Hard Streak (published in Powder Burn Flash)

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.

LAST WALTZ (posted in StrangeRoad.com)

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)

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)

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.

Things Unspoken (published in Six Sentences)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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

In The Moment (published in Six Sentences)

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)

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)

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

Please Read The Letter (published in Six Sentences)

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)

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)

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)

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