* * * 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 # 22
October 16, 2022
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Brett Abrahamsen * Scott Bogart * Lexi Butler *
* O. S. Curran * RC deWinter * LL Garland *
* David Henson * Anushka Kulkarni *
* Emily Macdonald * Mary Anne Mc Enery *
* Ken Poyner * Don J. Rath * Matthew P.S. Salinas *
* Cailey Tarriane * Cate Vance * John Villan *
* Brett Abrahamsen * Scott Bogart * Lexi Butler *
* O. S. Curran * RC deWinter * LL Garland *
* David Henson * Anushka Kulkarni *
* Emily Macdonald * Mary Anne Mc Enery *
* Ken Poyner * Don J. Rath * Matthew P.S. Salinas *
* Cailey Tarriane * Cate Vance * John Villan *
Book Review
In My Secret Life
by Amy Bleu
Reviewed by P.C. Keeler
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Photo by Michael Leonard
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Fiction
The Holiday by Matthew P.S. Salinas Tommy clenched the stuffed dog he recently received for Christmas under the table. His parents were yelling at each other at the kitchen table while he played underneath. Tommy caressed its soft ears and tapped the stuffed dog on its nose. Tommy loved everything about it except the eyes.
The cold and dark eyes scared him. It was as if they had seen things, knew things that they never wished to share. Looking back on his childhood, Tommy could only wonder if those eyes looked that way because they already knew that was the last family holiday Tommy would get. * * * 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 Fine Print by LL Garland The devil disappeared before the ink on the contract was dry, leaving only brimstone. “By midnight tomorrow, you’ll have forgotten his death,” he had promised.
I indulged the memories I’d bargained away, memories I’d avoided this last year. Winning that stupid costume contest as Beetlejuice and Lydia. Singing “Day-O” as I drove us into that tree. The doorbell rang. Damn teenagers. I know the porch light’s off. “I’m outta candy, you little shi—” A man stood bleeding on my porch, torn red dress, glass shards in his hair. The base of a trophy sticking out of his chest. “Hello, sweetheart.” * * * 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.
Image by Sam Williams
A List of Sh*t to Bring to My Brother's Funeral by Don J. Rath The black hearse leaves in ten minutes and I have my list of sh*t to bring to Eric’s funeral. He’ll need his stuff, I tell Mom.
Like the teddy bear with the green shirt he named Sam. Like the pink diary he never wrote in ’cause it was too gay. Like the pair of blue Keds, size four, he’d learn to tie shoes on. Like the short story he wrote about The Monster. Like the crumbs on his bedspread from eating wheat toast alone. Like the cord from the iron he’d used the first time he tried. Hurry, the limo’s waiting. * * * Don J. Rath holds an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Queens University of Charlotte. A recently retired finance executive, he lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and writes short fiction and creative nonfiction. His work has been published in Musepaper (New Millennium Writings), Hypnopomp, and the upcoming 42-Word Stories Anthology.
Almost Late for It by Scott Bogart He was two minutes early. Everyone was already there. He breathed a sigh of relief. Still, something didn't feel right—something was off. He scratched his head. Did I unplug the iron? Yes, I remember doing that. Did I turn off the stove? No, dummy—you didn’t cook. You had coffee and a cigarette. He stood still for a moment then looked down at his shoes—nicely polished. His suit—sharply pressed. What am I forgetting?
He looked up. All of the people were staring at him in silence. Then it dawned on him. He climbed into the coffin and closed the lid. * * * Scott Bogart is a retired police detective. He lives along the South Carolina coast.
You Magnified by Lexi Butler We huddled under the awing as summer rained—me in a blue suit, you filled up with chardonnay to your fingertips. The beginning of our dewdrop world.
We now hide this rental from our husbands. You leave cash for the landlady under the Virgin Mary statue, then mutate into the bad girl I remember. You topless in the mirror, magnifying your chin to pluck one hair. I wait for what I’m here for—an afternoon that magnifies the boredom of other days embodied by the softness in your teeth, coming from the quietness in your kiss. * * * Lexi Butler’s writing has appeared in Brilliant Flash Fiction, 100 Word Story, Potato Soup Journal, Ellissis Zine, The Loch Raven Review, Press Pause Press Anthology and Tipping the Scales Literary Journal. She was a semi-finalist in the 2021 River Styx Microfiction Contest. When not writing, she is producing television and walking her dog along the banks of the Charles River. She has an MA from Emerson College in Media and Visual Arts.
Leaves of Gold by Cate Vance Felix studied the autumn glow across the craggy peaks. An aspen stand graced the crest ahead, leaves fluttering like confetti doubloons in the breeze. He adjusted his pack and recited the final clue:
Under the gilded peaks, Beneath the harvest sun, Stand tall to gain the gold you seek, Hold the blaze in your palm. The sun shifted, lighting the trees like candle flames—an aspen stand ablaze.
