A COLD RUSH OF AIR

Death By Killing

2012-01-09T15:27:00.000-05:00

Absolutely Kate Pilarcik - writer, editor, publisher, and promoter extraordinaire (in no particular order of skills) has listed my story Who's Got The Action as one of her Top 5 picks over at Death By Killing. Death By Killing is Chris Rhatigan's site for reviews of short fiction - you can always find some quality stories as well as a few surprises there on a regular basis. You can check out the link to Kate's list here, and find links to some of Chris' stories as well.

Get over there and check it out!

Q and A at Julie Morrigan's Blog

2011-12-07T16:34:00.000-05:00

I sat down recently with Julie Morrigan for a little question and answer session about writing, Lost Exit, and the world of publishing (she makes me sound almost coherent). You can check out the interview here.

She's also got some other Q and A's with writers and creative types like Paul D. Brazill, Chris Rhatigan, Charlie Wade, and Iain Rowan that you can check out.

More Updates About Pushcart Prizes (and Literary Whatnot)

2011-12-02T10:07:00.000-05:00

For the second time in less than two weeks I’m honored, flattered, and humbled by a Pushcart prize nomination….

I’ve just been notified by Kate Pilarcik (publisher of "At the Bijou"), that my short story WHO’S GOT THE ACTION has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in literature (You can read it here).

What makes this one special and fun is that some of my fellow nominees are not only friends, but writers whose work I greatly admire like Joseph Grant, Anthony Venutolo, Eric Beetner, and Sean Patrick Reardon. It’s great to share the stage with them.

Some times you just run out of words…..I’m truly honored and flattered.

Fisticuffs, Palookas, and Noir

2011-11-29T13:11:00.000-05:00

The November Noir feature over At The Bijou continues to roll along even as the calendar slides out of November and into December. Up for the next couple of days is my story BEFORE THEY FALL - a tough, gritty homage to boxing and the less than glamorous aspects of the sport. The Fisticuffs, Palookas, and Noir showbill featured Anthony Venutolo's AN UNLIKELY PARTNER last week, and will soon showcase a new short story from LA Detective and writer Paul Bishop.

You can read BEFORE THEY FALL right here.

Pushcart Prize

2011-11-23T10:10:00.001-05:00

I'm honored and tremendously humbled that my short story, NO TEARS FOR CRYING has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. It's flattering to not only be nominated for the literary prize that honors the best "poetry, short fiction, essays or literary whatnot" (especially the whatnot part in which I clearly fall), but one that has recognized the work of some of my heroes like Junot Diaz, Raymond Carver, Tim O'Brien, and William Monahon.

You can read the story here

Thanks very much.

Lost Exit Book Trailer

2011-11-16T10:20:00.001-05:00

Make a video - it's fun, easy and free!
www.onetruemedia.com

November Noir Update

2011-11-10T13:11:00.001-05:00

An update on Noirember AT THE BIJOU (as rechristened by Harry Sanderford).

Some excellent stories so far this month, including today's feature from Joe Grant. Joe is a long time friend and as part of the AT THE BIJOU feature I got the opportunity to take a minute of his time and ask him some questions about writing, writing, and dead Russian writers.

Check it out here

November Noir

2011-11-01T09:28:00.001-04:00

Check out At The Bijou tomorrow - my story "Love Struck Trouble" will be part of the initial November Noir lineup, along with Graham Smith, Julie Morrigan, and Chris Rhatigan- more great writers will follow all month. It should be a great month with some killer stories from excellent writers (this will be my attempt at channeling a little Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler).

You can read At The Bijou right here.

And you can read my story here

Be sure to check back all month At The Bijou for some great stories.......

Adopt An Indie

2011-10-31T10:21:00.001-04:00

LOST EXIT is one of the books that will be featured during November’s “Adopt An Indie” Month. You can check it out here

“Adopt An Indie” is about bringing authors, readers and book bloggers together to dispel some of the indie myths and show readers that “if you’re missing indie, you’re missing out.” As part of the month-long event, readers will be able to talk to published authors and learn about their experiences while authors will be able to find out what really matters to readers and if they really care about the ‘indie/SP/small press’ labels.

You can find out more info about AAI and all the books featured!

Thanks to Donna Brown for including Lost Exit.

Fiction Daily

2011-10-12T14:31:00.000-04:00

My story "CANDY'S SMILE" from A Twist Of Noir was featured in yesterday's Fiction Daily in the genre section (thanks to Paul D. Brazill for flagging that for me). If you haven't yet checked it out, you can find this story as well as some other great fiction at:

http://fictiondaily.org/

FictionDaily

fictiondaily.org

Good Stuff To Read In Places You Wouldn't Normally Look

COMING SOON - Nine In The Morning

2011-09-30T13:56:00.004-04:00

NEWEST VERSION......would look a little better if you could see the outline of the book and not just an image an words against a white background.....

Candy's Smile

2011-09-26T11:38:00.000-04:00

I have a new story: CANDY"S SMILE up at A Twist of Noir as part of Christopher Grant's 600-700 word challenge (my first story was NO TEARS FOR CRYING). You can check it out at the following link:

http://a-twist-of-noir.blogspot.com/2011/09/twist-of-noir-683-kevin-michaels.html

There are also some excellent stories from Christopher Grant, Matthew McBride, Richard Godwin, and Albert Tucher to check out while you're there.

New Reviews For Lost Exit

2011-09-16T13:16:00.000-04:00

A couple of excellent new reviews for LOST EXIT at both Amazon and Goodreads from Paul Bishop (author and one of the stars of ABC's Take The Money And Run) and Jeff Dawson. "Basketball noir" and "A compelling read" that is "brutally honest and thought provoking."

10-60

2011-09-09T15:56:00.000-04:00

Over the past few years I’ve written stories about 9/11 and its impact, especially on those of us who lost friends, neighbors, and people we knew. With the 10^th anniversary of the attacks this Sunday I’m re-running one of my stories written about that day (part of the collection: THINGS WE LOST ON TUESDAY ).

Hardly a day passes that I don’t think about that day, friends who are no longer here, and what so many have sacrificed and lost since then.

It looked like snow falling from the buildings but in reality it was raining flesh; the streets were covered in it as Fire Fighter Michael Stone rushed into the South Tower and headed up the B stairs with five others from Ladder 10/Engine 10. Over his handie-walkie radio Stone could hear “MAYDAY’S” as they joined other fire fighters and climbed the stairs, pushing past single file lines of evacuees streaming down from the lower floors. Everyone was reasonably calm considering the chaos inside the building although Stone was scared about what he would be facing – when he had entered the Tower it looked like at least fifteen floors were burning and he had never seen a fire that big; Stone didn’t know how they would ever get it under control. Around the twenty-first floor they came upon a pregnant woman taking the stairs one step at a time and one of the Lieutenants from Engine 21 told Stone to get her down while the rest of Ladder 10 kept going up. Stone had the woman wrap her arms around his neck so it was easier to carry her; there was a mixture of fear and panic in her face and he gently reassured her that everything would be okay. He thought of his own wife, due with their first child in a few weeks, and wished he had called her before entering the building to let her know everything was alright so she wouldn’t worry.

MY HOLOCAUST

2011-09-07T14:18:00.001-04:00

Nick Triplow has a new site: STATUS STORIES (which features short fiction in 100 words or less). One of my stories: My Holocaust, is up there - you can also check it out below:

My Holocaust

My father left when I was two – just walked out the front door and never looked back. I grew up in a world suddenly different than the one my friends shared, shaped by something that had been out of my control, but carrying a pain that stayed with me forever. I spent too many years emotionally crippled, chasing the shadows of ghosts I hoped could fill his space.
I could never erase the longing.
The emptiness lasted a lifetime.
I wish I could explain to my own children why I left their mother, but those words never come out right.

SOUVENIRS

2011-08-30T09:27:00.000-04:00

My newest story: SOUVENIRS is up this week at Jeanette Cheezum's CAVALCADEOFSTARS. You can check it out at:

http://cavalcadeofstars.wordpress.com/

Thanks to Jeanette and her readers for debuting this story.

The Times They Are A-Changin'

2011-07-13T16:15:00.001-04:00

My latest post/rant about the WSJ, publishing, and noted author and literary giant from The Jersey Shore - Snooki is up at SLIDING DOWN THE RAZOR'S EDGE. You can check it out at:

http://slidingdowntherazorsedge.blogspot.com

Lost Exit Climbing The Amazon Best Seller Charts

2011-06-30T14:34:00.000-04:00

Not a misprint .....as of today, LOST EXIT is now #43 on Amazon's list of Best Selling Sports Fiction, ahead of books by greats like Dan Jenkins, Frank Deford, Peter Gent, and Don deLillo. It comes as a little bit of a surprise since I never considered LOST EXIT much of a sports book, even though the central theme revolves around basketball. For me it is more about a troubled kid coming of age, with a few mobsters, drugs, and dead bodies thrown in for good measure, along with a little sex and some more violence added to round out the good, wholesome fun......but I'm excited about the book's climb up the charts.

