* * * Managing Editor: Edward Ahern * * *
* Submissions Editor: P.C. Keeler *
* Submissions Editor: P.M. Ray *
* Associate Editor: Alison McBain *
* Submissions Editor: P.C. Keeler *
* Submissions Editor: P.M. Ray *
* Associate Editor: Alison McBain *
Issue # 3
March 15, 2021
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* John Adams * David G. Boston *
* RC deWinter * Jon Fain * David Henson *
* Bethany Jarmul * Kevin Kaye * Robert Keal *
* Ed Nobody * D.G. Sciortino * Jim Woessner *
* John Adams * David G. Boston *
* RC deWinter * Jon Fain * David Henson *
* Bethany Jarmul * Kevin Kaye * Robert Keal *
* Ed Nobody * D.G. Sciortino * Jim Woessner *
Featured Author
Interview with RC deWinter
Welcome to our third issue of Scribes*MICRO*Fiction. I’m associate editor Alison McBain, and I’m talking with our featured writer RC deWinter, author of the poem “overwintering.”
RC deWinter’s poetry is anthologized, notably in New York City Haiku (NY Times/2017), Coffin Bell Two (Coffin Bell/2020) in print: 2River, Adelaide, Event, Genre Urban Arts, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, the minnesota review, Night Picnic Journal, Prairie Schooner, Southword among many others and appears in numerous online publications.
RC deWinter’s poetry is anthologized, notably in New York City Haiku (NY Times/2017), Coffin Bell Two (Coffin Bell/2020) in print: 2River, Adelaide, Event, Genre Urban Arts, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, the minnesota review, Night Picnic Journal, Prairie Schooner, Southword among many others and appears in numerous online publications.
Words and music have always been intertwined for me. My first professional career was music – singer/songwriter – and my first poems were lyrics to songs I wrote, but I began writing at a very young age and my first works were short stories. When I transitioned from music to art I started writing poems and narratives to accompany the paintings. Words, music and art are my holy trinity.
One image that was a pleasant and unexpected shift in your poem was the line “nourished by the notes of a pale guitar.” What type of music would you envision complementing the musicality of your poem’s language?
I would choose a solo guitar arrangement of Chopin’s Nocturne in E flat major, Op. 9 No. 2. Alternatively, something traditional such as “Greensleeves” or Francisco Tárregaa’s “Adelita” would be apropos. I’ve included links for those who may be interested in listening. For readers enjoying this poem, what work or collection of yours would you recommend for them to read next? Although I am widely published, since I don’t have a collection of my own out yet – something I have put off assembling for far too long – the best place to see my published work is on Twitter. If one types #poetry @RCdeWinter in the Twitter search box there will be plenty to choose from. |
Photo by Michael Leonard
Fiction
Photo by Tünde Suknovic-Bede
One of Earth's Greatest Inventions by D.G. Sciortino Theodore stares into clean white walls, rocking gently in a waiting room chair. Jolted into the present, he stumbles over his robes when summoned.
“Your dedication in The Above hasn’t gone unnoticed,” Theodore’s supervisor commends. “Therefore, we’ve assigned you to a critical mission in The Below.” As a groundbreaking artist? Galvanizing activist? Decades of rumination, almost over. “Purveyor of one of Earth’s greatest inventions, you’ll soothe hearts of inconsolable men. Nourish them. Reward their hard work. And support local Little League. You, Theodore, will serve mankind as owner of Heavenly Slice in Glendale, Ohio. Congratulations, son.” Theodore’s chest swells. A tear drops. It’s a fine way to earn his wings. * * * D.G. Sciortino has more than a decade of experience as a journalist, blogger, and freelance writer. Her work has been published on sites like Patch, Huffington Post, Family Handyman, and Little Things. She enjoys crafting humorous and heartwarming stories that inspire love. More about D.G. at dinagracezoemedia.com.
Late Show by Jon Fain What if the lightening bugs are taking pictures of us? she asks.
We sit on the deck, watching the flicker and dance, until the beers are gone. We have a movie in mind. Playing down at the local. It’s an indie, so probably a love story full of snide remarks, she says. Lazy from dinner, I’m thinking not. What if the lightening bugs are making movies of us? I ask. She says, What if, whatever they’re making of us, they’re going to take and show Mark? It’s Mark’s house, Mark’s beer, Mark’s grandmother’s dishes. Hope he has popcorn, I say. * * * This story was first published at National Flash Fiction Day.
