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

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The Battle Within

Another day. The same aches and pains. When asked by the nurse, his answer is always 'just the usual'. The young nurse tries her best to inform him that most people aren't in pain. He reminds her that most people lie. Once we hit a certain age, some pain is to be expected. Sore feet. Sore back. For others, it's the knees, hands, hips and shoulders. For him, it's all of the above and more. Fifty years of an autoimmune disorder plays hell on a body - but it's really all he's ever known. A truly pain-free day would be a disturbing surprise for him. He probably wouldn't know how to react. Sure, some days are better. Some are worse. But most days the pain is just there. Bad enough to let its presence be known, yet not so bad as to incapacitate him. This wasn't one of those days. The pain had been worse the past few days. He wasn't sleeping - and that always exacerbated it. Such was the constant battle waging in his body. It's how life had been ...

another clunky excerpt from an unfinished work

Maybe I'll finish the story...one of these days. - MM The cigar shop, the coffee shop, and the butcher shop were three of the places The Kid visited most often. Every now and then one of his uncles would send him to an old-man bar or a social club, though only during the daytime. Uncle Paul was adamant about that. "You don't need to be hanging around those places at night," he'd tell him. "That's when things get too wild." One afternoon, Uncle Paul told him to meet him after school at a particular social club a few blocks away. The Kid figured he was being sent to pick up an envelope or deliver a message. It was no different than any of the other errands he ran. He arrived a little earlier than expected. The main room was nearly empty. Not seeing Uncle Paul anywhere, he wandered toward the banquet rooms in the back. Voices drifted from one of them. One voice sounded familiar. Uncle Paul. And he sounded angry. The Kid followed the noise and stepped th...

Felt clever. Might delete later.

Creating A Story While still relatively new to the world of fiction, I keep finding the same hurdles. I either write myself into a corner OR I bore myself with detail. Details, however, are a strength to be reckoned with. If a story, fiction or not, isn't believable - then it ultimately fails. I like details! But how much is too much? I started work on a new novel a while back. When finished, I think it'll be an excellent read. The issue, at least for me, is creating a believable 'history' for some of the characters. To create a modern character, it's pretty easy. Who are they? Where are they from? What do they do? What brought them HERE? I can usually cobble together something authentic enough to be believed. I've created a mythological group of people. This has become a minefield of "Oh, that doesn't work!" or "Sounds like bullshit to me". So, I have to go further back to create more faux history for a group of people who have never ...

Flowers (graphic novel style)

An Old Photo

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...

Independence Day (An Angry Lament)

'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...