ScribesMICRO
* * * Managing Editor: Edward Ahern * * *
* Associate Editor: Alison McBain *
* Submissions Editor: Sarah Anderson * Submissions Editor: P.C. Keeler *
* Submissions Editor: P.M. Ray * Submissions Editor: Ira Rosofsky *
* Submissions Editor: Felicia Strangeways *
* Featured Contributor: Matthew P.S. Salinas *
* Associate Editor: Alison McBain *
* Submissions Editor: Sarah Anderson * Submissions Editor: P.C. Keeler *
* Submissions Editor: P.M. Ray * Submissions Editor: Ira Rosofsky *
* Submissions Editor: Felicia Strangeways *
* Featured Contributor: Matthew P.S. Salinas *
Issue # 21
September 15, 2022
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Victoria Brun * Jason P. Burnham * Samantha Carr *
* LL Garland * Bethany Jarmul * Anushka Kulkarni *
* Yvonne Lang * Monica McHenney * Alastair Millar *
* Mark J. Mitchell * Marisca Pichette * Robert Runté *
* Matthew P.S. Salinas * Kanishk Tantia *
* Victoria Brun * Jason P. Burnham * Samantha Carr *
* LL Garland * Bethany Jarmul * Anushka Kulkarni *
* Yvonne Lang * Monica McHenney * Alastair Millar *
* Mark J. Mitchell * Marisca Pichette * Robert Runté *
* Matthew P.S. Salinas * Kanishk Tantia *
Book Review
What Sleeps in Wollenlark
by Matthew P.S. Salinas
Reviewed by Alison McBain
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Photo by Michael Leonard
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Fiction
Photo by Dayron Villaverde
Grandmother's Last Words by Matthew P.S. Salinas Michael was six years old and constantly found himself playing underneath chairs while the adults above him discussed the “important matters.” Michael only concerned himself with who would win between the two toys he was allowed to bring. Today was no different.
Michael popped out to ask for assistance choosing when he noticed all of his family was gone. Nurses and a doctor were the only people there. They seemed to use magic to make his grandmother’s body leap up from the table. “My God, there’s nothing. I see nothing.” Those were grandmother’s last words, only ever heard by Michael. * * * 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.
Dinner Time by Samantha Carr Mother-in-Law wiped her finger across the sideboard, disappointed to find no dust. She was silent through dinner, unable to find a complaint. Anya felt victorious for a moment.
“The Lythams are expecting again,” said Mother-in-Law, finally able to find her footing. Anya tried to swallow down her bitterness at the years of trying. She looked out of the dining room window. And then the bitterness spewed out. Mother-in-Law covered with failed blue line tests, unworn Babygros, and slept-through nights. With the edge of her napkin, Mother wiped the side of her mouth where a sly smile had begun. * * * Samantha Carr is based in Plymouth, UK where she completed an MA in Creative Writing. Her fiction has been published in 101 Words and Flash Fiction Magazine. In her spare time, she enjoys wild swimming.
CTRL-H by Kanishk Tantia Search, 11/01/2021:
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Back for Dinner by Yvonne Lang Tom wasn’t back yet, and his favourite meal was going cold. Maybe Maude had forgotten an appointment? Her memory was patchy these days. If he wasn’t back soon, she’d take the extra food next door to avoid wasting it.
Jean sat at her kitchen table and waited for Maude. She’d be here soon, as she had every night for three years. The memory of being widowed refused to stick in Maude’s mind, dementia stopping her grieving. Jean would love to have pizza, but she sat and waited for another delivery of cottage pie as she played her part in the ritual. * * * Yvonne Lang’s work has featured in a range of publications, from Your Cat Magazine and Northern Life Magazine to Siren Magazine and Schlock, as well as ranking highly in competitions. Her horror stories feature as part of Demain’s Short Sharp Shock Series. She resides in Yorkshire with her partner and cat.
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Budget StarWays Flight 916K3 by LL Garland Hissing hydraulics wake me before I’m dumped onto the sticky floor. That’s discount intergalactic transport for ya—eighteen months in a cramped, upright pod, then you’re deep-sixed before you fully thaw.
