ARCHER

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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/

FALLING DOWN (published in A Twist Of Noir)

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)

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)

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

Published in DARKEST BEFORE THE DAWN:

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

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

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)

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.