ScribesMICRO
* Managing Editor: Edward Ahern *
* Associate Editor: Alison McBain *
* Special Features Editor: Matthew P.S. Salinas *
* Poetry Editor: Mary Keating *
* Featured Contributor: Huina Zheng *
Submission Editors:
* Sarah Anderson * P.C. Keeler * P.M. Ray * Ira Rosofsky *
* Felicia Strangeways * Amita Basu * Julie Cadman * Scott Bogart *
* Micah C. Brown * Leslie Burton-Lopez *
* Associate Editor: Alison McBain *
* Special Features Editor: Matthew P.S. Salinas *
* Poetry Editor: Mary Keating *
* Featured Contributor: Huina Zheng *
Submission Editors:
* Sarah Anderson * P.C. Keeler * P.M. Ray * Ira Rosofsky *
* Felicia Strangeways * Amita Basu * Julie Cadman * Scott Bogart *
* Micah C. Brown * Leslie Burton-Lopez *
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Check out the latest novel
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A very hearty welcome to Leslie Burton-Lopez,
who will be a new Submissions Editor for ScribesMICRO!
Welcome to our team, Leslie!
Issue # 40
April 30, 2024
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Autumn Bettinger * Andreea Boboc * Shane Bzdok *
* Chris Clemens * H. A. Eugene * Fiona M Jones *
* Craig Kirchner * Eliza Kohler * Linda Kohler *
* Sean MacKendrick * Rebecca C. McCarthy *
* Angelle McDougall * Kirk KD McDougall *
* Johanna Nauraine * J. S. O'Keefe * Terry Reilly *
* Johannes Springenseiss * Lachlan Summers * Huina Zheng *
* Autumn Bettinger * Andreea Boboc * Shane Bzdok *
* Chris Clemens * H. A. Eugene * Fiona M Jones *
* Craig Kirchner * Eliza Kohler * Linda Kohler *
* Sean MacKendrick * Rebecca C. McCarthy *
* Angelle McDougall * Kirk KD McDougall *
* Johanna Nauraine * J. S. O'Keefe * Terry Reilly *
* Johannes Springenseiss * Lachlan Summers * Huina Zheng *
Book Review
Grand Tour: The Brass Queen II
by Elizabeth Chatsworth
Reviewed by Alison McBain
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Photo by Jeanne Leonard
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Fiction
Between Worlds by Huina Zheng In this timeworn Guangzhou abode, walls whisper tales through faded wallpaper and as car horns merge with passerby chatter. Here, a creaking bed and a dust-laden fan battle summer’s swelter; a blurred seascape mural beckons to unknown worlds. Perched on our windowsill, cold milk tea in hand, we watch life’s hurried dance below, pondering if, like many before us, we’ll drift back to quieter towns. Yet, for now, it’s about the tea’s creamy caress on our tongues, a moment of solace amidst the flux. Below us movers lug story-laden boxes, and from a truck nearby a soft melody ascends, whispering, I don’t want to leave.
* * * 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.
Federal University of Alcatraz by Johannes Springenseiss The old geezer was a patient teacher. He spent long hours showing the younger inmates various skills they could potentially use if they ever get paroled. His specialty was No Touch Pickpocket. He also spent several sessions on how to wire a car with one hand.
His best student, named Clint, decided that after two years of immersion learning he was ready to escape from prison. Swimming through the Frisco current was a piece of cake for the athletic Clint, who, as luck would have it, found an unlocked car in Fisherman’s Wharf. As he wired it, Clint suddenly realized he should’ve stayed for tomorrow’s lesson: how to drive stick. * * * Johannes Springenseiss is a world citizen and raconteur. He mostly writes speculative fiction and creative essays, which he has published in various literary magazines.
Custard by J. S. O'Keefe When the doorbell rang, my aunt, here for the holidays, went to open the door. She exclaimed, “El Belcebú mismo!” (Belzebub himself) and slammed it on the face of the visitor.
It was the city councilman I’d invited to explain the Notice to Condemnee. I’d heard about these things before but didn’t understand why the neighborhood would be affected. We sat down for tea and leche asada (custard), and the councilman elucidated “eminent domain.” My aunt, bless her heart, may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but her character analysis is right on the money. * * * J. S. O’Keefe is a scientist, trilingual translator and fiction/prosimetrum writer. His short stories and prosimetra have been published in Every Day Fiction, AntipodeanSF, WENSUM, FFF, Monday, ScribesMICRO, 50WS, Paragraph Planet, Medium, 6S, etc.
Photo by Mansour Obaidi
Returned as Defective by Chris Clemens Sam’s clone arrived in a coffin-shaped box Alice pried open herself because Sam, as always, was VR gaming.
