Reflections on Aging and Life

Daily writing prompt
What will your life be like in three years?
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The question of the day is where will I be in three years? Since I am over eighty, my time on earth may be over by then, yet I also find myself pondering the legacy I will leave behind. Each passing day offers me new insights, and I often reflect on the myriad experiences I’ve had throughout my life. Will I be surrounded by loved ones, sharing stories and laughter, or will I find peace in solitude, reminiscing about the moments that defined me? The uncertainty of life is both daunting and exhilarating, and it encourages me to cherish every fleeting moment while exploring what might still lie ahead.

If my time is not over, my life could stay the same as it is today, full of joy and challenges that shape me. Each day offers a chance to grow and learn, helping me connect with others. I find comfort in my routines but also welcome the unknown, knowing each moment is valuable and can lead to new adventures. As I face life’s complexities, I stay hopeful for the future while appreciating the present.

Or I could undergo a profound medical event that significantly changes my circumstances, necessitating an extended period in an assisted living facility where I would require assistance with daily tasks and medical attention. This unforeseen development may compel me to adjust to a new environment, amid others confronting their own adversities, as we navigate the intricate realities of aging and health together, exchanging narratives and forging connections that could ultimately enhance the experience during such a challenging period.

I have a feeling my writing journey won’t be a blockbuster anytime soon—when was the last time I got applause for my grocery list? I doubt I’ll wake up as a famous author with piles of money and a fan club like rock stars. But dreaming is free, right? I can imagine a future where my words connect with readers, where my stories touch their hearts, and where I inspire others through storytelling. Sure, reality seems far from my dreams now, but I hold onto the hope that with persistence, creativity, and passion, my aspirations might come true in surprising ways, lighting my path with hopes of success (or at least a good review from my wife)!

Whatever happens, I have had led a successful life and do not regret or feel guilty about anything I have done. I have embraced opportunities that came my way, allowing me to grow and evolve as a person. Each decision, be it right or wrong, has shaped my journey and contributed to the rich tapestry of my experiences. I have cherished moments of joy and faced disappointing challenges head-on, learning valuable lessons along the way. The friendships I nurtured and the love I shared are irreplaceable treasures that I hold close to my heart. In every adventure, both big and small, I found purpose and connection, leading me to a life filled with meaning and fulfillment.

If all goes well, I will be here blogging for many years and sharing my “Comments About Anything”.

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The Night Airwaves Changed Forever

AUDIO PODCAST 4 1/2 minutes

November 3, 1956. 7:30 p.m. Eastern Time. A smooth, velvet voice glides through millions of living rooms across America. A Black man in a sharp suit, seated at a grand piano, smiles into the camera and says, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to The Nat King Cole Show.”

For fifteen minutes every week, the world paused. It wasn’t just a variety show. It was a revolution in prime time. A Voice That Crossed Color Lines. By 1956, Nat King Cole was already a household name. His 1940s hits “Straighten Up and Fly Right”,” The Christmas Song”, “Mona Lisa” had sold millions. He was the first African American artist to top the Billboard charts. His voice was in jukeboxes, on radios, in living rooms from Harlem to Hollywood. But television? That was white space. No Black performer had ever hosted a national network TV series. The closest had been guest spots brief, polite, and always on someone else’s show.

Then came NBC. The Show That Shouldn’t Have Worked. The Nat King Cole Show was simple: Nat at the piano. Guest stars. A small orchestra. No laugh track. No gimmicks. Just music. Just class. The guests were legendary: Ella Fitzgerald trading scat lines with Nat Tony Bennett and Pearl Bailey, Harry Belafonte. Even Frank Sinatra dropped by. White stars, black stars together, on equal footing. And America watched. The Ratings Were Great. The Sponsors Were Not. Here’s the cruel twist. The show was a hit. Critics loved it. Viewers tuned in. But no national sponsor would touch it. Ad agencies feared backlash from Southern affiliates. One executive reportedly said: “We can’t sell toothpaste with a Negro on the screen.” Local sponsors in the North supported it. But without national backing, NBC couldn’t afford to keep it. The End Came Quietly After 64 episodes, Nat King Cole canceled his own show on July 27, 1957. He didn’t rage. He didn’t protest. He just said: “Madison Avenue is afraid of the dark.” That line became legend.

 A Door Cracked Open the Nat King Cole Show lasted only nine months. But it broke the seal. Within a decade: Diahann Carroll starred in Julia (1968) first Black woman in a lead TV role. Bill Cosby co-starred in I Spy (1965) — first Black actor in a dramatic lead. Flip Wilson got his own variety show (1970) and it topped the ratings. None of that would have happened without Nat.  

The Man Behind the Milestone Nat King Cole wasn’t an activist. He didn’t march. He didn’t shout. He just showed up. Sang beautifully. Smiled warmly. And let excellence do the talking. In 1956, that was radical. Today Clips survive on YouTube. Search: Nat King Cole Show 1956” You’ll see him sing “When I Fall in Love” with a smile that could melt ice. You’ll see Ella and Nat riff like old friends. You’ll see America before it was ready.  Legacy in One Line. He didn’t demand a seat at the table. He built the table. And then he sang at it. November 3, 1956, wasn’t just a premiere. It was a declaration. And now, the music still plays. Listen to “Unforgettable” tonight. Thank Nat King Cole. He opened the door and left it wide open.

Contrary to what some say, this country has come a long way in racial acceptance, showcasing significant progress in various aspects of society, including education, employment opportunities, and representation in politics. Over recent decades, we have witnessed a growing acknowledgment of diversity as a strength, leading to more inclusive policies and initiatives that promote understanding among different cultural groups. This evolution reflects a collective effort to confront and dismantle systemic racism, encouraging dialogue and fostering community engagements that embrace the rich variety of backgrounds that define our nation. Despite ongoing challenges, these strides toward acceptance signal a hopeful journey toward unity and equality for all.

One of my favorite songs is “Unforgettable” with Nat and Natalie. They made a terrific song into a priceless rendition. Click for the song

The House That Waited

Audio Podcast 8 minutes

It was the last house on the block. The one no one ever trick-or-treated at. Not because it was abandoned—it wasn’t. Lights flickered inside, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls. Shadows moved past the windows, almost as if they were keeping an eye on the world outside. But every kid in town knew the stories: the house watched you, its windows like eyes peering into your very soul. It waited for you, whispering secrets in the night as the wind rustled through the overgrown yard, filled with twisted trees and unkempt bushes that seemed to reach out like skeletal hands. They said the air was thick with the echoes of laughter that once filled its halls, now replaced by an unsettling silence that wrapped around the house like a shroud, daring you to come closer. 

Gary and his little sister Gail didn’t believe in ghost stories, no matter how creepy the tales sounded when shared by their new friends at school. Their parents had just moved to town, and they were determined to hit every house on the street, brimming with excitement about the prospect of gathering a colorful array of candy. With each door they knocked on, their hearts raced with anticipation, and the thought of ghouls and spirits lurking in the shadows was far from their minds. Candy was candy, and superstition wasn’t going to stop them; they were on a mission, ready to fill their bags with treats until they brimmed over with sugary goodness, giggling all the way home as they swapped stories and compared their loot. 

“Just one more,” Gary said, pointing to the looming Victorian at the end of the cul-de-sac, its silhouette casting intricate shadows in the pale moonlight. Its porch light flickered on, illuminating the intricate details of the house’s architecture—tall windows adorned with lace curtains and a weathered door that had seen countless seasons. A carved pumpkin sat grinning on the steps, its eyes oddly deep, like they were looking back, as if holding secrets of the past. The air was thick with the scent of fallen leaves and the distant laughter of children, weaving a tapestry of Halloween night that felt both nostalgic and eerie. 

Gail hesitated. “I don’t like it.” 

“Come on. It’s just a house.” 

They climbed the creaking steps, each one groaning under their weight as if protesting their ascent. The air grew colder, an unsettling chill that seemed to seep into their very bones, causing them to shiver involuntarily. Gary knocked once, then twice, each rap echoing through the silence that enveloped them. The door opened slowly, creaking on its hinges to reveal a tall man in a tattered suit that seemed to hang from his gaunt frame like a mere shadow of what it once was. His face was pale, stretched too tightly over his bones, contouring an unsettling skull-like visage that sent a ripple of unease down their spines. His eyes were… wrong. Too dark, as if the light within them had been snuffed out long ago, and too deep, drawing one in with an almost magnetic force that made it difficult to look away, leaving them with an eerie sense of foreboding. 

“Trick or treat,” Gary said, voice cracking. 

The man smiled. “Oh, I have a treat for you.” 

In the flickering glow of the streetlamp, the old man extended a weathered wooden bowl toward Gail, his gnarled fingers trembling slightly as if the weight of the offering carried a hidden burden. Nestled inside were candies, their wrappers dulled by time, the once-vibrant paper now faded to a ghostly pallor, each piece adorned with an eerie symbol—a spiral that seemed to writhe upon closer inspection, its jagged edges resembling rows of tiny, gnashing teeth. Gail’s curiosity stirred, her hand inching forward to pluck one from the pile, her fingertips brushing the crinkled edge of a wrapper, when the man’s hand darted out, his grip gentle yet firm, closing around her wrist with a quiet urgency that sent a chill racing up her spine. 

“No. You must choose carefully.” 

Gary frowned. “What does that mean?” 

The man leaned closer, his eyes glinting with a mixture of mischief and warning. “Some sweets are sweet, enticingly delicious, bursting with flavor and temptation. Some… are cursed, hiding dark secrets beneath their sugary exteriors, capable of drawing unsuspecting souls into an abyss of despair and regret.” 

Gail pulled her hand back. “We’re leaving.” 

But the door slammed shut behind them. 

The hallway stretched impossibly long, an endless corridor of shadows and whispers. The wallpaper pulsed like it was breathing, as if imbued with a life of its own. The lights flickered sporadically, casting eerie glows that revealed glimpses of things that shouldn’t be—faces contorted in silent screams within the walls, hands reaching from the floorboards, desperate and ghostly, as if pleading to be freed from their eternal prison. The air was thick with an unsettling energy, each step echoing with a weight of dread, as if the very space around me was alive, watching, waiting. 

“Run!” Gary shouted, grabbing Gail’s hand. 

They bolted down the hall, but it twisted, turned, and changed with each frantic step they took. Doors appeared and vanished like fleeting shadows, some leading to tantalizing glimpses of rooms filled with memories, while others opened to nothingness, swallowing their hopes whole. The air crackled with an electric energy, as if the very walls were breathing, pulsating with a life of their own. Whispers echoed around them, urging them forward deeper into the maze of the house, which felt more like a living entity than a mere structure, alive with mysteries waiting to be uncovered. 

They burst into a room filled with mirrors. Each one showed a different version of themselves—older, younger, twisted, crying, screaming, laughing with maniacal joy. The reflections danced mockingly, their faces a distorted gallery of emotions and time. One mirror, larger than the rest, showed Gail alone, holding the candy with a bite taken out, the bright colors stark against her pale skin. Her eyes were black, voids that seemed to swallow light, while her mouth stretched into a grin too wide, stretching almost unnaturally across her face. It was as if the mirror was revealing not just a reflection, but an embodiment of secrets and fears, whispering chilling truths only she could hear. The air around her crackled with tension, as though the very fabric of reality was fraying at the edges, inviting them all to step through into the myriad versions of their own souls. 

Gary smashed the mirror. The room shattered. 

They were back at the front door, their hearts pounding with a mix of excitement and apprehension. The man stood there, smiling, his demeanor warm and inviting, as if he held the key to a long-awaited reunion. The soft glow of the porch light illuminated his features, accentuating the kindness in his eyes and the promise of stories yet to be told. The cool evening breeze rustled the leaves nearby, adding an air of mystery to the moment, and they couldn’t help but wonder what lay ahead beyond that familiar threshold. 

“You chose wisely,” he said. “Most don’t.” 

He opened the door. Outside, the street was quiet. Normal. 

Gary and Gail ran, never looking back. 

But that night, as Gail sat on her bed, her mind swirling with thoughts, she found the candy in her pocket. The bright wrappers gleamed under the soft glow of her bedside lamp, and a frown creased her brow She hadn’t taken one… had she? Confusion danced in her mind alongside the sweet scent of the candy, and she wondered if perhaps she had absentmindedly snatched a piece, enchanted by the colorful display, or if it had somehow slipped into her pocket when she wasn’t looking, a small mystery waiting to be unraveled. 

She unwrapped it carefully, feeling the textured paper crinkle beneath her fingers. The spiral symbol pulsed faintly, glowing with a mysterious energy that seemed to beckon her closer. Against her better judgment, she took a bite, the flavor exploding in her mouth with an unexpected sweetness that both intrigued and frightened her. As she chewed, a strange warmth spread through her body, intensifying her senses and urging her to delve deeper into whatever secrets this enigmatic object held. 

The following morning, Gail remained silent, her thoughts swirling in a tempest of emotions and unspoken words. Her eyes appeared more intense, reflecting a depth of contemplation that seemed almost otherworldly, and her smile broadened unnervingly, as if concealing secrets that danced just beneath the surface. Each glance she cast carried a weight that hung heavy in the air.

Gary swore the wallpaper in their house had started to breathe with strange voices and eerie sounds coming from the cracks in the floor. Will they pay for that piece of candy Gail ate the night before?

The Stairway in a Dream

AUDIO PODCAST 5 minutes

Tom was exhausted, his days tangled in the grind of hospital shifts and the quiet ache of loneliness since his grandmother passed. Each shift felt like an eternity, filled with the rhythmic sounds of medical machinery and the soft murmur of conversations that seldom reached his heart. One night, after collapsing into bed, he slipped into a dream unlike any he’d had before. In this vivid realm, colors danced around him, and comforting voices echoed, bringing with them the warmth he had longed for amidst the cold sterility of his waking life. As he wandered through this enchanting landscape, he felt a glimmer of hope, as though the essence of his grandmother was guiding her toward healing and connection.

