ONE MORE GOOD HAND - MICHAEL J. SOLENDER
Yellowed ceiling tiles stained with years of nicotine practically dripped on me as I lay on my back and lent my own contribution to the layers of grime, blowing smoke rings from my Camel up towards the low overhang. My head was flat and dull with an ache I'd experienced almost daily after too much Mad Dog and not enough caffeine. I just need one more chance with the deck. One more hand.
I could make out the blue neon sign four stories below the dive I currently inhabited as its pulsing and irritating off/on/off/on never-ending dance extolled the virtues of a Jazz parlor I had a vague familiarity with - Birdland.
I might have even been there last night, I'm not sure. It's hazy like most of my memories of late. Like who I owe money to and how much. It's easier to forget and easier still to never make a point of remembering in the first place. Funny, when people owe me some dough, I can't get their markers out of my mind. But when it's the other way around, I'm just as happy to never see the bums again.
It's been like that of late. One bad beat after another. I used to hold all the cards, kick some ass, be rolling in it and buying the Crystal at Birdland for all my special ladies. Now I can't get in without a steep cover and my markers are no good in the game in the back. Guys with last names ending in vowels threaten to break my legs and worse.
One more good streak, even one more great hand, and I'm back on top.
Last night must have been a real pisser. I just can't remember for the life of me.
So here I lay, 2:00 A.M., on my back in room 457 at the Continental Arms. Rooms by the hour.
Hiding from my debtors. Trying to figure out my comeback. My back is wet, pasted to the sheets. But it's not hot, ferchrissakes, it's January in Chicago; it's freeking freezing.
No, the wetness soaking the bed is blood. Lots of it, too. The blonde in between the sheets next to me is quite dead. There is a bullet between her eyes I'm quite sure was meant for me. I'm trying to figure out a way out of this mess as I light up another smoke.
My head still aches. The Birdland sign still throbs.
I'm gonna need more than one good hand.
BIO: Michael J. Solender loves to play Texas Hold'em with his buddies. He blogs at Not From Here, Are You?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
12 comments:
I really like the bluesie feel of this piece. You could have kept on going with this story and I would have kept on reading.
You see THIS is why I like Flash Fiction.
This was so vivid I could smell the stale smoke, the stench from frequent use of the room and taste the blood that surounds them.
Michael, this is one of your best.
Oh, they don't get darker than this one. I'm literally crossing my fingers for him...
Mike,
Your command of voice in this piece is amazing. You grab the reader by the shirt and demand attention.
Awesome!
That was tremendous. You just set the scene and kept it in a choke-hold, great work Mike.
I dug it. Really nice voice througouth. Wonderful scene setting. Character established without a lot of exposition. Enough room left for me to fill in the blanks as a reader. Nice short burst like a Elmore James guitar...you and Brazil, man. How do you do it?
Dark and nasty - vivid in its descriptions, like I was sitting there with the narrator and the dead blonde. Really well done!
It was suggested that I check this out later, and I ended up reading the whole thing! Dark. Sick. Love it.
What a great piece of writing, Mike. It made you feel you were actually there and able to see the annoying neon sign, the smoke rings and the dead blonde. Excellent stuff.
Regards, David.
Great work Mike – noir with a capital N!
Wow! This is hard boiled resurrected! Great stuff. MORE PLEASE.
Post a Comment