Scribes*MICRO*Fiction

* * *    Managing Editor: Edward Ahern    * * *
* * *    Submissions Editor: P.C. Keeler    * * *
* * *    Submissions Editor: P.M. Ray    * * *
* * *    Associate Editor: Alison McBain    * * *

Prologue Issue

December 13, 2020

​Want to know what Scribes*MICRO*Fiction is looking for?
​Here are stories, creative nonfiction, and poetry from our editors.

Fiction
​

Terminus
​by Edward Ahern
​

One drunken night, I caught the last train out of Grand Central and passed out. When I came to, I was sprawled in a dark, empty rail car. I looked through a window, and in the dim train yard lights, saw hundreds of other cars marshalled for their morning runs. And something else.

People were scurrying into and out of the cars. No, not people exactly, emaciated beings, rag-dressed, hopping into and out of the cars, and looking--for what? What could they find before the cleaning crews arrived? Scraps? Lost belongings?

And then my train door opened.

Tourists in Hell
​by Alison McBain
​

“This is the first circle of hell.”

“What?” asked George, poking at his hearing aid.

“The first circle!” his wife shouted.

“Not bad,” he said, taking out his camera.

“No photos,” reminded the guide. “Be careful. The next level is lust. It’s windy.”

“What?”

“Lust!” Dolores screamed. Her skin pinkened as everyone on the tour stopped to look at her. “Sorry.”

“No worries,” said the guide. “Right this way. Eight levels to go.”

“You wanted the bargain tour,” complained Dolores, but her husband didn’t hear. “At least we won’t be here forever.”

​Their guide grinned. “Don’t be so sure of that.”

---

Creative Nonfiction
​

Many More
​by P.M. Ray
​​

After the Sandy Hook shooting, they closed the school. The neighboring town volunteered an empty school for the kids to use. It had nothing. The news went viral. People from all over the world hand-made decorations under programs such as 'Snowflakes for Sandy Hook.'

Newtown was overwhelmed. With more decorations than could possibly be used, the families were invited to take them home.

Every year near the anniversary, survivors remember the terror caused by one person. Some of them also remember the kindness and generosity from many more people all over the world. Their gifts of the holiday season are still being used many years afterwards.

---

Poetry
​

​French Cuffed
​by Edward Ahern
​​

When I first went corporate
Executives wore dress shirts
With French cuffs and gold links.
So for protective coloration
I scrounged the Lower East Side
For remainders from Madison Avenue.
 
The quality of the shirts
Improved with my credit rating
And in time my closet held
A half-month of French cuffs.
Eventually, with retirement,
The need for dressing up
Left with my commute.
 
Weddings, funerals and church services
Don’t satisfy this need for ostentation,
And I find myself gold-cuffed
At televised operas and poetry readings.
I am addicted to my camouflage.

Confused
​by Alison McBain
​​​

Poor thing,
teetering on the knife edge
of definition.
 
Neither fruit
nor vegetable,
representing a squabble
between dietitians
and botanical intellectuals,
sliced and diced
into opposing terminologies.
 
Oh, my random, red darling,
born of a deadly family
but so innocent yourself--
believe me,
I am on your side.
 
I will comfort you
as you tremble on the vine,
caress your fragile skin--
(zzzick, zzzack, sharpen the blade).
 
And you, my darling--
I know your fate
wedged between slices
of golden toast,
accompanied to your destination
with crisp-fried slabs
of pork and salt,
nestled on an emerald bed.
 
You are delicious,
the one conclusion
confirmed--
no argument there.