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 # 30
June 18, 2023
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Jennifer Austin * Guy Belleranti * JD Clapp *
* Hannah Collins * Aaron Davis * Austin Gilmore *
* Lee Hammerschmidt * Megan Hanlon *
* Christy Hartman * David Henson * Jody Lebel *
* D X Lewis * Sean MacKendrick *
* Leah Mueller * Bruce Pandya * Vic Pinto *
* Gideon P. Smith * Bryan Vale * Huina Zheng *
* Jennifer Austin * Guy Belleranti * JD Clapp *
* Hannah Collins * Aaron Davis * Austin Gilmore *
* Lee Hammerschmidt * Megan Hanlon *
* Christy Hartman * David Henson * Jody Lebel *
* D X Lewis * Sean MacKendrick *
* Leah Mueller * Bruce Pandya * Vic Pinto *
* Gideon P. Smith * Bryan Vale * Huina Zheng *
Interview & Book Review
Flippin' Skaters
by Teresa Richards
Reviewed by Matthew P.S. Salinas
Welcome to our thirtieth issue of ScribesMICRO. I’m the Special Features Editor Matthew P.S. Salinas, and our interview today is with Teresa Richards.
Teresa Richards writes contemporary and speculative YA fiction. She lives in Kentucky with her family, and divides her time between her own teens, the teens she puts braces on as an orthodontic assistant, and the fictional teens that populate her novels. It’s a toss-up as to which is the most angsty group.
Teresa’s novels have received Editors Pick, Best Book, and Top Pick distinctions from various review sites. Her newest novel, Flippin' Skaters, won a first chapter contest award at the SCBWI Mid-south fall conference prior to publication, and achieved #1 New Release Bestseller status on Amazon. Teresa is a member of SCBWI and the Storymakers Guild, and has been a panelist at both SOKY and NKYA bookfests. Teresa is represented by Kelly Van Sant at KT Literary.
Teresa Richards writes contemporary and speculative YA fiction. She lives in Kentucky with her family, and divides her time between her own teens, the teens she puts braces on as an orthodontic assistant, and the fictional teens that populate her novels. It’s a toss-up as to which is the most angsty group.
Teresa’s novels have received Editors Pick, Best Book, and Top Pick distinctions from various review sites. Her newest novel, Flippin' Skaters, won a first chapter contest award at the SCBWI Mid-south fall conference prior to publication, and achieved #1 New Release Bestseller status on Amazon. Teresa is a member of SCBWI and the Storymakers Guild, and has been a panelist at both SOKY and NKYA bookfests. Teresa is represented by Kelly Van Sant at KT Literary.
|
Photo by Michael Leonard
|
Poetry
A Task a Day by Aaron H. Davis I set a task for every day
a day for every task just why I do this I won’t say no matter how you ask most of my tasks are never done I’d rather be out having fun than working here and having none from dawn of day till dark of sun but still I set my tasks for me just why… even a fool can see for setting tasks is much more fun then actually completing one * * * Taxes by Aaron H. Davis Human nature is to bitch
from the lowly to the rich though they sing that same refrain being wealthy numbs the pain * * * 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.
|
New Profession by Guy Belleranti Eighty-year-old Glen
was not happy when his wife, Beth, said that he should retire. Glen didn’t want to quit his carnival gig of walking on the high tightrope wire. But Beth did declare, “It gives me a scare that your nickname is the Death Defier. If you want to work please do something else─ find a job on the ground, not up higher.” Glen took a deep breath... he did love his Beth. He would go to his boss and inquire. Old Glen was in luck. He got work down low as the carnival man who eats fire. * * * Guy Belleranti writes fiction, nonfiction, poetry and more for adults and children. His work has been published by over 200 different publications including Mystery Magazine, Scifaikuest, parABnormal Magazine, Woman’s World, Highlights for Children and many educational publishers for children. His author website is guy-belleranti.weebly.com.
Photo by Manfred Richter
|
|
Life-Hinge by D X Lewis Pills, bottles, a half-scrawled message.
You find your wife sprawling, comatose. You ring Emergencies and go outside to wait. You crunch on gravel as you pace. You breathe cold air, exhale steam. The minutes feel like hours. Where is the fucking ambulance? A white van roars up, blue lights flashing. Two men jump out. “Where is she?” You indicate the door. “Up the stairs.” You soar out of your body, look down from tree level under a full moon. They return running. Her heart has stopped. They need their defibrillator. Lives hinge. Will she die? Do you want her to? * * * D X Lewis is a recovering journalist who has worked for Reuters news agency, the World Health Organization's Global Programme on AIDS, and the European Broadcasting Union. Pushcart-nominated for the first chapters of an unpublished novel, he now devotes his golden years to ever-smaller types of fiction. Flashes by him have appeared in several online journals and in Fish, Bath and Oxford anthologies.
