SLIDING DOWN THE RAZOR"S EDGE

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

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-

NO SUCH THING

            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

Guest Post - No Such Thing

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!

5 X 5 Fiction

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/

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

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

BUY THIS BOOK OR I'LL SHOOT THE DOG

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.....

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.

CRAWLING TO GRACE (published in Foundling Review)

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

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.