ScribesMICRO
* Managing Editor: Edward Ahern *
* Associate Editor: Alison McBain *
* Special Features Editor: Matthew P.S. Salinas *
* Poetry Editor: Mary Keating *
* Featured Contributor: Aaron H. Davis *
Submission Editors:
* Sarah Anderson * P.C. Keeler * P.M. Ray *
* Ira Rosofsky * Felicia Strangeways * Amita Basu *
* Julie Cadman * Scott Bogart * Micah C. Brown *
* Associate Editor: Alison McBain *
* Special Features Editor: Matthew P.S. Salinas *
* Poetry Editor: Mary Keating *
* Featured Contributor: Aaron H. Davis *
Submission Editors:
* Sarah Anderson * P.C. Keeler * P.M. Ray *
* Ira Rosofsky * Felicia Strangeways * Amita Basu *
* Julie Cadman * Scott Bogart * Micah C. Brown *
Issue # 36
December 15, 2023
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Umi Agawa * Guy Belleranti * Marie Cloutier *
* Aaron H. Davis * Roann Enriquez * Tom Gadd *
* Lee Hammerschmidt * David Henson *
* Angelle McDougall * Kirk KD McDougall * JS O'Keefe *
* Antony Püttschneider * Robert Runté *
* Gerard Sarnat MD * Janelle Seabock *
* Leo Vanderpot * Naomi J. van Haaften *
* Karen Southall Watts * Jakob Wild * Huina Zheng *
* Umi Agawa * Guy Belleranti * Marie Cloutier *
* Aaron H. Davis * Roann Enriquez * Tom Gadd *
* Lee Hammerschmidt * David Henson *
* Angelle McDougall * Kirk KD McDougall * JS O'Keefe *
* Antony Püttschneider * Robert Runté *
* Gerard Sarnat MD * Janelle Seabock *
* Leo Vanderpot * Naomi J. van Haaften *
* Karen Southall Watts * Jakob Wild * Huina Zheng *
Book Review
Wishhobbler
by Francis O'Dowd
Reviewed by Alison McBain
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Photo by John McBain
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Congratulations to our 2023 Pushcart Prize nominees!
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"Over the Stubs" by David Henson
"A Poet's Heart" by Mary Keating "Spring Cleaning" by Karen Southall Watts "In Truth" by Aaron H. Davis "the celebrant looks up & the ceiling outside still stands tall" by Cailey Tin "Stargazing" by Antony Püttschneider |
Poetry
Image by Brigitte Werner
What Dreams May Come by Aaron H. Davis What dreams may come when down we sleep
and will they make us laugh or weep will they show us Heaven hard… or Hell where all the fallen angels dwell what dreams will come and will they stay for a life’s moment… or a life’s day and dreaming as we turn to dust what dreams may come… begin with us * * * 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.
Explaining cemetery walks to Kenny by Karen Southall Watts Singing to the graves
I remember younger days of unwatched play, and turning berries into ink; hours of tromping through the woods to an old grey tree that stood over a huge murky pond. In this maze of grass and marble I dream of mud-caked boots, and a bucket full of tadpoles. Winds entice me to fly and remind me of a rusty blue bike, chittering birds and fading light with thoughts of racing home for dinner. What was once a hilltop outside of town, is now an outcrop of quiet and green, allowing me to step into the river of time, anywhere and float. * * * Karen Southall Watts is an educator, speaker, coach, and avid walker. Her works have been featured at Fairfield Scribes, Free Flash Fiction, The Drabble, Sledgehammer Lit, 101Words, Paragraph Planet, Soren Lit, Spillwords Press, and The Chamber Magazine. Karen was a 2021 and 2022 Pushcart nominee for poetry. Her poetry chapbook, Desire, Dreams and Dust was released in April of 2023.
Photo by Nahid Hatamiz
My Bicycle Used to Be an Avid Reader by David Henson It even could speed read
with comprehension in the 90th percentile when the going wasn’t too steep─ pulp, mystery, adventure. Uphill texts—manuals, science, medical—slowed but never stopped it. My bicycle had a variety of interests, loved reading about travel and anything by Emily Dickinson. It collects garage dust now. When I try to bring cheer by reading it a fable with a happily-ever-after, it just hangs on its hook. My bicycle probably would enjoy a spin, but, like its reading days, my riding ones are over. We'll always remember country lanes with a breeze rustling the corn, the wooded pathways, lakeside trails, and leaning into the curves. * * * 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.
