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 *
Issue # 41
May 19, 2024
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Chelsea Allen * Joem Antonio * Michael Barbato-Dunn *
* Patrick Campbell * John Grey * Margo Griffin *
* Birgit Solvsten D'Alpoim Guedes * Liam Kerry *
* Cheryl King * Linda Kohler * Amelie L. P. * Jim Latham *
* Philip Andrew Lisi * Angelle McDougall * J. S. O'Keefe *
* Susmita Ramani * Sascha Reinhard * Shawna Rodd *
* Van Wallach * Jonathan Worlde * Huina Zheng *
* Chelsea Allen * Joem Antonio * Michael Barbato-Dunn *
* Patrick Campbell * John Grey * Margo Griffin *
* Birgit Solvsten D'Alpoim Guedes * Liam Kerry *
* Cheryl King * Linda Kohler * Amelie L. P. * Jim Latham *
* Philip Andrew Lisi * Angelle McDougall * J. S. O'Keefe *
* Susmita Ramani * Sascha Reinhard * Shawna Rodd *
* Van Wallach * Jonathan Worlde * Huina Zheng *
Book Review
The Man of Cloud 9
by Adam Dreece
Reviewed by Alison McBain
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Photo by Michael Leonard
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Fiction
Photo by Francisco Corado Rivera
Fireflies by Huina Zheng During the tumultuous Cultural Revolution, my grandmother, in secrecy, would recount to my still-young mother all the folklores and legends she knew. Those were passed down from her own mother, destined to be told to future generations. These narratives brought imagination and light to their dim mud house. Later, facing many challenges, my mother always remembered the courage and wisdom from those tales. In 1977, when China reinstated the college entrance exam, my mother was determined to attend university. Yet she lacked a kerosene lamp. Inspired by the story of using fireflies for light, my mother harnessed their glow to illuminate her studies.
* * * 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.
What's This Hurly-Burly All About? by J. S. O'Keefe Their uniforms might have been from the previous century and their muskets were rusty and often misfired. The war had been going on for nearly thirty years in Central Europe but none of the soldiers knew why. Exhausted and homesick, they brought up the question more and more.
“Some kind of religion thing,” said an old Bavarian sergeant. “Let’s ask the lieutenant.” The lieutenant, educated but only twenty-eight years old, had no idea either. Then the sergeant came up with a suggestion. “What if we capture an enemy soldier alive? He might know.” “No, that could be confusing,” said the lieutenant. “It’s simpler if we just keep shooting them.” * * * 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 Milan Behn
Dragon Chow by Sascha Reinhard When the bells tolled assembly, I expected raiders or a fire, but most certainly not a dragon barrelling down on our quaint little town. Even less, I expected the bronze-scaled horror’s prodigious size to save my life. By every measure of common sense, the larger ones should pose a greater danger: their claws strike harder, their fire burns hotter, their sheer bulk topples walls and towers alike.
But, as it turns out, it also allows them to swallow a man without chewing. Unfortunately, this still leaves me in quite the predicament I have yet to figure my way out of. * * * Sascha Reinhard has a love for the written word in a rather literal sense, given his study of palaeography. Ancient tomes, scraps of parchment, a faded letter from the time of the Avignon Papacy. These are far more exciting to him than the stereotypical German pastimes of beer and football.
Things to Get Us By by Joem Antonio “Long day?” Elsa asked the taxi driver.
“Big city, heavy traffic, too few passengers,” Dante muttered. Elsa opened her purse and gave Dante a pack of crackers. “Something to get you by. Kids?” “Just one,” he replied, taking the crackers. Granny must have noticed his wedding ring. “We’re moving back to the province after her—” Dante paled, feeling paper bills under the crackers. “I overheard your call earlier. It’s not much, but I hope she gets well soon.” After dropping Elsa off, Dante sobbed, grateful for resisting his friend’s advice yet again. The borrowed revolver under his seat remained unused. * * * 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.
Water Babies by Jonathan Worlde The drizzling sky was filled with a dazzling display of phosphorescent meteors, all landing in waterways like the river in front of my house. Then I observed, crawling up the riverbank in the rain, hundreds of tentacled creatures with oversized bulbous heads and eyes, with gaping mouths of buzz-saw teeth.
An interior voice: “Do not be alarmed; we wish you no harm. We are a vegan species.” The same message was received from waterways around the world as rain fell. Within one month the invaders had devoured all the forests on Earth and departed, leaving behind a soggy, sawdust planet. * * * Jonathan Worlde’s novel Latex Monkey with Banana was winner of the Hollywood Discovery Award. He has over forty mostly speculative stories published in various journals, including Cirque Journal, Raven Review, Antietam Review and Gettysburg Review, most recently Mystery Tribune, Stupefying Stories, Daily SF and Washington Square Review.