SLIDING DOWN THE RAZOR"S EDGE

2011-06-19T09:25:00.000-04:00

I have a Father's Day post up at my other site (Sliding Down The Razor's Edge) entitled Dear Dad. You can check it out at:

slidingdowntherazorsedge.blogspot.com

Thanks (and happy Father's Day to the men who are their for kids - whether they are fathers or not).

THE LONG WALK HOME

2011-06-06T11:46:00.000-04:00

I posted a new story over at Six Sentences last week (a little different fare than the usual blood, guts, and violence indicative of a Kevin Michaels story):

We were in the fourth grade the first time I walked you home that cold, rainy October day after one of the neighborhood kids had picked on you, and I promised to always be there to protect you. By the time high school rolled around I walked you home from the bus stop every afternoon, pretending I needed help with my homework, looking for reasons to talk while working up the courage to admit I wanted to be more than friends. During a summer break from college, I walked you home that same day the doctors said there was nothing more they could do for your mom; I held your hand and let the tears fall, remembering the promise I had made that afternoon in grammar school. And for years, after long, hard days at work I walked you home to the house we shared, unsure how we would pay all the bills yet still have something left in the bank to build a future, but certain about the depth of our love with the strength only the young or the foolish possess. We raised five kids, filling our house with love, laughter, and many more good times than bad, and each night after dinner when we walked up and down the neighborhood streets before turning for home, it felt as good as that first time I walked you home. Now an emptiness surrounds me with each step I take on those same streets filled with memories of our conversations, and an overwhelming loneliness comes over me while I hold you close in my heart and walk home alone.

Thanks for checking it out-

GRACE

2011-05-30T11:16:00.000-04:00

This originally ran in Six Sentences a few years back - for Memorial Day and in honor of everyone who ever served our country:

The sand felt warm, the way it usually was on Saturday afternoons in Seaside Heights; face down on the beach under a hot July sun that burned my back and shoulders while Jenny was getting cheese fries and Cokes from the boardwalk concession stand. Later we would jump the waves, venturing farther from shore until the life guards motioned us back, their shrill whistles straining above the roar of the surf and the cacophony of voices that filled the air - ready to save us if we needed help. As the waves rolled into our bodies she would squeeze her arms around my neck and try to drag me under but I could always kick free, riding the wave to the beach and tumbling out of the water with my stomach red, raw, and bleeding from the shells and pebbles that tore my skin and filled the waistband of my trunks; the water would surge forward over the chairs and towels of people too close to the tide line, sending them in a frantic scramble towards drier ground before pulling back with the empty cans, baggies filled with left-over snacks, and cheap plastic toys that had been left behind. Later Jenny would shiver as she held me close on the blanket, towels wrapped around our shoulders, her lips cold, salty, and wet as they pressed against mine, and the warmth we shared would spread throughout my body and stay with me on the drive home. I could feel that warm sand under my face as I opened my eyes in an unfamiliar expanse of desert, just north of Tikrit - a world away from New Jersey and the cool waves of the ocean; the ground was wet with the blood that poured from the gaping hole in my stomach and the mangled pieces of flesh and bone that had once been my legs. I heard the voices of the soldiers around me, the fear and panic in their screams as they tried to help, and felt the searing wave of heat and pain that swept over me - I closed my eyes and wanted only to be home again.

NO SUCH THING

2011-05-03T16:21:00.000-04:00

It was barely past noon but it felt like nightfall. The pine trees formed a thick, dark canopy over the winding dirt road – sunlight barely pierced the cover of the branches in spots overhead. Burnt, stunted, twisted pygmy pine trees with multiple trunks dotted the sides of the road, needles shooting out at odd, random angles. A few feet past those trees, beyond the scrub oaks, moss, and ferns, sand pits that could swallow a car the same way the Bermuda Triangle consumed ships were hidden by the underbrush. And in other spots the ground was still scorched black from the fires three summers earlier.

Dance grit his teeth as he steered the Jeep down the road. He hit every bump and ditch hard enough to lift him out of his seat, no matter how slowly he drove. His shoulder banged against the roll cage as he jerked the wheel back and forth, trying to avoid the ruts carved deep in the sand but it was useless.

He hadn’t been down this road in a few years; probably not since the fires. It was his bad luck to be the only deputy on duty when Sheriff Cole called.

“Need you to swing by Tilden Brown’s place,” the Sheriff had said. “He hasn’t been seen in days.”

“So? Nothing unusual about that.”

“His Momma’s starting to worry. Ain’t like him not to show.”

“Probably just lost track of time,” Dance said.

“Maybe,” Cole said. “But I still need you to drive out there and make sure everything’s okay. You never know what that boy is into.”

That was what worried Dance. Everything about Tilden was trouble. He just hoped this didn’t have anything to do with the meth lab Tilden kept on his property.

Check out the rest of the story at:

http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com

Six Sixes at Six Sentences

2011-04-30T14:40:00.001-04:00

A six story collection of my shorts is being replayed at 6 Sentences (some oldies but goodies). You can check them out at:

http://sixsentences.ning.com/

A little gritty, but two of my favorite characters Twist (Catching Paradise) and Bone (The Steps You Take) have shown up in other stories here and there, and are part of my novel: STILL BLACK REMAINS.

A big debt of gratitude to Rob McEvily over at 6S - about three years ago he was one of the first to take a chance on a little known writer, and since then, Six Sentences has been a great place for me to test my skills, try out new ideas, push the envelope, and have a lot of fun as a writer.

Guest Post - No Such Thing

2011-04-20T10:06:00.002-04:00

I'm guesting over at Paul D. Brazill's excellent site: You Would Say That, Wouldn't You?

Head on over there and check out my story NO SUCH THING, which is being featured at:

http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com

Thanks!

New Things To Check Out

2011-04-11T17:47:00.000-04:00

A couple of interesting reads to check out:

First, Matt Hilton makes his AT THE BIJOU DEBUT with a RatPack inspired piece abut Bobby Darin. You can read it (as well as some other great stories) at:
http://at-the-bijou.blogspot.com/

Then, there's been some great commentary as well as more follow up dialogue on social networking and its use in promoting writers' work at both Angel Zapata's blog: A RAGE OF ANGEL and Anne R. Allen's. Check each out at the following links:
http://annerallen.blogspot.com/

http://arageofangel.blogspot.com/

5 X 5 Fiction

2011-03-24T11:52:00.000-04:00

A short time ago Angel Zapata launched a new site for writers called 5 X 5 Fiction. A simple and cool premise: complete stories exactly 25 words long, told in exactly five sentences, with each sentence exactly 5 words. The first issue entitled Murder, Monsters, and Misfortune is out with stories by some great writers who are not only friends, but whose work I thoroughly admire. My own story, Bleed it Out was also included.

Take the time to check it out at:
http://5x5fiction.blogspot.com/

NEW INTERVIEW - KINDLE AUTHOR

2011-03-16T13:01:00.001-04:00

My recent interview with David Wisehart about the release of Lost Exit on Kindle is up today. No violence or cursing (at least nothing usually associated with a Kevin Michaels story), but it's still a good read. If you're interested, you can check it out at:

http://kindle-author.blogspot.com/2011/03/kindle-author-interview-kevin-michaels.html

Thanks!

NEW COVER - LOST EXIT

2011-03-12T12:17:00.004-05:00

A little tweaking on LOST EXIT.....within the past week we've changed the cover to one that's a little grittier, and better reflects the Atlantic City in the story.

WHO'S GOT THE ACTION (featured - At The Bijou)

2011-03-01T14:02:00.003-05:00

Recently I was invited by Absolutely Kate Pilarcik to be a part of a fun new series of stories featuring the Rat Pack (Sinatra…Dean Martin…Sammy Davis….how cool is that?) at At The Bijou. With a cast of great writers/talent: Eric Beetner, Paul Brazill, Julie Morgan, Sean Patrick Reardon, Anthony Venutulo, Kate, and Robert Randisi headlining the action, it was a no-brainer. My first story – Who’s Got The Action - kicks off the collection with a little tale about friendship, loyalty, and the 500 Club in Atlantic City where Sinatra was known to hang out (and Martin and Lewis got their start).

You can read it here at:

http://at-the-bijou.blogspot.com/2011/02/rat-pack-revue-whos-got-action-by-kevin.html

NO TEARS FOR CRYING (published in A Twist Of Noir)

2011-02-25T12:55:00.003-05:00

It was a little after ten on a quiet night but Ice didn’t care about the time. Ten o’clock or eleven o’clock didn’t matter much either way. All he needed was a couple of hours to establish an alibi in case somebody showed up with questions and search warrants.

Ice had his Nine tucked inside a sweatshirt pocket and his hood pulled low over his head as he moved along the sidewalk. The street was quiet. A few heads poked out apartment windows, a couple of corner boys huddled together sharing cigarettes in the doorway of the Korean grocery store, and a hip-hop beat blasted from a radio perched on somebody’s second story window ledge. A few blocks away a siren wailed but the sound faded as the car raced towards another street

None of that was important.

