by John McAlester | May 28, 2016 | Micro Fiction |
I made a squeegee with the skin between my thumb and forefinger…and as I ran my hand along the glassy rail the crystal drops danced up and over the back of my hand splashing down into the deep unsettling murk of the mossy bay. The sleeve of my hoodie was soaked. I was...
by John McAlester | May 28, 2016 | Micro Fiction |
He existed in a windstorm. Feverishly keeping the lattice work of lies he’d built from violently splintering into the howl. There were mornings when he felt that things were getting away from him. It wasn’t the first thought. More of a feeling at the first. A slight,...
by John McAlester | May 28, 2016 | Micro Fiction |
It was predawn and bluish outside when my phone started to vibrate beneath my pillow. It was cold and fresh and dark and I had to get my clothes on, including my belt, without waking anyone and get down all of those goddam wet wooden stairs and then walk my motorcycle...
by John McAlester | May 28, 2016 | Micro Fiction |
Panic. She scrubbed her hands in frantic little jabs making sure to get the flat simple skin between her fingers by raking her fingertips across the spaces between her knuckles. She spread her fingers apart exposing the soft webs and pinched and rubbed each one...
by John McAlester | May 28, 2016 | Micro Fiction |
She had an unnatural aversion to the horizontal. Which led to the usual things of course, insomnia, awkward sex but there were less obvious effects too. She never laid anything on a table, she never slid across wooden floors, she never enjoyed anything flat. The scope...
by John McAlester | May 28, 2016 | Micro Fiction |
It could be Saturday and I am walking home and I have just enjoyed and then expended the satisfaction of completing some mundane task such as returning a Zip Car and I will start to daydream about living in a large city. I think about living in New York and walking,...