He stood in a field, golden grass swaying under a sky that shimmered like stained glass, hues of blue and violet dancing together in a serene harmony. Ahead, a stairway spiraled upward, its steps carved from light, pulsing softly like the heartbeat of the world around him. Tom felt no fear—only a pull, like a melody calling him forward, a tune that resonated deeply within his soul, filling him with an inexplicable warmth. Each step he took felt deliberate, as if the very air whispered secrets of the universe, guiding his ascent into the unknown. He began to climb, his heart racing with anticipation, eager to uncover what awaited him at the top of this ethereal staircase.

Each step hummed with warmth, and as he ascended, memories flickered around him like fireflies in the dusk: his grandmother’s laughter as they baked bread, the sweet aroma of yeast rising in the air, his own childhood voice singing off-key to the tunes of faded melodies, moments of kindness he’d forgotten, like small treasures hidden in the corners of his heart. The higher he climbed, the lighter he felt, as if the weight of his regrets—snapped words, missed chances, and the lingering guilt of unanswered apologies—dissolved into the glowing air, replaced by an overwhelming sense of acceptance and serenity. With each ascent, he embraced the warmth of those cherished recollections, allowing them to envelop him, illuminating the path ahead with a radiant glow that filled him with hope and renewed purpose.

At the top, the stairs opened to a vast garden, blooming with colors he couldn’t name, each flower adding its unique hue to the tapestry of nature. Figures moved among the flowers, their faces familiar yet radiant—his grandmother, younger than Tom remembered, her eyes bright and sparkling like stars in the evening sky. The air was thick with the sweet fragrance of blossoms, and the gentle hum of bees flitting from petal to petal created a serene melody. “You’re not staying yet,” his grandmother said, her voice a warm embrace that wrapped around Tom like a soft blanket on a chilly day. “But see how loved you are, surrounded by the beauty of your memories, waiting for you to return and cherish them once more.”

Others appeared—patients Tom had comforted, friends he’d lost touch with, even strangers he’d smiled at in passing. They didn’t speak, but their presence wove a quiet truth: every small act of him had rippled through the tapestry of life, touching lives he’d never traced or even considered. Each smile exchanged on a crowded street, every word of encouragement spoken in the hushed tones of a hospital room, had forged unseen connections that now filled the air around his. In this moment, Tom realized the profound impact of kindness, the way it spread like a warm breeze, gently nudging hearts toward hope and understanding. Tom’s chest ached with joy, not pain, as she embraced this realization, feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the unseen threads that intertwined his with those who had crossed his path.

His grandmother took his hand, leading him to a pool of light that shimmered like a thousand stars brought to life. In its reflection, Tom saw himself—not the tired nurse who often felt overwhelmed by the weight of his responsibilities, but a woman woven from courage and care, radiating strength and grace. The warmth of the light washed over him, illuminating the dreams he had long forgotten and the aspirations that still flickered within his heart. “You’re still needed below,” his grandmother whispered gently, his voice echoing with the wisdom of ages. “But you’ll carry this now, this newfound sense of purpose and love, as you return. Let it guide you whenever the path seems dark, for you are never alone in your journey.”

Tom woke with tears on his cheeks, the hospital’s sterile hum distant, a haunting reminder of his fragile reality. The dream’s glow lingered in his bones, a certainty that heaven wasn’t just a place but a truth: his life mattered, and he wasn’t alone in this vast universe full of connection and love. The comforting warmth of that revelation wrapped around him like a soft blanket, easing the tightness in his chest. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of antiseptic air, and rose from the sheets, lighter than before, ready to face the day with renewed hope and determination, knowing that each moment was a gift waiting to be embraced.

No Charge for Three Days

LINK

For three days, October 29, 30, and the 31st, you can acquire the Kindel edition NO CHARGE. Or $5.75 paperback edition. Spooky scary stories are ideal for Halloween.

LINK FOR SAMPLE

Midnight Spooky Tale

It’s 11:57 PM on April 4, 2025, and the air feels thick with something unspoken. Shadows stretch long and jagged across the floor, like fingers clawing at the edges of reality. The clock ticks louder than it should, each second a hammer against the silence. Outside, the wind howls low, a mournful sound that rattles the windows—like something’s trying to get in.

You’re alone, or at least you think you are. The room’s dim, lit only by the sickly glow of your screen, and every creak of the house feels like a whisper you can’t quite catch. Did you lock the door? You’re pretty sure you did, but the thought gnaws at you. There’s a chill creeping up your spine, slow and deliberate, like icy fingertips tracing their way to your neck.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks—sharp, frantic—then stops abruptly. Too abruptly. The silence that follows is heavier than before, pressing down on your chest. You glance at the clock: 11:58. Time’s slipping away, but it feels wrong, like it’s stalling just to mess with you.

There’s a story they tell around here, about nights like this. They say the veil thins out close to midnight, when the world holds its breath. Things slip through—things that don’t belong. You’ve heard the tales: footsteps where no one’s walking, shadows that don’t match their owners, voices calling your name from rooms you swore were empty. Old folks swear they’ve seen it, eyes wide and hands trembling as they recount it over flickering candles.

11:59. The screen flickers, just for a second, and you blink. Did you see something in the reflection? A shape behind you, too vague to be sure, too real to ignore? You turn, heart thudding, but there’s nothing. Just the room, still and dark. The wind picks up again, and this time it carries something—a low, guttural hum that doesn’t sound like wind at all.

Midnight hits. The clock chimes, but it’s off, warped, like it’s underwater. The lights dim, then surge, casting the room in a strobe of light and shadow. And then you hear it: a soft tap-tap-tap, slow and deliberate, coming from the window. You don’t want to look. Every nerve screams not to. But your eyes betray you, sliding toward the glass.

There’s nothing there. Just darkness. Except… is that a smudge on the pane? A handprint, faint and streaked, like someone—or something—pressed against it from the outside. It wasn’t there before. You’re sure of it.

The tapping stops. The silence is worse. And then, from somewhere deep in the house, a floorboard groans. Not near you. Not upstairs. Somewhere else. Somewhere it shouldn’t.

Happy almost-midnight. Sleep tight—if you can.

Tale of Two Strangers

Audio Podcast 4 minutes

In a dusty Eastern Colorado town, 70-year-old retiree Lulu runs a struggling diner, her days filled with greasy plates and lonelier nights since her husband passed, leaving an emptiness that seems to seep into the very walls around her. Each morning, she wakes before dawn, the familiar hum of the coffee maker breaking the silence of an empty house, a sound that has become a comfort and a ritual, grounding her in a world that feels increasingly alien. After brewing a pot of strong coffee, she heads to the diner where the walls echo with memories of happier times, laughter, and bustling customers, now replaced with the grim reality of only a few loyal patrons who come to escape their lives as much as she does. Across the street, 19-year-old Juan, a graffiti artist with a rap sheet, tags abandoned walls, dodging cops and his own dead-end future, caught in a cycle of choices that often lead him deeper into trouble. He is always searching for a way to express the turmoil within him, the feelings of alienation and frustration that swirl in his soul, causing him to lash out through his art. His nights are spent weaving through the shadows, paint cans in hand, as he transforms the dull grey of the urban landscape with bursts of color and emotion, each stroke telling a story of his struggles and dreams. Their paths cross one fateful afternoon when Lulu unexpectedly catches Diego spray-painting her diner’s back alley, his hands moving deftly as he creates a vibrant mural, brimming with life and energy. Instead of calling the police, she offers him a burger, seeing hunger in his eyes beyond the defiance, recognizing a desperation that mirrors her own loneliness. In that brief encounter, she offers him a fleeting moment of connection amid their contrasting lives, a shared understanding that transcends the barriers of age and experience, revealing the fragile threads that connect them in a world that often feels isolating.

/Juan, wary but broke, accepts the unexpected invitation, and they talk—first about nothing, then about everything that matters. Lulu shares vivid stories of her diner’s glory days, reminiscing about the bustling atmosphere and the laughter that filled the air; Juan, drawn in by her enthusiasm, admits he paints to feel alive, a passion that he’s always kept hidden. She sees his undeniable talent; he sees her fierce grit, a contrast that intrigues him. Soon, Juan’s sneaking in after hours to paint a magnificent mural on the diner’s wall—a vibrant prairie scene alive with color that attracts curious crowds from all over town. Lulu teaches him to cook, showing him the delicate art of flipping pancakes and seasoning dishes just right, and in return, he teaches her to laugh again, their banter becoming light and effortless, infused with warmth. Locals whisper about the odd pair, a painter and a diner owner, but the diner’s buzzing with newfound life, and so are they, their connection deepening with each shared moment and stolen glance, weaving a tapestry of hope and healing amidst the backdrop of grease and paint.

When developers threaten to buy Lulu’s land, Juan inspires the town with his art, transforming the diner into a vibrant cause that brings everyone together. They unite enthusiastically, not just for the diner but for the cherished home they’ve built together, a sanctuary filled with laughter, stories, and unforgettable moments. As the townsfolk come together, they create stunning banners and murals, all bursting with color and passion, beautifully reflecting their shared history and joyful memories. In the end, it’s not merely about winning—it’s about the beautiful family they’ve formed in each other, two misfits who turned a rundown joint into a masterpiece, a beacon of resilience and hope, proving that love and community can triumph over corporate greed.

House On a Hill

Audio Podcast 4 minutes

The old house on the hill had stood empty for decades, its windows dark and its walls weathered by time. Clara had passed it every day on her way to town, always wondering about the stories it held. One crisp autumn evening, as the sun dipped low, she noticed something different—a faint flicker of light in the upstairs window. Curiosity tugged at her, and against her better judgment, she decided to investigate.

The front door creaked open with surprising ease, as if it had been waiting for her. Inside, the air was thick with dust, and the faint scent of lavender lingered. Clara’s footsteps echoed on the warped wooden floor as she climbed the stairs, drawn to the room where she’d seen the light. The door at the top was ajar, and a soft glow spilled out.

In the room sat a woman, her back to Clara, hunched over a small table. She wore a faded dress, its hem frayed, and her silver hair cascaded down her back. A single candle burned before her, casting long shadows across the walls. Clara hesitated, then cleared her throat.

The woman didn’t turn. “I’ve been expecting you,” she said, her voice low and steady.

Clara froze. “Expecting me? I don’t even know you.”

“You don’t need to,” the woman replied. “You’re here for the truth, aren’t you?”

Clara’s heart thudded. She hadn’t told anyone she was coming, hadn’t even known herself until moments ago. “What truth?” she asked, stepping closer.

The woman gestured to a chair across the table. “Sit. I’ll show you.”

On the table lay a small wooden box, intricately carved with swirling patterns. The woman slid it toward Clara. “Open it,” she said.

Hands trembling, Clara lifted the lid. Inside was a photograph, yellowed with age. It showed a young girl, no more than five, with wide eyes and a shy smile, standing in front of this very house. A man and woman stood beside her; their faces blurred by time. Clara frowned. “Who is this?”

The woman finally turned; Her face illuminated by the candlelight. Her eyes were sharp, piercing, and oddly familiar. “Look closer,” she said.

Clara studied the photo again, then gasped. The girl’s dress—the same faded fabric, the same frayed hem—matched the one the woman wore now. “That’s… you?” she stammered.

The woman nodded. “I’ve waited a long time for you to come back.”

“Come back?” Clara’s mind raced. “I’ve never been here before.”

The woman smiled faintly, a sad curve to her lips. “You have. You just don’t remember.”

Clara’s gaze darted between the photo and the woman, confusion mounting. Then the woman reached across the table, her cold fingers brushing Clara’s hand. A jolt surged through her, and suddenly, memories flooded in—running through these halls as a child, laughter echoing, the smell of lavender in her mother’s arms. She stumbled back, clutching her head. “What’s happening?”

“You were taken from this house,” the woman said softly. “Taken from me. I’ve been here ever since, waiting.”

Clara’s breath hitched. The blurred faces in the photo sharpened in her mind’s eye—her parents, younger, happier. And then she understood. The woman wasn’t just a stranger. She was her grandmother, preserved by some strange force in this house, tethered to it all these years.

But the truth hit her as she looked down at her own hands—hands that now shimmered faintly, translucent in the candlelight. She hadn’t just come to uncover a secret. She’d come because she, too, had died long ago, and this house was calling her home.

The key detail—that Clara is a ghost—remains hidden until the final sentence, recontextualizing the entire story. Did it catch you off guard?

DREAM OR REAL

AUDIO PODCAST 8 minutes

Lila woke to the sound of rustling leaves, her breath fogging in the crisp morning air. She blinked, and the world shimmered—golden oaks and crimson maples stretched endlessly before her, their branches swaying in a breeze that smelled of earth and cider. She was in the forest again, the one she’d walked through last night. Or was it last week? Her fingers brushed the rough bark of a tree, solid and real, and she smiled, feeling the familiar connection to nature that always brought her peace. Sunlight filtered through the vibrant canopy, dappling the ground with patches of warmth that felt inviting against the coolness of the morning. A small bird chirped cheerfully in the distance, and she paused to listen, allowing the harmonious sounds of the forest to envelop her like a cozy blanket. Fall had arrived, her favorite season, painting the world in hues that felt like home, where every rustling leaf and fluttering wing told a story of transformation and comfort as if inviting her to discover the secrets hidden within this enchanting landscape. 