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I by Aaron H. Davis No night lasts forever
though there may not show a star no pain lasts forever though flesh may show a scar no dream lasts forever fragile things are born to die no man lasts forever though his final thoughts are I * * * 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.
Stargazing by Antony Püttschneider With neck craned up towards the winter sky,
I can but ask myself if there is more, Unseen between below and way up high, And what may lie beyond the twilight’s shore. Past constellations orbiting my mind, I let my thoughts ascend the boundless night, To planets mystifyingly aligned In ever blinking seas of onyx light. Celestial wonders bound to none but fate, Concealed from all by ancient dust and stone, They sway in darkness intertwined, await The advent of another soul unknown. Yet long as I can watch the sky and dream, These marvels shall be closer than they seem. * * * Antony Püttschneider is a twenty-something graduate from Germany who is fascinated by weird fiction, modernist poetry, and all things sci-fi. Fuelled by optimistic nihilism, he attempts to find the beauty in the bleak in his writing—no matter how difficult this may be at times.
Heir Error by Guy Belleranti It was a bright and sunny day
for Tom Sylvester Hollingsted. He oozed with supreme confidence he’d be rich now Auntie was dead. Tom had got onto her good side during the last months of her life. Then he’d tampered with her heart meds— less risky than a gun or knife. And now, at last, he’d have it all─ Fancy sports cars, women and more. He’d hire on a whole new staff and show the old servants the door. But then a cop from homicide said Auntie’s death was way too pat. And Auntie’s lawyer said her wealth went not to Tom but to her cat. * * * Guy Belleranti writes fiction, nonfiction, poetry and short humor for both adults and children. His work has appeared in print, online and as a podcast. His author website is guy-belleranti.weebly.com.
Mike by Leo Vanderpot Guess what, Mike, my friend?
No one cares about the fact that You always keep us waiting. Guess why? It’s a given, A part of you we put up with Like your halitosis, Your flatulence, Your unpressed look. We know you, Mike: You served in Vietnam and That time we went out on strike You stood strong against the man. So these days we shrug the surface, Admire your home-brewed tenacity, The lines on your face, The look in your eyes, and While we wait, we celebrate Your dogged inner grace. * * * Leo Vanderpot lives in Ossining, New York. His published work includes a letter to the editor of the London Review of Books, a balanced look at the ups and downs of gardening in The Christian Science Monitor, and a full-out-sentimental-gush to the now defunct racetrack, Suffolk Downs, published in Thoroughbred Daily News.
Photo by Sarkawt Jabar
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Humpin’ It In A Medical Jargon Progress Note
by Gerard Sarnat MD
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Ex-child then cowboy B movie star tumbleweed funk
transitioned into California back at ya! surfer dude, now up at 3 or 4 in the morning with spine pain, if this crumbling now straight arrow green stick fracture bluestem physician geek had a pre-MRI hunch about his Laughtonlike bum luck multi-lumbosacral level degenerative vertebral disc disease plus severe desiccation which can manifest as inches of height loss—what the fuck might Our Lady Of Us Freaks really done much different so moi could to be rejuvenated enough to dance in Paris? * * *
Gerard Sarnat MD’s authored Homeless Chronicles, Disputes, 17s, Melting Ice King. Gerry’s published by Gargoyle, Newark Public Library, Blue Minaret, Columbia, Penn, Harvard, Brown, Yale, Pomona, Johns Hopkins, Stanford, Main-Street Rag, New Delta/ North Meridian/ Northampton/ Brooklyn/ LA/ Buddhist Reviews, American Journal Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, SF Magazine, NY Times.
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Creative Nonfiction
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Chains by Marie Cloutier Sending pairs of triangles through the feed dogs; chain piecing saves time and the quilt is a big one and I have to finish in three weeks. Keep the edges aligned, keep the seam allowance perfect, keep the music playing, keep those distractions working, keep the pairs together. Three weeks seems like a long time but it isn’t, and the pile doesn’t get smaller until it’s gone and then it’s time to iron. I get up to press them all open but the iron isn’t hot yet. I hit the button three times, bring up the heat. Now just wait.