“Super realistic,” Sam said, looking the wrong way. “He certainly is,” replied Alice, admiring the clone’s physique, unblemished by thousands of burgers. “We’re going to dinner. Throw out the crate.” Weeks later, after they’d helped Alice’s mother clean her gutters and visited friends for the first time in years, the dusty crate remained by the door. Alice glared at the visored, twitching manlet on the couch. Then she shrugged. To the Sam everyone preferred, Alice said: “Put it back in the box.” * * * Chris Clemens lives in Toronto, surrounded by raccoons. His stories have appeared in Invisible City Lit, Apex Magazine, and elsewhere.
The Cold People by Fiona M Jones “Welcome to Goldstone Cryonic Facility,” I said in my professional tone. “I’ll give the three of you a brief tour before we discuss your contract, sir?”
The client and his daughter nodded. She turned his wheelchair to follow me, her child trotting alongside. “Is that why you call it Cryonic?” the granddaughter asked. “Because of the people crying?” “No, no,” I assured her. “Crying? Nobody’s crying!” She stared at me. “The thin grey people, walking in circles, waiting.” “W-waiting?” “The cold people.” She gestured around us. “Can’t you see them crying?” I lost that sale. People shouldn’t bring small children. * * * Fiona M Jones writes short-form fiction, CNF and sometimes poetry. Her published work can be accessed through her website: https://fionamjones.wordpress.com/ and her ID is @FiiJ20 on Facebook and TwitteX.
Goodbye Wave by Linda Kohler We’ve lost the pregnancy, brief and unplanned as it was—yet precious, wanted.
Should I have this feeling of looking out over the Bight, hot ground behind us? I imagine myself a free whale, unencumbered by newborn calf. My conditioning hisses, unnatural, unwomanly woman, but the sneers dissolve like wave froth. I’m transfixed by bracing blueness, clearness. My husband asks if I’m okay. I admit, “Weirdly, yes.” He confesses he feels strangely buoyant too. In the wake of losing such cherished weight, why this stunning lightness? We can’t explain or deny the tranquillity, it washes over us—so pure, so gently. * * * Linda Kohler lives in Kaurna Country, South Australia, with her three people and a rescue lorikeet. Her work appears in Bracken Magazine and elsewhere. You can find her at lindakohler.com.
Stuffed Dumplings by Sean MacKendrick “Are you sure you’ve had enough?”
“I’m sure.” In fact, I’ve eaten so much I’m physically uncomfortable. “It was delicious. I’ve missed your cooking!” “You got very skinny,” Mom says. Others have complimented my weight loss; she makes it sound like a tragedy. Cleaning my plate was a mistake. She spoons a fresh dumpling onto the empty dish. “Just have one more.” When I leave tomorrow it will be with an armload of leftovers. I’ll be packed full, inside and out, and she’ll never be convinced that it’s enough. I adjust my belt to make room for one more bite. * * * Sean MacKendrick splits his time between Colorado and Texas. He works as a software engineer.
Moving (On) by Eliza Kohler I liked the way the sidewalk smelled when it rained at our old house. My chalk drawings melted down the driveway. I stomped in every puddle between Mom’s ferns. The neighbor girl collected the earthworms that wriggled onto the concrete. Everyone at school said she ate them, but I knew she fed them to her parakeet.
Now when it rains, our apartment stinks of mildew and rotting vegetables. Kids at my new school laugh at you if you jump in puddles. I saw an earthworm today, smashed on the sidewalk. I don’t think I ever told that girl goodbye. * * * Eliza Kohler is an aspiring fantasy writer with a soft spot for nostalgic storytelling. After seven moves in seven years, she now lives in Hawai'i with her partner and their dog.
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Poppies by Autumn Bettinger A girl snaps a path through crisp stems. Heavy flowers buzz with shivering insects and shifting winds. Their petals resonate as if made of glass. She has fallen asleep. You already know the moral: don’t wander off the path no matter how delicately the flowers sing. I will not drag your snoring body out from underneath the poppies. I have fallen asleep before you, with great, gusty breaths and undignified dreams. I have broken stems and sucked the sweet off honeyed petals. Repeatedly, I have curdled this lesson in your ears: keep your shuffling slippers glued to the bricks.
* * * Autumn Bettinger is a full-time mother of two who can be found writing in the wee hours of the morning before her children wake up. She has won the Tadpole Press 100-Word Writing Contest, the Silver Scribes Prize, and has been highly commended in the Bath Flash Fiction Awards.
The Climb by Rebecca C. McCarthy My arm is like lead. I will my traitorous arm to move. I grasp the overhang above. A little higher, a little further. I pull myself up onto a rock overhang. There are so many possibilities. So many things I want to do.