She wandered deeper, the crunch of leaves underfoot a steady rhythm that accompanied her thoughts like a familiar song. A deer darted past, its antlers catching the low sunlight, and she laughed—hadn’t she fed it apples yesterday? Or had that been a dream? The thought slipped away as she reached a clearing where a wooden bench sat, weathered but familiar, a silent witness to the passage of time and countless fleeting moments. She settled onto it, pulling her sweater tight against the chill that seemed to seep through the air, and watched the sky shift from amber to violet, painting a masterpiece that only nature could create. A gentle breeze rustled the branches above, carrying with it the scent of pine and damp earth, while distant birds sang their evening songs. Time didn’t matter here; it was just her and the season, entwined in a tranquil embrace that felt both timeless and fleeting. 

“Lila,” a voice called, soft but insistent. She turned, but no one was there—only the wind, whispering through the branches, carrying with it a symphony of rustling leaves that seemed to echo her confusion. She frowned. That voice… it had been in her room this morning, hadn’t it? The memory lingered in her mind like a haunting melody, before the leaves. Before the forest. Her head ached, and the scene flickered before her eyes, blurring reality with a dreamlike haze. Suddenly, the trees were bare, then budding—pink blossoms unfurling like delicate fans, the air warming with the sweet scent of rain and new grass. Spring now, not fall. The world transformed, vibrant colors awakening all around her. She stood, confused, as petals drifted around her like snowflakes caught in a gentle breeze, each one a reminder of the fleeting passage of time. The bench was gone, replaced by a patch of wildflowers that danced joyfully in the wind. Hadn’t she planted those? Doubt crept in as she examined the landscape, the familiar now tinged with surreal beauty, blurring the lines between her memories and the enchanting present. 

She knelt, touching the soft petals, and memories—or dreams—rushed in like a tide pulling her under. She’d danced here under a pastel sky, her hands stained with soil as she twirled freely, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face and the whisper of leaves in the gentle breeze. Or had she watched it from her window, longing to join the magic outside? The forest blurred, and suddenly, she was in her bedroom, staring at a cracked ceiling that seemed to close in on her as the moments faded. A woman leaned over her, her face lined with worry, shadows playing across her features as if reflecting the depth of her concern. “Lila, you’re awake. You were talking about leaves again,” the woman said softly, her voice the one from the wind, but sharper now, tethering her spirit to the present. It was a voice that carried the weight of love and grounding, pulling Lila back to reality, bringing forth a sense of safety amidst the swirling chaos of her thoughts. 

Lila blinked, trying to shake off the lingering fog in her mind. The room smelled stale, not like rain or earth, but rather like an unforgiving emptiness that gnawed at her senses. A tray of pills sat on the nightstand, each one a bright reminder of her reality, and a calendar read March 21, 2025. Spring, she thought wistfully, but where were the blossoms? The vibrant colors and lively scents that usually filled the air seemed painfully absent. She looked down at her hands—clean, glaringly so, devoid of any trace of soil or the sticky sweetness of apple juice from feeding the deer with her own hands. “I was there,” she murmured softly to herself, feeling a deep yearning wash over her. “The forest. It’s fall there now. Or spring. I can’t…” Her voice trailed off, swallowed by the silence of the room, and the woman sighed, feeling a profound disconnect between the vivid memories of her time in the forest and the dull, clinical environment surrounding her now. The weight of absence settled heavily upon her chest, making it hard to breathe as she longed for the embrace of nature’s cycle, for the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves—simple pleasures that now felt like distant echoes. 

“You’ve been here all night,” the woman said gently, her voice soothing like a soft breeze. “Dreaming again, just as you often do. The doctor says it’s getting harder for you to come back, as if each journey to that other realm pulls you further away from us. I can see the worry etched on your face even in your slumber, the way your brow furrows and your lip’s part slightly, as though you’re lost in something profoundly beautiful yet terrifying. I wish I could follow you into those dreams, to understand what captivates you so deeply and to bring you back safely when the time comes.” 

Lila shook her head, her mind racing with disbelief. “No, I walked there. I felt it.” She closed her eyes tightly, and the room around her dissolved into a haze of color and light. Suddenly, she found herself back in the forest, where leaves were falling in slow spirals, the golden hues painting a serene picture of autumn. With each leaf that touched the ground, she felt seasons transform like a carousel spinning endlessly in the sky. The gentle rustle of branches accompanied the soothing sounds of nature, as the deer returned, their soft noses nudging her hand. Lila laughed, the sound bursting forth like music, and tears streaked her face, a blend of joy and nostalgia overwhelming her senses. “This is real,” she whispered breathlessly into the crisp air, though the woman’s voice echoed faintly in the background, calling her name with urgency, as if trying to tether her to the present even as she reveled in the beauty of the moment. 

Days passed—or didn’t. Lila roamed her forest, seasons blending into a tapestry she couldn’t untangle. Fall’s golden decay gave way to spring’s tender green, then back again, a loop of beauty she couldn’t escape. Each step brought the rustle of leaves beneath her feet and the whispers of the wind, wrapping around her like a familiar embrace. Sometimes she heard the woman, saw the room, felt the pills pressed to her lips, the cold, clinical atmosphere of the space stifling her spirit. But the forest always reclaimed her, pulling her back into its embrace, its colors brighter than the gray walls surrounding her, its air sweeter than the sterile tang of reality, infusing her with a sense of freedom she thought she had lost forever. The vibrant hues of wildflowers danced along the path, and the melody of birdsong filled her ears, a reminder that life thrived beyond the confines of her mind. 

One evening—or morning—she sat on the bench again, watching the sky burn orange, then soften to pink, painting a canvas of warmth that enveloped her. The voice called, fainter now, and she didn’t turn, for she was lost in the beauty surrounding her. “I’ll stay,” she said to the deer, to the trees, to the seasons that held her gently in their embrace. “This is where I belong.” The forest hummed in agreement, a symphony of rustling leaves and distant bird calls, and Lila let go, sinking into a world where dreams and reality were one, forever spring, forever fall, where the colors danced vibrantly in the air, wrapping her in a tapestry woven from the very essence of nature. She felt the soft touch of the breeze as it whispered secrets of the earth, and in that moment, she knew she was a part of something greater, something eternal. 

More creepy, scary tales link

A Personal Account: Reflecting on JFK’s Assassination

The most memorable event I experienced was the assassination of President John F. Kennedy on Friday, November 22, 1963. I was going to college, and the class was over; I entered my car and started the engine, only to hear the tragedy unfolding on the radio. As the news broke, I was dumbfounded, my heart racing and my mind struggling to grasp the reality of what I was hearing. I just sat there for a long period of time, trying to sort through my emotions and comprehend the ramifications of this event—not just for the nation, but for the world, as well. The voice of the radio announcer reverberated in my ears, reporting the disaster with a mixture of shock and urgency. I remember thinking about the warmth of his smile, his calls for peace, and the ideals he represented, and I couldn’t fathom how someone could take the life of a leader who was striving for a better future. As the minutes ticked by, a sense of profound loss settled in, and I found myself consumed by thoughts of mourning—both for a visionary leader and for the uncertain path that lay ahead for America in the wake of such violence.

Daily writing prompt
What major historical events do you remember?
View all responses

Spooky tales and stories, ideal for Halloween link

Overcoming Life’s Pebbles

Life can often feel like climbing a massive mountain. We gear up for the tough moments—the steep climbs, the rough trails, the looming storms. We teach ourselves to stay strong, keep courage, and focus on reaching the peak. That mountain could be a dream we’re pursuing, a career we’re shaping, or a change we’re striving for. These big goals give our lives purpose and excitement. They’re challenging, motivating, and absolutely worth the effort. 

But here’s the twist: it’s not always the mountain that wears us out. As the wise saying goes, “It isn’t the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out; it’s the pebble in your shoe.” 

Think about that. It’s the small, persistent irritations that sneak in unnoticed—the tiny doubts that whisper we’re not good enough, the lingering resentment from a conversation long past, the habit we keep meaning to break but never quite do. These pebbles, though seemingly insignificant, have a way of stealing our energy and dimming our spirit. They make each step feel heavier; each breathe a little more strained. 

But here’s the beauty in this truth: those pebbles are within our power to remove. 

Unlike the mountain, which may take years to climb, the pebble can be shaken out in a moment of awareness. It starts with noticing. With pausing long enough to ask, “What’s weighing me down today?” Maybe it’s a grudge you’ve been carrying, or a fear that’s quietly grown roots. Maybe it’s the voice in your head that criticizes more than it encourages. These are the things that trip us up—not because they’re insurmountable, but because we let them linger. 

The good news? You don’t have to carry them. 

You can pause. You can sit down, take off your shoe, and shake out the pebble. Start small. Forgive a slight. Let go of a worry. Replace one negative thought with a moment of gratitude. Each tiny action lightens your load, making the climb feel less daunting. It’s not about reaching the summit in one leap—it’s about making the journey more bearable, more joyful, one step at a time. 

And here’s the magic: when your steps are free, your spirit lifts. You begin to notice the beauty around you—the sunrise casting golden light on the path, the encouragement of fellow climbers, the strength you didn’t know you had. The mountain is still there, but now it feels possible. Every small adjustment, every act of self-kindness, brings you closer to the top. 

So, lace up your shoes. Check for pebbles. Embrace the journey. You’re stronger than you know, and the view from the top is worth every step. 

Keep climbing—you’ve got this.

A Journey of Pride and Love

I am most proud of my two biological sons, who continuously bring joy and inspiration into my life. Their unique personalities and talents shine brightly, making every moment we share together special. As I watched them grow and develop, I am reminded of the unconditional love and support that we offer each other, nurturing their dreams and encouraging their aspirations. Each milestone they achieve fills my heart with pride, reaffirming the importance of family bonds and the beautiful journey of parenthood.

They are just normal men in the area of fifty, each leading lives filled with stories and experiences that have shaped them into the individuals they are today. One is a ten-year veteran, whose commitment and dedication to his career have not only earned him respect but also allowed him to mentor younger generations in their own journeys. They both have contributed to this world by leading a life that any father can be proud of, exemplifying values such as hard work, integrity, and compassion, while also balancing their personal and professional responsibilities with grace. Their actions, often quiet and unassuming, serve as a reminder of the impact that resilience and determination can have on families and communities alike.

Spooky tales and stories, ideal for Halloween link

Daily writing prompt
What are you most proud of in your life?
View all responses

Tales of TomT 2.0 Book Five

Video file about this book

Just in time for Halloween. Ideal for the commuter or the casual reader.

Link to Amazon for purchasing

This is the fifth book in the Series of Tales of TomT 2.0 Link

This has been an exciting endeavor.

Discovering an Abandoned Cabin

Audio Podcast ten minutes

The mountains were alive with autumn’s breath, leaves crunching under the boots of four hikers—Lila, Marcus, Tess, and Ethan—as they ventured deeper into the mountains. Vibrant hues of orange, red, and gold painted the landscape, while the crisp air filled their lungs with the scent of pine and earth. The trail they’d followed for hours had been clear and well-trodden, but Marcus, ever the explorer, spotted a faint path veering into a dense thicket. No markers, no signs, just a narrow ribbon of dirt weaving through towering pines, the shadows dancing as the sun began to dip behind the peaks. “Let’s see where it goes,” he said, eyes glinting with curiosity. The others hesitated, exchanging glances filled with uncertainty, but they were ultimately drawn by the promise of something undiscovered, an adventure that could unveil secrets of the wilderness. The thrill of the unknown beckoned them, and with a collective shrug, they stepped off the familiar trail, ready to embrace whatever lay ahead, their hearts filled with excitement and a hint of trepidation. 

The path twisted for nearly an hour, the air growing colder, the light dimmer, forcing Tess to pull her jacket tighter around her. Just as she began to grumble about turning back, they stumbled into a clearing that felt almost like a breath of fresh air yet still eerie in its silence. There, half-swallowed by moss and shadow, stood an abandoned cabin, its structure a testament to years of neglect. Its weathered logs sagged beneath the weight of time, with windows dark and cracked, as if guarding secrets long forgotten. Vines crawled up the walls, weaving a tapestry of nature reclaiming what it had lost, yet despite the decay, the place felt… expectant. Lila shivered, not from the chill that permeated the air, but from an unsettling sense of being watched. “This place gives me the creeps,” she muttered, glancing over her shoulder, but Ethan was already at the door, pushing it open with a creak that echoed like a warning through the stillness. As the door swung inward, a rush of stale air escaped, carrying with it the faint scent of damp wood and something else, something foul that made Lila’s stomach churn. 

Inside, the air was stale, thick with dust that hung like a heavy blanket, clinging to everything in sight. A rickety table, uneven in its stance, a rusted stove that looked like it hadn’t been used in years, and a single chair sat in the gloom, casting long shadows against the cracked walls. On the table lay a leather-bound journal, its pages yellowed but intact, whispering secrets of the past. Marcus grabbed it, flipping it open with a sense of reverence, while the others peered over his shoulder, their eyes wide with curiosity and anticipation. The handwriting was spidery, precise, and meticulously crafted, dated October 15, 2024—exactly one year ago. “Weird,” Tess murmured, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Who’d leave this here? It feels like it belongs to someone who disappeared without a trace, leaving behind not just their thoughts but a part of their life in this forgotten place.” 