I never would’ve considered hypersleep travel before Zaph died. But I booked the Economy Express straight to Malachite, “the Emerald Earth,” to live with my son. My old body and fixed income make this a one-way trip. I stumble on heavy legs toward the viewport. Crimson fills my blurred vision. I stop a stale-smelling Cephalopodean. Pointing, I ask him, “What’s that? Malachite?” “No. Hemosolum,” he croaks. “Son of a—” * * * LL Garland enjoys gaming, writing speculative fiction, and exploring deep, dark woods. She’s been called “disturbingly competitive” at all three. She lives in a house with two libraries—a fancy one for show, and a hidden one for the interesting stuff. You can find her on Twitter at @ll_garland.
The Uncertainty Principle by Robert Runté Senator Hemmings, Chair of Appropriations, shoved the protesting postdoc out of his way, pushed through the door to Professor Blake’s supposed billion-dollar lab—and was confronted by a completely empty, dilapidated warehouse.
Hemmings had long suspected Blake padded his budget—but this! “The control systems have to be inside the time machine,” babbled the postdoc, dragging Hemmings back out. “Billions embezzled…” Hemmings sputtered. “It’s jail for Blake!” The postdoc closed the door, opened it again on a bustling lab, filled with equipment. “Travelling through time, but also here,” he explained. “It’s a fifty-fifty chance with the door.” * * * Robert Runté is Senior Editor with EssentialEdits.ca. A former professor, he has won three Aurora Awards for his literary criticism. His own fiction has been published in over forty venues, four of his short stories have been reprinted in "best of" collections, such as Canadian Shorts II.
Time Waits for No One by Monica McHenney Surf pulled at mother and daughter, holding tight a last goodbye. “Take care of your brother. And your father.”
“Yes, Mam. You’ll be back?” “Your grandmam’s recipes, they’re yours.” The girl held her mother’s hand. “Tell my ocean folk grandmam, ‘Happy Birthday.’ ” The selkie winced as the tight skin she’d found in the attic fused land legs into a powerful fin. “I will, love.” “Your eyes are the same.” The girl touched her mother’s fur. “You’ll be gone a day?” The land smell had left her. “Days linger undersea.” Gasping for breath, she wanted to stay. 
Photo by Alicia Chan
* * * Monica McHenney has done everything from waiting tables to working with delinquent teenagers. This was before she settled down to raise her own children, who were only occasionally delinquent. She has published short stories, read flash fiction in San Jose, and writes one drabble per week, which appears at https://www.monicaflash.com.
Medusa by Victoria Brun She cut out his eyes. She did it to protect him, to save him from becoming another pretty statue in her crowded garden.
It had been an act of kindness, mercy. He’d come to kill her, after all. She kept him as a kindness too. Who else would want him now? It was nice to have a companion. Someone who couldn’t look upon her and turn to stone. Or see her hideousness. And when she removed his bandages and found squirming maggots infesting the wound, it did not bother her. It made her feel beautiful again, if only by comparison. 
* * * Victoria Brun is a writer and project manager at a national laboratory. When not bugging hardworking scientists about budget reports and service agreements, she is writing stories you can find at Daily Science Fiction, Uncharted Magazine, and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter at @VictoriaLBrun.
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Creative Nonfiction
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Born a Liability by Anushka Kulkarni The morning of my sixteenth birthday, I wake up to an unfamiliar voice coming from the living room. My father is deep in conversation with a middle-aged, potbellied man.
“She’s young, obedient, religious, and an excellent cook. I’m offering ten thousand.” Stroking his grey beard, the experienced suitor tuts disapprovingly at my complexion. “The advertisement specifically said fair. Do you think I’m blind?” “It’s a small flaw. But I can go higher on the dowry. Did I mention she’s a virgin?” He looks me up and down, his gaze lingering at my hips. “Twenty thousand,” he demands. “Deal.” They shake on it. I’m married by nightfall. * * * Anushka Kulkarni is a student from India, writing flash fiction as a creative outlet. Additional work by her may be found at Potato Soup Journal, The Weight Journal and The Drabble among others.
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Thirty Minutes Until Check-In by Alastair Millar Exhausted by wrangling his tribe to the airport, John parked them in a coffee shop. The blousy, middle-aged barista watched as he stared at the menu above her head.
