* * * Managing Editor: Edward Ahern * * *
* Submissions Editor: P.C. Keeler *
* Submissions Editor: P.M. Ray *
* Associate Editor: Alison McBain *
* Featured Contributor: Matthew P.S. Salinas *
* Submissions Editor: P.C. Keeler *
* Submissions Editor: P.M. Ray *
* Associate Editor: Alison McBain *
* Featured Contributor: Matthew P.S. Salinas *
Announcing the newest member to the Scribes*MICRO*Fiction team:
Matthew P.S. Salinas. Welcome, Matthew!
Matthew P.S. Salinas. Welcome, Matthew!
Issue # 14
February 15, 2022
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Jason P. Burnham * Gregg Chamberlain *
* Gabi Coatsworth * Dr. Eugene Garone *
* David Henson * Doug Jacquier * Bethany Jarmul *
* Shelly Jones * Melanie Maggard * Mark J. Mitchell *
* Matthew P.S. Salinas * Karen Southall Watts *
* Jason P. Burnham * Gregg Chamberlain *
* Gabi Coatsworth * Dr. Eugene Garone *
* David Henson * Doug Jacquier * Bethany Jarmul *
* Shelly Jones * Melanie Maggard * Mark J. Mitchell *
* Matthew P.S. Salinas * Karen Southall Watts *
Book Review
Crazy Foolish Robots by Adeena Mignogna
Reviewed by P.M. Ray
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Photo by Michael Leonard
Fiction
Photo by LMoonlight
A Moonless Night by Matthew P.S. Salinas The heat had become unbearable within the moonless night. There was a hint of bitterness reflected in the ripples of darkness that ebbed across the night’s skin. The overpowering smell was what came next. Something to offend the nostrils of even the most refined and hopelessly addicted palates. Steam began to blind the eyes and bring sweat to the face of anyone daring to get close enough. Despite the warning signs, people couldn’t help but edge in closer.
Some dared to tarnish the darkness with sugar and cream. Coffee was something, after all, that people drank on their own terms. * * * Matthew P.S. Salinas is an author from Illinois who writes short stories in all genres and poetry. He has two published works and is continuing to publish two more books by the end of the year. He lives with his wife Jordana and their two cats.
The Blue Storm by David Henson When the storm rolled in, cobalt flashing in royal thunderheads, we didn’t know what to think. Green sometimes tinged an angry sky, but blue always was served with sunshine and occasionally puffy white garnish.
The storm was only the beginning. Leaves turned and not in an autumnal way. Then bark, flowers, grass. Where will it stop? we wondered. It didn’t. Roads, bridges, buildings, cars. Even clothing — the fruits of our looms along with all the fruits. Oranges, apples, pears. Blue transformed all we beheld. Except, perhaps, in a faraway forest, a single tree, rumored to still hold green. Some people attempted a pilgrimage, but got lost in all the blue. * * * David Henson and his wife have lived in Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Illinois, USA. His work has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions and has appeared or is upcoming in various journals including Fairfield Scribes, Bewildering Stories, Literally Stories, Moonpark Review, Gone Lawn, Fiction on the Web, and Brilliant Flash Fiction.
Outposts of Superstition by Shelly Jones Dita was monitoring the hydroponics’ oxygen levels when the alarm went off. Her screen mechanically flashed the alert: Unknown Species Present.
“Stay in the lab, Dita. The grounds squad is investigating,” the team leader’s voice came over the coms. She could hear the others arming themselves in the weapons bay of the outpost. As she waited, Dita thought of her great-grandmother, whose shaky hands nightly slipped feathery fennel into keyholes to prevent spirits from entering. Ripping the budding greens of her botanical experiment, Dita scattered the leaves before the hatch and listened to the skirmish. Then silence. Then a knock. * * * Shelly Jones, PhD (she/they) is a Professor of English at SUNY Delhi, where she teaches classes in mythology, folklore, and writing. Her speculative work has previously appeared in Podcastle, New Myths, The Future Fire, and elsewhere.
Settings: Sound & Vibration: Default Notification Sound: None by Jason P. Burnham Are you up?
I heard a noise. Sent 2h ago. This is what you awaken to at 3:00. You roll over and turn on the baby monitor. There's no baby in the crib. You blink, rub your eyes. Still no baby. You pull your phone from under your pillow. Where'd you take Elizabeth? You throw off the sheets. You're about to stand when you hear it, like the whisper of distant thunder, but inside the bedroom. From behind the light cast by the baby monitor, a claw extends. You hope Allie got Elizabeth out. You scream in case she didn’t. * * * Jason P. Burnham is an infectious diseases physician and clinical researcher. He loves many things, among them sci-fi, his wife, sons, and dog, metal music, Rancho Gordo beans, and equality (not necessarily in that order).