Marcus read aloud: “Four hikers arrive at dusk, their boots heavy with mud. The tall one, bold, finds the path first, his long strides cutting through the thickening shadows. The wary one, with sharp eyes, hesitates at the cabin’s door, the chill of the evening air brushing against their faces as they exchange anxious glances. A rustle in the underbrush makes their hearts race, igniting a primal instinct to keep watch. Memories flood back as they recall the stories of other travelers who had ventured into these woods, some never returning. His voice faltered, struggling to steady itself against the mounting tension. The description was too specific—Marcus’s height, Lila’s cautious glance, the mud caked on their boots from a stream they’d crossed, each detail a vivid reminder of their shared journey. The journal went on, detailing their exact words, their movements, the way Ethan’s impulsive push at the door seemed more a challenge than a welcome, even the sounds of their laughter that felt like a ghostly echo of the past. But it was written before they’d arrived, revealing truths they had yet to confront.” 

This is impossible,” Ethan said, snatching the journal with a sense of urgency and disbelief. He flipped forward, his face paling as the weight of the entries settled over him like a dark cloud. The words seemed to come alive, predicting their every action with eerie accuracy: “The bold one reads first, the wary one checks the windows, the quiet one finds the trapdoor…” Tess, who’d been silent in the background, was already at a window, peering out as if the very air around them had conjured the instructions from the page. She froze, suddenly aware of how closely she’d just fulfilled the journal’s words, the chill of realization seeping into her bones as her mind raced, piecing together the significance of their movements. Confusion and dread twisted in her stomach as she glanced back at Ethan, who stared at her with wide eyes, both of them understanding that the journal not only knew their past but seemed to weave their fate as well. 

There’s no trapdoor,” Lila said, her voice tight, but her eyes darted to the floor, as if searching for an escape from the unsettling atmosphere that surrounded them. Ethan, unnerved by her sudden defensiveness, started stomping around the dimly lit room, desperately searching for any sign of a secret. After what felt like an eternity, his foot struck something solid beneath a threadbare rug, and he knelt down in disbelief. There it was—a wooden hatch, barely visible, where dust and age had concealed its presence. The journal had known all along, its cryptic messages hinting at mysteries yet to unfold. With a rush of adrenaline, he yanked the hatch open, revealing a steep, rickety ladder descending into an impenetrable darkness that seemed to swallow all light. The air grew heavier, filled with uncertainty, as the group exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of terror and an almost magnetic compulsion to follow the script, drawn by the possibilities that lay hidden below, compelling them to confront the unknown. 

Lila clutched the journal now, reading as they descended into the depths of the unknown. “They climb down, hearts pounding, into the chamber below. The air is still and heavy; the walls carved with cryptic symbols they cannot read or decipher…” The ladder led to a stone-walled room, damp and cold, its walls etched with spiraling runes that seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light. Shadows danced across the surface, casting eerie illusions that both enthralled and terrified them. A pedestal stood at the center, holding a single object—a small, black stone, smooth as glass, reflecting the faint glow of the runes around it. The stone drew them closer, an inexplicable force urging them to reach out and touch its surface, as if it held secrets of ancient power or forgotten knowledge waiting to be uncovered. 

The journal’s next entry made Lila’s hands shake: “The quiet one touches the stone, and the truth is revealed.” Tess, who’d barely spoken all day, stared at the stone, her hand trembling as it reached out, the air thick with anticipation. “Don’t,” Marcus snapped, his voice laced with a mix of fear and urgency, but Tess’s fingers brushed it, fueled by an irresistible curiosity. As she made contact, a low hum filled the room, vibrating through their very bones, and images flooded their minds—flashes of the forest, the hidden paths they had never noticed before, the cabin where secrets lingered, themselves walking the trail, as if seen through another’s eyes, each moment feeling eerily familiar yet profoundly alien. The journal’s author wasn’t human. It was… something else, watching, recording, guiding, threading their destinies together in ways they couldn’t yet comprehend, hinting at a deeper connection to a past long forgotten, whispering truths that could change everything they knew. 

“They understand now,” the journal read, “that the trail chose them, that time loops here, and that they were always meant to find this place, a nexus of fate hidden away from the prying eyes of the universe.” Ethan cursed under his breath, feeling the weight of destiny as he backed toward the ladder, heart racing with dread and uncertainty. The runes glowed brighter, each pulse resonating like a heartbeat, while the air grew thick around them, pressing them in place, making it hard to breathe, as if the very fabric of reality were tightening. Shadows danced at the edges of his vision, and he could almost hear whispers of the past echoing through the chamber, warning him of the consequences of his next move. The final entry was blank, except for one ominous line: “They decide.” The gravity of that simple phrase settled heavily on his shoulders, leaving him paralyzed by the weight of choice and the potential ramifications that could ripple through time itself. 

Lila dropped the journal, her mind racing with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Were they trapped in a never-ending cycle, doomed to repeat this very moment for all eternity? Or could they find a way to break free from this dark fate that loomed over them? With a sudden surge of determination, Marcus grabbed the ancient stone, its rough surface cool against his palm, and hurled it against the wall with all his strength, watching as it shattered into tiny fragments of dust that spiraled through the air like a storm. The intricate runes that had been glowing brightly dimmed, the resonant hum that filled the space faded into an eerie silence, and for the first time, the air felt lighter, as if a great weight had been lifted. They scrambled up the ladder, hearts pounding wildly in their chests, filled with both fear and hope, and fled the cabin, the unsettling past behind them as they dared not look back, propelled by the urgency of their escape and the prospect of a new beginning. 

The trail was gone when they reached the clearing’s edge, swallowed by the dense undergrowth that had once whispered of adventures untold. The forest seemed ordinary again, devoid of the magic it once held, yet the journal’s weight lingered in their minds like a distant echo of an unforgettable encounter. Had they truly escaped, or was this haunting experience merely a part of the script that bound their fate? They never spoke of it again, but each wondered, in quiet moments, if the trail was still out there, lurking in the shadows, waiting patiently for the next wanderer to stumble upon its secrets. The lingering sense of mystery wrapped around their thoughts, fueling their imaginations with what-ifs and maybes, making the ordinary feel extraordinary in the flickering light of fading memories. 

From Book Four of Tales of Tom2 2.0 link to Amazon

October 11 and Christopher Columbus

October 11 sometimes coincides with Columbus Day, a U.S. federal holiday marking Christopher Columbus’s arrival in the Americas in 1492. Although his landing is traditionally dated October 12, the holiday is observed on the second Monday of October, which occasionally falls on the 11th or days around it, like this year is the 13th.

Columbus Day started as a way to celebrate exploration and discovery, but its significance has changed over time. In the 19th century, Italian American communities introduced the holiday to honor their heritage and combat xenophobia, leading to its federal recognition in 1937. Columbus, an Italian navigator under the Spanish flag, arrived in the Bahamas, marking the start of European colonization in the Americas.

October 11 also encourages reflection, as many in recent years have questioned Columbus’s legacy and highlighted the effects of colonization on Indigenous peoples. This has brought about the emergence of Indigenous Peoples’ Day, celebrated in various states and cities as an alternative or addition to Columbus Day.

The Day Columbus discovered America, it marked not only the beginning of the history of America over 500 years ago, but also a pivotal moment that would forever change the course of global exploration and settlement. This discovery initiated a complex tapestry of cultural exchanges, conflicts, and alliances, laying the groundwork for what would eventually become a diverse nation. Since that monumental beginning, this country has come a long way, evolving through trials and tribulations, from the establishment of colonies and the struggle for independence to the growth of a powerful democracy that champions freedom and innovation.

Faith Between Worlds

Audio Podcast 1 1/2 minutes

Life is a fleeting spark—bright, unpredictable, and achingly beautiful. We chase meaning in its moments: a child’s laugh, a quiet sunrise, the ache of goodbye. But personal faith isn’t just about surviving this life—it’s about sensing that something waits beyond it.

Not religion, necessarily. Not pearly gates or reincarnated destinies. But a whisper that says: this isn’t the end.

Personal faith is the feeling that our stories don’t vanish when the body does. That love leaves echoes. That the soul, whatever it is, doesn’t just dissolve. Maybe it drifts. Maybe it returns. Maybe it becomes part of the wind that moves the trees.

We don’t need certainty to believe. Faith is what fills the space between knowing and wondering. It’s what lets us live fully here, while trusting there’s more—somewhere, somehow.

It’s in the way we speak to those who’ve passed, as if they still hear. It’s in the way we dream of them, not as memories, but as visitors. It’s in the way we feel watched over, even when alone.

Personal faith says: I am part of something larger. My life matters, and so does what comes after. It’s not about answers—it’s about openness.

And maybe, when this spark fades, we’ll find ourselves not ending, but beginning again—in a form we can’t yet imagine, but somehow already believe in.

The Quiet Power of Friendship

Audio Podcast 1 1/2 minutes

Friendship isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s a quiet presence—a text that says, “thinking of you,” a shared laugh over something silly, or just sitting together in comfortable silence.

True friends are the ones who see you at your worst and still choose to stay. They celebrate your wins like they’re their own and remind you of your worth when you forget. They’re the people who make ordinary days feel special, just by being in them.

It’s easy to take friendship for granted in the rush of life. But when we pause and reflect, we realize how deeply these connections shape us. They teach us empathy, resilience, and joy. They remind us of we’re not alone.

So today, reach out to a friend. Send a message. Share a memory. Say thank you.

Because in a world that often feels chaotic, friendship is a steady light. It’s the laughter that echoes long after the joke. The hug that lingers. The comfort of knowing someone’s got your back.

And that’s something worth celebrating.

The biggest regret I have in my life is I did not continue friendship as my life continued. I lost track of school friends, army friends, work friends and family. Once an era of my life was over, I moved on without making any attempt to continue the friendships I earned. I wish I would have valued the friendships more than I did and made an attempt to keep in touch with them.

If you are young, do not make the same mistake I made.

My Journey to Quitting Smoking

The hardest thing I had to do was stopping smoking. I started smoking in the 7th grade because of peer pressure, as it seemed that most everyone around me lit up a cigarette. At the time, I thought it made me look cool and mature, but little did I know the toll it would take on my health. After many years of smoking, I realized that it would be best if I quit that nasty habit, not only for myself but for the people I loved who were worried about me. I must have quit 100 times before I finally became successful, each attempt filled with both hope and frustration. The cravings were relentless, my mind constantly battling against the urge for that quick hit of nicotine. This was the hardest thing that I ever did in my entire life, a true test of my determination and willpower. That nicotine addiction is very difficult to beat, and it often feels like it has a grip on your very being. However, looking back, I was finally successful at the age of 28. I can firmly say it was the best thing I did to prolong my life and regain control over my health and well-being. Each day without a cigarette feels like a small victory, a step towards a brighter, smoke-free future that I never thought I could achieve.

Daily writing prompt
What was the hardest personal goal you’ve set for yourself?
View all responses

I am not ready for winter

Audio Podcast 5 minutes

I woke this morning with the temperature in the forties. It is cloudy and gloomy outside and appears to be that way all day. Gloomy days always bring back vivid memories of when I was stationed in Nuremberg, Germany, while in the army. During that time of about nine months, most of the days were characterized by an overcast sky and the constant presence of clouds looming above me. The damp chill in the air would seep into my bones, making each day feel longer than the last. Being from Colorado, where the sun shines nearly 300 days out of the year, was a large adjustment for me to be in an area that experiences such a high number of gray and dreary days. I often found myself longing for the warmth of the sun on my skin and the brilliant blue skies that I had taken for granted. Each overcast morning reminded me of the stark contrast to my vibrant home state, and I’d catch myself reminiscing about enjoying the mountains or lounging outdoors soaking in the sun.

The leaves are on their full-time effort to cover the yards and streets with colorful bounty, creating a brilliant tapestry of reds, yellows, and oranges that captivate the senses, while they flutter gently down from their branches like nature’s confetti, eagerly emptying the trees before the first snow settles in. As they gather on the ground, they form soft, crunchable carpets that invite children to jump in and adults to take leisurely strolls, all the while signaling the transition from the warmth of autumn to the crisp chill of winter that lies just around the corner.

The first freeze normally occurs around the middle of October, and one must remember to turn off the water to the outside valves and drain the pipes and hoses to prevent any unwanted damage. With the changing seasons, it’s also a good time to check on other outdoor supplies and preparations. I recently checked my ice melt container, and to my dismay, during the summer it melded into one big rock, compacted and solidified by the heat. Now I must go buy some more ice melt or figure out how to get the rock out of the container and break it up into a usable size. This little predicament has got me pondering about the best approach; perhaps I could use a hammer or a chisel, but that sounds labor-intensive. I predict I will take the easy way and go buy some more, as it would save me time and effort, allowing me to focus on the other tasks that come with preparing for the winter months ahead.

One happy part is the homeowner association does the snow removal, and that saves me from all that cold and heavy work that often comes with winter. At our former home, which was situated on the corner of a busy intersection, we had a gigantic driveway that could have easily accommodated six or more cars. Every snowstorm turned into quite the labor-intensive affair, and it would take me two hours or more to tackle the daunting task of snow removal by hand. The heavy lifting and the chilly breeze blasting against my face truly made it an exhausting chore. Now, I find great relief in knowing that I no longer have to brave the elements, especially during those harsh winter months. Retiring does have advantages; I can now spend my time enjoying cozy evenings by the fireplace, sipping hot cocoa, and relishing the peacefulness of not having to shovel snow.

Many times, during my forty plus years of employment, I had to fight the snow, crazy drivers, and the stress of getting to work on time, navigating through treacherous weather conditions that tested my patience and endurance. Each winter brought its own set of challenges, from shoveling the driveway in the early dawn to encountering reckless drivers who seemed oblivious to the icy roads. I vividly remember the anxiety of being late and the constant rush to meet deadlines, which added an extra layer of tension to an already hectic morning routine. I remember one time during a storm my relief could not make it to work and since we had some equipment that could not be left unattended, I had to stay. That 8-hour shift turned into an 18-hour shift. Now that I’ve moved on, I do not miss this one bit, as I cherish the freedom to enjoy my mornings without the dread of battling the elements or the chaos of rush hour traffic.

