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

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...

 It was time to get her started. The old Ford coughed twice before turning over. The dashboard rattled like it always did, and the heater made that faint ticking noise that meant it might work eventually, or it might not. Either way, he didn't much care. He lit a Viceroy and watched the smoke curl toward the cracked windshield. Then he reached over and pulled the pint of Crown Royal from the passenger seat. The bag it came in had long since been lost. He took a short pull and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Six hundred miles. That’s what the note had said. He shifted into gear and pulled onto the road. Black Velvet was for sissies. That’s what his old man used to say. Unless you were Mexican. Or Elvis. He smiled faintly at the memory. His old man had been full of sayings like that. Half of them didn’t make much sense, but they stuck with you anyway. The bench seat was cracked Naugahyde, split down the middle like an old scar. The foam pushed out in yellow lumps. He shift...

  "Why is everyone so afraid of going up there?" The city girl had been pestering the locals for a few days now. Said she was a reporter or something. The honest truth was there was never really any news to report from around these parts. Every year, the seasons changed, but not much else. The deer hunters came and went, like they always did. The hikers and campers came and went, like they always did. The holidays came and went. Winter, spring, summer, fall. Rinse and repeat. Just the way things were up here in the hills. Walt Henley was renting out his old hunting cabin to her - dirt cheap, too. He figured she'd be gone after a day or two. The place had well water, which was usually enough to run off most city folks. But this gal was determined to find a story - even if she had to make one up out of whole cloth. Walt's mother, Abigail, was the one who invited the city girl to lunch. "It's the polite thing to do," she admonished him. "It's the C...

With God as my witness, I thought it was a joke. A prank. It began with a couple of messages left on my voicemail. "This is Special Agent (NAME REDACTED) from the FBI. I need to speak with you. I can be reached at (TELEPHONE NUMBER REDACTED)." After the first message, I figured it was either a prank or a wrong number. To my knowledge, I hadn't done anything (lately) that would put me in the view of the FBI. So, I dismissed it. Also, the agent's name sounded - for lack of a better word - fake. I thought to myself, Self, whose parents would name their child that ? Then I received another voicemail. Same agent. Same request. Same callback number. Now I was sure this was someone pranking me. Who could it be? Which of my friends could pull off a stunt like this? I didn't recognize the voice, but voices can be faked. I'm admittedly a slob. Housework… tidying up… is not my forte. If left on my own, I tend to adhere to Quentin Crisp's philosophy on the s...