A neighborhood kid named Derrick who had been Ice’s cellmate in county lock-up a few years back had been hit while he was standing on the corner talking to friends. Nobody saw it coming. A dark blue Honda Civic had rolled quietly down the street, pulling alongside Derrick. Two shooters with Glocks leaned out windows and opened fire before he could even turn around. They cut down Derrick before he made it halfway across the sidewalk, leaving him facedown on the concrete in a pool of blood.

Nobody knew anything, but Ice was certain the guy behind it was a punk named Jayson.

Jayson and Derrick ran in a Pacific Avenue crew, slinging rock and pills to tourists and casino workers near Trump Plaza, across the street from Convention Hall. Somebody said Jayson got greedy and wanted a bigger share of the profits. There was no such thing as an amicable end to business partnerships in their neighborhood, and nobody walked away when somebody wanted you gone. Things got settled without handshakes and buyouts.

Now Ice wanted him dead.

READ THE FULL STORY AT:

http://a-twist-of-noir.blogspot.com/2011/02/twist-of-noir-658-kevin-michaels.html

BUY THIS BOOK OR I'LL SHOOT THE DOG

2011-02-10T21:01:00.000-05:00

With the release of LOST EXIT last week, I’ve taken the next step in a long journey. In some ways, writing the book was the easy part – the hard work of growing an audience, building demand, and increasing sales for that book starts now. The next few weeks will be consumed with book reviews, ARC’s, blog posts, and press releases (while waiting for Oprah to call….). While all that is going on I will still be writing – moving forward with three or four short stories that I’ve committed to writing and plunging into my third book. Time was never a friend but for years we maintained an uneasy balancing act and tenuous alliance. Going the independent publishing route has changed that dynamic but I’m okay with that.

As always, there are critics. I’ve been told that I’m going to lose focus, worse, that my artistic vision will suffer.

Artistic vision and voice are very important as a writer, but exposure is equally critical. Writers write but we also want to get our words and stories in front of as many readers as possible. You can’t rely on somebody else to do it for you. You need to make it happen yourself – take every opportunity to find that audience and get every reader’s attention by any means possible. Every one of us who writes is confident people will fall in love with our words once they read them, but first you have to convince someone to pick up the book and shell out their cash to read those words. That means doing what you have to do to create a buzz, find an audience, and sell your books.

Writing is a business. Plain and simple. Always has been and always will be.

You can’t change the world if nobody hears you.

BOOK STORES ARE DEAD AND I KILLED THEM.....

2011-01-21T15:34:00.003-05:00

Recently I decided to go the indie route with the release of my first novel (LOST EXIT). It wasn’t an easy decision, especially since I consider myself a traditionalist – I love book stores, enjoy the feel of an old hard cover in my hands, and get tremendous pleasure browsing the aisles or discovering a previously unknown author. As a writer I followed the path millions had taken over the years: querying agents, submitting manuscripts, looking for connections, waiting months for a response (if one even came), and trying to beat the odds to get published. But like many other writers, I have realized that this business model is dead and no longer works. The future is e-publishing. Aside from the ease at getting books into print and the benefits of making more money, e-publishing allows writers to get their stories to market much faster (and isn’t that the goal of every writer: to get what we’ve written in front of readers…).

A few days ago while wandering the aisles of a nearby bookstore I struck up a conversation with another customer. Before long it came out that I was a writer, and within minutes the conversation veered towards the topic of e-publishing. I listened to her condemnation of Kindles, Nooks, Ipads, etc. but offered my opinion that as a writer I believe it is a viable and realistic option. Her expression of horror was followed by one of outrage then indignation. She loudly proclaimed to everyone that it was my fault that bookstores as big as Borders and as small as the independent store on Main Street were crashing and burning…….

I never knew I had that kind of power.

Time to face the future: the same way that the music business has gone from vinyl to cassettes to CDs to downloadable songs….and the same way we have transitioned from quill pens/ink wells to ball point pens to typewriters and then laptops, publishing has to change and evolve. I don’t see too many people driving 1957 Chevy Bel-Airs any more, and the cars on the road today have better features than what our parents and grandparents drove -writing, like transportation, is all about going from one place to the other faster, quicker, and more efficiently. The publishing industry has to move forward, and I’m ready to be a part of that evolution.

So yes, I’m the one who killed book stores……I only wish I had done it sooner.

COMING SOON: LOST EXIT

2010-12-27T15:18:00.002-05:00

It has been a long summer of violence, turmoil, and change in Atlantic City as the city continues its transformation from faded seaside resort to vibrant, entertainment, gambling Mecca. Life styles clash on the Boardwalk, in the casinos, and in gang controlled neighborhoods while a bloody territorial war between rival families has left a trail of bodies scattered throughout the town. LOST EXIT revolves around Timmy Davenport, a self-destructive college basketball player home for the summer, searching for the answers in life that have so far escaped him. The heart of the story is about Timmy and his relationships with his family and friends, as well as the city he grew up in, and the love of a game that was once his salvation. As he prepares for a basketball tournament that can define his future, Timmy, like Atlantic City itself, has to confront the ghosts of his past before he can move forward.

LOST EXIT looks at a character haunted by his own poor choices and addictions in a harsh, brutal world where he has struggled to find himself. The story is about a last chance opportunity for Timmy to prove himself while battling his inner demons on and off the courts before piecing his life back together. Timely and intense, LOST EXIT blends the pain and angst of youth with the emotional struggle of characters coming to grips with their own identities.

CRAWLING TO GRACE (published in Foundling Review)

2010-12-16T15:48:00.001-05:00

In the silence of night memories scream awake and the old man is again forced to relive the horror of that island – time hasn’t stopped the waves of panic and fear that flood his sleep. His wife had spent years patiently easing him into each morning, holding him until the crying and trembling passed, but the cancer that finally took her left him all alone to fend off the nightmares. Some how, the loneliness of his bed has made the intensity of the dreams much worse and unbearable.
Despite the years he can still see the bright orange-yellow flashes of the .50 caliber guns on the battleships and destroyers blasting the island, hear the deafening explosions of the Japanese artillery and mortar rounds that blanketed the beach, and feel the stare of every soldier who looked at him like he was supposed to get them to safety. Like his stripes gave him an ability and knowledge none of them possessed, and that somehow that was enough. He remembers rolling over the gunwales on the boat into a cold, violent surf, and the way they crawled on their bellies, inching through black sand and volcanic grit to escape that beach but there was no cover from enemy fire. The Japs were dug in, entrenched inside concrete pillboxes at the top of the ridge, laying down interlocking bands of fire that sliced apart whole companies of Marines, and there was nothing he could do to save anyone. Over and over in his dreams he hears their screams and the heart-breaking agony in their voices as blood runs into the sand. He has spent too many mornings through too many years asking why he survived when so many didn’t – searching for some kind of reason that might make sense of it all.
But it is a question that remains unanswered.
Time has created gaps, eroded details, and chipped away at other parts of his life, but the old man never forgets what he left on that nasty little nothing island named Iwo Jima.
Or how much the fight for freedom has truly cost him.

ARCHER

2010-11-12T09:43:00.001-05:00

On a two lane county road near Vineland, the skies that had been dark and threatening for hours finally opened up in a violent explosion of lightning and thunder cracks. Archer pulled into a small bar tucked beneath the highway overpass to shake off the rain and kill time. There were no more than a handful of people inside; nobody paid attention to him as he slid onto a bar stool and ordered a Jack Daniels. Quietly sipping his whiskey, he watched the redhead nearby nursing her own drink, finally chancing a smile when she glanced his way but she casually flipped the hair from her face and turned away from his stare. By the time she started gathering her things and saying good-byes to the people around her, Archer was already picturing the feel of his hands against her skin, the smell of her breath on his face, and the way her voice would sound when he held her close. He tossed a twenty on the bar, slipped his fingers around the switchblade in his coat pocket, and headed outside into the shadows of the parking lot to wait for her to leave.

UNION BLUES (published in 6S volume III)

2010-09-09T17:20:00.001-04:00

Preacher Bob’s sermons had been filled with words of hope and perseverance for so long that Junior lost track of the weekly messages; he wasn’t sure the Preacher even believed them any more. If this was supposed to be part of God’s plan like he told the congregation every Sunday, it wasn’t going too well – the unemployment checks had stopped fifteen months earlier, food stamps didn’t stretch far enough, and it was impossible to survive on the cash scraped together from odd jobs. His old man had gone to work every day for years, paid his bills, raised a family, and lived the American Dream on their tree-lined street in his little Cape Cod; Junior grew up picturing the same kind of life for himself. But that was before the Ford plant in Edison closed and left most of the storefronts in town boarded shut – before Mary took the baby and told him she was done waiting for things to get better. She walked out and it left the house with the kind of emptiness that wrapped its arms around him and squeezed out the last pieces of his dreams. Junior leaned back, closed his eyes, and took a long hard swallow from his Bud, thinking the Preacher needed to find something different to say next Sunday.