* * * Marie Cloutier grew up in New England and now lives outside NYC where she writes poetry and creative nonfiction. She is working on a memoir and is an avid quilter and beginner piano student. Her work has appeared in Haiku Universe.
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Fiction
Image by Chu Viết Đôn
A Dancing Girl in Ancient China by Tom Gadd He stares at her eyebrows even as she twirls and dips and her legs cross and spread and her hands trace half circles and river movement in the air. Ink dark, thin as the most delicate calligraphy, her eyebrows tell a story as clearly as letters brushed on a scroll.
Loss. Pain. Hope. Joy and disaster. Tears drip from his chin before her dance is done. Lü Buwei digs an elbow into his ribs while he runs his sleeve over his face. What did I tell you? Who needs scribes when she tells a tale better than all of them? * * * Tom Gadd lives in Kanata, Canada (which sounds more like the beginning of a drumroll than a place name), where he writes fiction mainly for the “Draft Folder” market that resides on his computer’s desktop and in several USB sticks.
The Decline of Dialects by Huina Zheng My nine-year-old daughter Lan talked to her father in Cantonese, her Filipino teacher in English, her grandparents in Hakka, and her peers and teachers only in Mandarin, as required by schools. Gradually, she always spoke Mandarin, and we often reminded her to speak dialects at home.
“Mom, why?” she asked. “Dialect is a unique regional culture; learning dialect helps inherit the local culture,” I answered. When we did take her to her grandparents’ hometown, she excitedly blathered in Hakka to her cousins. Yet they looked confused. “What foreign language are you speaking?” they asked. Equally puzzled, she replied, “Our dialect.” * * * Huina Zheng holds a M.A. in English Studies degree and serves as an Associate Editor for Bewildering Stories. Her stories were published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and elsewhere. Her fiction “Ghost Children” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She lives in Guangzhou, China with her husband and daughter.
The Pen by Angelle McDougall Gavel in the air, Judge Thaddeus of the Wizard’s Judiciary Council said, “We find for the defend—”
“That charlatan sold me a faulty magic pen.” Hazel shook her broom at the young sorcerer across the room. “He promised me immortality if I used it, but it ran out of ink.” “But you used it, correct?” asked one of the other Council members. “Yes, I’ve been writing Witch’s Weekly articles with it for months.” Judge Thaddeus leaned over the bench, “Well then, don’t you see? You’ve achieved immortality by living on through your words.” He banged the gavel. “Case dismissed.” * * * Angelle McDougall is neurodivergent and a world traveler, retired college instructor, mother of adult sons, graduate of The Writers' Studio at Simon Fraser University (2022), and loom knitter. She lives in Edmonton, Alberta, and writes poetry, fiction, and non-fiction. She also enjoys chronicling the travel adventures shared with her author husband.
A Momentary Escape by Roann Enriquez We grip our controllers and curse at the flatscreen. Hits from the 2000s blast through the speakers. We laugh at jokes that don’t make sense.
We’re kids again; at least it feels that way. We retire for the night to clock in early tomorrow morning. Driving back, the moon is nowhere to be seen. We picture days gone by—before busy schedules, the five stages of grief, monthly bills, career ladders, and aging parents. At red lights, we grind to a halt, reflecting on the roads that brought us here. The journey home is a sobering reminder that change is the only constant. * * * Roann Enriquez is an emerging Filipino-Canadian writer and non-profit professional based in Ontario, Canada. She is a recent graduate of the University of California, Los Angeles' Professional Program in Screenwriting and holds a Bachelor of Arts in Political Science from Western University. She is at work on her first novel.
Freed by Traffic Light by JS O'Keefe Four from the past are chasing me: the bully in grade school who would tenderize me every opportunity he had; the drill sergeant in boot camp who once sent us mud crossing right after dinner; the sprained ankle/cracked rib on Monadnock; and the multilingual cambio who sold me funny money in Rosario.