The good thing to remember is that in only six months, spring will be here, bringing with it a sense of renewal and joy. As the days grow longer and temperatures begin to rise, we will be able to reminisce about how we not only survived another winter but also found ways to thrive through the cold and darkness. We will look back on cozy evenings spent by the fireplace, the laughter shared with friends and family, and the resilience we discovered within ourselves during those challenging months. Soon, the vibrant colors of blooming flowers and the sweet melodies of birds returning will serve as beautiful reminders of the promise that comes with the changing of the seasons, inviting us to embrace life once again.

Sharing Life Stories: From Blogging to Publishing

My favorite pastime time is here. I have been writing up a storm since 2023 after my near-death experience. I thought, “why was my life extended?” Maybe I am destined to do something in my life before the time is over. After serious thought I came up with the thought I should share my memories and thoughts with anybody who crosses my path. I am in my senior years and everything I have accomplished is in the past. Maybe something that happened to me can help someone in the future.

I have been sharing many comments here on my website. I have exceeded over 500 blogs.

I addition to blogging I have started a magazine series called “Ramblings Magazine” I am currently working on Issue #18. This is just another avenue to share my “thoughts about anything”. They can be found on Blurb.com https://www.blurb.com/books/12495461-ramblings-magazine-issue-16mm

I was having so much enjoyment sharing my stories and adventures I thought why don’t I try a few fiction stories and assemble a paperback and Kindle publications. I am now wrapping up finishing my fifth paperback of about 100 pages of short fiction tales. Each paperback contains around 10 or more short stories. They are ideal for commuting and private time to relax and not get involved in complex tales. They can be found on Amazon.com https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F5HRV2SC?binding=kindle_edition&ref=dbs_dp_rwt_sb_unkn_tkin Below is the cover of book 5 to be published soon. Just in time for Halloween.

Everyone needs a biography, and I have mine. It is 227 pages of my life from birth until I my years in the eighties. It can be found at https://www.blurb.com/b/12091269-ramblings-of-tom-treloar

Finally, the last three years have been interesting and exciting for me. It has given me a chance to reflect on my life packaged into an endeavor I truly enjoy.

Daily writing prompt
What is your favorite hobby or pastime?
View all responses

A Journey of Personal Growth

Here I was recently divorced and was starting to enter into the single world, a territory that felt both daunting and exciting. I met this nice lady at a divorce support group, a safe haven where individuals shared their experiences and learn to navigate their newfound freedom. She was recently divorced too, carrying her own stories of heartache and hope. We started dating, exploring the simple joys of life together going to dinner, enjoying movies, and participating in the various activities that single people often indulge in. Each date felt like a new adventure, filled with laughter and conversation that flowed effortlessly. As we continued to spend time together, we were starting to feel that this attraction might lead to something deeper, a connection that transcended our pasts and ignited a spark of possibility for the future.

Then she invited me to a family event. It was at some American Legion Hall, or a recreation center I can’t remember, filled with chatter and laughter echoing through the halls. Many family members were present. As we walked in, you could see all the heads turn and look at us, curiosity etched on their faces. “Who is that with her?” they whispered among themselves, their eyes following our every move. It takes a long time to meet all the family and friends, each person wanting to know our story, to catch up, and to figure out how I fit into their lives. I felt very awkward and uncomfortable, standing there under the spotlight of attention, grappling with the weight of the situation. We were both divorced, having faced our own challenges in the past, and we had every right to enjoy companionship; yet, despite that rationality, it was an uncomfortable evening filled with mixed emotions and lingering uncertainties.

It has been over forty years since that uncomfortable evening, a night filled with unsettling emotions and unexpected events that seemed to stretch endlessly. I am glad I endured that moment, as it has shaped my resilience and provided me with valuable life lessons that I carry to this day. Looking back, I realize how crucial it was to face that discomfort, for it ultimately led to personal growth and a deeper understanding of myself and my wife. Yes, she did become the love of my life. The challenges I faced then taught me the importance of perseverance and the beauty that can arise from overcoming adversity.

Daily writing prompt
Tell us about a time when you felt out of place.
View all responses

The Impact of Computers on Daily Life

My life without a computer would be slower and more hands-on. I would use paper, pens, typewriters, or calculators for writing, budgeting, or planning. Communication would rely on phones, letters, or face-to-face meetings. I would go to libraries or ask experts instead of using AI. Work would involve more manual tasks like filing cabinets instead of cloud storage. Entertainment would be books, board games, radio, or TV without streaming or video games.

Daily life would be more local. I would use paper maps instead of GPS. Shopping would happen in stores or through catalogs, not online. Banking would involve going to a branch or writing checks. Socializing would rely on in-person meetings or landline calls, not social media or video chats.

I really doubt that I would have written so much in my life if I had to write by hand or use a typewriter. The tediousness of those methods would have likely stifled my creativity and made the entire process feel burdensome. Life would be boring and uninviting, lacking the vibrant flow of ideas that a computer allows me to explore with ease. I am hooked on the computer and the modern conveniences of modern life, which provide not just the tools for writing but also endless resources for inspiration. With the ability to quickly edit, revise, and share my thoughts, I find myself constantly engaged and motivated to express myself. This technological advancement has transformed writing from a chore into a joyful exploration of my thoughts and ideas.

Daily writing prompt
Your life without a computer: what does it look like?
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Mastering the Art of Mind Reading

I would like to learn how to read minds. Just think about the incredible joy you would experience if you could understand a person’s thoughts while chatting with them! Imagine being able to grasp their true feelings and thoughts, revealing hidden desires and unspoken words that lie beneath the surface. It could elevate every conversation into an exciting adventure, fostering deeper connections and more meaningful interactions. You could happily anticipate their reactions, respond with greater kindness, and even resolve conflicts before they arise. The possibilities would be limitless as you navigate social situations with an extraordinary level of insight and empathy, creating a wonderful atmosphere of genuine understanding and trust.

On the flip side, you might stumble upon their actual thoughts about you, which might be less like a warm hug and more like a cold shower; in fact, their true opinions could throw some hilarious shade on their character and values, revealing how your well-intentioned antics and word choices land like a lead balloon. This eye-opener can unleash a cocktail of surprise, disappointment, and a dash of chuckling, nudging you to rethink not just your game plan with them but also the wild expectations and quirky perceptions you’ve concocted about your fellow humans. By decoding their unfiltered opinions, you might just unlock a treasure trove of perspectives that could spark your journey toward personal growth and turn your conversations into comedic gold!

Daily writing prompt
What skill would you like to learn?
View all responses

The Roots of Procrastination

I often find myself avoiding or procrastinating on items or events in my life, whether it’s tackling important tasks or even engaging in social events that I know would benefit me. This tendency to delay can stem from a variety of factors, such as fear of failure or simply feeling overwhelmed by the size of the task at hand. I recognize that this habit not only affects my productivity but also my overall well-being, as I constantly grapple with the anxiety of unfinished business and the weight of impending deadlines.

It is rarely laziness. It’s often fear, perfectionism, or a signal that something doesn’t align within me. This might manifest as a hesitation to take action due to the fear of failure or the overwhelming need to achieve flawless results. When I encounter such feelings, it may indicate deeper issues, such as a lack of confidence or unresolved conflicts, prompting me to pause and reflect on what truly holds me back, allowing me to address those underlying concerns constructively.

Daily writing prompt
What details of your life could you pay more attention to?
View all responses

From Leaf to Memory

Not just any leaf—me, golden-brown and freckled with dew, clinging to the highest branch of an ancient oak. The wind whispered secrets through the canopy, and I listened with trembling veins. Then, with a sigh too soft to hear, I let go.

I drifted.

The fall was slow, like time had forgotten to tick. I spun gently, glimpsing the world from angles I’d never known. A squirrel paused mid-leap to watch me descend. A crow cawed once, as if to mark my passage. The sun, just cresting the horizon, caught my edges and made me glow.

I landed on a patch of moss, cushioned and cool. Around me, other leaves lay in quiet communion—some curled with age, others freshly fallen like me. We didn’t speak, but we understood. We were no longer part of the tree, yet we were still part of the story.

A child wandered by, crunching through the leaf-litter. She picked me up, turned me over in her small hands, and smiled. “This one’s pretty,” she said, tucking me into her coat pocket like a secret.

In that moment, I felt eternal.

I was no longer just a leaf—I was a memory in the making, a whisper of autumn carried forward. The tree would forget me, but the child might not. And maybe, just maybe, I’d be pressed between pages, or taped to a window, or simply remembered on a walk years from now.

Then I woke up.

The dream lingered like mist. I touched my chest, half-expecting to feel veins of bark. But I was me again—human, warm, and wondering. Still, part of me swears I can feel the wind. And somewhere deep inside, I’m still falling.

The Impact of Viking Heritage

Audio Podcast

This may sound unusual, but I am most interested in the smallest percentage of my ancestry heritage, which has sparked a sense of curiosity and fascination within me. I didn’t think much about my heritage until The History Channel broadcasted their Viking series, a captivating exploration that aired over a six-year span. The intricate stories of exploration, conquest, and the rich culture of the Vikings illuminated a distant past that I had barely considered before. As I delved deeper into the narrative, I found myself drawn to the nuances of lineage and how even the smallest percentage of Viking heritage could connect me to such a storied history. This revelation has inspired me to research further, uncovering the threads of ancestry that weave together the tapestry of my identity and prompting a richer understanding of my family’s origins and their journey through time.

Doing a DNA test, I find that I am around 40 percent from English heritage near Cornwall, England, a region known for its stunning coastline and unique cultural identity. This area has a rich history steeped in maritime tradition and folklore. I discover that I hold over 50 percent of German Bavarian descent, a lineage that connects me to a region celebrated for its beautiful alpine scenery, traditional festivals like Oktoberfest, and its vibrant history in the arts and sciences. With most of the remaining heritage tracing back to Viking territories of Norway and Sweden, I am reminded of the seafaring spirit and adventurous nature of those ancestors who explored and settled across vast areas of Europe, intertwining their stories with mine.

Watching the Viking series has stirred something deep within me. As I observe how these Norse warriors expanded their reach—sailing across treacherous waters, raiding coastal villages, and establishing footholds throughout Europe—I can’t help but reflect on the darker aspects of their conquests. Their expansion wasn’t just about territory or treasure; it often came at the cost of human suffering. The pillaging of towns and the brutal assertion of dominance likely included acts of violence, including unwanted sexual encounters—an unspoken but historically plausible reality of war and invasion. As unsettling as it is to consider, I find myself wondering if my own existence is somehow tied to that legacy. Perhaps, buried deep in my ancestry, I may be the product of one of those encounters—a living echo of a moment that was never meant to be remembered, yet somehow shaped the course of generations.

For some reason, I related to the Viking series very strongly, as it resonated with my fascination for adventure and exploration. The intricate storytelling, coupled with the rich details of Viking culture, captivated my imagination in ways I never anticipated. One will never know why I became so interested in the Viking heritage, but the epic battles, the strong familial ties, and the relentless pursuit of glory struck a chord within me. As I watched the entire series throughout its airing on The History Channel, I found myself not only engrossed in the drama but also enchanted by the historical elements that were artfully woven into the narrative, which deepened my appreciation for the Norse legends and their significance in shaping modern history.

Daily writing prompt
What aspects of your cultural heritage are you most proud of or interested in?
View all responses

A Long, Long Time Ago

Audio File

After church services during fellowship, somehow the subject of stuffed green peppers came up, igniting a lively conversation among our table of eight. This stirred my memory, prompting me to share a recollection from my army time. As I reminisced about those military times, it dawned on me, “I could write a blog about the subject,”

Here is my tale.

It is March 1964. I was recently drafted into the army, and I was in basic training, a whirlwind experience that was both daunting and transformative. I was only there maybe four or five days after I reported to basic, yet it felt like an eternity under the pressure of military life. For a supper meal, they served stuffed green peppers, a dish that would become a symbol of my early days in training. I remember maybe one or two hundred recruits in the basic training company, and everything was rush, rush and do it faster, as if time was a luxury we could not afford. The sergeants barked out commands, and we scrambled to obey, our minds racing to keep up. Also, much of the kitchen duties were done by the recruits that were assigned to KP duty that day, slicing vegetables, peeling potatoes, and washing dishes, trying to maintain a semblance of order amid the chaos.

There were six of us sitting at the table, our plates filled high with the fare provided for our supper, and we were gobbling down our meals in a frenzied race against time because we only had a short period to eat before they would inevitably yell, “Time’s Up!” The recruit next to me was shoveling food into his mouth with reckless abandon, his eyes darting around as if he were trying to savor each bite while also keeping an ear open for the dreaded announcement. Suddenly, he paused mid-chew, his face shifting from one of ravenous delight to horror as he pulled something unwelcome from his mouth, revealing a shocking revelation—a Band-Aid! It was a disturbing sight indeed, as it became clear that one of our fellow recruits from the KP area had been absent-mindedly stuffing green peppers, causing the Band-Aid covering a cut to become dislodged and somehow find its way into our meal. The moment quickly turned from one of unity in our shared dining experience to utter disbelief as the recruits sitting at the table not only saw but heard the revelation, prompting an instinctual response to get up and leave the mess hall in a hurried retreat. What a way to spoil an appetite! My mind raced with questions, wondering, “What am I getting into?” as I looked around at my companions, each of us contemplating the rather unpalatable reality of our situation and what more surprises awaited us in this new chapter of our lives.

