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 *
* Submissions Editor: Julie Cadman * Submissions Editor: Scott Bogart *
* 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 *
* Submissions Editor: Julie Cadman * Submissions Editor: Scott Bogart *
* Featured Contributor: Aaron H. Davis *
A very hearty welcome to our new submissions editors:
Scott Bogart & Julie Cadman
Scott Bogart & Julie Cadman
Issue # 33
September 15, 2023
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Ashleigh Adams * Joem Antonio * Gerri Brightwell *
* Diane Callahan * Aaron H. Davis * Kristi Ferguson *
* Brian Hawkins * David Henson * Jeff Kennedy *
* Craig Kirchner * Jennifer Lai * Jim Latham *
* Kirk KD McDougall * Ken Poyner * Shoshauna Shy *
* Kristie Smeltzer * Cailey Tin * T.L. Tomljanovic *
* Van Wallach * Karen Southall Watts * Huina Zheng *
* Ashleigh Adams * Joem Antonio * Gerri Brightwell *
* Diane Callahan * Aaron H. Davis * Kristi Ferguson *
* Brian Hawkins * David Henson * Jeff Kennedy *
* Craig Kirchner * Jennifer Lai * Jim Latham *
* Kirk KD McDougall * Ken Poyner * Shoshauna Shy *
* Kristie Smeltzer * Cailey Tin * T.L. Tomljanovic *
* Van Wallach * Karen Southall Watts * Huina Zheng *
Announcement of the semi-finalists for
The Scribes Prize
Congratulations, authors!
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Azure Arther
Dominic Belmonte Autumn Bettinger Zylla Black Thomas Brodkin Emma Burnett Lori Carson Camsyn Clair Chris Cottom Brenna Cuba William Ross Earl Jon Fain Timothy C Goodwin Kim Heneke Groen |
David Henson
Victoria Hochman Diya Jaisinghani Melissa Jornd T. D. Kirsch Melanie Maggard Thomas Malloch Lisa Marie Lopez Amber Mars Ashley McCurry Jonathan McDonald Mary Anne Mc Enery Monica McHenney Ali Mckenzie-Murdoch |
Mona Mehas
Kim Moes Christopher Morse Gary Noble Jonathan Odell Tracy Roe Robert Runté Richard Seltzer John Sheirer Shoshauna Shy T.L. Tomljanovic Mia Tong Matt Weatherbee Paul Weidknecht |
Photo by Michael Leonard
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Poetry
Photo by Frank Wittkowski
Transient by Aaron H. Davis Transient echoes come to play
Round the ruins of yesterday Covering with soothing sound Brick and village falling down Eddying in corners there… And cascading down a stair Playing in the whirls of night With the bits of bone so white * * * Door to Dreamland by Aaron H. Davis I’ve lost the door to dreamland
and I can’t find my way no compass in my offhand I wander night and day where are the realms of Faerie when I was young I knew but older I grew wary the paths I trusted few I’ve lost the door to childhood the way I always knew set in the oaken wildwood knock once and then step through * * * 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.
We Use No MSG by Brian Hawkins I made it a working dinner tonight
at the cozy Chinese place up the road. Papers splayed across the table, my right hand grasps both fork and pen, post-modern chopsticks working in choreographed movement to fulfill my appetites. The Szechuan chicken is perfect─ feng shui of spicy and sweet, like a fat man perched on the edge of his couch groaning against the anticipation of the year’s top-five beach bodies. The blinding wall of my narrative looms so large in my vision I did not even taste that one black hair in the very last bite. * * * Brian Hawkins lives and works in southern Indiana with his wife Lacy, two dogs, and three cats. They own a bookstore in their hometown where they also teach high school. Brian has had two stories published in Morehead State University’s journal Inscape.
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The Begging Bowl by Karen Southall Watts Write a compelling story about your woes.
