ScribesMICRO
* * * Managing Editor: Edward Ahern * * *
* Associate Editor: Alison McBain *
* Special Features Editor: Matthew P.S. Salinas *
* Submissions Editor: Sarah Anderson * Submissions Editor: P.C. Keeler *
* Submissions Editor: P.M. Ray * Submissions Editor: Ira Rosofsky *
* Submissions Editor: Felicia Strangeways * Submissions Editor: Amita Basu *
* Featured Contributor: Aaron H. Davis *
* Associate Editor: Alison McBain *
* Special Features Editor: Matthew P.S. Salinas *
* Submissions Editor: Sarah Anderson * Submissions Editor: P.C. Keeler *
* Submissions Editor: P.M. Ray * Submissions Editor: Ira Rosofsky *
* Submissions Editor: Felicia Strangeways * Submissions Editor: Amita Basu *
* Featured Contributor: Aaron H. Davis *
Issue # 29
May 15, 2023
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Brett Abrahamsen * Emma Burnett * Aaron H. Davis *
* Mel Fawcett* Scott T. Hutchison * William Kitcher *
* Jim Latham * C Lenz * Margaret Long * Ashley McCurry *
* Saransh Mogha * Jeanette Rundquist * Robert Runté *
* Deborah Shrimplin * Bill Tope * Jaime Townzen *
* Karen Southall Watts * Huina Zheng *
* Brett Abrahamsen * Emma Burnett * Aaron H. Davis *
* Mel Fawcett* Scott T. Hutchison * William Kitcher *
* Jim Latham * C Lenz * Margaret Long * Ashley McCurry *
* Saransh Mogha * Jeanette Rundquist * Robert Runté *
* Deborah Shrimplin * Bill Tope * Jaime Townzen *
* Karen Southall Watts * Huina Zheng *
Editor's Corner
And now a word from our sponsors... ahem, editors.
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When I found out my mom was a spy, I thought, Cool. Like in the movies.
Right up until the bad guys busted through the door and dragged us off to their underground lair. They tied up my brother and me and screamed they’d kill us—unless we told them everything. We were kids, right? What do kids know about their parents’ business, ya know? That’s when I found out my mom wasn’t a spy. She was a superhero. She blasted through the ceiling and knocked those two dudes to hell. I bet they were sorry when they woke up dead. 
“Sorry, repeat that? Your superpower is what?”
“Anyone I tell my superpower to… dies.” “Why would you say such a thing? You’re making that up. How would you ever discover it?” “It’s true, though. I told my mother. She died. I told my sister. She died. I told my best friend. He died. I even tried telling a priest, and he died too.” “But how did you discover that power to tell the first person about it?” “You expect me to remember something like that? Give me a break. I can’t remember every detail over a ten-thousand-year life.” |
Photo by Michael Leonard
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Poetry
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Twinkle by Aaron H. Davis A twinkle in the eyes of stars
a twinkle in my own a twinkle that denies the scars I and the stars have known a twinkle that says I know and the stars know too the secret humor just below every cosmic view * * * Broken Walls by Aaron H. Davis Along… around… this tract of land
The broken walls erode like sand That’s washed away by pounding sea The shingled stones left in the lea The touch of weather and of time Have also helped compound this crime But mostly it’s the hands of man That hate to let an old wall stand * * * Aaron H. Davis is approaching seventy years of age in as grouchy a manner as possible, as a proper curmudgeon should. He was born in Connecticut, adopted at one years old, and began composing poetry when he was five. He worked for the school system in East Lyme and was known as the “scrap paper poet” because of the scraps of paper used to jot down his poetry.
Spring Cleaning by Karen Southall Watts I approach my office, plastic bag in hand.