ANGELS OF THE BALLROOM (published in 6S Vol III)

2010-07-30T11:46:00.000-04:00

Once Madeline dreamed of dancing beneath moonlit skies, with the soft sound of the wind whispering her name. Now she spends her days in a chair by the window, staring down an empty street, waiting for visitors who never show. Her husband is gone, her children rarely stop by, and the phone never rings – conversations, like friendships, ran out years earlier. All she wants is to dance quietly with her grandchildren wrapped around her knees but she doesn’t understand why they have no time for her. Madeline never thought she would pay for her independence with loneliness; the hurt is heavy and familiar in ways she cannot explain and doesn’t understand. She counts each hour as it drops away, silently wishing she could have back what was left behind.

MILES TO MEMORIES (published in At The Bijou)

2010-05-28T13:11:00.004-04:00

You wanted to be like Hurley when you were a kid; imagining where life would take you once you grew past the astronaut, cop, and fireman stage of adolescent dreams and desires – when you were told by teachers to picture yourself living in the nine to five world parents inhabited and not the imaginary one of grade school youth. Hurley was a man who seemed to have everything; well liked by others and someone very few would say anything derogatory about, at least not openly. He was different - unlike the fathers of my childhood I remembered seeing on the train platform dressed for the office in their suits, ties, and overcoats, while balancing briefcases, coffee cups, and morning editions of the Times and Wall Street Journal. Men caught up in their spread sheets, cash flow projections, and mergers; too busy for the mundane parts of life.
He was more than that.
It wasn’t something I knew at first, but some things became obvious a few minutes into our conversation. Memories, like long forgotten dreams came back in a rush of emotion and a hard punch to the chest, and in an instant I was just another ten year old kid on the street where I grew up.
Looking for approval, or at least understanding, from someone who didn’t know anything about me.
“You don’t realize how good you got it,” Hurley told me as he finished the last of his Absolut. “None of the pressure and none of the stress that can kill you fifteen years down the road. Things are easy for you right now.”
Nothing I had ever been through seemed easy. Whatever I could say about that I kept to myself.

The full story can be found at:
http://at-the-bijou.blogspot.com/2010/05/miles-to-memories-by-kevin-michaels-of.html

INADEQUACIES OF HEAVEN (published in 6S V3)

2010-05-06T11:27:00.000-04:00

The day had broken cold and gray as the man turned off the street a block from the boardwalk, trudging slowly in the heavy snow towards the old, abandoned building. The plywood covering the windows and doors was meant to keep out vagrants, but he managed to squeeze through a hole where one of the boards had been pried loose; the turn of the century building was a stark reminder of Asbury Park’s once vivid past and subsequent decades-long descent, although the man cared nothing for its history – he just wanted a place to rest, away from the bitter cold. The sores on his hands and legs were scabbed with blood and his beard flecked with dried vomit he hadn’t bothered to wash away in the Bus Terminal men’s room. It was never supposed to be like this but he couldn’t remember when life had ever been any different; his dreams had died so many years earlier that the memories were gone with no trace of the things he wanted. A fear of death, crushing in its weight and intensity gnawed at his insides before exploding into sickening panic; but then just as quickly that panic dimmed and his thoughts calmed. The man closed his eyes and let himself drift away, thinking that it wasn’t so bad – there were worse ways to die, and even worse ways to live.

TWITCH (published in Writing Raw)

2010-05-04T11:34:00.002-04:00

It was hard to stay cool.
The heat waves curled off the asphalt road and rolled across the desert, making it impossible to remain focused. It wasn’t any easier with sixteen pounds of body armor, especially as the Kevlar absorbed every ounce of sweat and the fabric increased in weight. It was brutal and uncomfortable, and I could feel those extra pounds with every movement and each step I took. There was no escaping the heat, no matter what time of the day or night, and it was all we talked about.
Except when the topic was getting shot by snipers.
Or being maimed by IEDs and roadside bombs.
Conversations like that had each of us riding nasty, serrated edges and suppressing our fears.
It was a couple of months after they found Saddam hiding in the underground hole near his old hometown in the desert. We were already tense, six long hours into a roadside checkpoint in the Salahuddin Province north of Baghdad; surrounded by people intent on making us leave their country – willing to take any risk and pay any price to accomplish that mission. We dreamed about going stateside, although it was just an abstract memory – vaguely familiar but impossible to remember in detail. Everything had changed since we had been deployed. Nothing about home seemed real any longer. Our only goal from the minute we laced up our boots in the morning until we fell back into bed at night was to make it through the tour; anything else was unimaginable. We took it day by day, one step at a time. In basic training they taught us to channel any thoughts that took away focus, no matter how tough the conditions, but it was difficult doing that in the hell of the Iraqi desert. Clouds of dust swirled around, stuck in my throat, and left me coughing like a two pack a day smoker, barely able to swallow. Sometimes the dirt got inside my goggles, leaving me unable to decide whether to use my canteen water to clear my vision or quench an unbearable thirst that remained day after day.
Cool was an afterthought.

READ THE ENTIRE STORY AT:
http://writingraw.com

DOWNBOUND A (published in The Foundling Review)

2010-01-18T09:07:00.001-05:00

Fall came early that year. The edge in the air wasn’t just the cold, raw wind cutting down the street – the unity and collective embrace briefly shared after September 11th had faded. The weight from the smoldering rubble a few blocks south was still heavy as Tommy Gallagher descended into the Church Street Station.
Making his way below, collar turned up and head down, Gallagher avoided the faces and stares of those around him. The darkness of the stairway paralleled the mood of the city.
It was out of that darkness that he heard the soft wailing sound of a saxophone. Haunting and edgy with bite like something by Coltrane or Sonny Rollins, the melody stirred something deep inside. Gallagher turned the corner and slowed before finally stopping alongside others who stood unmoving, listening in rapt silence.
A tall, black musician in a well-worn tee shirt and leather jacket, with dreadlocks and a wispy goatee stood across the platform, a small leather case open at his feet. He held his sax like a dance partner, hips swaying slightly as he dipped from side to side while the notes cascaded throughout the caverns of the station. With more than the usual thirty second sound bite Gallagher was accustomed to from subway performers, this was as if the A train had paused up the tracks to let him play. Gallagher held on each note as the music carried him to a time and place where warmth and beauty found its way into his heart again. A place where hope made its presence felt.
Business executives, secretaries, students, messengers, and laborers all stood together as one. For those few minutes on the platform each of them was taken far away where they could forget about hurt, pain, and memories of friends lost in the Towers.
The A pulled into the station and Gallagher quickly joined the rush for seats, but the music continued as the doors closed and the train started down the tracks; when he turned he could still see the saxophonist moving slowly back and forth. They continued towards Brooklyn and the musician disappeared from view as Gallagher settled back into his seat. His eyes moved from passenger to passenger, and in each expression he saw the same thing he felt inside – something that had been missing.
And for the first time in weeks, Gallagher smiled.

http://www.foundlingreview.com/Jan2010Issue2Michaels.html

GIVEN TO AIR (published in Six Sentences)

2009-10-08T09:49:00.001-04:00

Somewhere west of Cherry Hill, where Route 30 merged with the Turnpike, the first rays of sunlight broke through the morning in an explosion of red, yellow, and orange hues that lit up the sky. Porter steered his Harley through the toll booth, feeling the power of the engine between his legs and a comforting familiarity in the vibrations from the road. He opened up the throttle and felt the cold rush of air in his face as he accelerated into the car lanes. He knew Donna would find his note taped to the refrigerator in their Jane Street kitchen and laugh when she got to the part where he wrote that something was broke between them, but he didn’t know how else to say it – beyond the things already spoken, too much remained in silence between them. She never took his clumsy attempts at finding the right words seriously, even when it was all he had left to give. As the white lines and the miles rolled past like the years he had wasted chasing dreams that would never come true, Porter wondered if she would really miss him as much as he hoped.

http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2009/09/given-to-air.html

GOT NO REASON (published in Unheard Magazine)

2009-09-28T12:25:00.001-04:00

Mercy had sworn it would be the last time he touched her, no matter what kind of promises he made, and she is determined to see that through. She knows his promises aren’t much different than his threats, and the words become worthless after he finishes off a couple of six packs. He spends most nights filled with drunken bitterness; simmering in anger that rages the longer he sits on the couch, watching reruns of old cop shows and thinking about all the things that might have been. Mad that the years have rolled past so quickly and unable to appreciate anything he has. His violent explosions once the six packs are gone leave her hurt and bloodied, stuck inside the double-wide for days until the swelling goes down and the bruises fade enough that she doesn’t have to hide them.
By then he has forgotten all of his apologies. When the words don’t mean anything there is no reason to remember them.
It’s going to change, Mercy tells herself. She made a promise that she intends to keep.
No way she ever wants to smell his hot, nasty breath on her face, or feel those rough calloused fingers scratching her skin again. There’s no excuse for the things he does to her, no matter what kind of explanations he gives. The little tenderness he offers through the sobs and tears never go far enough to erase her pain or make it disappear completely. Never quite makes up for what’s been lost.
He just doesn’t understand any of that.
Mercy waits until she hears the familiar pop of a beer can opening in the kitchen, then the refrigerator door slamming shut, bottles and cans rattling on the shelves as he stumbles back through the living room. Knows it won’t be long before he pushes his way into the bedroom with bad intentions written all over his expression. Mercy had found that old thirty-eight on the top shelf in the closet, loading the bullets that had been rolling around the nightstand drawer, and sits on the bed now with the gun in her lap.
In the darkness of her room, she waits.
Mercy knows she’s done pretending to be just like other girls, and wonders if her Daddy is going to feel the same kind of pain she’s felt for years when she pulls the trigger.

