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

 I was always a dog person. I grew up with dogs. Dear ol' dad was never a fan of cats. Mom loved all animals. But ours was a dog house. Plain and simple. My first experience living with a cat was thanks to a roommate. He had a 40-pound lump of feline ferocity named Meatball. When he moved in with his girlfriend, the cat was left behind, due to the girlfriend's alleged allergies. I believe the reality was more like she was allergic to the oversized beast's personality.  Meatball was just mean. Maybe that's the wrong word. In his defense, he was a foundling. My roomie worked at a pizza joint, and Meatball was found in the alley behind the place...noshing on a discarded meatball. This was the cat's preferred food.  Aside from his obesity, Meatball had ear mites or something as a kitten. His ears flopped down, not unlike a pig.  Just imagine a 40-pound cat, with floppy ears, and a bad disposition. Oh, he was mostly white with some black spots. On the rare occasions he w...

 This will come as no surprise to anyone - I'm not a morning person. Those of us who prefer the dark, quiet hours of the night do occasionally have to deal with the reality that there is a 5:30 in the AM as well as PM. It's an uncomfortable reality, but that's just life.  I had to deal with the AM version yesterday. Long story short, I had a doctor's appointment at 8:30, had no idea where the office was, and still had to attempt to function. My morning routine is non-negotiable. It's really the only way I can deal with most people. Yes, copious amounts of coffee are involved.  I had a check-up last week. My regular doc (I call him "Doogie" but I'm not convinced he fully understands the reference), who is younger than some shoes I own, was concerned about a growth on my nose. I wasn't...but I don't have the magic letters following my name, so my opinion is moot.  Let me be clear, I've dealt with this before. As cancers go, my previous bout o...

Inspiration can come from the most unexpected situations. - MCM Everyone in town knew Wynn Rainey, but no one really knew Wynn Rainey. Even today, in and around Downey Bluff, the Rainey name will get folks to talking. As far away as Norwich, people still remember him. Everyone has a story, and more importantly, an opinion. Depending on who you talk to, some will say Wynn Rainey was a man of means. The Wenberg family, who owned and ran the local savings and loan, did a lot of business with him, if stories are to be believed. Oddly enough, there never seemed to be an active account in his name. The same people who told these tales were the same ones who’d tell you that assets are better than cash. Wynn Rainey always seemed to have the latter. Usually at least a pocketful. Some would tell you he was loose as a goose with his money. Some would tell you he could squeeze ten cents out of a buffalo nickel’s ass. Lots of the old timers will share stories of Rainey paying everyone’s tab at...

I thought up a darkly comic spoof and thought it might be fun to share with my writer friends. Nothing serious (unless you want to it to be).  A working knowledge of Margaret Atwood's HANDMAID'S TALE and/or THE TESTAMENTS will be useful. If you've only seen the television adaption, fine. Have at it.  The Premise : Something resembling a zombie apocalypse has begun in Gilead. The dead are rising, seemingly in fulfillment of 1 Thessalonians 4:16: “the dead in Christ shall rise first.” They have returned to claim their new bodies. Everything else is up to the writer. Then the rules: 1. NO ROMERO SILLYNESS.   No automatic headshots, brain destruction, shambling hordes, “one bite and you're infected,” or other inherited zombie rules. If your dead have rules, invent them. 2. The dead are not necessarily zombies.  Characters may call them zombies because that's the cultural reference available to them. The writer should never assume that diagnosis is correct. 3. 1 Thessalo...

Seven bottles of booze collecting dust on the liquor cabinet; each filled with varying quantities. One bottle of his favorite bourbon stood unopened.  What was he waiting for? And better still, why did he feel the need to notice them at all? The contents contained different keys that unlocked different memories. The vodka reminded him of his ex-father-in-law. The gin reminded him of a lost love. The rum reminded him of numerous youthful hangovers. The homemade wine reminded him of his old hometown. The Southern Comfort reminded him of a cheap hotel in Chicago - the night he shattered her  heart into a thousand pieces. The flavored, blended whiskey - a gift from friends. He'd probably never drink it. But the bourbon? The good stuff! For years it fueled his writing. When he still wrote a regular column, conducted interviews with notable figures, and was read by thousands every month, he would often finish half a bottle while typing the day away - and he never felt it.  Then...

 It smelled like rotting meat. The bite was starting to hurt like a sonofabitch. The kid that bit him couldn't have been more than twelve but looked practically feral. How long had it been since the attacks began; the bombs, the guns, the bioweapons? Six months? A year? Longer? Time no longer held the same meaning. Back then, time was measured by plans and productivity. Now it was a matter of survival. Make it one more day, another hour, another minute. Planning was impossible. The only plan was STAY ALIVE. The world had been reduced to what you could see in front of you.  In the best of times, a human mouth was a disgusting thing. Even the most hygienic smile harbored bacteria. He remembered when he was a kid, being told that a dog's mouth was cleaner. God only knows what came with the bite he received.  If there were any doctors left alive, they were stuck in the same hell he was. Poisoned air, poisoned water, dead bodies, and rubble. The weeds did their best to reclaim...