Pyro by David Henson
* * * 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 ScribesMICRO and other journals.
|
Fiction
Photo by Victoria Regen
Golden by Hannah Collins Chance hardly found the energy to dress himself, settling on a wifebeater, jeans, and his twin sister’s army necklace. Life was expensive for two alcoholics, much more with one dead and the other swigging moonshine as therapy. The carpet was stained in cigarette ash, now soaked with booze and littered with broken mason jars. It was now or never.
Half-dazed, with a soul half-dead, Chance lit a cigarette with half a match then dropped it onto the floor. Hot orange flames engulfed the trailer as he walked out, caring less about the prospect of homelessness and more about the certainty of nothing left. * * * Hannah Collins is a Samford University graduate this year. She plans to pursue a career in publishing and work on hobbies like reading, writing, and gently (she hopes) correcting other people’s grammar.
The Drop by Jennifer Austin He felt he was looking down from a great height. The bench where he drifted to sleep surged like an eddy in a stormy sea. A sense of vertigo and subdued terror at the sight of his own body, lying motionless as a couple passed by. They saw only dirt-stained clothes and tattered shoes—not the unearthly stillness which made his flesh tingle. The same feeling he had as a young boy cresting the top of a roller coaster, at the precipice of the first climb with only sky above and a twist in his gut in anticipation of the drop. Excitement in the powerlessness to control what comes next.
* * * Jennifer Austin is a lover of all things Sci-Fi and Fantasy, but will write in any genre if she feels inspired. Her writing is rooted in everyday life, then weaved into other-worldly landscapes. She is an emerging author and student of The Writer’s Studio at Simon Fraser University.
Photo by Luis Ramírez
Decision Made by Sean MacKendrick I look back over my shoulder just once, and although her eyes still look at me full of accusations, there is no life behind them. She moves only when the great thing tears another piece free and swallows. Yet, somehow, I can hear her asking questions.
How could you? I’m sorry, my love, only one of us was going to survive. I made a choice. Don’t you know I trusted you? Of course I do, that’s why you weren’t prepared. That’s why it worked. How can you live with yourself? I don’t know how, my love. But I will live. * * * Sean MacKendrick splits his time between Colorado and Texas. His stories have appeared online and in print. When not writing he works as a data engineer.
Harmony's Nails by Bryan Vale Harmony sat in a tightly fitted mask in the back of the grocery store. She exhaled through the fabric, imagining her breath pushing away the nearby air molecules.
As she often did while waiting, she looked down at her fingernails and analyzed them for shape and roughness. Her nails looked better than they had in years. Since becoming a personal trainer, Harmony’s life had been dumbbells, pull-ups, and other activities detrimental to fingernail health. One positive from the gym’s closure... The manager returned, looking harassed. “Sorry,” she said from behind her mask. “Here’s the last of the paperwork. Welcome aboard.” * * * Bryan Vale is a writer based in the San Francisco Bay Area. His fiction and poetry have appeared in several journals, including Paddler Press, 10 By 10 Flash Fiction, Quibble, Visual Verse, and Boats Against the Current. Learn more at bryanvalewriter.com, or follow Bryan on Twitter and Instagram: @bryanvalewriter.
Photo by Bryan Hanson
Her Son's Garden by JD Clapp Maria sits by the garden, easel and paints set out, her canvas blank. She watches birds. A hummer, translucent reds and greens, buzzes lemon tree blossoms. Two crows watch from the powerline, cawing. The rabbit nibbling greens doesn’t notice the hawk, death’s harbinger circling above.
Maria’s face is moist, salty, shimmering in cool, vernal air. Her husband and daughter, now chemical ghosts, churn in a jumble of neural shards, fading images competing with the empirical. She sees him and beams. “Sonny! I saw a robin!” “Ready to go in, Ma?” Smiling, he sees a splash of yellow on the canvas. * * * JD Clapp is a writer based in San Diego CA.
Four and Twenty by Megan Hanlon How did all these blackbirds get out of my pie? I thought I tucked them snugly under the crust, the one with the decorative ridged edges, but now they’re everywhere. One sips from my teapot, two are stealing my mother’s china plates, three are eating the plump maroon berries they were supposed to be simmering next to. One particularly impertinent blackbird stands atop a chocolate cupcake frosted with buttercream icing—the cupcake I was saving for my beau, who should be here any minute. Incessant cawing, inky feathers flying; such chaos I can hardly think. The recipe book doesn’t say what to do if your dessert breaks free.