http://unheardmag.com/2009/08/20/issue-3/

The Way It Crumbles (published in Darkest Before The Dawn)

2009-07-08T09:24:00.000-04:00

“Got your Nine?” Cheese asked.
Twist nodded.
“Keep it tucked inside your pocket,” Cheese said between sips of Pepsi. “Make it easy to pull when the time comes to use it.”
Twist didn’t say anything – his eyes never left the front of the discount liquor store on Raymond Boulevard. He sat quietly behind the wheel of the Sentra, his head resting against the seat, taking in everything up and down the street. Nothing escaped his stare. It was a hot Tuesday afternoon - the store’s neon sign blinked off and on in the sunlight, like a beacon pointing the way towards hope, refuge, and salvation. They had been watching the store for at least an hour but in that time saw only a handful of customers, and Twist wondered about the size of this score. No way it would get them more than a couple of bucks, he worried. It didn’t seem worth the effort.
“Ain’t important what they got in the registers,” Cheese told him.
Twist shot him a look. “It’s a waste of time if all we gonna get is a couple of twenties and some cold six packs.”
“Gonna be a decent score. More to it than just the money in the till.”
“How you know that?”
Cheese smiled. “Guy who manages the place don’t go to the bank more than once a day,” he said. “That means he still got last night’s cash sitting in a bag underneath the counter, just ready to be taken.”
“And how you so sure about that?”
“I know how things work,” Cheese said with certainty as he eyed the street. “Know all about this store.”
He was all cockiness and street – short, compact body like a point guard, hair cropped short, and a thin trim line of stubble stretching beneath his chin. Attitude, style, and a cocky smile.
Twist leaned back and waited. His expression was hard, tired, and weary, and his eyes heavy and drawn. His hair was cut high on top and shaved close on the sides, and a deep scar cut across his ebony skin from his right eye to the corner of his mouth. Barely eighteen, he carried weariness and anger that came from needing things he couldn’t have while everyone else got what they wanted......

READ THE ENTIRE STORY AT:
http://www.darkestbeforedawn.net/?q=node/34

FALLING DOWN (published in A Twist Of Noir)

2009-06-04T14:56:00.001-04:00

My short FALLING DOWN which was originally published in Powder Burn Flash is up at A Twist Of Noir:

http://a-twist-of-noir.blogspot.com/2009/06/twist-of-noir-094-kevin-michaels.html

As writers I know we are not supposed to become enamored of the charcters or stories we write, but this one flowed so easily and was a real pleasure to put down on paper. I'm glad to see it getting some more exposure.

Shimmer (published in Tuesday Shorts)

2009-05-29T13:26:00.000-04:00

Somewhere south of Bordentown she stopped talking, leaving only the songs on the radio to fill the silence. While Springsteen sang about hurt and lost love I wondered when it was that everything between us had changed; what we once shared had slowly faded over time until there was nothing left. Now there was fear in her eyes, subtle cracks in that stoic expression I’d known since childhood. Pain that doctors couldn’t ease any more. I searched for words to bridge the distance but they stuck in my throat, and we drove home in a quiet so heavy it hurt.

Bailey (published in 6S Vol 2)

2009-05-23T09:46:00.000-04:00

On a sidewalk near Vesey Street, Bailey shook his cup and smiled at each person as he asked them for spare change. Dreadlocked and dirty, the sores on his arms covered by long sleeves, he tried hiding the shame in his eyes while ignoring the occasional taunts of “get a job you fucking bum.” Even though he was used to it the words always hurt, almost as much as the sneers businessmen gave him and the way women stuffed coins back in their purses, turning cold shoulders to him as if he were invisible. Inside Starbucks the Assistant Manager started towards the door again to chase him away for the third time that morning; Bailey was hurrying to put his belongings back in his cart when the first plane slammed in the Tower. Within hours the neighborhood that he knew had drastically changed – those same men and women now looked just like him with dazed expressions and blank stares, afraid and fearful of all they had lost. And in the horror of that day, when it all fell apart for so many, Bailey smiled as he realized that for once he wasn’t alone with his fears any more.

Deals, Concessions, and Bargaining Power

2009-05-23T09:43:00.000-04:00

Published in DARKEST BEFORE THE DAWN:

http://www.darkestbeforedawn.net/?q=node/26

The Story Teller (published in 6S Vol. 2)

2009-05-05T09:24:00.000-04:00

I would read her stories on quiet summer days as we sat along the river, just the two of us stretched out in the tall grass, hidden in the shade of the pine trees lining the banks of the Mullica while a gentle breeze cooled our skin. She liked the way I read to her and said it wasn’t just the stories but the sound of my voice – how I would give some words little twists of emotion, along with the emphasis I put on certain sentences to make them stand out, and I loved the way Katie would giggle when I mispronounced the vocabulary words we had learned in Miss Rittenberg’s English class only weeks earlier. Her body would sway slowly from side to side before she dropped her head in my lap, closing her eyes to listen as I read; the hours and days that passed never mattered back then, neither one of us ever imagining we could run out of time or that it would pass so quickly. Some days we dreamed about a world beyond the Mullica and our little New Jersey town - as the years went by we talked about a life together and a world waiting to be explored; Katie would take my hand in hers as I told another story about the places we could go and smile at the depth of my ambition and the strength of our growing love. Now, I am left to fill our days with stories about the places we have visited while wishing that for a little while we can return, if only in our dreams - some times for just a few moments my words unlock a memory long since buried and her eyes light up with a recognition that is both rare and fleeting. All I can do is hope that the next time I read to her I will again see that glow in her eyes and the spark that lights up her expression when she briefly remembers the life and the love we have shared.

Hard Streak (published in Powder Burn Flash)

2009-04-19T16:21:00.000-04:00

Every drunk had a story, Hurley thought; he didn’t need this guy going on about his poor luck. It didn’t matter to him. There was nothing different about what he had to say and it was nothing he hadn’t heard before.
He was somebody from the neighborhood named Danny Ryan; middle-aged with faded blue tattoos etched in his arms and a face that looked years older than it really was. A guy who worked day jobs unloading cargo at Port Elizabeth, then spent what he made on beer and cigarettes once he cashed the pay check.
Ryan leaned forward, his elbows digging into the bar, talking to an audience limited to the evening bartender wiping glasses with a soapy rag, some kid in the corner who hadn’t spoken in an hour, and Hurley on the stool next to him. Hurley took a sip of his Bud and pretended to listen without really paying much attention. The thing with most drunks was that they could carry a conversation entirely on their own as long as you let them go on and didn’t disagree too vehemently with anything they said.
A drunk unchallenged, fed a steady stream of beer and whiskey, could go on for hours.
“Haven’t had much luck in a long time,” Ryan said. He took a hard swallow of whiskey, grimacing as the liquor burned his throat. “Things been a little tight.”
There was always something with guys like him – poor luck, a bad day at the track, numbers that didn’t hit. Life was a lottery ticket they could never cash. Hurley had learned through the years that you had to work for everything; if you wanted it bad enough you had to take it, although he was a little down on his own luck if you believed in things like that. He had spread out his debt among three different loan sharks, just so he wasn’t in too deep to any one guy on the street, but he couldn’t cover the vig on what he owed without something changing soon.
“Welcome to my world,” he muttered.
The guy let out a small laugh.
Hurley didn’t see anything funny about that. He wasn’t desperate but he could feel the pressure mounting - there was nothing as worrisome as the fear that crept into your thoughts when you had no money. He had a twenty-two tucked inside the waist of his jeans, pressed hard against the small of his back; most times he felt the cold steel against his bare skin and got a sense of comfort and reassurance, but that was missing now. If something didn’t change soon he would be forced to take on the kind of high risk, low yield jobs like liquor store and gas station hold-ups he had done as a teenager. A handful of twenties was still better than nothing, he thought.
Ryan shook his head at the misfortune written in Hurley’s expression.
“Things are tough, huh?”
Hurley returned his own hard stare. “So how is it that you got all this shit going bad around you and you’re sitting here laughing?” he asked. “Parked on your ass all night, buying shots of whiskey if you got no money?”
Ryan smiled and patted his shirt pocket. Hurley watched the smile widen as Ryan reached into the pocket and pulled out a thick roll of bills.
Hurley let out a low whistle.
“Got almost three grand here,” Ryan said. “I’ve been playing the ponies all my life but never got a taste of anything meaningful at the track. Never had a winner that paid big money. Never had enough cash to put down on a sure thing I knew was going to come in. I never won.”
“Then last night I dropped a hundred on a thirty to one long shot at Monmouth Park. Never thought the horse would win,” he said. “Or I could get that lucky.”
Hurley stared at the wad of fifties and hundred in Ryan’s hand.
“Hell of a story.”
“Been going through some bad luck the last couple of months,” Ryan said, “but this will make things right.”
Hurley shook his head. “Let me buy you another drink,” he offered. “That kind of good luck deserves another round.”
Ryan shook his head.
“Ain’t like me to turn down a free drink,” he said, “but I got to get home before the old lady starts giving me shit.”
“The last thing I want to do is give her cause to be going through my pockets while I’m passed out on the couch in front of the TV,” he said. “That happens - I won’t ever see a dime of this money again.”
Ryan peeled off a twenty and dropped it on the bar, waving at the bartender as he slipped the remaining bills back in his pocket. “Keep the change, Eddie,” he called.
Hurley tossed a five on the bar.
“Wait up,” he said. “I’ll walk with you.”
A biting March wind tore into them, two solitary figures walking alone on the dark street, and Hurley turned up his collar against the cold. He wrapped a hand on Ryan’s shoulder as they turned a corner, slowly easing the twenty-two out of his pants with the other. “Three thousand’s a lot of money.”
“Maybe some of my good luck will rub off on you,” Ryan said with a laugh. “That’d be some story, huh?”
“Too bad your luck’s run out,” Hurley said.
He pressed the gun barrel into the flesh peeking out between the drunk’s wool coat and ski cap and quickly squeezed the trigger. Ryan’s throat exploded in a spray of blood and tissue; he clutched at the widening hole under his chin before staggering forward then crumpling dead to the concrete. Hurley took the bills from Ryan’s pocket then eased the twenty-two back inside his coat as he hurried down the street.
A score’s a score, he figured.
That was the only kind of story that mattered to him.

