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

Theobald Sterling Mann sat enjoying his usual breakfast of tea, toast and fresh-squeezed OJ. As he did on most days, he looked impeccable in his neatly pressed Arrow shirt and Van Heusen tie, complete with his father's antique rainbow trout tie clip. His wife, Betty, was noisily crunching through her bowl of Grape-Nuts but unlike most days, this multi-sensory assault was not dimming his mood. Today was the day. Seventeen years of marriage had robbed Betty of her looks, figure, and whatever had attracted him to her in the first place. She was, essentially, a cow. At 280+ pounds, the sight of her in her brown and white terrycloth robe reminded him of an overweight, aged Hereford. Her personality was, in his mind, on par with this comparison. Her bloodshot brown eyes stared blankly as she munched down her feed. She had been up late watching "reality TV" again. The only reality in Sterling Mann's mind this morning was that today was the day. His plan was coming to fruitio...

 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...