Felix squinted at the trees. He plucked a leaf from a low branch and raised it to the setting sun. The leaf fluttered in his palm, then grew heavy as solid gold. * * * Cate Vance writes from the mountains of Montana, where she is inspired by misty mornings, brilliant days, and starry nights. Her short fiction has been featured in Sky Island Journal and A Story In 100 Words. Follow her on Twitter @WriterCSVance.
Photo by John Price
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Adolescence by Ken Poyner This snakeskin is far larger than the last. This is growing season, elongation and thickness settling in at real time. Quibble turns it to the light, worries whether he should measure it, keep lengths in a notebook secreted at the bottom of the sock drawer, treasured as an orderly approach to history. But he knows he has missed skins, that his wife has swept out some without note. He sees the imperfection. What if a visiting neighbor finds a skin in the parlor? No. He tells his daughter she is coming into ladyhood: find a more discrete place to shed.
* * * After years of impersonating a Systems Engineer, Ken Poyner has retired to watch his wife break world raw powerlifting records. Ken’s four current poetry and four short fiction collections are available from multiple bookselling websites.
Photo by Engin Akyurt
You'd Miss the Rains by Mary Anne Mc Enery Summers long ago, I loved idling the days with Briny at the end of our garden overlooking the river. We’d swim naked—concerned more about sun tans than melanomas—like playful young seals. Then, we’d pick long grasses to tickle away the water drops that clung like tiny crystals to our bodies.
I miss the summer rains watering the garden while being pelted by nature’s soft missiles. Every summer now on the care-home veranda, the nurse rubs SPF50 all over my face, neck, and arms. “Sun’s rays aren’t our friends anymore,” the nurse says. “You’d miss the rains,” I say. 
Photo by Oleg Gamulinskiy
* * * Mary Anne Mc Enery is an Irish and Dutch citizen, a senior—who does not act her age—living in The Hague, The Nederlands. She has fun writing micro, flash fiction, and longer short stories. Some of her words can be found on the Friday Flash Fiction and Roi Fainéant websites.
Bottled Memories by O. S. Curran “Hey, honey,” he says, smiling like he always used to.
“Hi, dear,” I reply. “Collected the twins yet?” “Of course I have,” I say as he wraps an arm around my waist. “Amazing how fast they’ve grown up,” as I rest my head atop his. “Yeah,” I respond, a tear coming to my eye. “Feels like just yesterday we took them in—so sweet, then. Nothing lasts forever, I suppose.” “No. Things really don’t.” My tears near full-blown sobs. “What’s wrong?” he asks, pulling away. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” I pull off the goggles. The simulation ends. My tears remain. * * * O. S. Curran is a speculative fiction writer from Dublin, Ireland. Their passions include books, poetry, technology, travel, Impressionist art, public transport, linguistics, and their pet dog. They can be found on Twitter at https://twitter.com/inevitably_oc.
Kissing in a Bottle Green Jaguar XJ6 by Emily Macdonald Father said he didn’t care when he saw Mother kissing. Didn’t care then—didn’t care anymore—when he saw her illuminated, kissing her bearded lover in the bottle green Jag.
Mother didn’t know—or did she?—he’d be walking the dog. Alone on the dusky lane except for the faithful companion. Perhaps the car was seductive when they leaned back to drive, admiring their reflections in polished walnut and shining vanity mirrors, and reclined in soft, yielding, kid leather seats. I guess we children were tucked up in bed, sleeping in the dark, quiet house. We must have been left quite alone. * * * Emily Macdonald was born in England but grew up in New Zealand. Fascinated by wine as a student, she has worked in the wine trade ever since. Now freelance, she writes short stories and flash. In writing and in wines she likes variety, persistence, and enough acidity to add bite.
Career Outlook: 20-- by John Villan I rent a room in the barn. Used to be a horse stall. Times are hard. Twenty-four units here, booked solid. Running water in the common area. Latrine out back. I’ve had it worse.
The day you couldn’t get fresh cherries anymore was the point of no return. Just never came back in stock. Then it was all fresh produce. And canned food, boxed. Then, well, everything else. I fix tractors now. Hack the operating systems so they can run without verifying the subscription. It’s a good gig. Keeps my hands clean. But I sure do miss the cherries. * * * John Villan is a writer of fiction and poetry. He has lived and traveled throughout much of the continental United States and has an avid interest in American history, with a special focus on colonial era history. He lives in northern Arkansas along with his wife and their three dogs.
Photo by Samuele Schirò
Infinity by Brett Abrahamsen He attempted to measure God’s IQ. Following months of speculation, he determined that if the highest human IQ was 203 (Albert Einstein), the IQ of God was 7,913,109.