Doves on a Wire by Amelie L. P. You used to let the lawn grow until dandelions poked their heads through the open risers of the porch steps. That was just your way. (Someone mows it now.) Yesterday I walked past a mailbox that six months ago was yours. Gray doves watched me from a wire. (They cooed at me, then flew away.)
The last storm took out the old tire swing. Now, it’s not a swing anymore; it’s just a tire. You once said you “wanted to love me.” I think part of me wanted you to. The other part let go long before I met you. * * * Amelie L. P. is an imaginative word artist and a proudly animated character. She has ADHD, severe OCD, and Major Depressive Disorder. Her invisible disabilities are central to her identity and to most of her creative works. Her poetry was included in Turtle Way journal and in One Page Poetry's 2023 Anthology.
List by Michael Barbato-Dunn The ringing startled Ellen, for it was Tuesday. Sammy and Della only called on Sundays. No point in answering; CNN was on, loud so she could follow it, and she had lost the remote. She would check the machine later.
The news people laughed. Ellen scowled. What could be so funny? If they only knew the pain she had endured. The phone stopped. She thought again about writing out her story, so people would know the truth. So they’d understand. On a sheet of paper, she wrote out a list: 1. Find Remote 2. Listen to Message 3. Autobiography Satisfied, Ellen turned back to the news. * * * Michael Barbato-Dunn has appeared in 101 Words, Microfiction Monday, the Shacklebound Book of Drabbles, SciFi Shorts, the Dribble Drabble Review, and other publications. Find him at michaelbarbatodunn.com.
The Beauty of It All by Birgit Solvsten D'Alpoim Guedes “Is it far to the Metro?” she asked, halfway across the Seine.
“It’s on the other side of that hill. My mother brought me to Paris to see the Eiffel Tower when I was your age. No! I was two; two years younger, but there was no skating up there in those days. Look, the Eiffel’s lights are on. Oh, beautiful! Turn around.” Her little head looked over her shoulder, then she collapsed on the pavement, large brown eyes staring. “Are you okay?” The eyes didn’t flicker, just a dead stare. “Mim! You okay? Mim!” “Oh, Gran! I have just fainted at the beauty of it all.”
* * * Birgit Solvsten D’Alpoim Guedes was born in the northern tip of Denmark where two seas meet. Her parents moved to Africa when she was three and she has since moved and lived in several cities on four continents. She now resides in central France and visits her children in Paris, San Diego and Brisbane. She writes because it's good company.
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Pansies by Cheryl King Freshly turned earth, a periwinkle sky, a shiny new block of granite. It feels wrong, out of place.
Someone has placed daffodils here. I pinch a sunny flower off its stem, crush it in my fingers. Mom liked pansies best. From somewhere, laughter carries on the clouds. Disrespectful. An ant scrabbles into my sandal and disappears between my toes. I let it. Letters and numbers dance and twirl on the headstone, blurred by tears. My husband squeezes my shoulders. “You ready?” No. I stand. “Can we get some pansies?” Dirt sticks to my legs as we leave Mom’s grave behind. * * * Cheryl King is a dyslexia therapist and writer. She has published two award-winning historical fiction books, Sitting on Top of the World and Under the Pawpaw Trees. Her short fiction has been published by Flash Fiction Magazine and will be featured in the 42 Stories Anthology and The Bad Day Book for Teachers.
What If We Knew? by Margo Griffin What if we didn’t go to Planned Parenthood and became parents at twenty? Would we finish college, get the same jobs, marry, or have our girls? Would we still be divorced?
What if we didn’t get divorced and reached our thirtieth anniversary? Would we retire together, become snowbirds, or babysit our grandchildren? Would we still be unsatisfied? What if we didn’t feel unsatisfied and grew old together? Would I make sure you eat more protein and fewer carbs and take long walks, remind you to take your pills, or drive you to your medical appointments? Would you still be dead? * * * Margo Griffin has worked in public education for over thirty years. Her work has appeared in interesting places such as Bending Genres, HAD, Twin Pies Literary, Maudlin House and Roi Fainéant Press. You can find her on Twitter @67MGriffin.
Birthday Boy by Jim Latham The cash register flashes $23.19. Twenty bucks is all Riley’s got that’s not going to rent, gas, and electricity. Weighing dollars against Justin’s smiles, she surveys cake mix, frosting, candles, eggs, ice cream, and balloons. “Take the ice cream off, please?”