One can just speculate that the KP recruit didn’t even realize that the band-aid slipped off his finger, or he knew about it and was afraid to say anything because he didn’t want to experience another shouting conversation with the drill sergeant, which was common in those days, especially during the rigorous training sessions where discipline was paramount. These shouting matches were not unusual; they served as reminders to the recruits of the high expectations placed upon them, often creating an atmosphere thick with tension and anxiety. Or another possibility is that he reported it, and they yelled and screamed at him and didn’t do anything about it, leaving him feeling even more powerless in a situation that already felt overwhelming. It is hard for me to imagine that they would toss out food for one to two hundred troops and start over just because of a missing band-aid, considering the logistical challenges involved in preparing meals for such a large group, coupled with the sheer amount of effort that went into food preparation. In a military environment where resourcefulness and efficiency are crucial, such an action would seem extravagant and illogical. The actual story will be never known, leaving us to ponder the multitude of factors that might have influenced the response to such a seemingly minor incident, yet one that could highlight deeper issues within the structure of military life.

I have other tales to share during my time in the military and someday share other stories that one does not hear often.

Forgotten Reflection

Audio Podcast 10 minutes

This is in my next paperback “Tales of TomT2.0 volume five. This volume is all spooky stories. Getting ready for Halloween.

Eli stood in the bathroom, half-asleep, brushing his teeth like he did every night, the bristles of his toothbrush working mechanically against his enamel. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting a pale glow over the cracked tiles and foggy mirror, illuminating the remnants of a long day that clung to him like a heavy blanket. He smiled absently at his reflection—more habit than emotion—and then dropped the smile as he leaned down to spit, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night. The room was filled with the familiar scent of mint toothpaste, mingling with the musty air, while outside, the soft rustle of leaves hinted at the gentle breeze that stirred the quiet neighborhood. Unconsciously, he replayed the events of the day, the laughter shared and the mundane moments that blurred into one another, pausing briefly to wonder how tomorrow might unfold. With a final rinse, Eli reluctantly stepped away from the mirror, feeling the weight of exhaustion tugging at him, but grateful for the small, ordinary ritual that marked the end of his day.

But the reflection didn’t drop it.

Eli froze, toothbrush still in hand, caught in a moment that felt suspended in time. His mirrored self was still smiling, an eerie reflection that sent chills down his spine. Not a friendly grin, but something stretched too wide, too long, like a macabre mask fitted over a face that should show fear or surprise. The kind of smile that didn’t belong on a human face, it was an unsettling distortion that suggested something more sinister lurking beneath the surface. With each passing second, Eli’s heart raced as he wondered what had gone wrong, why the reflection seemed to mock him, and if this strange visage was a harbinger of something darker waiting to reveal itself.

He blinked. The reflection blinked too, still grinning.

“Okay,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Sleep deprivation. That’s all.”

He turned off the light and left the bathroom, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over him. But as he passed the hallway mirror, he caught a glimpse—his reflection, still smiling, an eerie reminder of a joy that felt distant. The dim light flickered, casting shadows that danced along the walls, and he paused for a moment, captivated by the contrast between his inner turmoil and the outward appearance of happiness that stared back at him. It was as if the smile in the mirror was mocking him, teasing him for the facade he maintained.

That night, Eli barely slept. The moon filtered through the curtains, casting eerie shadows that danced across his room. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that grin, sharp and wide, curling menacingly at the corners. It wasn’t just unsettling—it felt wrong, as if it held secrets meant to be buried deep. Like something was watching him from the other side of the glass, its gaze penetrating and relentless, leaving him with an overwhelming sense of dread that wrapped around him like a suffocating blanket. Each sound in the house—a creak, a whisper—seemed amplified in the silence, fueling his growing paranoia and ensuring that sleep remained an elusive, unattainable refuge.

The next morning, he avoided the mirror, feeling as though it was a portal to some unsettling truth, he was not ready to confront. Shaved blind, he moved the razor hesitantly over his stubble, not daring to open his eyes lest he be confronted by the visage he had come to dread. Brushed his teeth with his eyes closed, the minty taste barely reaching his senses as his mind raced with the thoughts of what he might discover. But curiosity gnawed at him, an insistent whisper in the back of his mind urging him to look. With trembling hands, he peeked, heart pounding as he lifted the lid of dread, ready to face whatever awaited him.

The reflection was normal, appearing just as one would expect in a peaceful lake on a calm day, with the surface shimmering gently under the warm sunlight and presenting a clear image of the trees and sky above. The tranquility of the scene offered a moment of serenity, inviting one to pause and appreciate the beauty of nature reflected so perfectly before them.

Relieved, Eli laughed, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room. “I’m losing it,” he said to his reflection, a mixture of exasperation and amusement dancing in his eyes. He leaned closer to the mirror, searching for signs of the sanity he felt slipping away, all while his laughter grew more infectious, as if he were sharing an inside joke with himself that only he could understand.

It didn’t laugh back, as if it understood that laughter was a privilege reserved for moments of genuine joy and connection, instead opting for a silent acknowledgment that hung in the air, weighty with the unspoken truths and emotions we often fail to express.

That night, the smile returned.

This time, Eli stared into the mirror, refusing to look away. His own face stared back, smiling wider and wider until the lips cracked and bled. The eyes grew darker, pupils swallowing the whites. Eli backed away, heart hammering.

The reflection didn’t move.

It stayed there, grinning, even as Eli ran from the room, its sinister smile a chilling reminder of the darkness that lurked within those walls, a presence that seemed to thrive on fear and uncertainty, watching with unblinking eyes as the shadows danced around it, whispering secrets that only Eli could feel creeping into his mind, urging him to look back, to face what he desperately wanted to escape from.

He tried everything—covering the mirror with cloth and tape, smashing it to shards that glittered like cruel stars, even replacing it with a new one that promised to be different. But no matter what he did, the reflection came back, mocking him with its persistence. It was as if the mirror had a will of its own, refusing to be silenced or hidden away. Not always immediately, as if it relished in the torment of anticipation. Sometimes it waited patiently, biding its time until he least expected it. At other moments, it would show itself in the most unexpected places—appearing in windows during twilight, shimmering in puddles after a rain, and even on the black screen of his phone when he least wanted to confront it. Each encounter was a reminder, a haunting echo of what he wished to forget, compelling him to confront the part of himself he had long tried to escape.

And it was changing.

It began to move on its own, a strange, unsettling energy radiating from its form. Tilting its head when Eli didn’t, as if questioning his resolve and challenging him to respond. Raising a hand when his stayed still, the gesture felt deliberate, almost mocking in its insistence. It whispered things he couldn’t hear, mouthing words that made his skin crawl, sending shivers down his spine and igniting a primal fear within him. Each syllable it shaped felt like a dark promise, a hint at secrets that lurked just beyond his understanding, beckoning him closer even as every instinct screamed for him to flee.

One night, Eli woke to find every mirror in his apartment uncovered, reflecting the dim light that filtered in through the curtains. He didn’t remember doing it, but the sight sent a shiver down his spine as he felt an eerie presence in the air. Each mirror seemed to be staring back at him, as if they held secrets he had forgotten. The last few days had been a blur, filled with late-night distractions and fatigue, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. Uneasy, Eli glanced around, half-expecting to see a shadow lurking just beyond his line of sight, but the apartment remained silent, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator.

In the bathroom, the reflection was waiting, shimmering faintly in the dim light, as if it held secrets untold, urging the viewer to step closer and confront the truths hidden within.

It wasn’t smiling anymore.

It was beckoning.

Eli stepped closer, drawn by something he couldn’t name, as an inexplicable force seemed to pull him towards the shimmering glass. The glass rippled like water, creating a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow that captivated his senses. He reached out, fingertips brushing the surface, feeling a coolness that sent a shiver up his spine, as though the glass were alive and responsive to his touch. Each delicate ripple seemed to whisper secrets, urging him to delve deeper into the mystery before him, while the world around him faded into a distant hum.

And the reflection grabbed him.

Now, when people visit Eli’s apartment, they find the mirrors covered, shrouded in an aura of mystery that piques their curiosity. All but one remain hidden behind draped cloths or opaque film, which creates a peculiar atmosphere that feels both intimate and unsettling. The lone uncovered mirror, however, reflects a glimmer of light and provides a fleeting glimpse into Eli’s world, inviting visitors to wonder what lies behind the concealed reflections and the reasons for their obscuration.

In the bathroom, the mirror shows a man brushing his teeth, his reflection revealing the early morning light filtering through the small window, casting a gentle glow on the pale tiles. As he methodically moves the toothbrush back and forth, the hum of the electric toothbrush fills the air, and he catches a glimpse of his own tired eyes, a reminder of the long night before. The aroma of mint from the toothpaste mingles with the faint scent of soap lingering in the room, creating an oddly comforting atmosphere. Beyond the mirror, the bathroom door is slightly ajar, hinting at the life outside that awaits him, filled with the sounds of a bustling day yet to unfold.

And if you look closely, you’ll see—he’s not alone. In fact, there are several figures lurking in the shadows, each with their own stories, waiting to unfold. The atmosphere is thick with intrigue, and the faint sound of whispers hints at secrets shared among them. It’s a moment frozen in time, where connections are forged and the unspoken bond of companionship is palpable, transforming an ordinary scene into something extraordinary.

For reasons that will never be understood, the apartment was never rented again, becoming a mysterious relic of the past, shrouded in whispers and unanswered questions about its history. Neighbors speculated about the property, sharing stories of strange occurrences and unexplainable sights that had once driven potential tenants away, leaving behind only a lingering sense of unease that seemed to permeate the very walls of the building.

.

Fall: Transitioning into Cozy Days

Today is the first day of fall. The ninety-degree days are over, and with the arrival of this new season, we can finally embrace the cool, crisp air that fills our lungs. Cooler days and nights are ahead, providing the perfect backdrop for cozy sweaters and warm drinks. The leaves are starting to change to their golden color, painting landscapes in hues of orange, red, and yellow, and gracefully falling to the ground like nature’s confetti. As we walk beneath the trees, we might hear the satisfying crunch of leaves underfoot. It’s time to start thinking about the season’s preparations, including the moments when the furnace will go on to take away the morning chill in the home, wrapping us in warmth as we enjoy the comforting aroma of pumpkin spice and freshly baked pies wafting through the air.

The word “fall” derives from Old English “feallan,” meaning to fall, and it specifically refers to the beautiful and colorful phenomenon of falling leaves, which marks the transition from summer to winter. This term is preferred in American English over the more traditional “autumn,” which stems from the Latin word “augustus.” The choice of “fall” not only encapsulates the essence of the season but also highlights the picturesque scenery of trees shedding their foliage, creating a vibrant tapestry of colors on the ground. This season is often associated with harvest celebrations, cooler temperatures, and a sense of change, making it a time for reflection and preparation for the upcoming winter months.

Fall allergies spike due to ragweed pollen, affecting ~23 million Americans annually.
As the leaves begin to change color and the air turns crisp, countless individuals experience the relentless onslaught of allergy symptoms. My eyes have the traditional itch and redness, which often leads to a frustrating cycle of rubbing and swelling that makes it difficult to focus on daily activities. In addition to these uncomfortable symptoms, the sneezing, runny nose, and overall fatigue that accompany fall allergies can diminish one’s quality of life, making autumn feel less like a season of beauty and more like a season of struggle.

It’s the second most popular wedding season globally, after summer, with countless couples choosing this time to tie the knot due to the beautiful fall foliage and moderate weather. This enchanting season not only provides a picturesque backdrop for outdoor ceremonies but also offers a rich palette of colors that inspire everything from floral arrangements to wedding attire. As autumn ushers in cozy atmospheres and seasonal celebrations, many couples see it as the perfect opportunity to share their love in a unique and heartfelt way.

Time marches on, and in three months, we will be talking about the next season of the year, winter. As the days grow shorter and the crispness of the air becomes more pronounced, we can already feel the anticipation building for the beauty that winter brings. The first snowfall will blanket the earth in a serene white, transforming familiar landscapes into a magical wonderland. Families will gather around warm fires, sharing stories and laughter, while festive decorations will begin to adorn homes, creating a sense of warmth and joy during the cold months ahead.

My wife’s fall visitors.

Have a nice fall day.

Life Without Music

My life would more than likely be about the same without music. Sure, I enjoy music in the background while doing something else. I enjoy music while riding in the car. I never hear music in my dreams. I have never been motivated to learn to play a musical instrument. I don’t sing in the shower. Therefore, life without music would more than likely be close to the same as now without music.

Daily writing prompt
What would your life be like without music?
View all responses

I Am Not Who I Am

Around the first of this year I discovered AI, (artificial intelligence) and found out that it became very easy for me to assemble an article. I could come up with a few ideas and then consult AI and ask to expand on those ideas. In a matter of seconds, Boom! An instant article that was always near twice the length I ever came up with…… AI would really fluff up an idea.

Couldn’t think of something to write about? Just ask AI and poof! There are twenty or more writing prompts for you. Pick a prompt and AI easily creates a story for you. Wow! This is really becoming simple.

Unfortunately, I now feel that this is not me. I now feel that I am just an outlet for some unnamed artificial intelligence. AI has made me lazy. It has become difficult for me to get the creative juices flowing without AI. The above is me without AI.

This is the same with AI

Around the first of this year I discovered AI, (artificial intelligence) and found out that it became very easy for me to assemble an article. I could come up with a few ideas and then consult AI and ask to expand on those ideas, which opened up a whole new realm of creativity. With just a simple prompt, I could engage the AI in a dialogue, exploring different angles and perspectives that I might not have considered on my own. In a matter of seconds, Boom! An instant article that was always near twice the length I ever came up with. This technology was not just about word count; it was about the depth and breadth of information that it could provide, transforming a mere concept into a comprehensive piece of writing. AI would really fluff up an idea, adding layers of detail and nuance, turning my initial thoughts into a well-rounded discussion that was informative and engaging for readers.