How did you end up here, with no money or resources? We recommend you use video. Confirm your identity, with a government issued I.D. No, there’s no FAQ on shame, or how this impacts your humanity. Link to your bank account. Tell us every little detail of how your tragedy came about. No days in the rain or blazing sun, no hand-written cardboard signs, your problems will all be solved online. This well-oiled machine will take your plea to the people, and you can beg for survival from your keyboard. * * * Karen Southall Watts is teaching, writing and reinventing her life. Her flash fiction and poetry have been featured at Fairfield Scribes, Free Flash Fiction, The Drabble, Sledgehammer Lit, 101Words, Soren Lit and The Chamber Magazine. She is also the author of several business books and articles. Karen is a 2021 Pushcart nominee. Reach her at @askkaren on Twitter.
Photo by Robinraj Premchand
Old MacDonald's Server Farm by Kirk KD McDougall Old MacDonald's server farm
A.I. A.I. grows And on his farm, he had robots A.I. A.I. grows With a robot here And a robot there Here a bot There a bot Everywhere a robot Old MacDonald's server farm A.I. A.I. grows And on his farm, he had some apps A.I. A.I. grows With an app, tap here On a cell phone there Here a tap On an app Everywhere an app tap Old MacDonald's server farm A.I. A.I. grows And on his farm, he had some bytes A.I. A.I. grows With a kilobyte here And a megabyte there Gigabyte Terrabyte Everywhere a yottabyte Old MacDonald's server farm A.I. A.I. grows. * * * Kirk KD McDougall loves to sit on his balcony, tapping out tales of space, magic, and the future while his partner crafts unique poetic masterpieces.
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the celebrant looks up & the ceiling still stands tall by Cailey Tin marigolds, chrysanthemum basking under brilliance of a thousand
candles & the thrashing blundering, electric firing is only
as-natural-as-garden pulse the hammering that made it past
a birthday with a thousand dandelions’ takeoff from wishes
lemon cake: the softest solid food until the metallic, inedible
fork lingers in your buds & you don’t know if it’s your
mouth or brain shutting down, or this time everything
is wide open, the day gazing up at the skies where we are
told our deceased souls wing to & you blow out the flickering
inferno fluttering sparks beneath your nostrils
watching clouds veil sunshine from afar
* * * Cailey Tin is a southeast Asian-based staff writer and podcast co-host at The Incandescent Review, columnist at Paper Crane Journal, Spiritus Mundi, and Incognito Press. Her work is forthcoming in the Raven Review, Eunoia Review, and Dragon Bone Publishing. When not writing, she can be found reading about the global economy or shamelessly watching cartoons on Netflix.
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Creative Nonfiction
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Grandma Always Says by Ashleigh Adams I rested my tiny head on her shoulder and she pinched the tip of my nose.
“Pretty girls have button noses,” she said. Because she loved me. I reached for a slice of birthday cake and she slid it out of my reach. “You have to watch your figure,” she said. Because she loved me. I turned to leave for prom and she grabbed my wrist, whispering low. “It’s just not done with a boy like him,” she said. Because she loved me. And because she was racist. Grandma’s love, I realized, came with a lot of rules. * * * Ashleigh Adams is a recovering corporate drone who has recently reclaimed her love of storytelling. Her short stories have been published by Elegant Literature, and she’s currently working on her first full-length novel.
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Fiction
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The Real Reason Why by David Henson “I tell you, don’t trust her,” Thelma said.
“I’m just going to keep my head down and do my job,” Louise said. The woman approached. “How are my two favorite ladies this morning?” Cluck. Quack. “See? She’s nice,” Louise said when the woman walked away. “For now. But when you dry up, she’ll take you to the stump.” Thelma eyed the field across the highway. “You won’t last long out there,” Louise said. “Better than waiting here. Bye, Louise.” “Good luck, Thelma.” Thelma scratched the ground a few times. And then she crossed the road. * * * 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 Shima Abedinzade
Does this Mean I Need Prozac? by Shoshauna Shy Sukie says each day of the week has a specific color. For example, Friday is yellow as an egg yolk frying in the pan. Sundays are a robin’s egg blue, dreamy and demure like a day on a summer beach. Mondays pewter gray, tinged with purple like something that requires chewing; Wednesdays navy blue as a schoolgirl’s uniform. Tuesdays—the most nondescript day—a pale sea green. Thursdays, bridge to the weekend, rusty orange.
