When Writers Attack
by David Michael
He picked up the 8-inch chef’s knife and looked at it. The light flashed off the tapered blade, hitting him in the eyes. A cliché.
Still, even cliché’s have their place.
He pushed his chair away from his desk and stood up–carefully. The knife might be a cliché, but it was a damn sharp one.
His wife sat at her sewing machine, piecing a quilt block. She glanced up at him as he stepped into the living room, looked at the knife in his hand, then focused on her stitching again.
He stood behind her, the knife ready, looking down at her.
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…And Broke His Crown
by David Michael
When he finally came to a stop, it was with a last, sickening crunch, like a watermelon dropped and busting open. It hurt, sure, having his head split open by the rock he hit, but by then he had already had one leg broken and folded under him and an arm yanked from its socket.
It had been a long fall. Head over heels, ass over teakettle–much like the fall that had started the relationship that was ending here, now. So landing face up on the sharp, gray rock that he could feel driven into the top of his spine only seemed like the final bit of punctuation at the end of a particularly long and painful run-on sentence.
He couldn’t move, so he didn’t, as Jill loomed over him.
Hard Boiled
by David Michael
Makenzie never looked so good as when she helped the blonde into my office. Makenzie was six kinds of hot. Pick your favorite points, she scored high enough in all of them to make her the perfect receptionist. The blonde, though, added a touch of class and another four kinds of hot, at least–even after deducting for the black eye and the bloody scratch down one cheek.
“She just stumbled in,” Makenzie said. She maneuvered the blonde into one of the visitor chairs, helped her sit down. For several long seconds, both women leaned toward me, the necks of their blouses hanging open. “Said she had to talk to you.”
I could’ve helped, I guess. But then I would’ve missed the show. “You didn’t try to talk her out of it?”
Late Arrival
by David Michael
Arriving late had kept Cox alive during his ten year career.
The tricky part, the part that made his shoulders tense up, made him grip the shotgun tighter, made him verify–once again–that a shell was indeed chambered and ready to fire, was that he might be too late.
He already knew he had the right house. The broken door, leaning on one remaining hinge, the latch torn free, the chaos and blood visible in the foyer only confirmed it for him. He stepped over the threshold of the house, shotgun held at waist level, pointing in the direction he looked.
Unexpected Truths
by David Michael
“You know him, don’t you,” the man asked.
Claire tried to remember the man’s name. He had said it, right after he stepped through the broken glass doors of the patio. Just before he opened fire and saved her life. “Evenin’, ma’am,” he had said. “My name is–”
She couldn’t remember. Claire shook her head, to clear it and to shake loose the memories of the past few minutes. If she was going to forget something, why couldn’t it be something she wanted to forget?
Straightening Up
by David Michael
He grabbed the clear packing tape, with its handy, sawtooth-edged dispenser, and looked at it for a moment, wondering if he had enough. It was the biggest roll of tape he could find. It had to be enough. So he got to work.
He started with his laptop computer, taping it closed first, then sealing the edges, carefully folding the tape so no sticky edges poked up. Then he taped the laptop to the top of his desk, right where he always kept it.
Down Hill
by David Michael
“Can you shoot, son?” the big trapper asked.
Luke started to bite his lower lip, but stopped himself because he needed to be a man now. He sat up a bit straighter. “I can shoot,” he said. “Pa taught me. Some.”
The trapper, Everett, looked at him, then pulled a worn six shooter from his belt. He handed the gun to Luke, butt first. “I don’t have time to teach you how to load it,” Everett said. “So you have five shots. Make them count.”
Ambulance Chasers
by David Michael
Keccia sat on the bus stop bench, watching the rush hour traffic, waiting. Two different buses had already stopped for her, but she wasn’t waiting for a bus. The bus drivers had shrugged at her, and left her on the bench.
Every city, every town, Keccia had learned, whatever its size, had its “problem intersections”, where the confluence of confusing lane markings, poorly positioned street signs, visual obstructions and too many vehicles moving too quickly came together to create a meatgrinder. She had visited hundreds of cities now, and waited at thousands of such places. She seldom waited in vain.
Seldom in vain, but not always patiently. To any outside observers she projected calm and stillness. Inside, though, she fidgeted, paced back and forth, and resisted the urge to expend what little reserve she had to cause the accident she needed.
Crowfeeder
by David Michael
At our arrival, the closest of the black carrion birds startled. A ripple, like a wave in a black ocean, flowed across the field as the birds flapped into the air, reconsidered once they saw how few we were, and settled back to continue gorging.
We stood on a slight rise, looking down at the scene. The warm morning sun magnified the stench and threatened to gag us, even though we had wrapped scarves across our mouths and noses. All I could think of was that the scariest, goriest bedtime stories of the Crowfeeder had never conveyed the reality of the carnage. My mind couldn’t grasp it. My soul quailed to face it. My eyes struggled to focus.
Emmy
by David Michael
Emmy projected the sound of a key turning in the lock, the door opening, as she kicked in the door.
She stepped into the house and stood in the small foyer, reaching out with her mind, searching. She detected a man, sleeping, alone. Disappointed, Emmy sighed. She had hoped for a couple, but maybe he was a big man. Regardless, she was here. She would take what she could get.
The door to the man’s bedroom squeaked as she opened it.
The man lay on his stomach, but turned onto his side at the noise. Emmy caught the image of a woman from the man’s mind, his wife. Emmy projected this image back at him, smiling.
“That was a long meeting,” he said.