by John McAlester | Jul 24, 2016 | Fiction, Micro Fiction |
She spent for acceleration, which left her forever high and historyless. The anxiety to save against the uncertainty of the future did not burden her. Value flowed effortlessly through the porous material of her better judgement. Everything got spent. Money, time,...
by John McAlester | May 28, 2016 | Micro Fiction |
I imagined my exposure spreading like a liquid stain across the back of my jet black jacket. Pacific Heights is the kind of neighborhood where police are called without hesitation when a man in a dark coat is climbing a fence onto private property at night. The...
by John McAlester | May 28, 2016 | Micro Fiction |
I’m usually inside my head with the deep “Whuh, Whuh” of my own breath and whatever uptempo house track is being pumped into my ears from my headphones as I run the curves of this Andy Goldsworthy Piece called “Wood Line”. But this morning I decided to take my new (to...
by John McAlester | May 28, 2016 | Micro Fiction |
It was way past dark. We stumbled recklessly down a dirt clod hill towards the southern edge of Angel Island. There were ruts and branches to look out for and the skipping patches of light from our headlamps only momentarily illuminated the treacherous deep washes...
by John McAlester | May 28, 2016 | Micro Fiction |
It’s difficult not to feel like I’ve been running in place for a decade. The people in my life who once seemed like they were on some distant, and not very interesting, path are now brushing by me regularly, their shirt sleeves tickling my elbows. They have advanced...
by John McAlester | May 28, 2016 | Micro Fiction |
Molly was a fallaway Catholic. She’d grown up in the system but the only thing that she seemed to have truly internalized was a mastery of guilt and its effect as a weapon. She was charming and warm to fresh faces unless they were in the service industry in which case...