Photo by Enrique Guzmán Egas
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Buried Love by Melanie Maggard I rake the carpet. Thick shag filters through my fingers as I try to find the love I’ve lost. I scratch at the plastic mesh underneath, nails trapping dust, hairs, and cereal crumbs, popcorn kernels and nail clippings, fossils of my existence.
I imagine his eyes smoking, his forehead rumbling, his hand kicking my lip. Pounding yells will quake me to the ground; he’ll remind me how much our love costs him, how I’ll pay. But when my palm hits cold gold, I rise, leaving the promise of love there, knowing it is hidden in the thickness, safe from him. 
Photo by Conger Design
* * * Melanie Maggard is a Seattle-based flash fiction and short story writer who loves drabbles and dribbles. She has published in Cotton Xenomorph, The Dribble Drabble Review, X-R-A-Y Magazine, Welter, and Five Minute Lit. She has been nominated for Best Small Fiction, Best Microfiction, and a Pushcart Prize recognition, and won an Honorable Mention in the Welter’s Microfiction Contest.
Photo by Önder Örtel
Trouble Brewing by Gabi Coatsworth Grace stood at the kitchen counter, furious. She raised her favorite chef’s knife and brought it down, like a guillotine, on the blameless vegetables beneath. The tomatoes bled silently under her hands. Snatching up the chopping board, she shoveled the remnants into the boiling stew and stirred the resulting mess with barely restrained fury. “Needs herbs,” she thought, “Or better yet, these...” With the care of a seasoned witch choosing the ingredients for a black spell, she reached for the bright orange toadstools and thoughtfully, feeling herself relaxing like melting butter, dropped them into the mix.
She’d show him. * * * Gabi Coatsworth is an award-winning British-born writer and blogger. She’s active in the Connecticut writing community and runs several groups for writers (now all on Zoom). Her memoir, Love’s Journey Home, will be published on May 7, 2022, by Atmosphere Press. Her social media may be accessed here.
It Doesn't Snow on Labor Day by Dr. Eugene Garone It doesn’t snow on Labor Day, but on the fifth of September, we got an unexpected snowstorm. Summer was gone. I dreaded winter and despised going back to school.
Mom bundled me up with a heavy coat, galoshes, thermal gloves, and a hat with ear flaps Velcroed under my neck. Then she sent me off to school for the first day. My classmates giggled as I wobbled like a penguin. But under my Alaskan-like outfit was a pink flamingo T-shirt untucked over the tan Bermuda shorts that she let me wear. Now I was the coolest kid in third grade. * * * Dr. Eugene Garone earned a degree in education from Columbia University. He has been teaching communication, design, and writing courses at the college level for over three decades. Growing up in New Jersey, he now resides in Delaware with his soul mate of forty-two years and two very energetic dogs.
Photo by Esi Grünhagen
A Strange Case Study by Gregg Chamberlain Sigmund Freud snapped shut his notebook. He regarded the man rising up from the couch.
“An interesting case, Herr Doktor.” “That may be so,” replied Henry Jekyll. “But the question is, can you help me?” “I think I can,” replied Freud, escorting the doctor to the door. “We will talk more tomorrow, yes?” Freud closed the door. He waited. A heavy, impatient pounding sounded. The door flew open. A short, squat, square man stumped into the study, glaring at Freud as he strode past the analyst. The doctor gestured to the settee. “Herr Hyde. Right on time for your appointment.” * * * Behind the drabble: I had read about Freud’s Russian “Wolfman” case, and found myself wondering about what other unusual clients he may have treated. Myself, I am a community newspaper reporter living in Eastern Ontario with my missus and six cats who allow their humans the run of the house.
* * * Gregg Chamberlain lives in rural Ontario, with his missus, Anne, and their two cats. He writes speculative fiction for fun.
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Creative Nonfiction
My Echo
by Bethany Jarmul
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My newborn was blue, not breathing, her umbilical cord wrapped three times around her neck.
“Is she okay? Is she okay!” I screamed while the doctor unwound her like a ball of yarn. No one answered me. The OB handed the pediatric team my silent, chubby baby, covered in vernix caseosa and blood. They wiped and sucked and squeezed. Finally, she cried. They placed her on my chest. She blinked at the unfamiliar world while they stitched up the bleeding mess she’d made of me, but not the fear sliced in my gut. I breathed deeply—watched her chest rise and fall, felt her tiny heart beating, echoing my own. * * * Bethany Jarmul is a writer and work-from-home mom. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Literary Mama, Sky Island Journal, and Allium, A Journal of Poetry & Prose. She grew up in the hills of West Virginia and lives in Pittsburgh with her family.
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Photo by Dirk Wohlrabe
A Homesick Australian in Hong Kong by Doug Jacquier A rare night without companions and I find a promising-sounding restaurant to provide a brief European break from the regular Asian fare in my travels. The owner is delighted to have an Australian guest, having worked in Sydney for some years.