THINGS WE LOST ON TUESDAY (published in Six Sentences)

2009-02-24T09:08:00.000-05:00

http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2009/02/things-we-lost-on-tuesday.html

- Revelations
- Chains That Bind
- Fly Away
- 10-60
- No Quarter
- In Darkness of Dawn

BETWEEN THE LINES (from Powder Burn Flash)

2009-02-10T10:15:00.000-05:00

The guy just didn’t shut up.
One of the first lessons you learn is to keep quiet, especially when you don’t know any other cons, but apparently no one had taught him that.
Stark discovered that the first time he got sent up - he had been a tough kid who didn’t back down, no matter who got in his face and he wasn’t afraid to show it. One of the older inmates he once rode with pulled him aside a week into his stretch and said, “Just do your time and don’t say nothing to no one.”
“Don’t matter how long they give you or what kind of friends you got outside,” he added. “Ain’t nobody in here you can trust.”
Stark remembered what that old con had told him as he leaned into the table and poked at the food on the tray, his appetite gone while this guy named Randy went on and on. Monmouth Detention Center was a county lock-up, a sixty-eight man tank filled with dopers, petty criminals, low-life thieves, and DUI’s. Randy was like most of them – a hard luck story, attitude, and cockiness that hadn’t yet been hardened by experience. At least he hadn’t tried convincing anyone he was innocent, Stark thought.
Stark was four months into his year sentence for assaulting a drunk outside an Asbury Park bar. It had been his bad luck to wind up in a jail where he didn’t know anyone, so he did his time quietly. Sometimes he got into a little pushing and shoving with one of the short stint speed freaks or exchanged words with some of the older cons looking to flex, but mostly he kept to himself. He didn’t trust anyone in the cellblock and he found out quickly that it was better that way. The last thing you ever wanted to do was call attention to yourself.
Probably a lesson to remember for outside the jail too, Stark thought, although he wasn’t sure it made the same kind of difference.
Randy was a greasy, long-haired punk who looked like he had never done more than a week of lock-up. If he had, Stark thought, Randy would have known better than to run his mouth in front of strangers. He was just a cherry trying to make up for his inexperience with tough cool and bullshit.
“Used to put on a uniform and go through apartment complexes dressed like somebody from the cable company, carrying a clipboard and a tool box,” Randy bragged, barely able to swallow an ear to ear grin. “Go knocking on doors at lunch time. When a chick answered I’d tell her there were problems and I needed to look at her converter box to make sure everything was okay.”
“If she said no, I’d say ‘You want to miss your shows, it don’t matter to me. But I ain’t coming back for another two weeks, so the choice is yours’.”
“Be surprised how many let me in once you told them they wouldn’t get to see Dancing With The Stars,” Randy said with a laugh. “Hit ‘em a couple of times once they open the door and most times they just let you do what you want.”
“You so smart, how is it you got caught?” Stark asked from across the table.
“Somebody rat?” another guy asked.
“Nah, nothing like that,” Randy said with a laugh. “Got into this place up in Union and the chick’s biker boyfriend shows up in the middle of the afternoon. He was this crazy psycho and I had to jump half-naked out a second floor window to get away. Landed wrong and got the wind knocked out of me.”
“She didn’t press charges but the cops got me for breaking and entering.”
Stark stared a hole into his coffee cup.
“Something funny about getting sent up on a breaking and entering?” Stark asked.
“Nah, it ain’t that,” Randy said. “Heard he didn’t believe his old lady and busted her up pretty badly, and she didn’t do nothing except let me in.”
Stark shook his head and forced a smile along with everyone else, amazed that this guy was so matter-of-fact about it. Like the story was worth a laugh, and that sharing it with everyone got him accepted.
That night Stark stood outside the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist and waited. Showers were the best place to take someone out – blood washed off easily, clothes didn’t get stained, and it was impossible to see through the thick, opaque shower curtains. Stark dropped two bars of Ivory soap in a sock, knotted the end, and held it coiled close to his body.
When Randy stepped into the shower Stark moved in quickly behind him. He smashed the sock against the back of his head, dropping him to his knees with one blow. Before Randy could turn around Blunt cracked it across the side of his head, crushing his skull and shattering the bones in his face. Randy slid face down on the tiles, blood streaming from his ear and nose; instinctively curling into a fetal position as Stark pummeled him relentlessly with the sock. He beat him unconscious, stomped a foot into his gut for good measure, then furiously lathered his hands with the bars of soap before dropping them into the hot water puddling at the drain.
No one saw anything, no one knew anything, and the subsequent investigation didn’t last long – within a few days Randy was old news.
That Saturday Stark got his ten minute phone call, waiting on line for two hours at the pay phone so he could talk to his brother.
“Remember that guy you told me about,” he said. “You know, the one you caught jumping out your old lady’s window?”
There was a moment of silence before his brother grunted a hesitant yes.
“Got a funny thing to tell you about that,” Stark said.

LAST WALTZ (posted in StrangeRoad.com)

2009-02-05T09:56:00.000-05:00

I leaned into the Cuban’s chest, grabbed his shoulders, and tried pulling him into a tight embrace before he could dance away. He was tall, hard, and lean - the sweat on his body glistened under the overhead lights. I wrapped my arms around him, but he needed space and distance - room to move without me hanging all over him. The Cuban banged a right into my ribs that backed me up a step and then he shoved me away.
Two more minutes.
Two minutes didn’t mean that much, I thought. Be lucky to last that long.
Especially with the Cuban banging that fucking right into my ribs all night.
The night had started with promise and hope, but it was gone now.
Everything hurt. I could taste blood in my mouth – thick and acrid. It’s a taste you never forget; the bitterness hangs in your throat like stale coffee then hits your stomach with a nasty kick. More blood streamed down my face, mixing with sweat that stung my eyes. I couldn’t blink away the pain burning one eye and it was impossible to see out of the other eye. The skin on my face felt tender and raw, throbbing no matter how often my corner had pressed the cold steel bar against it between rounds to control the swelling. But worse, something inside was definitely broken - when I sucked in a deep breath the pain squeezed the air from my lungs like a vice. The noise from the crowd engulfed us but all I could hear was my own labored breathing as I rasped for air and moved around the ring, trying to find safety in the distance.
I shook the sweat from my eyes and sprayed the Cuban with blood. Popped two jabs towards him to create room between us, hoping to stay out of reach and fool the crowd into thinking I was still in this fight. The Cuban easily blocked my jabs and circled, cutting off the ring. He was fast - nine rounds into the fight and he hadn’t slowed down or lost a step, and I couldn’t keep up with him.
We danced around each other; cautious and careful yet opportunistic for any kind of opening. Nothing about his movements betrayed his intentions. His eyes were focused and determined. Not a hint of fear or doubt in his expression. There was a look in his eyes that I recognized as something that had once belonged to me when I was younger; before time had worn away everything I owned. Now I wondered what the Cuban saw when he looked into my eyes – was it something soft and weak, or even less than that? I offered a left-right combination but he slipped the punches and worked his way closer with sharp left hooks. He found that same soft spot in my ribs and dug each punch into my body so hard that at first there was nothing, then all air rushed from my lungs as my insides imploded. All I could do was hold on to his arms to keep from dropping to one knee.
Ninety seconds.
Ninety seconds could feel like an eternity. Especially when my legs were gone and I had nothing left. There were no lucky punches and no miracles waiting to happen – just ninety painful seconds taking forever to fall way from the clock.
He was relentless in his assault and all I had were instincts and memories, and neither offered much help. I waved a jab and moved away, then tried hiding behind my gloves as the Cuban backed me towards the ropes.
It was that right hand that was killing me. I couldn’t do anything to stop it from crashing into my body over and over again.
Whatever will I had left to fight disappeared, and in each shot I felt every punch I had ever taken. There was no place to run, nowhere to hide, and nothing else I could do. In that instant I saw myself for what I was – a tired, beaten fighter suddenly too many bouts past his prime. Holding on to a dream, and holding on to something from the past, that was no longer mine to own. All that potential of youth was gone - if it had ever really been there the way I had fooled myself into believing it was. I should have realized the truth before I ever got into the ring - I was just a stepping stone on somebody else’s path.
Two quick jabs came at me then a right over the top. The Cuban whacked my arms and brought an uppercut underneath that slammed into my chin. By then I had lost the ability to connect thoughts with actions, and in a dozen different ways I felt helpless against each punch he threw.
I remember thinking that I didn’t want to look foolish. There were too many people watching – too much shame and indignity to go out that way. I had known for a long time that I would never get that title shot, no matter how many hours spent sweating in the gym, pushing my body past limits I never knew existed, and struggling through meaningless fights under the harsh stares of apathetic crowds. I would never go out on top as champion. But I didn’t want to be one of those guys you would see grabbing for the ropes in desperation, legs splayed in different directions, trying to find something solid underfoot to remain upright no matter what it took. Lurching and staggering from side to side, arms flailing like windmills. Eyes glazed and watery. Sad, beaten, and pathetic.
I didn’t want to be exposed like that.
Sixty seconds left in the round.
I just wanted to hang on that long.