Jon Fain began publishing fiction in commercial and literary magazines in the 1980s. More recently, he has had micros published or forthcoming in 50-Word Stories, A Story in 100 Words, Molecule Tiny Lit Mag, Star 82 Review, and The Dribble Drabble Review. He lives in Massachusetts. 
Dali's "Young Woman at a Window" by Jim Woessner This isn't about me, Ana Maria. You've turned your back on everyone. You and Salvador conspired in this silence, making us beg to see your face. You torture so wantonly, so playfully, leaning against the windowsill, one leg casually bent at the knee. Do you enjoy this game? Or is there something so compelling in the view that you can simply ignore those who want to love you? Need to love you? What's the attraction? The expanse of water? The lone sailboat? You can't blame this on me. This isn't about me. But then... it never was, was it?
* * * Based on Young Woman at a Window by Salvador Dali (1925).
Jim Woessner works as a visual artist and writer living on the water in Sausalito, California. He has an MFA from Bennington College. His publishing credits include The Sea Letter, FewerThan500, Close to the Bone, Adelaide Magazine, Potato Soup Journal, Unbroken Journal, Ariel Chart, Peeking Cat, and others. In One Ear by John Adams I place my lips against the sleeping boy’s ear. My breath comes out heavy. Brittle. A seed. The seed trickles down his ear canal, planting into his eardrum.
The next morning, his ear itches. His mommy sighs. “Plug your nostrils. Wiggle your jaw.” Nothing helps. My tendrils flourish. Worming his eustachian tube. Entangling his cochlea. Erasing all thoughts except: It itches. That night, he screams from the bathroom, bloody Q-Tip in hand. And I wonder: Is he sufficiently punished for denying my existence to his schoolmates? Sometimes, I leave coins for their teeth. Other times, I leave something else entirely. * * * John Adams lives near Kansas City. Publications: Australian Writers’ Centre, Dream of Shadows, Fat Cat, Intrinsick, Metaphorosis, Paper Butterfly, SERIAL, Story Engine, Weird Christmas. Forthcoming: Gallery of Curiosities, The Weird and Whatnot. His plays have been selected by Whim Productions and the William Inge Theater Festival.
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Return Address Stamp
by Kevin Kaye Mason found the stamp in a kitchen drawer. Its handle was worn but solid, having lasted through all the bills, two baby announcements, and the Christmas cards. Now, it wobbled when pressed.
She had cut out her name. Where the letters had been was now a scar, rough with nicks. Everything was reversed. His own name and their address slowly revealed themselves. The symmetry stood out: As and 8s and Ts clear, unambiguous. He took his pocketknife and removed his name, lifting out all five letters just as she had, and returned the stamp to the drawer. The new owners can be happy here. We had been. * * * Kevin Kaye lives in Connecticut with his wife, Tamara, and their children, August and Roscoe. His first published story “The Brief Return of Ozymandias” appeared in Oyster River Pages in 2019. He recently finished writing a political novel based on his Peace Corps experience in 1990s Russia.
Egg Drop by Ed Nobody The egg slips and my fingers pinch on nothing, the smooth touch of its pink skin a memory, fading, the egg tumbling, snot pointed down and inner yolk screaming, hope dwindling. My clumsy paw overshoots a dumb ballistic path, the egg's brown afterimage a turd blur in the air; this egg, which will bear no chick and no breakfast, this egg about to perish, down and down past my thigh and knee and further, beyond reach, beyond salvation, into the pits of unhatched destiny, then rapping with a crack and splat upon that evil linoleum... Abandon all yolk, ye who fall upon here.
* * * Ed Nobody is a writer from Ireland who wants to write daring, engaging stories not restricted by traditional genre conventions. He has published several short stories in magazines such as Lovecraftiana, Strange Science Fiction Adventures, and The Horror Zine. He has two novellas under consideration and a novel in the works.
The Rocking Horse by Robert Keal Stares at me from across the room we’re sharing, eyes agog. “How dare you be here—you’re the reason I’m dead.”
“Don’t say that,” I whisper, looking around to see if the brush or wet wipe pack are nearby. “Clean all you want; it won’t make a difference.” Neither. A dusty microfiber cloth scrubs the corner of my vision. “Disgusting. Call yourself a mother?” I throw it back in the tote. “Just give up. It’s what you’re good at.” I hug his toy. Head downstairs to ring Missing Persons again. Maybe today someone will have seen him. Maybe he’s all right. * * * Robert Keal hails from Kent but currently lives in London, where he works as a copywriter. His poetry is forthcoming from Litmus Magazine, and he has recently published short stories with Fewer Than 500, Visual Verse, and Star 82 Review. He is just beginning to find his voice.