Couldn’t think of something to write about? Just ask AI and poof! There are twenty or more writing prompts for you, carefully designed to spark your creativity and help you break through writer’s block. Pick a prompt, and AI easily creates a story for you, crafting engaging plots and dynamic characters that come to life right before your eyes. Whether you’re looking for inspiration for a novel, a short story, or even just a whimsical tale, the possibilities are endless. Wow! This is really becoming simple, as technology transforms the writing process into an effortless and enjoyable adventure, allowing you to explore new ideas and perspectives in no time.

Unfortunately, I now feel that this is not me. I now feel that I am just an outlet for some unnamed artificial intelligence, a mere vessel through which its ideas flow. AI has made me lazy, almost reliant on its algorithms to spark my imagination. It has become difficult for me to get the creative juices flowing without AI, leaving me frustrated and yearning for the days when I could generate ideas and express myself freely without assistance. The more I depend on this technology, the more I sense a disconnect from my authentic self and inner creativity, which feels stifled and overshadowed by an ever-present digital influence. I find myself questioning whether I can truly think independently or if I am simply echoing what has been fed to me.

I really don’t know what direction this will lead to. I may decide to just write without AI assistance or retire from blogging. Or I may accept the fact that artificial intelligence is the future and go with it.

This is the same paragraph with AI assistance. I really don’t know what direction this will lead to. At this point, I feel quite torn; I may decide to just write without AI assistance, embracing the raw authenticity of my thoughts, or I might even consider retiring from blogging altogether if I feel too overwhelmed by the rapid changes in technology. On the other hand, I am also considering whether I should accept the fact that artificial intelligence is undeniably the future. It could offer new opportunities and perspectives, so perhaps I should adapt and go with it, using AI as a tool to enhance my creativity rather than replace it, finding a balance that respects both traditional writing and innovative tech.

Life Lessons: Stop Being Someone Else

For most of my life I have tried to be something I was not. Many times, through life I heard “You should be like, whatever name you want to insert.” In younger years I heard; you should be more like your brother. Just because he is five years older than me, I should be like him? I guess I was a handful when I was young. Going to school I hear the same thing. You should be more like Johnny. At church I hear you are a sinner and should be more like the saints and apostles. Well, I got the picture, I should be somebody I am not and be somebody that fits in the surrounding society.

My teenage years were very difficult for me. For some reason I was angry and mad all the time. I hated myself and my situation. Was it because I was trying to be somebody I was not or was it just the hormonal change that everyone goes through during that age. One will never know.

I was drafted into the army later and looking back now I think this is one of the best things that happened to me in that period. This was in the Viet Nam era but fortunately my service period was served in Germany instead of Viet Nam unlike the seven other men drafted on that day. They all went to Viet Nam. Why I went to Germany and not Viet Nam is something I will never know. In the service you meet all kinds of people from many different areas of the country. Because of that I realized that the human race is not that bad. All the ones I met were basically good and were just trying to get through the challenges in front of them.

I have spent maybe two thirds of life trying to be somebody that I am not. You may believe this or not, but, one day I was taking a walk around the greenbelt near our home. There was nobody around and I was just having some silent time to my own. Then this loud voice came out and spoke. “Tom stop trying to be somebody else, just be yourself! Your purpose in life is to be yourself!” After that event I have decided to just be myself. Since that time, I been at peace since and am actually enjoying just being myself. I even like myself. This is one lesson I wish I had learned earlier in life.

Daily writing prompt
Share a lesson you wish you had learned earlier in life.
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Never Forget September 11, 2001

Four commercial airplanes were hijacked by 19 terrorists. Two planes, American Airlines Flight 11 and United Airlines Flight 175, crashed into the North and South Towers of the World Trade Center in New York City, respectively. The South Tower collapsed at 9:59 AM, and the North Tower at 10:28 AM.

American Airlines Flight 77 crashed into the Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia, at 9:37 AM, causing partial structural damage.

United Airlines Flight 93 crashed into a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania, at 10:03 AM after passengers and crew attempted to regain control from the hijackers. It is believed the target was either the U.S. Capitol or the White House.

Nearly 3,000 people were killed, including 2,753 at the World Trade Center, 184 at the Pentagon, and 40 on Flight 93. Victims included civilians, first responders, and military personnel. Thousands more were injured.

This was a major event in the history of the United States and must never be forgotten, as it significantly shaped the nation’s identity and future trajectory. The repercussions of this event resonated deeply within society, influencing political landscapes and cultural dynamics for generations to come. It serves as a reminder of the struggles faced by those who fought for justice and equality, highlighting the importance of collective memory in preserving the lessons learned through hardship and triumph. Understanding this pivotal moment encourages reflection on the ongoing journey toward unity and progress in our society.

The Multifaceted Concept of God in Human History

Audio Podcast Link

Many people believe in a god, a supreme being, or a deity. This belief shows our need to understand existence, the universe, and our role in it. To learn more, I asked AI for a definition of God, interested in its insights shaped by diverse cultural views. The response was intriguing, as it summarized not only the qualities of divinity but also how different societies think about this idea, showing both shared beliefs and differences through time and cultures.

The idea of God has shaped human history, culture, and individual lives for millennia, serving as a cornerstone of meaning, morality, and mystery. Across civilizations, God is understood in diverse ways—as a singular omnipotent being, a collection of deities, or an impersonal cosmic force that binds the universe together. This multifaceted concept transcends mere religion, influencing philosophy, art, science, and ethics, while remaining deeply personal and often divisive. The varying interpretations of God reflect the unique values and beliefs of different societies, illustrating how this divine notion fosters both unity and conflict among peoples. From the ancient rituals of worship to contemporary discussions on the nature of existence, the concept of God challenges individuals and communities to grapple with profound questions about life, purpose, and the moral framework that governs human behavior. The pursuit of understanding God can lead to a deeper exploration of spirituality, prompting many to seek connections with something greater than themselves, ultimately shaping the profound narratives that define cultures across the globe.

In monotheistic traditions like Christianity, Islam, and Judaism, God is typically envisioned as a singular, all-powerful creator who is deeply involved in the cosmos and human lives. In Christianity, God is the loving father, omnipresent and omniscient, guiding humanity through divine will and grace while embodying the principles of love, forgiveness, and redemption. The Bible portrays God as both transcendent and immanent, a being who not only crafted the universe yet remains intimately involved with creation, listening to prayers and responding to the cries of the faithful. Islam’s Allah, similarly, is the sole deity, merciful and just, whose will is absolute, as described in the Quran, which emphasizes His attributes of compassion, power, and wisdom. Additionally, Allah is seen as the ultimate judge, ensuring that justice prevails while offering repentance and mercy to those who seek it sincerely. Judaism’s Yahweh, revealed through the Torah, emphasizes a covenantal relationship with the chosen people, blending justice with compassion, guiding them throughout their history while encouraging ethical living and adherence to His laws. These faiths share a view of God as eternal, unchanging, and deeply concerned with human affairs, fostering a sense of purpose and direction in the lives of believers, reinforcing the importance of faith and community in the journey towards spiritual fulfillment.

Polytheistic traditions, such as Hinduism and ancient Greek religion, offer a different lens through which to examine the complexity of spirituality and divine representation. Hinduism’s vast pantheon includes deities like Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, each embodying unique aspects of the divine spectrum while ultimately pointing to Brahman, the infinite reality underlying existence. This intricate framework suggests a fluidity between the one and the many, where God is both plural and singular, allowing for a rich tapestry of worship and personal interpretation. Furthermore, the interplay between these deities illustrates the idea that the divine can manifest in numerous forms, each serving as a guide for followers on their spiritual journeys. Ancient Greeks, on the other hand, worshipped gods like Zeus and Athena, anthropomorphic figures imbued with distinct personalities and domains, reflecting a worldview where divinity mirrors human complexity. The myths surrounding these gods often detailed their interactions and conflicts, emphasizing the intricacies of ethical dilemmas and the human condition. In this way, both traditions highlight the multifaceted nature of the divine, as well as the varied ways in which cultures have sought to understand and relate to a higher power, demonstrating that the quest for meaning transcends time and geography.

Beyond organized religion, philosophical and spiritual perspectives broaden the concept further, inviting deeper exploration into the nature of existence and our understanding of the divine. Deism posits a God who creates but does not intervene, presenting a rational force behind the universe’s order, suggesting a clockmaker who sets the machinery of the cosmos in motion yet remains distant from its operations. Pantheism, as articulated by thinkers like Spinoza, equates God with nature itself, ultimately dissolving the boundary between creator and creation and encouraging a profound reverence for the natural world that surrounds us. This perspective fosters a sense of unity and interconnectedness amongst all living things, urging individuals to recognize the divine immanence present in every element of life. Meanwhile, agnosticism and atheism challenge traditional notions, questioning God’s existence or relevance while still engaging with the void such questions leave, prompting critical thinking and intellectual discourse on morality, purpose, and the human experience in a seemingly indifferent universe. These varied views illustrate the rich tapestry of beliefs that confront our quest for meaning beyond institutional dogma.

God’s role in human life extends beyond theology. Art—from Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel to Sufi poetry—captures divine awe and intimacy, revealing the profound connection between spirituality and creativity that transcends cultural boundaries. The aesthetic expressions of faith often serve as a bridge, inviting individuals to explore the depths of their beliefs and the mysteries of existence. Moral systems, even in secular contexts, often trace their roots to divine commandments or cosmic principles, reflecting the innate human desire for order, justice, and meaning in a chaotic world. These ethical frameworks guide personal conduct and societal norms, showcasing how spirituality can influence our understanding of right and wrong. Yet, the concept of God also sparks conflict, from historical crusades to modern debates over faith’s place in public life, exposing the fragility of belief systems when challenged. These tensions highlight humanity’s struggle to reconcile the infinite with the finite, the known with the unknowable, prompting a continuous journey of exploration and dialogue that shapes both individual identities and the collective human experience.

Ultimately, God remains a mirror of human aspiration and fear—a symbol of hope, order, and purpose, but also of mystery and unanswerable questions. Whether seen as a personal savior, a cosmic force, or a human construct, God reflects our deepest desires to understand existence and navigate the complexities of our lives. Across cultures and eras, the quest to define God reveals as much about humanity as it does about divinity, inviting each generation to wrestle with the eternal, confront its own uncertainties, and seek meaning in a world that often feels chaotic. This exploration of the divine not only shapes individual belief systems but also weaves the intricate tapestry of society, influencing art, philosophy, and moral values. Consequently, the concept of God remains not just a theological inquiry, but a profound journey into the human condition itself, challenging us to ponder our place in the universe and our connection to one another.

Recognizing Self-Centered Traits

All they do is talk, and it is always how great they are, boasting about their accomplishments and skill sets as if the world revolves around their achievements. They fill every conversation with self-praise, leaving little room for others to share their experiences or thoughts, creating an atmosphere that can feel somewhat stifling and self-centered.

They don’t want a conversation; all they want is a platform for their greatness, a stage upon which they can showcase their talents and assert their dominance. In a world where validation often comes through applause and admiration, they seek to amplify their voices without the distraction of dialogue. This singular focus on self-promotion and recognition blinds them to the rich tapestry of ideas and perspectives that could emerge through genuine interaction and engagement.

Daily writing prompt
What personality trait in people raises a red flag with you?
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A Week of Energy

To have a week without health issues, where each day is full of energy, is a goal many want to reach. This time should be about feeling refreshed and mentally clear, helping people engage in their daily tasks. Eating well, exercising regularly, and getting enough sleep can greatly improve this healthy experience and boost overall well-being. During this week, individuals can focus on self-care, mindfulness, and relaxation, which are important for maintaining a healthy lifestyle and avoiding stress-related problems.

When you reach my age, health concerns become a big part of daily life, as every new ache or pain can feel serious. It’s not just about physical health; worrying about potential issues can really weigh on the mind. Each year, the need for a healthy lifestyle—regular check-ups, a good diet, and exercise—becomes more important. Conversations with friends often center on medical advice and preventive care, highlighting the need to stay informed about health. Although aging brings many challenges, it also helps us appreciate the joyful moments in life.

Daily writing prompt
Describe your ideal week.
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Lights Out in the Shower 

Audio Podcast, 3 minutes

The old cabin creaked under the weight of the storm outside, wind howling through the pines like a chorus of restless spirits. I’d rented the place for a quiet weekend, a chance to unplug and clear my head. The bathroom was small, with chipped tiles and a shower that sputtered before spitting out lukewarm water. I stepped in, letting the spray wash away the day’s hike, steam curling around me like a shroud.  

The bulb overhead flickered once, twice, then held steady. I ignored it—old wiring, probably. The water felt good, soothing my aching muscles. I closed my eyes, humming softly, the sound muffled by the patter of droplets. Then, a sharp *click*. The light went out, plunging the room into pitch black. 

 I froze, water still streaming down my face. “Great,” I muttered, reaching for the faucet. My fingers fumbled in the dark, slipping on the wet knob. The shower kept running, but the air felt heavier now, like someone had stepped into the room. I strained to listen over the water’s drone. Nothing. Just my imagination, right?  

I turned off the shower, the sudden silence deafening. My hand groped for the towel hanging nearby, but it brushed something else—cold, slick, like damp skin. I yanked my hand back, heart hammering. “Who’s there?” I called, voice trembling. No answer, but the darkness seemed to pulse, alive with something I couldn’t see.  

I stumbled out of the shower, feet slipping on the tiles. The bathroom door was somewhere to my left—I hoped. My hands found the wall, guiding me forward, but the surface felt wrong, spongy, like it was breathing under my touch. I yanked my hand away, suppressing a scream. The air grew colder, thicker, pressing against my bare skin. A faint whisper slithered through the dark, not words, just a low, guttural hum that made my stomach twist.  