Confronted by boxes of books and half-baked projects stacks of old calendars and colonies of sticky notes, evidence of a life well planned. Tiny sprinkles of accomplishment peek out of the mess, and I consign some crumpled papers to the trash, feeling efficient, and momentarily free. Yet. I can’t let go of everything. Here is the proof that I paid my bills, and my taxes. In these piles are my flashes of brilliance, and my hours of indulgence, cluttered confirmation of my efforts to be a better person. So, I just neaten, spread the dust around, and close the door. * * * Karen Southall Watts is an educator and writer. She’s a dedicated walker with a brain that won’t be quiet. Her poetry chapbook, Desire, Dreams, and Dust was released in spring 2023.
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Photo by Dimitris Vetsikas
The Leaning Cabin by Jim Latham rain falls
on splintered wood and bent grass on bare trees and fallen leaves rodent bones molder on warped sills under dusty splinters of leaded glass damp ashes forgotten memories and broken promises choke the cold, sunken hearth in lieu of shelter a cindered roof vulnerable to the sky rattlesnakes seething in venomous coils under rotten floorboards but no matter shivering and staggering like an old dog, weary and age-blind lost in a rainstorm seeking a soft hand and a warm bed i go where i am led rain falls turning ditches to mirrors * * * Jim Latham lives and writes in San Pedro Cholula, Puebla. His stories have appeared in The Drabble, Spillwords, Better Than Starbucks, Eunoia Review, and elsewhere. He publishes free flash fiction every Wednesday on Substack at Jim’s Shorts.
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Creative Nonfiction
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Release by Jaime Townzen Eugenia rolled and moaned, alone in darkness. Orderlies changed and groomed her. Slumped her into a wheelchair. She stared vacantly at linoleum.
For days she’d ignored food. For years she’d recognized little. This artist, mathematician, mother, gardener, lost. Trapped in the frail, frightened changeling who remained. We’d become strangers. I looked enough like my aunt. Her deceased daughter, arrived at last, holding her hand. I could give her that. We hummed a familiar song. Gene dissolved into a portrait with her husband of seventy years, gone five. Final breaths shuttered from her chest. She released her grip. We all exhaled. 
Photo by James Chan
* * * Jaime Townzen lives in Southern California with her husband and their two teenage daughters. She enjoys reading, writing, long walks with her dogs, punk rock concerts, travel, and painting watercolors.
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Plane Ride by Emma Burnett The man in the seat next to me pulls out an iPad and starts up a game. He coughs, then snorts and swallows. He opens the window shade, shuts it, turns on his light, turns it back off.
I could ask him to cover his mouth when he hacks and gurgles, to stop messing around with the lights and the window, to turn off the app’s stupid sound. I could tell him I was up at 4 a.m. That I’m exhausted, and I miss my daughter and I’m trying not to cry. But I don’t. I’m far too British for that. * * * Emma Burnett is a recovering academic. She’s big into cats, sports, and being introverted. Find her on Twitter @slashnburnett.
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Christmas Cheer by Ashley McCurry “This pumpkin doesn’t work with the Christmas decorations,” you say.
I wonder if the smushed, bruised, ginger orb realizes its time is up. You carry our pumpkin across the frosted yard and destroy it with glee, like a child permitted to do something acceptably naughty, just this once. Stockings, gingerbread, eggnog. I start to tell you about the report on the counter that changes everything. You notice my furrowed brow and say, “Baby, don’t be a Scrooge!” On the TV, friends harangue Charlie Brown for his peculiar choice of tree. He’s such a downer. Twinkling lights. Tinsel. Relentless Christmas cheer. * * * Ashley McCurry (she/her) is a writer, speech pathologist, and Halloween enthusiast, currently residing in the Southeastern United States with her husband and four rescue dogs. She is also a slush reader for Flash Fiction Magazine. Her work has appeared in Bright Flash Literary Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Six Sentences, Microfiction Monday Magazine, FlashFlood Journal, The Dillydoun Review, Flash Boulevard, Shirley Lit Mag, Pigeon Review, The Metaworker, Five on the Fifth, and others.