Clues in the Museum by David Hensen I blindfold the brontosaurus skeleton with a red tablecloth. It’s your first clue. The trail continues with a flashlight I slide into a Neanderthal’s hand.
You make it to the buffalo head with the sawed-off horn, but start down the wrong corridor—so I clear my throat. You find the phone off the hook in the country’s first phone booth, discover the uneven stirrups on Teddy Roosevelt’s saddle. I clip an antenna from the caterpillar and mingle with the crowd at the butterfly exhibit. I’m the one whose thumbnails have no moons. The one who’s waiting for you. * * * David Henson and his wife reside in Peoria, Illinois. His work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net and has appeared in numerous print and online journals.
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Creative Nonfiction
Photo by Ian Lindsay
Little Caterpillar by Bethany Jarmul If I die, you won’t remember me. You won’t remember the way my voice cracks when I sing “Hush Little, Baby” and pat your diaper-padded bottom. You won’t remember how I chase you around the house as you toddle, then trip, then up again, laughing with your eight-toothed grin.
None of us remember much before three. We can’t remember when we’re helpless caterpillars eating leaves. We can’t remember the cocoon that kept us safe. We only remember the bursting forth, the fear we feel when we start to fly, and hopefully, the voice of momma butterfly cheering us on. * * * Bethany Jarmul is a writer and work-from-home mom. She lives in Pittsburgh with her husband and son.
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Losing Argument
by Jim Woessner “Tell me,” he said, “what have I accomplished? My life has been a complete waste of time.”
I mentioned numerous things he had done. His career. A successful art gallery. “It’s not about keeping score,” he argued. I reminded him of the lives he had touched. “Peanuts,” he said. “None of that matters.” He wasn’t listening, and the conversation was getting on my nerves. “Have you considered therapy?” I asked. “What about antidepressants?” “Go to hell,” he yelled. Talking further was pointless. “Have it your way,” I shouted. I quit shaving, toweled my face, and stormed out of the bathroom. * * * Jim Woessner works as a visual artist and writer living on the water in Sausalito, California. He has an MFA from Bennington College. His publishing credits include The Sea Letter, FewerThan500, Close to the Bone, Adelaide Magazine, Potato Soup Journal, Unbroken Journal, Ariel Chart, Peeking Cat, and others.
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Poetry
Photo by Sam Williams
overwintering by RC deWinter in the steamy hollow at the heart of winter
that place daunted by snow we never reach live all our bright dreams nourished by the notes of a pale guitar the chemical kiss of the hidden sun they linger there those dreams waiting to surprise us lost in the teeth of storms we hunker down through solitary nights smoothing the ragged angles of disappointment with the bitter kiss of wine but still they linger there those dreams waiting to surprise us and when the white blanket melts into the mud of the garden we step outside into soft spring rain and find them in the pockets of our raincoat * * * RC deWinter’s poetry is anthologized, notably in New York City Haiku (NY Times/2017), Coffin Bell Two (Coffin Bell/2020) in print: 2River, Adelaide, Event, Genre Urban Arts, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, the minnesota review, Night Picnic Journal, Prairie Schooner, Southword among many others and appears in numerous online publications.
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Ice Workers by David G. Boston Each winter the ice house stands
Idle; the frozen lake commands The attention of workers who wait to Cut new blocks with their crews. Driving their sleds onto the lake, Ready to start breaking the thick Ice surface with their picks. Each hit landing sure and swift. Creating an opening large enough To insert their saw blades’ rough Teeth into the ice, they start their cuts. Lifting each block with care. Piling the ice onto the sleds they Start the trip across the inlet. As oxen pull their heavy loads Into a waking ice house. * * * David G. Boston was born in Bridgeport, Connecticut. He is a former United States Marine. He had a twenty-seven year career in Law Enforcement. David has been writing poetry since he was a teenager. His poems have been published in: The Bridgeport Post, Bean Fest Magazine, The Poetry Guild, Connecticut River Review, Long River Run, and The International Library of Poetry. He is also a professional stage and film actor.
Photo by Peggy Choucair
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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. |