"The King of Michigan" - Flash Fiction Challenge

The King of Michigan

My family still lived in the Lakelands, what used to be northern Minnesota and Canada, maybe with a little Wisconsin. Nothing near there was hit in the collapse, and the citizens were pretty independent. I hadn’t been back in half a dozen years. When my cousin Connor arrived and told me my uncle was dead, I didn’t think much of it. Then he told me the funeral was in the Lakelands, and the family wanted me to come.

BloodLetting Go: Part I

Explanation:

This is the first story I ever wrote, it is in seven parts, written during some crazy days back at IU.

It isn't very well written, but I still like the story

Apologies to Tears for Fears for ripping off the title. It just fit too well.

Prologue

All I could think about was the SEARING pain surging from my shoulder and through my body as I fly face down onto the pavement. I couldn’t feel the pool of hot blood suffusing on the cold street.  I couldn’t think about why my partner would sell me out. I couldn’t feel the cut on my head from when I hit the ground. I couldn’t worry about them killing Alexandra. BOOM Then a second bullet hit my back like a sledgehammer and everything went black. No sound, just a voice in my head. Time to die, Adam. Don’t want to keep the Devil waiting.

The Death Statue

The Death Statue

Let’s get this straight right off the bat: I am not in Special Ops or Clandestine Ops or Black Ops… not really in ops at all. I’m a detective. I don’t have awesome ass-kicking skills and I've never shot anyone. I am good at figuring things out. It’s usually a simple job. Someone suspects this guy or that girl is involved in some kind of scam or anti-whatever group which might one day put a bomb in a school or mosque or meat factory. There are all sorts of crazies these days. So I go and stakeout the guy, follow him, find out who his friends are. Then I write a report. That is how I spend about half my time. Writing reports. What I do isn’t usually dangerous, but I do have a gun. Yes, it’s a Walther PPK. Yes, I carry it because that’s what Bond carried. No, I don’t think I’m James Bond. I couldn’t buy an Aston Martin with 5 years salary, and as for sex with hot ladies on the job? In my fucking dreams. Literally.

Book Review: Ex-Communication by Peter Clines

I don't know how many of you have ever read Peter Clines, but this latest addition to his "Ex-Heroes" series just proves that he is one of the most imaginative writers currently pumping out literature.

Seriously

Anybody else feel like this sometimes?