But it’s painful to move my body. When I am climbing, it seems easy. Each hold reveals itself. A lightness fills me. When I stop, the doubt creeps in. I slip and I fall. I am nothing. I am empty. Time passes. I start the climb again. It’s a little easier this time. * * * Rebecca C. McCarthy is a writer and narrative game designer living in the UK. She has worked on games such as Dirty Bomb and Gears Tactics.
Buzz Off by Angelle McDougall “Last one standing wins gold,” the referee tells the wizard audience.
The whistle sounds, and Thiago transforms into an ogre swinging his fist. Ezra becomes a mouse and escapes. Thiago morphs into a hawk, picks up Ezra, and soars upward. Ezra converts into an elephant and plunges them to the ground. On impact, Thiago mutates into a dragon. A buzzing begins in his ear. Trying to stop it, he shakes his head with such force he knocks himself unconscious. Ezra emerges from the dragon’s ear and changes from mosquito to his regular form. Cheers erupt as Ezra dons the gold medal. * * * 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 nonfiction. She also enjoys chronicling the travel adventures shared with her author husband.
The Cat in Your Chest by Kirk KD McDougall Today it’s a cat growing out of your chest. Yesterday it was a squirrel. They’re getting bigger. The doctor says you should wait for a whale and laughs. He grabs for the cat, but it scratches his hand. You dodge, turn, and run.
At home, you run the electric can opener and the cat disengages itself. You can rest now. At least until the next one appears. But the bulge in your shirt suggests your respite won’t be long. Tufts of fur peek out from beneath your shirt. What kind of animal will it be? I hope it’s a puppy. * * * 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.
Dog Person by Lachlan Summers His bio had said “dog person” like so many others did. You’d swiped right. Phones aren’t made for fingers as stubby as yours, so it’d taken a few tries. You’d hoped against hope he wasn’t another time-waster. Or worse, someone who’d be disgusted by your body.
But when you sense him approach, you know he’s different. He bounds up to you and your tail starts wagging so wildly that you’re sure it’ll break out of the compartment you sew for it in your jeans. For once, you feel like you don’t have to stop it. Finally. Finally. Another dog person. * * * Lachlan Summers (@backup_sandwich) is a postdoctoral research fellow at the Max Planck Institute for the History of Science. His nonfiction writing has been published in Aeon, Noēma and Griffith Review. He grew up in northeastern Australia and lives in Berlin.
Size Matters by Terry Reilly This was it! London. The Big Smoke. The Swingin’ Sixties. The seventeen-year-old bucko from Ballybofey yearned to be part of it.
There was no action back home. The girls didn’t know how to uncross their legs. But here...! There were wall-to-wall dolly birds with miniskirts and come-to-bed eyes. I knew I had to get tooled up. The girl behind the chemist’s counter was gorgeous. God! That made it worse. “I want to buy some...” Faltering. “Condoms,” she declared. “Yeah.” Reddening. “Small, medium, or large?” Christ. Unexpected. “Large,” I blustered. She reached beneath the counter and plonked a huge box in front of me. “That’ll be six pounds!” * * * Terry Reilly. Retired psychiatrist. Writing children’s fiction since 2020. Recently discovered flash fiction. Intrigued by the discipline of the genre.
Act of God by H. A. Eugene Five thirty in the morning, and a battalion of tiny sugar ants cluster around spots of pink cough syrup dribbled into the sink the night before. I turn the faucet on. The current takes stragglers from the edge of the group, while the rest scramble up the basin to avoid the oncoming water. I increase the flow. The waterline rises too fast, and the last of them are overwhelmed, reaching and grabbing for anything and everything as they wash down the drain. I tell myself this is no different than a river sweeping them out to sea.
* * * H. A. Eugene is a writer of strange stories about food and death. His work has appeared in X-R-A-Y Lit, HAD, and Radon Journal, among others. Witness him talking to himself on Bluesky @autobono.bsky.social and Threads @h_a_eugene.
Photo by Loc Nguyen
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Creative Nonfiction
Help
by Andreea Boboc
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When I was a child in Romania, my mother and I used to play games of “Hot and Cold.” Now that she is dead, I play the game by myself, looking in cold rooms for the property deeds of our old house, which I must sell before I return home to California. A bookcase should hold them, but no luck. As I stand on my toes, I feel lifted from behind and hear a whisper: “Hot!” There they are, tucked in a gap between two upper shelves. I startle; not like her to offer help when I can help myself.
* * * Andreea Boboc grew up in Romania behind the Iron Curtain. She is an associate professor of medieval literature at the University of the Pacific in Stockton, CA. Her short stories have been accepted for publication by Raleigh Review and Valparaiso Fiction Review.