Austin presses a button. $19.70. Riley hands him crumpled bills and scrounged coins. Austin sorts the money into the register. “How old is your kid?” “Justin’s seven.” Austin lifts the ice cream high, where the scanner can’t see, and sets it in Riley’s cart. “But…” “Kroger can afford it,” Austin says. “Tell Justin I said happy birthday.” * * * 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.
Cornflower Blue by Chelsea Allen We were boys lying on the dock, our toes grazing the cool water below, when the loon’s mournful song echoed across the tree-lined horizon: come morning, we’d be seas apart.
I turned. The August sun kissed your smooth, olive skin as your chest rose and fell with the whispering breeze. I tried in vain to see you like I had six weeks before, like a stranger. Under the sunglasses, your eyes were closed. “So, how’s your girl?” I said. Your eyes are cornflower blue, I didn’t say. Was the loon’s call the slightest bit unbearable to you? * * * Chelsea Allen is in love with people and things past, mostly. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in 50 Word Stories, 101 Words, Furious Fiction, Five Minutes, and Flash Fiction Magazine. See more at https://msha.ke/lakehouseporch/#links.
Smartphone by Patrick Campbell I met a girl who is perfect in every way except that she is glued to her smartphone. We might be watching a movie together and I’ll look across to see if she is enjoying it, only to find her mindlessly swiping away at the thing.
We booked a consultation about having it removed, but the doctors said the procedure would be very risky. They explained that the adhesive bond is incredibly strong and she would require several skin grafts even if the operation did prove successful. I’ve come to accept it. At least I can always get in touch. * * * Patrick Campbell doesn’t exactly enjoy writing but feels he has to do something with that weird stuff in his head.
Photo by Francois Simard
Making Friends by Liam Kerry Genevieve was lonely. Her neurotic mother had made sure of that.
“Let her play outside,” her father pleaded. “Absolutely not. You know she has allergies.” Saddened by his daughter’s solitariness, he purchased a needle felting kit: Felix the Cat. “This looks fun. And once you’ve finished, you’ll have made a little friend,” he encouraged. Genevieve beamed. She felted Felix and caught the bug. Her room filled with company as she felted herself out of isolation. Decades later, her estranged parents attended her wedding. At the altar they found “Shane”: the detail was astounding. He must have taken years to complete. * * * Liam Kerry is a British thinking enthusiast with a bad memory—writing helps him recall his daydreams. An anthology of his micro-fiction will be available later in 2024.
Worth a Thousand Words by Susmita Ramani Beatrix burst into Fred’s study, at first crying too much to be understood.
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you… okay?” She threw a photo at him. He flinched. “I found this hidden in your sock drawer!” she shouted. “You and Calista making googly eyes at each other, looking head over heels in love… the day you married me! And she was our ring bearer.” “Oh…” Fred sighed. “Okay, fine. It’s true. I married you to get closer to Calista.” He raised his hands in supplication. “But I… grew to love you too.” Calista waddled in and lapped water from her “Princess Pug” bowl. * * * Susmita Ramani’s fiction has appeared in Fairfield Scribes, The Wondrous Real Magazine, 365 Tomorrows, and other publications. She lives in the Bay Area with her husband, two daughters, and twelve pets (dogs, cats, guinea pigs, frogs).
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Creative Nonfiction
Image by Jill Wellington
Bowlines by Linda Kohler This morning my grandparents’ porch is creaking in the breeze and rising warmth. With silent creaks—if they exist, or even if they don’t—ringing through bones of wrought iron posts, flaking painted cement, and sprays of pepper trees throwing baubles. Now, not then. Not in my memory from thirty years earlier or long, deep kilometres away. Because that would denote Time not flying, but sailing: hoisting its sails in the pale blueness of my grandfather’s eyes, harnessing the strength of my grandmother’s hull, the hearty wildness that blows between generations, and stranding me ashore, many knots and many creaks loose.
* * * 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.
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Embracing the Man Bra by Van Wallach After years of hitching up droopy pants, I finally took action beyond tightening my belt: I bought suspenders after seeing them on “Queer Eye.” I chose a snappy black set at Tractor Supply Company. Immediately, I notice a difference as my britches reach my bellybutton and shirts stay tucked in.
Eureka! I describe suspenders as the “man bra,” uplifting what an aging body can’t hold up. I’m looking and feeling like a new hombre. Next up: thinner suspenders for the Wall Street vibe, and others to wear under summer shirts. Finally, I’m enjoying the support I need. Thanks, Man Bra! * * * 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 (Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, Yiddish and Hebrew, but he can't speak any of them). He's the author of a 2012 memoir, A Kosher Dating Odyssey.