The Cheerleader (published in Six Sentences)

2009-01-21T15:38:00.001-05:00

He sat behind her in Honors English, each day studying everything about her – how she casually flipped the hair from her face with a dip and shake of a shoulder and the way she brushed her fingers gently across her neck before raising a tentative hand with the answer to the teacher’s question. The Boy lived for those moments when she would turn around and talk with him before the bell rang, quietly laughing together while he hung on her smile and the things she said; alone at night he imagined walking home with her, sliding his hand inside hers while sharing something more meaningful, aching to matter to her. He noticed how she changed when school resumed after Thanksgiving; the words between them remained the same but her eyes told a different story – one of betrayal and hurt caused by someone she might have once trusted. Though the marks on her skin faded and the waves of time washed away what had been there, her pain never lightened. The Boy longed to find a quiet moment so he could tell her to be strong – not to waste her life trying to get back what had been taken away, but he could not work up his courage. He never found the words; before The Boy could say he was sorry for what she must have lost, she left school and took the fragments of her innocence somewhere new to start again.

Falling Down (published in Powder Burn Flash)

2008-12-31T16:47:00.000-05:00

Poole once said that fear was something that could be seen in another person’s eyes, but Kirby wasn’t sure he believed that. Poole said a lot of things – usually whatever was necessary to get you to believe him. The only thing in the guard’s eyes was surprise. Everything had happened so fast; there hadn’t been time to sort through the looks passing between them before Kirby squeezed the trigger on his Nine.
Just an empty expression.
A face unable to fully comprehend what was happening.
He didn’t see anything that looked like fear.
Kirby thought about that as he stood against the counter, taking a final drag on his Marlboro while staring at the floor in the Jersey National Bank. It was a cold, snowy day in downtown Princeton; bleak and gray outside. Inside the bank eight people, four customers and four employees were huddled together in a tight circle near the vault door. Their wrists and ankles were bound together with long cloth strips Kirby had ripped from the New Jersey State flag displayed just inside the lobby doors. Bits and pieces were left from the flag but none big enough to stuff in anyone’s mouth, and Kirby drew the line at cutting up the American flag just to make gags.
Besides, nobody had made a sound since he shot the guard.
The guy had been pushing sixty-five – probably a part-timer earning a couple of bucks to fill in the gaps Social Security checks didn’t cover. Nobody expected him to pull his gun, and neither one of them figured he would get off a couple of shots – at least not Poole. He had been busy shoving twenties into an old knapsack when the first bullets caught him in the back, spinning him around as Kirby fumbled for his Nine. Poole was already dead by the time he had returned fire and cut down the guard.
The guard’s body was still slumped a few feet away, blood coagulating in thick red streams around him. His forty-five was on the floor by Kirby, a few bullets still left in the clip, next to a phone pulled from a desk and the knapsack stuffed with the bills taken from the tellers’ drawers. Not far away Poole’s body was face down, tangled in the felt ropes used to create customer service lanes; too far away to see what had been in his eyes when he was shot.
Kirby flicked his cigarette to the floor and wondered what he was supposed to do next.
The sharp ring of the phone caught him by surprise.
“Thinking maybe this didn’t turn out the way you expected, huh?”
It was the kind of thing Poole would have said, but then Kirby heard the sharpness in the voice and the edge in the words, and knew it was the cop again. “This ain’t looking good for you right now. You know that, right?”
“Don’t know anything for sure,” Kirby said.
“You can make this easier for yourself, is all I’m saying,” the cop said.
Kirby shrugged. “Just find me a car. Nothing else to discuss except that.”
“How far you think you’re gonna get?”
Kirby rubbed his finger along the edge of the Nine, tracing the line of the gun. Through the front window facing Nassau Street he could see the snow intensify, falling heavily in large, thick flakes. It had been hours since everything turned bad and he wondered about the roads. It wouldn’t be easy to drive, but snow might make it harder to be followed, and he thought about asking the cops for an SUV instead.
He let the silence build for a minute then the cop broke the quiet.
“You still there?”
“Nowhere else to go,” Kirby said.
“You still got options,” the cop said. “Things you can do before this gets any worse for you. Might want to think about that.”
Kirby squeezed his eyes shut. He felt something throbbing in the back of his head, ready to explode.
“I don’t get what I want, the only option left for me is to starting shooting,” Kirby snarled.
“That’s not an option.”
“One at a time, every ten minutes until somebody realizes I’m serious.”
There was tension in the cop’s voice. Like the conversation wasn’t going in the direction he had intended, and he was just now realizing the extent of that miscalculation. “Listen, you got to know that if we hear shots, it changes everything. Makes this little problem you got a whole lot worse.”
“So maybe you need to show some urgency,” Kirby said.
“Things take time.”
“Time ain’t my problem.”
“It’s just the way it is,” the cop said. “Can’t be helped.”
Kirby shook his head. “Get me the car. Now.”
“No way anybody agrees to give you a car,” the cop tried. “Not like this. You got to show us some good faith.”
“You got to show me something! Kirby yelled. “I don’t got to show you shit!”
Kirby slammed the phone down, then yanked it from the wall and flung it across the floor. He caught the stares from the hostages, brief and fleeting, and wondered how Poole would have handled the cop. Poole was cool in everything he said and did. There was a certainty in his actions.
Kirby wished he had that.
He pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to ignore the pain. Kirby again looked at the hostages – each tired and afraid of where the day would go. A few kept their stares glued to the floor while others looked at him for a moment before turning away; only the red head from behind the counter returned his stare. Tall, mid-thirties, with sharp, pretty features, she looked calm and poised. Not at all like the others.
He motioned her away from them with his gun.
The others waited, unsure of what to expect.
Kirby wondered what he would see in her eyes, and slowly released the safety on the Nine.

Grace (published in Six Sentences)

2008-11-06T15:01:00.000-05:00

Things Unspoken (published in Six Sentences)

2008-11-06T15:00:00.000-05:00

There’s something about the way he touches me every time that makes my heart skip a beat and pushes the air from my throat. I shiver under his hot breath while he whispers softly and pulls himself closer, letting his fingers glide along the curves of my skin. Later he will say what he thinks makes the hurt disappear and tell me again how everything will be all right if I give him not only my body but my trust as well. But when he’s done nothing that is said really matters that much. No matter how hard he tries explaining it in simple terms he thinks I can understand, I know that words don’t have the power to make you feel better – actions and intent cause pain and nothing changes that or takes away what is left. I think about his words sometimes at night once he’s left my room, and wonder what he says to my mother when he slips back in their bed after leaving mine.

Hard Song (published- Micro Fiction Noir)

2008-11-06T14:53:00.001-05:00

It’s a cold March afternoon. A driving rain whips in off the ocean as Eddie goes into the liquor store a block from Resorts for a pack of Camels. There’s nobody else in there but him and the clerk – a short guy with pock-marked skin, scraggly beard, and a wandering eye that trails Eddie as he moves up and down each aisle.
He’s just a minimum wage guy, Eddie thinks. He’s got no reason to give a shit about anything Eddie wants.
Eddie drops a ten on the counter and grabs his change. He starts for the door then turns back, asking for a couple extra packs of matches.
The clerk leans below the counter. Eddie’s knee length Thrift Store rain coat is open, making it easy to stick a hand inside. By the time the clerk lifts his head Eddie has the sawed off double barrel leveled at his chin while he’s reaching for the open register.
He’s surprised by the forty-five in the clerk’s hand.
Eddie has no last thoughts. The bullets explode into his chest before he can even wrap a finger around the trigger. He dies never expecting anything like that from some minimum wage clerk.