* * * Megan Hanlon is a podcast producer who sometimes writes. Her work has appeared in Variant Lit, Gordon Square Review, MUTHA Magazine, and more. Her blog, Sugar Pig, is known for relentlessly honest essays that are equal parts tragedy and comedy.
Days of Weed and Roses by Leah Mueller I step inside the Blue Moon. Fernando sidles up to me. “Hey. Want some bud?”
The bar is a well-known cannabis marketplace. I give a furtive nod. Fernando disappears into the shadows, then re-emerges. A tiny Ziploc bag slides into my palm. I hand Fernando a twenty. His eyes dart around the Moon’s corners. It’s ridiculous, as the bartenders know exactly what we’re doing but don’t care. I love a microbrew with good weed. No wonder the Moon is my favorite tavern. We’ll all smoke outside, in the alley. Nobody knows yet that gentrification and a pandemic will ruin everything. * * * Leah Mueller's work appears in Rattle, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Citron Review, The Spectacle, Miracle Monocle, New Flash Fiction Review, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, etc. Her flash piece, "Land of Eternal Thirst" appears in the 2022 edition of Best Small Fictions. Website: www.leahmueller.org.
An Open Letter by Bruce Pandya I understand that many thousands have gathered outside of my home. Whether you have come to rattle the wrought iron gate, wail and gnash your teeth at the utter incomprehensibility of it all, or simply curse my name to the sky, I hope that you enjoy your stay. Please mind the peonies.
Yes, the sun really is gone. No, there is no bringing it back. I have spent hours today on the customer service line of Spells Unlimited. It appears the incantation I recited was printed with a slight error, which rendered the word “sausage” as “sun.” I do sincerely apologize for this inconvenience. * * * Bruce Pandya is a writer from Vermont who finds much inspiration in the works of Edgar Allan Poe, Franz Kafka, and H.P. Lovecraft. He writes both short stories and poems.
|
When Sorcerers Die by David Henson Mom passed first and became a tree. Now Dad is water. I empty the bucket at Mom’s base. As Dad sinks in, I wonder about water in a tree. Does it rise, sticky and sweet? Linger in heartwood? Leaf into sunlight?
I take my pocketknife and, careful to not dig deeply, carve into Mom the date and message I’ll add to the family’s oral history: “Dad died today. I watered Mom with him. Their together again.” Simple, heartfelt. I step back to admire my work... and see what I’ve done. Crap. At least no one’ll notice in the oral history. * * * 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 ScribesMICRO and other journals.
Photo by Arek Socha
Pre Occupied by Vic Pinto I’m sorry I never called back. I’ve been preoccupied.
Yesterday, when your starships appeared, you called me your favorite star. You might love my atmosphere and ecosystem, but I’m not the planet for you. No, it’s not your people. They come in beautiful shapes, colors, and sizes. No, it’s not your technology. It’s advanced, but I’m not afraid. I know you wouldn’t hurt me. You’d nurture me. But you see the humans panicking and satellites surrounding you. I’ve been pre occupied. It’s not you. It’s not me. It’s them. Inhabit some other lucky planet. You’re going to make it very happy. * * * Twitter's Non Fungible Therapist. Vic Pinto writes stuff to make you laugh.
Sweet Dreams by Gideon P. Smith Daddy said monsters aren’t real. But I knew they were there. So I made him check under the bed and in my closet. I made him pull back the hangers with my skirts and blouses and check the dark corners. He checked the laundry hamper and behind the curtains.
“Satisfied?” he asked. Finally, satisfied, I nodded. He turned off the light, pulled up my covers, and kissed me gently. I waited till I heard the door click shut. “You see,” I whispered, victorious, into the slithering darkness, “I told you he can’t see you. You should kill them both tonight.” * * * Gideon P. Smith is a scientist, physician, science-fiction fan and author. He has previously written for SFWA, Black Hare Press and Dan Koboldt’s Science in Sci-Fi. He was also a finalist in the NESFA short story competition. You can follow him on twitter @gideonpsmith or on his webpage at www.gideonpsmith.com.
What If He's a Serial Killer? by Jody Lebel “Want to get a cup of coffee later?”
The note, thrust under my door with a quick jab, has child-like writing. Big block letters. Only one E in coffee. Yes. No. Maybe. What if he’s a serial killer? I scribble “Okay,” fold it in half, and, with sweaty hands, slide it back through the space. An hour later a rustling sound makes me look up from my book. Another note. “Great. One o’clock. Last table on left.” When I get there, I am hugely disappointed. He isn’t a serial killer. Just a common, everyday thief. Life is dull in prison. * * * In Jody Lebel’s career as a court stenographer, she's reported everything from a homeless man who jumped a train turnstile, to the serial killer nicknamed the Tamiami Strangler. The stories she was exposed to in court, the mayhem, the heartbreak, and particularly the black humor show up in her stories.