“And Saturdays are carousel red,” she beams. I don’t know what Sukie is talking about. When I look at the calendar, every box is charcoal black. * * * Author of five collections of poetry, Shoshauna Shy was one of the seven finalists for the 2021 Fish Flash Fiction Prize, earned a Notable Story distinction in Brilliant Flash Fiction’s 2022 contest, was included in the Bath Flash Fiction Award anthology in 2022, and shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction award in 2023.
Cost Cutters by Joem Antonio “Thank you, Sharon,” said Evans, shaking her hand. “Your services are no longer required.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Sharon. Her decades of service under Evans ended with that simple exchange after delivering his latest brainchild. Her tech had always saved his company billions at the cost of countless layoffs. Now, she too is a victim of her own cooperation. Her latest infernal machine was finally replacing her. It’s all right, she told herself as she exited the building. They all had it coming. Evans switched on the machine. “Thank you, Evans,” hummed the machine. “Your leadership is no longer required.” * * * Joem Antonio is a Filipino Playwright and children's story author who began actively exploring microfiction in 2021. Some of his works can be seen in www.joemantonio.com, www.exesanonymous.com, www.compactshakespeare.com, and www.lovecafeproject.com. He also gives writing workshops through www.storywritingschool.com.
Photo by Dhito Ardjiono
Empty Cupboard by Jim Latham His pantry held two kilos of chocolate, two kilos of coffee, two bottles of mezcal. The chocolate ground with almonds, cinnamon, and sugar and pressed into discs the size of silver dollars. The coffee grown in the shade by people who preferred the language of their ancestors to that of the Spanish invaders. The mezcal distilled from wild magueys in small batches by gray-haired mezcaleros in villages beyond the reach of paved roads.
He’d eat and drink little else in his few remaining days. Life had been sweet. He wanted to leave it with his favorite tastes in his mouth. * * * Jim Latham (he/him) hikes volcanoes and lives out of two zebra-print suitcases. Stories in or forthcoming from Eunoia Review, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Drabble, Fiction on the Web, ScribesMICRO, and Olit. Stop by www.jimlatham.com for all the deets; read weekly flash fiction on Substack at Jim’s Shorts.
The End of the War by Diane Callahan Scattered pennies cover her husband’s grave like confetti, and she plucks them up one by one. People honor the dead, even when the dead made you want to die.
Her yellow and purple battle wounds are still fading. There is still vodka in the pantry. She remembers being drunk with him, trying on his uniform. Part of her loves the echo of his belly laugh. Her stomach flutters at the sight of a miniature Old Glory next to his headstone. This is the end. Freedom rings through her, a knell loud enough to be heard on the other side. * * * Diane Callahan is a writer, editor, and YouTuber who really needs to sleep more. You can read her work in Consequence, The Fieldstone Review, Short Édition, Second Chance Lit, The Sunlight Press, and Paper Butterfly Flash Fiction, among others.
Ripe Peaches by Kristi Ferguson Finally made it to Pine Island yesterday; the tide was out and there were seashells everywhere. Looked like a graveyard. Thought to call you, then remembered I couldn’t. Stopped the bike on the ride back and bought those peaches you like—fruit here is always ripe. I wish we could get it this way at home. The house is too quiet, but I turned off the AC and opened all the windows; you’d hate it, but it’s the only thing making it okay you’re not here. The sun’s been delicious. I’m having a wonderful time, like I promised I would.
* * * Kristi Ferguson is a writer and researcher. Born and raised in Brazil, she currently lives in Arlington, Virginia. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in (mac)ro(mic), The Daily Drunk, Litro Magazine, Fabula Argentea, and elsewhere. Connect with her on Twitter @KFergusonWrites.
If you can see the sea, the sea can see you by Gerri Brightwell —you feel how true that is as sunlight winks on the water, and though you’d imagined a beach house as bliss (coffee on the deck, the morning paper, the air pleasantly sticky with salt), the hiss and rumble of the waves keeps tugging your mind toward that force beating against the shore, so as clouds heap up and the wind turns blustery, you find yourself uneasy, and when finally darkness falls and you lie in bed, the grinding and heaving carried by the wind are the sounds of the sea gathering itself, ready to sweep away everything you’ve ever loved.