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Fiction
Dawning by Huina Zheng “A dementor is on the coat rack,” my daughter cried. My chest caved in. “You read too much Harry Potter. Close your eyes.” The next night she blubbered mice were running under her bed, waiting to nibble her toes. “Wrap the quilt around your feet,” I hung up the phone, my chest collapsing into a hole. Dawn was breaking when I left the market. My daughter curled up on the sofa, slumbering, the size of a cat. The hole sucked in all my life. Leaning my tear-soaked face against her back, I wished I could stay with her at night.
* * * Huina Zheng was born and grew up in south China. She holds a M.A. in English Studies degree and has worked as college essay coach. Her stories were published in Variant Literature, Evocations Review, The Meadow, Ignatian Literary Magazine and other journals. Her fiction “Ghost Children” was nominated for the 2022 Pushcart Prize. She lives in Guangzhou, China with her husband and a daughter.
Grinding My Teeth by Scott T. Hutchison The dentist ran on about suicide rates among his kind while poking his fingers in my mouth, probing the strangely broken, kinda hook-shaped remains from my personal lesson in don’t-bite-a-Jolly-Rancher-hard-candy.
A blue, lifelike shimmer of sailfish, its time frozen in wave-leap, swam against the waiting room wall. The shaky-handed dentist answered my question, saying no─enamel will look natural—no, he didn’t catch that chancy fish—he bagged it at a desperate estate sale. Gave me a toothy grin while admitting: he hadn’t even dropped a bobber and worm in his life. I bit hard, heard cracking. * * * Scott T. Hutchison’s work has appeared in the Georgia Review and The Southern Review. New work is forthcoming in Dash, Fiction Southeast, The Citron Review, Steam Ticket, Arkansas Review, and Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel.
Photo by Rafael Juárez
To Turn a Blind Eye by Saransh Mogha Mehul was lying on his back, his gaze fixated on the ceiling. He hadn’t taken off his shoes or changed his formals. They were quarreling again.
He grabbed his headphones, plugged them in, upped the volume to full, and clenched his eyes shut. But the voices prevailed. Somewhere, a door was banged shut and with that, there was silence. A second later, there was a knock at his door. Taking a deep breath, he dragged his feet to open the door, and for the third time that month, his sister-in-law stood there, her eyes swollen red, visible bruising on her face. He stepped aside and let her in. * * * Saransh Mogha is a chemical engineer who loves to write for leisure. He lives in New Delhi, India.
Awakening by Jaime Townzen Most people don’t know when they wake up if it will be the day their life is going to change. They rub sleep from their eyes, yawn, wait for coffee, fill their cup. Sip slowly.
I was unaware the person dressing in the next room would never be there again. The house would be sold. The slow, quiet mornings I’d always taken for granted would be lost. My innocence. I resent how wastefully I let those last moments slip away. Micro universes of peace. My freedom. I also didn’t know how to hold the gun. Its weight. I know now. * * * Jaime Townzen lives in Southern California with her husband and their two teenage daughters. She enjoys reading, writing, long walks with her dogs, punk rock concerts, travel, and painting watercolors.
An Expected Encounter by Margaret Long With blank eyes and stiff arms, my father stares at me shivering in blue, papery cotton. His foot taps in staccato like a broken metronome. He keeps himself at the edge of the square, colorless room and begins to pace, pausing every time a doctor, nurse, or anyone else walks by. I finger the tight gauze hiding the jagged failures etched across my wrists and forearms and close my eyes; I know better than to wait for anything more than silence, impenetrable silence thick with words loaded but never launched.
* * * Margaret Long is a neuropsychologist and consultant who resides in California. She writes informative assessment reports by day and has been published in The Journal of Head Trauma and Rehabilitation as well as the abstract issue of Archives of Clinical Neuropsychology.
Coming to Terms with My Recent Breakup at the Cat Café by Ashley McCurry English breakfast tea stains the rim of my mug, reminding me to clean the toilet when I return home. Tufts of creamsicle fur drift upon the surface like a lotus flower. Two unfamiliar cats try to persuade me to commit, while others consider me with half-moon eyes and aggressive tail flicking, rightfully suspicious of my motives. I imagine a universe in which cats donning posh pea coats and designer handbags visit the Human Café. Rooms filled with lonely, abandoned humans jumping in laps, dreaming of more than momentary companionship. Wide, pleading eyes in fleshy faces following cars from the window.