I lunged for where I thought the door was, fingers scrabbling until they hit the knob. It turned, but the door wouldn’t budge, like something was holding it shut. Panic clawed at me. I pounded on the wood, shouting, my voice echoing in the tiny space. The whisper grew louder, closer, curling around my ears like icy fingers. I swear I felt breath on my neck, damp and sour.  

Desperate, I threw my weight against the door. It gave way, spilling me into the cabin’s main room. The lights there were still on, warm and steady. I spun around, expecting to see someone—or something—in the bathroom. Nothing. Just darkness beyond the doorway, thicker than it should’ve been.  

I didn’t sleep that night. The storm raged on, and every creak of the cabin felt like a warning. I left at dawn, never looking back. But even now, weeks later, I feel it sometimes—a cold breath on my neck when I shower, a whisper in the dark when the lights flicker. It followed me. And it’s waiting. 

Unforgettable Italian Adventure: 16 Days of Culture

In 2007, my wife, Dee, and I embarked on a thrilling adventure, taking a sixteen-day journey to the beautiful country of Italy. We left Denver early in the morning, filled with excitement and anticipation, and after what felt like an eternity, we arrived in Milan, Italy, the following day. The long hours of flying and the time zone change, which cost us seven hours as we traveled east, made the experience all the more disorienting. I struggled to catch some sleep on the plane, as the hum of the engines and the flickering lights of the cabin kept me restless. By the time we touched down on Italian soil, we were utterly exhausted, the weariness settling into our bones. Despite our fatigue, the thrill of being in a new country coursed through us, setting the stage for an unforgettable adventure.

In the sixteen days we visited the typical tourist sites, immersing ourselves in the rich history and stunning architecture. However, in addition to the popular tourist traps, the tour company was small enough to tailor the trip to fit requests from the attendants, providing a personalized experience that is often missing in larger groups. If someone wanted to visit their home root city or town, he could easily adjust the trip to accommodate these requests, ensuring that each traveler had the opportunity to connect with their Italian heritage or explore unique locations that held personal significance. This flexibility gave us the chance to visit some off-the-beaten-path destinations, which not only allowed us to see lesser-known but equally captivating sights, but also provided us with a comprehensive perspective on typical life in Italy. Interacting with locals, enjoying authentic cuisine, and experiencing age-old traditions were truly the highlights of our journey, making this the best part of the trip. In contrast, during our visit in 1999, we had previously seen all the typical tourist sites, where we marveled at the iconic landmarks, but the experience felt more generic and less connected to the vibrant culture of the country.

Since I am a writer, I had to take the opportunity to write about this trip. It can be found here. SIXTEEN DAYS IN ITALY

Daily writing prompt
Share a story about the furthest you’ve ever traveled from home.
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My Ideal Home: Nine Years of Bliss

This is what my ideal home looks like. We have moved here over nine years ago, and I have been so blessed to live in the home I have always dreamed of.

MY IDEAL HOME Link to short video of my ideal home.

Daily writing prompt
What does your ideal home look like?
View all responses

Labor Day September 1st, 2025

Typically, Labor Day marks the unofficial end of summer, with people celebrating through parades, barbecues, and community events. Many businesses close, and it’s a major retail weekend with significant sales, rivaling Black Friday in some sectors. In 2025, expect widespread store discounts, especially on clothing, electronics, and home goods, with online and in-store deals starting as early as mid-August. Government offices, schools, and non-essential services like post offices and banks usually close, though some states may have partial operations.  

Labor Day in the United States is a federal holiday celebrated on the first Monday in September, which in 2025 will fall on September 1. It honors the contributions of workers to the nation’s economy and social fabric. Established in the late 19th century during the labor movement, it was first recognized as a federal holiday in 1894 under President Grover Cleveland, following significant labor strikes, notably the Pullman Strike. The holiday emerged as a way to acknowledge workers’ rights and the growing influence of labor unions.

Today, the holiday is more about leisure than activism, with 160 million Americans likely to travel or enjoy festivities. States like California and New York hold big parades, while others focus on local events or rallies for workers’ rights. What do you have planned for today?

Embracing the Past or Seeking New Horizons?

The hitchhiker, Jack, trudged along the abandoned highway, his thumb raised in a faint gesture of hope as he sought a ride to take him far away from his troubles. Dusk darkened the horizon, painting the sky with hues of deep purple and fiery orange, while an oppressive chill seeped into his bones, sending shivers coursing through his weary body. A narrow dirt path diverged into the ominous woods, its twisting entrance draped with shadows and offering the faint promise of shelter from the increasingly biting wind. He followed it hesitantly, the crunch of dry leaves underfoot echoing in the stillness, until he emerged into a clearing where a campsite flickered beneath the vast, indifferent stars, each twinkling light a silent witness to his solitary plight. As he approached, the warm glow of a dying fire illuminated the encampment, revealing remnants of a past life—a half-eaten meal, discarded gear, and a sense of stories left untold.

A fire crackled in a stone pit, casting light on a scene that stopped Jack cold. His old green tent—the one with the tear from that Yosemite trip—stood pitched tight, its familiar fabric stirring memories of nights spent under the stars. His battered Coleman stove sat on a stump, next to his chipped blue enamel mug, weathered yet comfortable in its imperfection, just like Jack himself. The mug had witnessed countless dawns accompanied by the rich aroma of brewing coffee, each sip a ritual that gathered the strength to face the day. His worn paperback of On the Road, dog-eared at page 47, lay on a folding chair he’d lost years ago at a music festival, a token of spontaneity and laughter that echoed in his heart. Every item was his, down to the frayed rope he’d used to hang his pack in trees, each frayed end telling tales of adventures taken and paths tread, reinforcing the life of exploration that defined him. The flickering flames danced in rhythm with the haunting melodies of memories, drawing him back to moments filled with wonder and the freedom of the open road.

Jack’s heart thudded with a mix of anxiety and nostalgia. He’d never been here before, yet it felt oddly familiar, like a long-forgotten dream reawakening in the twilight of his mind. He’d been drifting for months through vast landscapes, each day blending into the next, no fixed destination, no map guiding him through the wilderness. Yet this camp was a mirror of his life, a collage of possessions he’d owned, lost, or left behind, each item whispering stories of who he once was. He circled the fire, half-expecting a stranger to claim it all, to challenge his presence in this transient sanctuary. No one appeared, though, and the emptiness wrapped around him like a heavy blanket. The woods were silent, save for the pop of burning logs and the hushed rustling of leaves, as if nature itself was holding its breath, waiting for him to remember or perhaps to forget. In that poignant stillness, Jack felt the weight of his choices pressing down on him, mingling fear with the flickering warmth of the flames.

He sank into the chair, the mug warm in his hands, a small comfort amid the uncertainty. Coffee, black and bitter, just how he liked it, filled his senses and momentarily drowned out the chaos in his mind. He sipped, mind racing with a swirl of thoughts and questions. Had he blacked out? Had he truly sleepwalked his life into this surreal place, far removed from familiarity? The tent flap rustled gently in the breeze, and he peered inside with a mixture of hope and trepidation. His sleeping bag, patched with duct tape in a desperate attempt to keep warm, was rolled out haphazardly, a sign of his disarray. His old harmonica gleamed on the ground, the one he’d pawned in Reno two winters back, a bitter reminder of better days filled with music and laughter that now felt like a distant memory. Each note echoed in his mind as he wondered if he could ever reclaim that part of himself lost in the fog of time and poor choices.

Jack played a shaky note, the sound hauntingly familiar, echoing through the stillness around him. Memories flickered—campfires with friends, the warmth of laughter mingling with the smoke, lonely nights under bridges, where the stars felt like distant companions, the road’s endless pull urging him forward into the unknown. But this place felt wrong, like a dream stitched from scraps of his past, fragments of joy interwoven with threads of regret. He checked his pack, still slung on his shoulder, its weight a comforting reminder of his travels. Everything he owned was there, yet duplicated here in this uncanny reality. Two lives, one his, one… what? A mirror of choices not taken, paths forsaken, lingering shadows of other possibilities that now danced mockingly at the edges of his vision, waiting for him to remember their names.

A twig snapped. Jack froze, his heart pounding in his chest as he held his breath, listening intently. Footsteps crunched on the damp leaves, each sound echoing his growing anxiety, and a figure slowly emerged from the dense trees—gaunt, bearded, with eyes that gleamed like his own, a mirror of his past. The man wore Jack’s old flannel, the very one he’d traded for a bus ticket, the fabric frayed and faded but still hauntingly familiar. “You’re late,” the man said, voice rough but eerily familiar, carrying a weight of memories that seemed to hang between them like a ghost. “I’ve been waiting for you to come back, Jack. You thought you could just leave everything behind?” The tension thickened as Jack remembered the reasons for his departure, yet here stood the embodiment of those choices, beckoning him back into the shadows of his own history.

“Who are you?” Jack stammered.

The man smirked, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes. “You, if you’d stayed. This is where you stopped running, where you finally laid down roots, built a life filled with memories, laughter, and moments that seemed to matter. Then you left it all behind, chasing the road again, seeking the thrill of the unknown, the allure of distant horizons calling your name, as if the path beneath your feet was never enough to satisfy your restless spirit.”

Jack’s mouth dried. “That’s not me. I never—”

“You will.” The man tossed a stick into the fire, watching as the embers glowed brighter for a moment, casting flickering shadows around them. “This is your camp, Jack. Always was. Always will be. The memories are embedded in the very ground we stand on, the echoes of laughter from old friends and the warmth of shared stories. The question is, do you stay and embrace what this place offers, or do you keep moving forward into the unknown? Each path holds its own promise and peril, but there’s something about the familiarity of this camp that calls to you, urging you to consider where your heart truly belongs.”

Jack gripped the mug, its warmth grounding him and filling him with a sense of comfort amidst the swirling shadows of his thoughts. The man vanished into the dark, leaving only questions that echoed in the stillness of the room. Should he stay and claim this life, embracing the possibilities that lay ahead, or was it wiser to walk away, retreating back into the road’s uncertainty, where familiar feelings of freedom and unpredictability awaited him? The weight of his decision hung heavily in the air, each potential path radiating different futures, pulling at his heart and mind as he contemplated what it really meant to belong.

Dawn emerged with a solemn light, casting elongated shadows across the ground. Jack hefted his pack, deliberately leaving the camp undisturbed, mindful of the memories tethered to the flickering embers of the fire that had warmed them the night before. The highway lay before him, desolate and silent, a stretch of asphalt winding into the unknown. He raised his thumb in a gesture of hope, yet hesitated, glancing back as if expecting the camp to somehow accompany him, as if the laughter of friends and the warmth of shared stories would rise from the ashes and fill the air once more. The weight of solitude pressed upon him, and he took a slow breath, trying to reconcile the pull of the past with the promise of the journey ahead.

Writing stats and success’s 

Writing and authoring can be lucrative for some, but the reality is nuanced and not as universally rosy as sites like Writer’s Digest might suggest. The potential for high earnings exists—top authors like Stephen King or J.K. Rowling rake in millions—but for most, it’s a tough grind with modest returns. Data from the Authors Guild (2018) shows the median income for full-time authors in the U.S. was around $20,300, and part-time authors earned even less, about $6,080. Self-publishing has opened doors, with some indie authors earning six figures on platforms like Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing, but success often requires prolific output, savvy marketing, and a bit of luck. For every breakout hit, thousands of books sell fewer than 100 copies.  

Sites like Writer’s Digest often emphasize the upside to attract aspiring writers, and they’re not wrong that opportunities exist—freelance writing, ghostwriting, or niche genres like romance can pay well for those who hustle. However, these platforms also monetize hope, selling courses, subscriptions, or services that promise to unlock your potential. They’re not scams, but their optimism can gloss over the industry’s challenges: saturated markets, low freelance rates (often $0.10-$0.50/word for beginners), and the time it takes to build a name. 

 If you’re considering writing as a career, focus on diversifying income streams—books, freelance gigs, teaching, or editing—and treat it like a business. The web posts echo this: success stories exist, but they’re outliers, and persistence plus skill matters more than chasing hype.

In conclusion, a writing career like many other careers takes a lot of time and effort.

To Research for Yesterday’s Prompt

I looked up when TV started in Denver to understand its historical context. This research included the technology that made television possible and its influence on local culture. When I was a youngster tv wasn’t a common item where I lived. It was to help me with yesterday’s writing prompt, “What TV shows did you watch as a kid?”, sparking memories of my childhood and the shows that affected my early viewing, bringing back nostalgic feelings from the laughter and lessons learned from those favorite characters.

Daily writing prompt
What was the last thing you searched for online? Why were you looking for it?
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Memories of Watching TV in Denver

Denver did not get their first TV station until 1952. Therefore, I was over ten years old before television was even available in our home. I would guess that I was close to a teenager before we got our first television, which was a Zenith, a brand that seemed to hold a certain prestige at the time. Does anyone remember Zenith TVs? The only show I can vividly remember watching during those early years was Sheriff Scotty, a local kids’ show that brought joy to many children in the area. I distinctly recall that in the real world, he was the mayor of Englewood, a suburb of Denver, which made it all the more intriguing for us young viewers. My parents faithfully watched the Ed Sullivan Show; it’s a memory that still lingers, with images of bright performances and famous guests. Technology has really advanced since those days, transforming the way we consume entertainment. Today, we have access to a plethora of channels and streaming services, a far cry from the single station that graced our living room all those years ago.

Daily writing prompt
What TV shows did you watch as a kid?
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