* * * Gerri Brightwell has four published novels: Turnback Ridge, Dead of Winter, The Dark Lantern, and Cold Country. Her short work has appeared in venues including The Best American Mystery Stories 2017, Alaska Quarterly Review, and BBC Radio 4's Opening Lines. She teaches at the University of Alaska, Fairbanks.
A Warm Current by Kristie Smeltzer Silky water caresses Kya’s legs as she swims with Janey. The girls aren’t supposed to be here. Kya’s parents forbade swimming in the river, but she’s set many rules adrift since Janey moved next door.
Janey swims over to face Kya. The river slowly carries them downstream—away from others’ eyes and expectations. Underneath the surface, water each girl sets in motion strokes the other’s body. Janey leans in, studies Kya’s eyes, then kisses her. After a momentary whirlpool in Kya’s stomach, she sighs into the softness of their touching lips. It feels so right, natural as the river’s flow. * * * Kristie Smeltzer's fiction has been published by MonkeyBicycle, Atticus Review, pioneertown, 101 Words, and others. She earned her creative writing MFA at the University of Central Florida. Kristie helps others tell their stories as a developmental editor and writing coach, and she teaches at WriterHouse in Charlottesville, Virginia.
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Photo by Stefan Schweihofer
A High School Physical Education by T.L. Tomljanovic Painted lines crisscrossed the gymnasium floor beneath my sneakers. Coach barked at the boys to choose their partner. The annual dance component in Grade 11 gym class began with a clumsy two-step with Todd, progressing to a sweaty swing with Steve. I knew before looking up who my next partner would be—my best friend, Josh. Violin strains of the tango pulsed through the lowest regions of my body. Josh put his hand on the small of my back, the heat penetrating my T-shirt. Breathing him in, football and freshly mowed grass, his heart pounded against my chest as we took our first steps.
* * * T.L. Tomljanovic is a freelance writer living in British Columbia, Canada. Her recent work was published in The Woolf, Sci-Fi Shorts, and Microfiction Monday Magazine. You can find her on Twitter @TLTomljanovic and tomljanovic.wordpress.com/.
Blue Notes by Craig Kirchner Jazz pulsed, permeated the room, melted it out of focus. The unimportant, unaware banter drifted into the unintelligible, sensual tapping of cowbell and snare. The flute shooting blonde lava, the bass thumping in my loins, your foot caressing my leg as the candles, your lips, and eyes, quivered across the table. The shadows soothed soft cleavage, and hair stroked with molten honey caressed your cheeks, oozed lightly onto your shoulders. We sipped martinis with pointed tongues. The waiter, arms folded, patiently and to the beat, tapping his right forefinger against his left forearm, couldn’t ask us to order, wouldn’t interrupt.
* * * Craig R. Kirchner has written poetry all his life, is now retired, and thinks of poetry as hobo art. He loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He was nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels.
Photo by Martyn Cook
My Mother-in-Law Cried by Huina Zheng My father-in-law came every Friday afternoon to pick my mother-in-law up when she stayed with us and helped babysit on weekdays.
“How sweet!” I said, but she replied, “He never did housework. He drove me home to clean up the mess he had created and make his five days’ worth of dishes. I’m just his maid.” I didn’t want a life like that, so I trained my husband to do house chores. My mother-in-law burst into tears as she watched my husband steam a pot of pumpkin rolls. I never knew why she cried. All she said was, “You’re lucky.” * * * 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.
Small Town Vibe by Jennifer Lai The cashier scans my items from the conveyor belt: bananas, toilet paper, bottle of stain remover, and pineapple-flavored vodka, at which point she looks up and studies my face. I hold out my ID, assuming she’s checking for age. She waves it off. Instead, says, “You can tell a lot about a person by what’s in their cart.”
“That so?” I say. “Yessiree.” Her thick-rimmed glasses balance on her nose as she bows her head. “Been doin’ this a long time, deary.” “What do my items tell you?” “You,” she says, stabbing the air, “are toilet training your pet monkey.” * * * Jennifer Lai loves micro fiction. Her tiny pieces can be found in 101 Words, Five Minutes, Paragraph Planet, 50-Word Stories, Microfiction Monday, and elsewhere.