An excellent complimentary Australian red is delivered to the table with the menu. I opt for the pate as an entrée. When it arrives the toast is arrayed on a bed of rusty barbed wire, in homage to the millennial trend of unusual forms of food presentation. I politely summon the owner and tell him I’m not that homesick. * * * Doug Jacquier is an Australian who writes stories and poems. He’s lived and worked in many urban, rural and remote places, and he has travelled extensively overseas. His work has appeared in several anthologies and he blogs at Six Crooked Highways | Take My Words For It.
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The Lion in the Factory by David Henson They say a lion’s roar vibrates the air. There was once a lion in the factory where my father was a welder for 42 years.
I did the same job there for three summers and hated it. My feet ached like bad teeth from standing in one spot. Sparks burnt my arms. I coughed up black phlegm at night. Before an oxygen tank caged him at home, Dad beat dawn to the punch clock, stalked overtime and devoured as many extra hours as he could to put me through college. His roar vibrates my life to this day. * * * David Henson and his wife have lived in Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Illinois, USA. His work has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions and has appeared or is upcoming in various journals including Fairfield Scribes, Bewildering Stories, Literally Stories, Moonpark Review, Gone Lawn, Fiction on the Web, and Brilliant Flash Fiction.
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Poetry
The Old Woman in Charge of Creating Stars by David Henson An ache in her bones
tells the old woman the time is right to lead her son, born blind, to the pond out back. She pours gourds-full of moonlight into his eyes, tells him the sky looks as the meadow of crickets sounds. She builds a fire with sticks and dead reeds, has the boy kneel motionless till the flames flicker out. She takes his face in her hands and lowers it toward the glowing cinders. Closer. Now, she commands, imagine the stars. His head trembles in her gnarled fingers. Another galaxy is born Previously published in Laurel Review, Summer 1992. * * * David Henson and his wife have lived in Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Illinois, USA. His work has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions and has appeared or is upcoming in various journals including Fairfield Scribes, Bewildering Stories, Literally Stories, Moonpark Review, Gone Lawn, Fiction on the Web, and Brilliant Flash Fiction.
Death, thy name is wildfire by Doug Jacquier The Fourth Horseman Death,
astride his pale green horse, rides over the hill bringing Hades with him and leaves the embers of trees and dwellings in the mouths of dreamers and grafters. Ash-grey ghost faces atop automaton bodies, still burning from the feet up, straggle into town to be recorded as being worthy of our pity. In time, God is back in his Heaven, and the paddocks turn a deep green as if to cry victory over Death’s horse. But the smell of Hell is primal and is etched into the people’s nostrils until death. * * * Doug Jacquier is an Australian who writes stories and poems. He’s lived and worked in many urban, rural and remote places, and he has travelled extensively overseas. His work has appeared in several anthologies and he blogs at Six Crooked Highways | Take My Words For It.
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Are We There Yet? by Karen Southall Watts I’m assigned the dreaded middle seat
On the dreaded middle flight Of a day-long trip. Window seat guy is shouting into his phone, “Never call here again! Leave me alone.” I begin dodging his elbow. A burly bear of a man He snores and spills over into my space Pushing me towards aisle seat gal. She’s got a kind word and smile on her face, And a twitch that she can’t control. A shrieking baby somewhere behind me Drowns out the hard sell for boxed snacks. I’m beginning to doubt my sanity. We need to land, So I can regain my compassion For my fellow man. * * * Karen Southall Watts currently writes and works in the Pacific Northwest. Her flash fiction and poetry have been featured at Fairfield Scribes, Free Flash Fiction, The Drabble, Sledgehammer Lit, 101Words, and The Chamber Magazine. She is also the author of several business books and articles. Reach her at @askkaren on Twitter.
Photo by Stuart Bailey
She Tests Her Powers by Mark J. Mitchell Claire Loon’s hat blew off. She crossed her red bridge
of sighs. It left and floated on the tide to lands unknown. Under moonlight the bridge stole many treasures. It was too selfish, she knew, to try to hold them and the tide tonight, red as her bridge, hungry. The ride might be fun for a hat. She watched it sail to a setting moon. Leaning on the rail, she wanted smoke and mirrors, a slow dawn behind her. She shivered and clip-clopped on, across the vanishing tide. Her hat was gone. The moon set. Her late-night strolls never failed. * * * Mark J. Mitchell has been a working poet for forty years. His latest full-length collection is Roshi: San Francisco published by Norfolk Press. He lives with his wife, the activist, Joan Juster.
Photo by Adina Voicu
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The Poets' Salon
If you're looking for more poetry, including a place to read your work, receive critiques, and explore poetic forms, check out The Poets' Salon. Two editors of Scribes*MICRO*Fiction, Edward Ahern and Alison McBain, run this free poetry workshop. Meetings take place on the second Saturday of every month from 10 a.m. to noon EST via Zoom. More info, including how to sign up for the poetry workshop, can be found on The Poets' Salon website or via Meetup. |