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

Some books start but opt for a timeout before they're finished. This is an excerpt from one such book. - MM Yumi adjusted the microphone. Said something in Japanese. A few people nodded. Someone clapped once. And then - They began. Daniel didn’t know the song. Didn’t need to. It wasn’t about recognition - it was about feel. Something old. Maybe. Or something that just sounded old. There was space in it. Restraint. Notes that didn’t rush to be heard. Vince leaned in. “…okay,” he said quietly. “Yeah.” Yumi’s voice carried without pushing. Clear. Controlled. Effortless in a way that made effort feel unnecessary. Daniel glanced at Hiroshi. He wasn’t talking. Wasn’t smiling. Just watching. By the second song, the room had settled into it completely. Not applause-heavy. Not loud. Just - Present. “Good, yeah?” Hiroshi said quietly. Daniel nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Very.” Vince raised his glass slightly toward the stage. “Okay, Hiroshi,” he said. “You didn’t mention this.” Hiroshi shrugged...

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 ...

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...

 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 ...

 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...