Photo by Van Wallach
Heading South by Van Wallach Visiting my brother Caleb in Houston always leads to adventures. One time we left the airport, heading straight to a shooting range. “You’re not a total Connecticut treehugger yet,” he declared. I hadn’t shot a gun since we were teens in Texas, but I was game. “Put these ear protectors on,” Caleb directed. “Glock or Winchester?”
“Let’s start small,” I said, hefting the Glock pistol. Two hours later, thousands of copper shell casings from a dozen weapons crunched underfoot. “Damn accurate headshots on those targets,” Caleb admired. Back home in Westport, I knew if civilization really went south, I’d be ready. * * * Van Wallach is a writer in Katonah, NY active in blogging and open-mic performances. He is a native of Mission, Texas and a graduate of Princeton University. Van's also an avid photographer and language buff. He's the author of a 2012 Memoir, A Kosher Dating Odyssey.
Photo by Denny Franzkowiak
Endeavor by Ken Poyner He sits all day fishing in the lake where no one has ever caught a fish. He does not mind. He has to bait the hook less often. He loses neither line nor tackle. Some think he is an idiot, but most know better. He is always engaged. It is a purpose that does not challenge him. There are many citizens who wish there were more people like him: easily entertained. No one understands that he thinks that if he does catch a fish in the lake where no one has ever caught a fish, how his life will change.
* * * 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.
Insufficient Training by Jeff Kennedy Quimby stared blankly at the old earth man.
His first contact training had covered human activities from eating (why do humans breathe and consume nutrients through the same hole?) to waste elimination (the gender-specific elimination receptacles struck him as weird and unnatural) to the delicate dance of human sexual intercourse. Quimby seemed unlikely to need the latter training sessions but, Gorthop willing, one never knew. It had been a very thorough training. But he was caught completely off-guard by the simple, straightforward question. The old man smiled and again offered the pamphlet to Quimby. “Brother, have you been saved?” * * * Jeff Kennedy is a lifelong author and playwright, returning to writing after a long, unplanned hiatus. Jeff is a member of the Dramatists Guild. He is a past Thurber House and Erma Bombeck essay contest winner. Jeff’s short fiction has most recently appeared on 101Words and The Drabble.
Artwork by Felix Merler
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Editor's Corner
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There is a deep and dreadful gnawing inside the stomach that never ends. Calling the flesh inward and turning the contents outward. The soaring sensation of pain was unparalleled. Yet there was no damage to the body, there was no great harm inflicted on the delicate and soft skin.
Its source is well known though. It comes from one special place within. A memory trapped in the brain precluding any other memories. Someone leans in your ear and whispers, “You deserve every bad thing that has ever happened to you and will.” Every word was taken in as personal quiddity. 
Pleasantly drowsy from lunch, they congregate in his cabin for tea. Half of them are his cabinmates, so he dares not object.
Back turned, he concentrates on the glare of his monitor. He has better things to do than gossip over tea twice a day. He keeps thinking of complaining to the faculty. Do his fellow PhD scholars come here to work or to drink tea? He doesn’t complain. Perhaps, vaguely, he realises. That the clink of spoon on china, the rustle of voices, the occasional guffaw when they forget themselves, the necessity for him to look hardworking before these slackers – keeps him, too, awake through mid-afternoon’s drowsy hour. |
I know a man who has hated me
for almost twenty years. For reasons important to another I’ve tried and failed to create a neutrality that allows for us to coexist socially. Of what I did there is no doubt and his repugnance has held firm. The clenched endurance of his hate speaks perhaps to the gravity of my offense, or perhaps to his emotional intransigence. In either case I was one with several others whom he hates with equal vigor and longevity, and sometimes for less reason. Such unyielding hate is powerful but I suspect not comforting. The kiss of the wind was empty─he couldn't kiss back. Once a god, he'd been cursed to roam the Aether alone. Until one day, humans joined him in the skies.
On the aircraft, she wore a uniform and jaunty little hat. She blushed when he smiled. After several years together, she disappeared. He searched airplanes for months before he found her again, but without her uniform. "I was promoted. Ground supervisor," she explained. He begged her to fly again. To be with him. Crying, she said, "I'm sorry." Once, he'd been a god. Two hundred died in the crash. |
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