The number seemed wrong. On the one hand, it was undoubtedly too high a number—it was an insult to Einstein to put such a massive distance between him and God. Yet the number also seemed too low—7,913,109 was not the highest possible number, in which case there existed a hypothetical being more intelligent than God. He ran the tests again, with the same result. He decided he would artificially modify the test scores. God’s IQ = infinity, he wrote. * * * Brett Abrahamsen's work has been sold to the Sci Phi Journal, Creepy Podcast, and Wyldblood. He resides in Saratoga Springs, NY.
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Creative Nonfiction
Makeup Problems
by Anushka Kulkarni
by Anushka Kulkarni
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“You have photoshoots this morning. Mike’s waiting outside with an umbrella.”
“Thanks.” She turns back to the mirror and dabs foundation over the last unpigmented spot on her leg. Vitiligo. Every day, it takes longer to hide it. She walks outside, terrified that a single drop of water might land her on the newspaper’s front page. Memories of innocent monsoons and the joy of nature’s showers overpower her desire for discretion. The flashes of thunder drown out that of the paparazzi’s cameras. A switch flips in her head. She waves away the umbrella. Drip. Drip. She is free. * * * 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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Poetry
Things That Need Corrections by Cailey Tarriane There is no courage in speaking up when you want
to hear an apology because there is no forgiveness in the next 500 years waiting by your door. There is no love in spoiling your children because there is no hatred they’ll give that you won’t end up tolerating. There is no getting over the past because nobody does, we simply invest more hope into a better tomorrow. Oh, and before anyone asks There is no sorry that fixes broken wings because whoever accepts that apology has made peace with the fact that they will never fly again. * * * Cailey Tarriane is an author and poet who writes novels, flash fiction--anything under the sun. She has experience in editing, co-writing, filmmaking, and writing about her pets.
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Stolen Encounter by Ken Poyner Okay, I’ve slain the monsters.
Put the unicorns out to pasture. Chased the goblins off the front porch. Delighted the fairies by reading to them the personal column from this morning’s paper. Just now, I’ve loaned the witch one house over a half cup of eye of newt. I catch you watching me from the spot of light angled on the grinning breakfast nook. Everything is caught up, or at bay. Time is catching its skirts with its knees. Are there moments left in both of us for a little late morning intimate magic? * * * After years of impersonating a Systems Engineer, Ken Poyner has retired to watch his wife break world raw powerlifting records. Ken’s four current poetry and four short fiction collections are available from multiple bookselling websites.
Still Life in Gray by RC deWinter The day uncoils slowly, wrapped in a thin glaze
somewhere between sun and heartache. I don’t want to hear about it, so I’ll lie here until the weather makes up its mind and I know which garments to choose from the pile sulking in the corner of my overcrowded, empty life. I briefly consider not getting up at all, but my New England conscience tosses that idea out the window, where it’s gobbled up by hungry clouds. Then, hearing the foghorn’s warning, I sigh, knowing the sun is doomed and ready myself for a still life in gray. * * * RC deWinter’s poetry is widely anthologized, notably in New York City Haiku, easing the edges: a collection of everyday miracles, The Connecticut Shakespeare Festival Anthology, in print: 2River, Event, Gargoyle Magazine, the minnesota review, Night Picnic Journal, Plainsongs, Prairie Schooner, Southword, The Ogham Stone, Twelve Mile Review, York Literary Review among many others and appears in numerous online literary journals.
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Dracula by David Henson Silver crosses and holy water
keep me away only in movies. Wooden stakes you pound so much faith into make me laugh. My unquenchable thirst is all you’ve got right. No black cape flows around my shoulders. I wear jeans and a sweatshirt, a suit and tie for formal occasions. I could sit next to you at a restaurant counter, dunking bread in tomato soup. You’d never suspect it was me. But I’ll introduce myself soon enough. One night while you’re sleeping, you’ll sense someone staring. Sitting up in the dark, you’ll see only a red dot as I raise a cigarette to the lips you’ll know are smiling. 
Photo by Mostafa Meraji
* * * David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois, USA. His work has been nominated for two Pushcart prizes and has appeared in Scribes*MICRO*Fiction and other journals.
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Free Book Publishing Consultation
If you've written a novel or memoir but are struggling with getting it published, how would you like to have a one-on-one chat with our associate editor, Alison McBain? She's a freelance editor whose recent novel was published through When Words Count's Pitch Week, which you can read about in Medium's The Writing Cooperative: "How I Jumped the Line & Got a Book Deal."
Send an email to Alison at amcbain.wwc@gmail.com to talk to her about nontraditional methods to get a traditional publishing deal, such as the contest that gave her a leg up in the field. If you also have a query letter for your manuscript (250 words or less), she will weigh in on it free of charge. |
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. |