* * * Ashley McCurry (she/her) is a writer, speech pathologist, and Halloween enthusiast, currently residing in the Southeastern United States with her husband and four rescue dogs. She is also a slush reader for Flash Fiction Magazine. Her work has appeared in Bright Flash Literary Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Six Sentences, Microfiction Monday Magazine, FlashFlood Journal, The Dillydoun Review, Flash Boulevard, Shirley Lit Mag, Pigeon Review, The Metaworker, Five on the Fifth, and others.
New Beginnings by C Lenz “I know it’s weird, but I don’t think it’s sad,” he explained. “Second cousins and plus ones bring them to the thrift store, not the brides and grooms themselves. They’re weddings, not divorces.”
We’d gone back to his place for dessert, where I’d learned he collected the wedding favors of strangers, each etched with two names and a date. Carefully curated chaos, the shelf of mismatched glassware was uneven like broken teeth. Me and my ex-husband’s names gleamed gold on glass. He understood. Plucked the tumbler from the shelf and poured a generous serving of wine. “To new beginnings,” he toasted.
* * * C Lenz is a writer, scientist and badass. Her work has appeared in AE: the Canadian Science Fiction Review and Metaphorosis, and she recently was an honourable mention in the Hamilton GritLit Short Story Contest. You can find her at @sealenz on Twitter, Instagram, and Hive.
Out on the Town by Emma Burnett I saw you through the gloom, carved my way over, dodging around dancers, stood next to you at the beer-sticky bar. I ordered a drink I couldn’t afford and offered to get one for you. You said sure and downed it, then ordered another. We stood there with our expensive drinks.
We yelled a conversation over the thumpa-thumpa until they called closing time, and the lights went up and you saw my face, no longer blurred in the dark and the smoke. You scrunched up your nose, pointed to some imaginary friends, and said you had to go, so bye.
* * * Emma Burnett is a recovering academic. She’s big into cats, sports, and being introverted. Find her on twitter @slashnburnett.
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After-Dinner Music by Bill Tope She told him, “You can’t always get what you want.”
He smiled a little. “Didn’t Mick Jagger write a song about that?” he quipped. “Who?” He shook his head. “Never mind.” She frowned. “Another obscure musical reference?” she inquired. He nodded. “But we’ve got to find a band for my folks’ fiftieth anniversary. They like that old music; it’s not all bad,” she conceded. What music did you have in mind?” “I like that one guy; you know, Steely Dan?” He said nothing. “And that other one—Jethro Tulley?” “Yeah,” he said. “Dan and Tulley are both good.” “Right. Do they play receptions?” * * * Bill Tope is a former construction worker, cook, caseworker, and nude model, living now in Illinois with his mean little cat Baby.
Photo by Mabel Amber
In the Park by Jeanette Rundquist Every day after work, Lucy and Baxter rendezvous.
They smile in dappled late-day sunlight, she a coquette and he happy-go-lucky. Next, they nuzzle. Then they romp, gamboling, wrestling, and occasionally barking. We watch, amused, from separate benches, sharing a glance between checking our phones. Yesterday, they breached the gate and bolted for the pond. Baxter plunged in. Lucy yipped. “He’s mine,” you laughed, slipping and splashing, grabbing Baxter’s collar. “He’s cute,” I said, smiling, scooping Lucy up. Together we strolled to a nearby fountain, rinsed mud from your sweatshirt, hung it up to dry. Today, we share a bench. * * * Jeanette Rundquist is a lifelong journalist and communicator, now writing fiction after her day job. Her microfiction has placed in the NYCMidnight Competition. She is also at work on her first novel. She is a graduate of the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications at Syracuse University. You can find her at jeanetterundquist.wordpress.com.
The Sperm-Egg Paradox by Brett Abrahamsen Before you were born, you were either: a. your father’s sperm, b. your mother’s egg, c. both, or d. neither.