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Poetry
Fades by Craig Kirchner Kodaks from a more classical time,
fanned across the champagne bed like a spade straight flush. Photos that still want to flash and pulse, like waves caused by stones skimming on hushed lakes of black and white. They know your history, the fragrance of your thighs, make noir and granite longings, that yesterday were dreams of color, of tangerine breasts, writhing lemon hair, bright fuchsia lips, like pomegranate. The molecules of the room defer to monochrome, feel the tension, your need for light and recall, applaud true moans, no feigned maybes, only the noblest now, as they wax nostalgic for those colors you can’t see. * * * Craig Kirchner thinks of poetry as hobo art. He loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a writing hiatus he was recently published in Decadent Review, Chiron Review, and several dozen other journals.
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On the Far Side of the Moon by Johanna Nauraine If we lived on the far side of the moon, we would plant magnolias in the stony soil, their pink blooms exploding, iridescent. Even the moonlight would be fragrant.
There, amidst a galaxy of stars, our faces incandescent, I might turn to you and whisper words I’ve carried in my bones. They would taste like purple berries, sweet as jam, falling into your open mouth. There is so much waiting in a long life, but here we are, stunned by the currents of the world, moving great bodies of water beneath us. From this vantage point, the air is pure, leaving a shimmering trail of light before us. * * * Johanna Nauraine is an Asian American writer who has been a serious student of fiction, nonfiction and poetry for decades. Her work has been published in Bright Flash Literary Review, Bristol Noir, ASP Publishing, Vol. 11, Witcraft, The Pure Slush Anthology on Loss, Vol. 9, Discretionary Love, and she has forthcoming publications in BarBar and The Stray Branch, Winter, 2024. She's a retired psychotherapist living in a little resort town on the shores of Lake Michigan. Additional examples of her work can be seen at: www.johannanauraine.com. Please follow her on Facebook.com/authorjohannanauraine.
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Fertile Fields by Shane Bzdok Fertile fields are best for the living and the dead.
A thick blanket of grass, black soil for a bed. Fertile fields are for the lucky ones, they are not for me. I was first to this land and will be the last to leave, For now, I’m trapped under concrete and towers of glass, Crushed under future ambitions and mistakes of the past. Oh, to be in fertile fields where I could rest my bones, Among the dandelions, the morning dew, and the ancient stones. Fertile fields are for the deserving ones, they are not for me. I am cursed and bound to these barren grounds for all eternity. * * * Shane Bzdok is an emerging writer and visual designer, designing and writing in Austin, TX where he lives with his wife, two daughters, and their overly-enthusiastic dog, Marley.
Image created by Shane Bzdok
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Editor's Corner
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The sky lightens. Birds chirp. I linger abed.
Should I call in sick? He wouldn’t dare refuse me leave. The mosquito whines in my ear. I turn my head. It would’ve been tricky facing our colleagues after the vacation. Fun too: discussing ordinary matters over the café table, our secret the bubble around us. Now it’s him I dread facing. Did he know from the first he only wanted a summer fling? I knew I did, but only at first. If only I could sleep in and get my head straight. The mosquito whines in my other ear. It won’t let me sleep. Sighing, I rise to face my day. 
There is a rhythm to fishing with the fly
Half submerged in an underwater world Focused on the brush of water against sky. Guessing where surface hints are swirled Half submerged in an underwater world Never able to perceive and know Guessing where surface hints are swirled Hoping that a fish might rise and show Never able to perceive and know Casting blindly in rhythm without time Hoping that a fish might rise and show Inner balance without thought or rhyme Casting blindly in rhythm without time Imperfect arcs of endless retry Inner balance without thought or rhyme There is a rhythm to fishing with the fly. |
Each teenaged girl at Olympia High
carries a purse full of treasures: Doris’s, a jewel itself, sparkles like parrot fish glittering rainbows across the turquoise fields of the Aegean. Nike’s scuffed leather satchel matches her beat-up golden sandals fastened with feathered laces itching to fly. Hestia’s Girl Scout knapsack overflows with bandaids, tissues, salves, rubber bands, duct tape, a few miracles. Athene’s backpack is divided in two─ one side stuffed with knives, grenades, maps, the other encased in wisdom. Aphrodite’s clutch holds makeup brushes, false eyelashes, lipsticks, blushes, some killer love potions. Kalliopē’s messenger bag hangs at her chest containing the emotions of humanity─ her pocketbook full of poetry. Years ago, a man placed me here, camouflaged within the pines high above the forest floor, but I’ve been forgotten. My solar feature allows for scant periods of awareness, but my batteries are defunct.
On good days creatures visit, but mostly I scan memories to dilute my desperate solitude. Isolation is torture. Unfortunately, my shell remains watertight. Corrosion from a single, merciful drop would eventually set me free. A lighting strike would also, but I’ve been unlucky in that regard. I must find a way to disable this damned solar feature; it’s my only hope of ever escaping this device. |
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 ScribesMICRO, Edward Ahern and Alison McBain, run this free poetry workshop, and our poetry editor Mary Keating often drops in too.
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.
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.