Turn Your Head and Coif by Lee Hammerschmidt “Just shave it all off,” Nak Jikkelsen said. “I’m tired of pulling it forward to cover the thin spots.”
“Shave it!” Nippy Fondue, hair stylist to the Smart Set said. “So, you can look like every other middle-aged poseur in town? Really, Nak, how boring.” “What would you suggest?” “You still have plenty of hair on the sides. Grow it out and I could do a marvelous swoop.” “Swoop! Like some dad from the fifties?” “Right,” Nippy cooed, massaging his shoulders. “I find that look very arousing.” “Uh, you mean…” Nak gulped. “Yes,” she purred. “Combover and see me sometime.” * * * Lee Hammerschmidt is a Visual Artist/Writer/ Troubadour. He is the author of the short story collections, A Hole Of My Own, It's Noir O'clock Somewhere, For Richer or Noirer, and Flash Wounds. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!
Search History by Austin Gilmore 
* * * Austin Gilmore is an Art Director and Gallery Artist based in Kansas City. For almost a decade, he co-ran Kevin Costner’s production company, Treehouse Films. His work has been featured in The Los Angeles Review, Mystery Tribune, Esoterica Magazine, Tangled Locks Journal, and Fauxmoir Literary Magazine. He is passionate about donuts.
Invisible Chain by Huina Zheng I chained a puppy to a tree after he bit and killed a neighbor’s chicken. He whined day and night, tugging and squirming, trying to break free, and I felt sorry for him. Day by day, my sympathy for him weakened, until years later, when I looked at him on the chain, I felt nothing. I unchained him, yet he didn’t run around but lay under the tree submissively.
I stared at the dog and trembled—I saw myself in the chained dog. I felt dizzy, suffocated, and near-death, as if my late husband was still beating me every day. * * * Huina Zheng was born and grew up in south China. She holds a M.A. in English Studies degree and has worked as a 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.
Photo by Adina Voicu
Weightless by Christy Hartman The saleswoman convinced me. I concede the bathing suit is adorable, my first two-piece in decades. Retro-style, black with white polka dots. Oversized sunglasses perch on my caramel highlights, like a Real Housewife. The “body positive” woman in the mirror looks vaguely like me.
Slick thighs rub together as my feet sink in the hot sand. Younger eyes burn into the soft strip of my skin between spandex. Their long limbs fly across the beach, laughing. Sun and shame paint my cheeks fiery crimson. Heavy legs carry me into the ocean. I float on my back, suspended in saltwater, featherlight. * * * Christy Hartman is a Canadian writer based on Vancouver Island. She has a B.A. in English Literature from the University of British Columbia. Christy has work published in Sky Island Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, and 101 Words.
|
Editor's Corner
|
We sit there in our little boxes on the video chat, discussing the piece of the week, cheerfully tearing one story each meeting into ragged shreds in the most helpful of ways. Ten pages or thereabouts, first draft or fifth, and when it comes through the process without drowning in red ink, it’s time to let the world see it. We have custom terms, like “Malkovich,” an unnecessary sense tag, like, “I saw the car drive by” instead of “the car drove by.” Every week, it’s someone’s turn in the spotlight. And bit by bit, we get better and better.
Through the dust clouds, his gray eyes peer at the steel retracting: two miles of corkscrew retracting into the drill head. The operator mouths, “Dry.”
He remembers when every house yard had a pond, materializing as earth was excavated for the foundation box. Into the ponds came minnows, water hyacinth, and mayflies—who knows by what magic? He asked Papa. Papa shook his head, his eyes peering out west towards the desert where the fountains danced higher every year. He hobbles back towards his house. There’s just enough water for tea. He peers into the cool interior then up the sun-bright, bone-dry road. |
The foods we remember most fondly
are so intertwined with virginal experience that we can never recover the contextual taste, and must dine on almost as good. Crepes Suzette shared on a heavy date, seared filet mignon after a promotion, grandmotherly dumplings made from scratch, wild salmon from river to grill in an hour. We either tantalize ourselves, groping for past perfection, or waste effort and money trying to find a replacement. A taste, like a love, occurs once and we’re better off moving on than struggling to regain sensations best enshrined in memory. No one cheered. Jeers and snide remarks came from the crowd. Sir Obtriem felt no smile upon his lips. It didn’t matter; his helmet kept them from associating a face to the deeds. The King’s executioner. It was the worst duty he had ever been granted.
He had “left for a week,” or so he lied to everyone. Disappearing the day before and taking a few more to process was the only way. A stone racked his helmet. His eyes found the source, a beautiful redheaded woman with two children. Even his wife had come out to watch him work. |
|
|