To choose a. or b. is arbitrary and one cannot justify choosing one over the other. C. is a preposterous choice—the sperm and egg were completely separate entities before you were conceived, hence it is extraordinarily unlikely that you were both prior to the moment of your conception. And if d. were correct, surely you would not be yourself now, either. Hence existence—and, more specifically, your existence—is impossible. * * * Brett Abrahamsen’s work has been sold to the Sci Phi Journal, Creepy Podcast, and Wyldblood. He resides in Saratoga Springs, NY.
Disposable by Robert Runté We’re at the starship’s on-ramp when they stop us.
“You’re over your weight limit. You have to abandon—” the ship’s steward consults his screen, “—62.34 kilos.” Marco looks down at his young son, then shakes his head as if rejecting some thought. “I guess we could leave your book collection.” “Dad, no!” Marco rolls his eyes. “You have them all digitized anyway.” “It’s not the same! … Leave Julia.” They both turn to stare at me. “We can deactivate this one and just download a fresh AI there.” Marco nods reluctantly, reaches toward my─ * * * Robert Runté is Senior Editor with EssentialEdits.ca. A former professor, he has won three Aurora Awards for literary criticism. His fiction has been published in over forty venues, and six of his short stories have been reprinted in ‘best of' collections, such as Canadian Shorts II and Best of Metastellar.
A Different Point of View by Mel Fawcett Poor little Tommy. I dread the thought of leaving him. I’ve heard that some some children scream the first time. It’s a mother’s nightmare.
When we got there, I stopped and looked through the railings and my heart shriveled. It looked like a prison yard. *
Mummy had been pulling me along and I was frightened. I didn’t know where we were going. I knew something was wrong because she was crying.
But it wasn’t until she stopped pulling me that I noticed all the children; I’d never seen so many in one place before. I so wanted to be with them. * * * Mel Fawcett lives in London. His stories have appeared in various print and online publications, including Brilliant Flash Fiction, The Nonconformist Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Pomegranate London, Every Day Fiction, Microfiction Monday Magazine, Drabble Magazine, and ScribesMICRO.
The Dead Soldier by William Kitcher On February 8, 1968, Mrs. Deborah Johnson of Des Moines, Iowa received a letter from the U.S. Army. It read: “Dear Mrs. Johnson: We regret to inform you your son, Private Marcus Johnson, was killed in action at Hue, South Vietnam, on February 3, 1968. Yours sincerely, Major Joseph Montgomery, U.S. Army.”
Mrs. Johnson was devastated, and grieved with her family and friends all through the night. The following day, a young man knocked on her front door. When Mrs. Johnson answered the door, the young man said, “Your son is not dead. I sent you that letter. I’m from an organization called ‘Stop The War Now.’ ” * * * Bill Kitcher’s stories, plays, and comedy sketches (and one poem!) have been published, produced, and/or broadcast in Australia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Canada, Czechia, England, Guernsey, Holland, India, Ireland, Nigeria, Singapore, South Africa, and the U.S. His novel, Farewell And Goodbye, My Maltese Sleep, will be published in 2023 by Close To The Bone Publishing.
Photo by Jacqueline Macou
The Opal Ring by Deborah Shrimplin When George, the jeweler, saw the little old lady enter his shop, he smiled at his next target.
“May I help you?” “I’d like to sell my opal ring,” Harriet said as she handed the ring to him. When George saw the opal sparkle as if on fire, he felt a rush of desire. He offered the old lady much less than it was worth. Not knowing its true value, Harriet agreed. With money in hand, she walked toward the door. She heard George cry out as the opal turned to ashes in his hand. Harriet smiled and walked on. * * * Deborah Shrimplin is a retired reading specialist living in the beautiful Pacific Northwest. When she was told that writing is good for the senior brain, she tried her hand at flash fiction. Her stories have appeared in The Mythic Circle, Bewildering Stories, 365 Tomorrows, 101 Words and Grande Dame Literary. She has a 1282-page Roget’s Thesaurus on her coffee table!
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