“Outward bound?” “What? Oh, yes. Family vacation.” “Ah. So, what’ll it be?” “I, uh… don’t know yet. Sorry.” “No problem, you just take your time. Been a long one, huh?” “Yeah. One day we’ll go somewhere and everyone will be happy. But today is not that day.” “Oh, honey, don’t be down—that’ll only happen on your final journey.” She smiled kindly, and in spite of everything, he smiled back. * * * Alastair Millar is an archaeologist by training, a translator by trade and a nerd by nature. He lives north of Prague, Czech Republic, and enjoys good books, bad puns and travelling. Links to his previously published short fiction can be found at https://linktr.ee/alastairmillar and he lurks on Twitter @skriptorium.
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Image by Rene Rauschenberger
Heliocentric by Bethany Jarmul The sun screams at us. Vibrating with intricate patterns, its acoustical waves dancing, fighting in rhythmic swells across its surface. We can’t hear it bellowing across the void. But if we could, the sun would be deafening—like speakers at a Metallica concert—until night when the sound would slowly fade with the burning orange sunset, allowing us to perhaps hold a conversation. What would we say to one another then? You and I, in the darkness of night—the sun’s roar quieted enough to hear the crickets as we sip chamomile tea, rock on porch chairs, imagine the world as it could be.
* * * Bethany Jarmul is a writer, editor, and artist. Her work has appeared in numerous literary magazines and been nominated for Best of the Net. She earned first place in Women On Writing's Q2 2022 essay contest. Bethany enjoys chai lattes, nature walks, and memoirs. She lives near Pittsburgh with her family. Connect with her at bethanyjarmul.com or on Twitter: @BethanyJarmul.
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Poetry
Image by Brigitte Werner
A Flawed Shipwright by Mark J. Mitchell So I would rather drown, remembering─
—H.D. The Flowering of the Rod These letters won’t shape themselves
into the ark you need to save two and two. And you—though lithe as a mermaid─ are not a strong swimmer. Calm seas vanish some mornings under red light. I gather what floats past. I practice clumsy knots to keep us buoyant. Your coast guard heart can’t save everyone even as your tidal beauty summons the world to your arms. It’s hard to dance safely on water. I try—always—to mend flotsam so you’ll always have a craft, but sorrow drifts across this liquid world. No poem will help all the drowning. * * * Mark J. Mitchell has been a working poet for forty years. His latest full length collection is Roshi: San Francisco published by Norfolk Press. Another, Something to Be (on the subject of work) is due soon from Pski Porch, and a historical novel is on the way. He lives with his wife, the activist, Joan Juster.
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time travel on wheels by Marisca Pichette trundling over linoleum
cheap industrial carpets in elementary school: a mass of hallways and cradled smells. Wheels squeak and carts pirouette. Carts filled with unmarked cups, blue, green, bubblegum pink fluoride wobbles in motion. During the MCAS Gogurt, Smartfood, apples squeaking on carts that used to hold promises. Light explodes from the projector, TV cart shared between rooms halting for lockdown drills —a silent wheeled barrier. More wheels than feet circling bodies inverted by time. Squeak, squeak─ uneven floors tug gravity, tug back the haze of lint and dust wheeling at last to hallway’s end. * * * Marisca Pichette's work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Fireside Magazine, Room Magazine, SNACK, and Plenitude Magazine, among others. She lives in Western Massachusetts, surrounded by bones and whispering trees. She is on Twitter as @MariscaPichette.
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Image by Gerd Altmann
Musings from a Member of the Governing Body of Sentient Detritus, The Council of Trash by Jason P. Burnham Not everything has a greater purpose.
Sometimes it’s nice to just fill the volume of your container To appreciate the sentience you’ve achieved as congealed flotsam in a gas giant’s orbit. Nothing exists on purpose. What are the implications of my existence for the deities you know? Our Trash God burbles and squelches, compacts simulacra from debris. The universe is a recursive, bouncing bubble of existence with infinite possibilities Anything possible will happen. If nothing matters, savor and enjoy every second We’re all composed of the same quarks. Words are just oscillations. Tell your story Before you’re just air again. Or whatever it is you’re made of. * * * Jason P. Burnham is an infectious diseases physician by day. He loves spending time with his wife, kids, and dog.
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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 ScribesMICRO, 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. |