My only chance is the traffic light, the longest red light hereabouts. Lucky, I have the green… wait for yellow… and fly! The four are stuck on red and will never catch me. Smooth sailing is my life from now on. * * * JS O’Keefe is a scientist, trilingual translator and fiction/prosimetrum writer. His short stories and prosimetra have been published in Every Day Fiction, Microfiction Monday, Six Sentences, 50WS, Paragraph Planet, FFF, Medium, Irreproducible Results, etc.
Photo by Roman Kogomachenko
The Call by Jakob Wild I blink away the blinding headlights and swerve back into my rain-slicked lane.
“Damn these back roads and country bumpkins!” I scream after the honking truck. “…Robert.” “Say that again, the call is breaking up. I think it’s the storm.” “…” “All I hear is static.” “You’re… Robert.” “Geez, this is horrible. Gonna call you back.” My finger jabs at the hang-up button. “…Already…” I look down, tapping the button. The phone screen is glitched. Should have bought an iPhone. I glance up, then back down. The number is wrong, all zeros. “You’re… dead…” A horn honks. I’m blinded by lights. * * * Jakob Wild grew up in the forests of Pennsylvania and within those cloudy memories he often finds inspiration to give lost stories light. He reads a lot of sci-fi, fantasy and horror, which often reflects in his own writings. Jakob is currently working on several other writing projects, with a prior publication in Trembling with Fear by The Horror Tree. Outside of writing he loves the outdoors, baking the occasional bread and spending time with his family & friends. Find out more here - https://www.jakobwild.com.
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Return to Sender by Naomi J. van Haaften The wall of silver mailboxes, one stacked on top of each other, always reminded me of a miniature morgue. I stood there shivering, my skin exploding with tiny bumps, reacting to the frigid winter air seeping through the lobby doors that never seemed to latch properly. Exhaling, I inserted the minuscule key into the lock and disentombed the months of neglected correspondence. I flipped fast, my excruciating anxiety beginning to dwindle as each piece seemed more banal than the last. Then, my blood thickened in my veins as I read the last envelope—an invitation to attend his wedding.
* * * Naomi J. van Haaften is a Canadian writer who loves dogs and traveling.
Mourning by Umi Agawa It was still dark outside. I walked against the walls, trying to avoid the unopened boxes scattered around the house. “Mom,” I called.
At the candlelit island sat Mom. Even in the dimness, I could see she had freshened up. Her elegant bun, full makeup, and black dress. How long had she been up? Her finger traced up and down the urn. Once in a while, she muttered to it and laughed, then the room echoed her own laughter. Uncle used to mourn Aunt like this, until he started to hear multiple voices and they convinced him to hang himself. * * * Umi Agawa is an author and a mom who enjoys writing creative stories as an escape from the everyday. She lives in Toronto, Ontario.
Photo by Maja Cvetojević
The Poltergeist by Robert Runté Jamie had learned from watching cats. Everyone thought cats were being coy, batting each object randomly this way or that, until it inevitably crashed to the floor. But they were aiming across the Veil.
He strained to push the vase first one way, then back the other, until it teetered on the edge of the Veil’s ill-defined abyss. Tedious, but it had to be exactly here. A final push and potential energy of the cliff’s height on his side converted to kinetic energy on the other. The vase flung itself across the Living’s room. The cats turned to stare at him. * * * 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 New Sun by Janelle Seabock Remnants of a dead man’s spirit float adrift in the cosmos. Caught in the oilslick whorls of a nebula, the remnants join the cloud, becoming one among the dust and the elements. The remnants pull towards one another, connecting one by one, until they create a new form—not the man he once was, but something new, a beautiful echo. He stirs light between his hands until a star ignites, a fire to warm up by, joining the radiance of his neighbors. He basks in the heat, and the comforting glow becomes a new sun to brighten somebody else’s sky.
* * * Janelle Seabock is a writer with a fondness for horror, fantasy, and animals of all kinds. She currently resides in Florida.
Photo by Felix Mittermeier
Can I Leave the Universe Open? by Kirk KD McDougall “It’s time to hibernate, Quelsh.”
