasn't sure how he smelled to such creatures. This could be a rare instance when his blood pressure medication and lifelong diet of chemically treated faux food might be advantageous. This whole mess had started a few weeks earlier.  He needed some time off. He needed to be away from everyone he knew, and more importantly, everyone who knew who he was.  The press had not been kind.  His public relations role for a well-known pharmaceutical company had put him front and center when the news broke.  So many kids had died due to tainted medication. It wasn't his fault, but he was the guy o...