Six Sixes From The Street (published in Six Sentences)

2008-11-06T14:45:00.000-05:00

http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2008/08/six-sixes-by-kevin-michaels.html

The Steps You Take
Hustle And Grind
The Edge of Heaven
Inside
Catching Paradise
Fade It Out

The Empty Ride Home (published in Six Sentences)

2008-11-06T14:44:00.001-05:00

This one was special; she held a place in your heart none of the others filled – the two of you shared such a unique bond that it hurts now to let her go. You love her the same way you loved them all but there is more to it with her, although every time you told her that, Kylie just laughed and brushed the long strands of hair away from her face with a sweep of her hand, leaving only a knowing smile. It was the same kind of smile she gave other guys vying for her attention and affection; the kind that would bend your heart in ten different directions and leave you searching for words to fill the spaces left behind. All summer you had tried in vain to bridge that distance between you in an attempt to get back the closeness that had disappeared but you already knew Kylie didn’t mind what was there - she was more comfortable with awkward silences than you were. You sit now in the car with the engine idling, looking for the right words but she is oblivious to that longing you have to be significant to her for just a little while longer. She opens the door and turns to give a half-hearted kiss good-bye; it is only when she sees the tear inching down your cheek that Kylie says, “Dad – please,” in such a way that you are both embarrassed and proud, but she is quickly out of the car and off to her dorm room before you can say anything else.

Through The Heart Slowly (published in Six Sentences)

2008-11-06T14:42:00.000-05:00

Margaret parks in front of the house on Philadelphia Avenue, turns off the Toyota’s engine, and feels that old familiar pain as she remembers the boy who had lived there years earlier. Even now she can recall so much about their time together in vivid detail – hours spent talking about the strength of their love and the way the boy could make her tremble just by rubbing his fingers in gentle patterns above her knee while telling her how much he loved her. But there was that cold winter’s night with their breath hanging in the air, like the words between them, when she misread her heart and through the tears said it was over. They had parked in that same spot on the street in his dirty white Mustang and she told him that she needed something more than he could ever give her; something she still hasn’t found with the man she married. It has been years since the boy moved north, and although she reads his words from time to time in books and magazines, they don’t fill the emptiness left inside or the longing that consumes each day. She is desperate for that kind of loving touch to make her feel alive just once more – alone in her car no one can hear the sobs caught in her throat or see the tears inching down her cheek as she wrestles with a loneliness only she knows.

The Cheater (published in Word Riot)

2008-11-06T14:38:00.000-05:00

http://www.wordriot.org/template_2.php?ID=1420

In The Moment (published in Six Sentences)

2008-11-06T14:37:00.001-05:00

It hasn’t always been this way but you can’t remember a time in the past few years when there wasn’t some sort of tension between you, so when he tells the waitress he’s only having coffee you know in that moment that whatever time you have together tonight will be too short. Once he made the commitment to meet it was a race against the clock – in his mind he has already determined how much time he’ll devote to you; with no crisis looming your allocation of minutes will be brief. Long enough for a cup of coffee, some stories about nothing too important, and vague promises about getting together again, followed by quick good-byes. There are so many things you want to tell him, like how the best times in your life were the days when you walked through the front door, dead tired from a two hour commute out of Penn Station and a job you hated and he and his sisters would scream, “Daddy!” at the sound of the key in the front door. How they would race down the hallway and leap into your arms before you could even drop your briefcase on the floor, and how that little boy made you feel special with his own display of love and affection every time he saw you. But that little boy is left only in memories you draw on now to fill the void in your heart where you both used to dance and play together; replaced by a stranger, and a distance you can’t cross.

Broke Down Cowboy (published in Six Sentences)

2008-11-06T14:36:00.001-05:00

He pulls the Ford pick up to a slow stop near the row of pine trees along the edge of the blueberry fields, and after cutting the engine takes the bottle of Jack Daniels and his father’s old straight edge from beneath the seat. Once, back when life was spread out in front of him with hope and potential, he had brought the blonde from Cape May up here one quiet summer evening. They made love in the cool waters of the lake then lay naked in the dirt field, picking blueberries from their skin while staring up at a moonlit night and trading dreams. It was under those same stars that he proposed to her but she said no; soon after that he lost her to a future that didn’t include him, and time and distance hadn’t made that hurt disappear all these years later. Funny, he thinks now; he spent a lifetime searching every face he met for that same kind of promise but none had ever given him what he wanted – the emptiness he found instead was something that had never been filled. He takes a deep pull from the bottle, holds that thought longer than he should, then runs a finger along the edge of the blade before pressing it against his wrist.

The Neighborhood (published in Darkness Before Dawn)

2008-11-06T14:34:00.000-05:00

http://darknessbefore.blogspot.com/2008/07/neighborhood-kevin-michaels.html

Please Read The Letter (published in Six Sentences)

2008-11-06T14:32:00.000-05:00

The last thing she said before hanging up was, “Please read the letter.”
The sheets of paper were spread out in front of me now, like her body had once laid open for the taking, untouched despite the words written in blue ink on each page. I thought about our talks of a future together - plans that had been made and shared, like the ones that October day when we drove out to New Hope and spent an afternoon wandering throughout dozens of antique shops, the whole time sipping hot chocolate and pretending we could afford to be something more than dreamers and hopeless romantics. There had been a chill in the air that weekend - I had never realized how quickly or unexpectedly it could find its way inside our conversations; feeling again the sting in her words and the bitterness in her voice that still came at me some times at night while I laid awake, staring at the ceiling with her pack of cigarettes unopened on the table by our bed. I thought about the sound of her footsteps in the hall and the smell of her perfume drifting throughout the bedroom every time I opened a closet door, as well as the loneliness I felt every morning when I reached for her.
The room stayed empty and dark, and the letter untouched except by a breeze that blew through an open window, scattering the papers to the floor where they stayed for weeks.

With Every Word (published in Six Sentences)

2008-11-06T14:30:00.000-05:00

The bedroom was still as our conversation dissolved into a heavy silence broken only by the ticking of the clock on her night table and the occasional sob that hadn’t yet been swallowed in her pillow. I stubbed out my cigarette and leaned forward in the chair, watching her expression and wishing I could be there in ways I didn’t fully understand any more. I knew she was lonely for words I couldn’t find in myself; little white lies that might ease the pain, but there hadn’t been honesty between us in years and I was done bending the truth. I could have told her again that everything would be all right, but neither one of us believed the words, so I just stared at the clock through the quiet of the night and watched the minutes fall away like hours. When she finally closed her eyes one last time I wiped off my tears with the back of my hand, took the keys from the glass bowl by the door, and drove away in the big block Buick that had been parked in her garage. I wanted to believe that she hadn’t suffered but that was another lie; you want to believe anything that makes you feel better about your mom dying, even when it isn’t true.

The Edge Of Night (published in Six Sentences)

2008-11-06T14:28:00.000-05:00

The night wrapped its arms around us as we drove west, taking the highway past Medford towards Philly. The kids were asleep in the backseat and we were both counting the mile markers, staring out the windows with quiet eyes. I listened to the drone of the Chevy’s engine and tried to figure out if the rumbling I heard was thunder in the distance, or something else I’d have to deal with when we got home. Playing with the knob on the radio she found a song we both remembered on the classic rock station; the lyrics came back easily but I kept them to myself – content to listen to her mangle the words as she tried singing along in a soft, broken voice. I thought about how we had danced to the song one time, slowly and carefully across the kitchen floor after the kids had gone to bed, but that was before we started measuring the blood we’d drawn from each other and comparing the scars that had been created. Now all I could do was hold on to the memory of how much I had once loved her as the night fell apart around me.

8:30 At The Bar (published in Dogzplot)

2008-11-06T14:24:00.000-05:00

Bobby T. is on his second Jack and Coke at the bar while outside the rain continues falling in torrents. Free Bird plays on the jukebox but only a handful of the people inside pay attention. None of them worry Bobby; at least none will once Eddie Vega shows up. But Eddie is already fifteen minutes late. Typical, Bobby thinks. Waiting makes him tense, although the twenty-two tucked against the small of his back gives him the kind of cool that takes the edge off that nervousness.
It's supposed to be easy – in and out in less than ten minutes if nobody gets stupid. Bobby just has to watch the door and wave the gun enough to keep everyone glued to their seats while Eddie hits each cash register. Nothing to it. Bobby knows he's about more than an easy score, and he could empty the clip inside the bar if he had to - just to make that point. Might be the only thing that gets him respect.
It's either the Jack or the twenty-two that give him that confidence. He's not sure which it is.
All he knows is that Eddie's late and he's stuck waiting at the bar