“Can I leave the universe open?” “I think it’s time you closed it up.” “But then I have to start at the Big Bang again, and it’s all slower than light speed.” “Where are you now?” “The Earthers have just discovered they’re the ones causing climate change, and they’re venturing into space.” “Oh, my. You’re entering such a fun era.” “Please, Genitor.” “They don’t do anything noteworthy for another, what do you call it, millennium?” “Yeah, can I stay up for two millennia?” “Okay. But then it’s hibernation time.” “Can I leave the universe open?” * * * 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.
Distill the One by Lee Hammerschmidt Revenue Agent Ek Angstrom and his fellow G-Men stormed through the door of master moonshiner Hank Latuda’s remote cabin only to find it vacant.
“Looks like we’re too late,” Ek said. “Again.” “He’s always one step ahead of us,” Agent Frisk said. “His still’s gone, too.” “And most of the hooch,” Ek said. “Except those three barrels over in the corner.” “What now, Boss?” Frisk asked. Ek walked over to a booze barrel, pulled a thin, metal bottle from his pocket, flipped the spigot on the barrel, and began filling up the bottle. “Set up a flask force,” Ek said. * * * 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!
Photo by Andreas Glöckner
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Editor's Corner
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At mealtimes she distracts the slothbears with peanut butter while spraying any wounds with disinfectant. She stuffs bamboo segments with grapes and hides these treats around the jungle. The bears are like giant Labradors, but of course we can’t pet them.
Our office cat, Gonzo, is also a rescue. After my wife’s spent all day around the bears, close enough to touch, she pets Gonzo, sometimes for forty minutes. And after a day trudging through the jungle—alongside Sikandar of the formidable moustache, bulging calves, and street-brawl stories—we barely get through our front door before my wife’s biting my earlobe, tearing off my shirt. God bless slothbears. “Give me your money!” the gutter-rat screams.
“No!” Samantha yells in terrified defiance. Gary points the gun at her head but is stopped when a hand rests on the barrel. “You stand at the moment between moments,” says the baritone voice that owns the hand. “Do you take the easy road or the hard one?” Gary’s hand shakes and he looks up into opalescent eyes. “Who are you?” “Some say I offered choices to Eve and Job, and some say I offered a choice to the man on the cross. What is your choice?” There are quick steps and Samantha looks up to an empty alley. 
James had ended more lives than he had the time to impatiently count. An “outstanding” and “upright” gentleman, James was an active member of the community, the local school association, and also happened to be one of the most prolific serial killers around.
James was the kind of person who made sure you were comfortable as the blurring, dying visions of his face faded away while he strangled you. The kind of man who would anonymously buy the burial plot and handle the funerary costs for families of the people he was employed to kill. No one suspected a thing. |
He came back from New Guinea
after World War II and gave his daughter, my wife, a doll. Dark complected, hand sewn from coarse trade cloth, a rough-featured Raggedy Ann with mitten hands and feet, toting a baby in a back pouch, meant for an island child, presented a half world away. The doll came with my wife into our marriage, and lolls next to me on a tall bureau. A painted eye has flaked away and eighty years of dust has accreted onto its body but it holds it heritage intact. Since we cannot give it back to a culture much transformed, we save it for the first girl child of an unwitting granddaughter. 
Maybe she took them when she left, or maybe they followed like adoring minions—I just don’t know, but I haven’t seen either of them since. She was like that. Had a natural way of attracting beautiful things into her orbit—had her own gravity. I was a fool for thinking I could give the stars to her when she was already the universe.
I don’t believe she took them out of spite. Still, I can’t help feeling bitter. Why couldn’t she have at least left me Polaris? Now, I’m hopelessly lost and unable to navigate the vastness of this dark and unfamiliar place. I’m tired.
Often. I don’t know how people get to sleep. Close your eyes and try to hide from thought, but endless patterns of stygian white wander along, amoeboid gestures for attention. Free-associate, start building dreams, try to segue into the real ones without noticing it, but ignoring the effort it takes to avoid concentration. Wait for biology to suddenly demand what you’ve been trying to give it all night. Cyclobenzaprine doesn’t count, that’s only a side effect. I exaggerate, but what the heck, I’m tired now. I can be melodramatic on the topic of sleep if… if… I… Zzzzz… |
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