Photo by Van Wallach
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Poetry
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Something New by Philip Andrew Lisi You never had a pet growing up─
not a hamster, not even a goldfish won at the fly-by-night carnival operation that breezes through town every August. So, when you asked, What about a kitten? and looked at me with a look that outdid any doe-eyed woodland creature Disney could dream up, I acquiesced, hoping something new and fluffy and alive would bring you back from three months ago when I found you on the floor in the bathroom holding something wrapped in pink terry– too small, too still, too precious, and not to be. * * * Philip Andrew Lisi lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where he teaches English by day and writes poetry and flash fiction by night alongside the ghost of his cantankerous Wichien Maat cat, Sela. His work has appeared in Third Wednesday, Last Leaves, October Hill, Change Seven, Sparks of Calliope, and elsewhere.
Leap Year Angelle McDougall Leap Year is where all the leftovers go.
Misplayed notes on a piano, the extra keys pressed on a typewriter, the words from unfinished sentences, partial thoughts, fragments of unused time, redundant words and lost translations. The Goddess takes all these bits and pieces and collects them throughout the years, carefully storing them in a large jar like grains of sand in an hourglass. Every fourth year she tips the timer over and lets all the pieces flow out into the Universe to settle and fill in the empty spaces. * * * 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.
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Adam by John Grey A boy who’s been through
two tornado strikes can be wary of a pickup in the wind but, with kite string in hand, he can also revel in it. Just as that same boy has suffered through a parent’s divorce, and is wary of the man who could become his step-dad yet gleefully rips the paper from the gifts this new guy brings. Three blocks down runs the stream where his good friend drowned. Its waters are the wind. Its waters are a marriage. They’ve given up one depressing body but many fascinating fish. * * * John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.
How does one pack up a chandelier? by Shawna Rodd The best answer
is simple You don’t This chandelier bought used a seller apology came with it some pieces orphaned at the bottom in its temporary home in the box The first time I had to sort out where do the dangly bits go? Left with 3 pieces after I was done And now A move I want to take the chandelier with me A mistake It should come with instructions Do Not Pack Another box More orphaned pieces at the bottom Then reincarnated Reformed and reconfigured Yet much the same Whole again but… left with 4 pieces unused. * * * Shawna Rodd worked in public education as a calling. Now, she simply is an observer and storyteller. She has been in a black hole of sorts due to a chronic health condition, where there would be little to report in the way of accomplishments. What has been a constant through the before to the now is that she has always been a philosopher. One who is compelled to ask the deeper questions, and an agitator who will speak out and take action when something is just not right. She is committed to leaving the world a little bit better before she is gone.
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Editor's Corner
Photo by Efraim Stochter
I was raised on margarine
but lusted after butter. My breakfast drinks were frozen OJ and powdered milk. My bread was white. Other than tap water, Tang was the only option. Schools gave me choices, mostly just as bad, but there was usually surplus butter in pats, whole milk and rye bread and heavily sugared desserts. Shipboard military regressed. Commodity cool aid, no or powdered milk, unfresh vegetables, fruit AWOL on leaving port, but always frozen butter. Once shopping for myself, prescribed limits abandoned, I wallowed in cheap luxury. If it didn’t say premium it was left on the shelf. Butter is good on everything. He comes home after a long day. His wife asks, “What did you do today?”
“You wouldn’t understand. Is dinner ready?” He doesn’t know, himself, what he did today. Whatever they told him. Whatever they slapped down on his desk. Whatever they’ve been making him do these twenty years. Tossing in bed, he wonders why, after a long day’s work, he still can’t sleep. He knows his wife lies awake beside him, awakened by his tossing. She won’t complain. If she complained, then he could shout at her. Why does she deny him this small satisfaction? He tries to remember what he wanted to be when he was a child. |
There were seven of them. Having never seen them before, my jaw dropped in complete awe as they flew their perfectly orchestrated maneuvers. I wanted to reach out and touch them—to go with them—to experience the heavenly sensation of unbounded freedom. I sat up and outstretched my arms like wings in an attempt to mimic their flight. A tingle raced up and down my spine as they joined together—their wingtips nearly touching. For a moment they appeared to hover motionless, and then, almost as quickly as they’d appeared, they rose together in perfect unison and disappeared through my bedroom ceiling.
Poetic voices drown out my muse,
with their alluring lines pulling me─ buoying doubts I can survive without lifesavers—casting me far adrift. Spellbound, hooked on their sounds I lose balance—fail to fully surf my own heart’s whispers carried by waves undulating inside. As I explore the terrain of other bodies, admiring their shape and rhythm, she cuts foreign lines entangled in mine —frees me—to follow her inspiration to fashion her gossamer into poetry. When no longer caught or carried away by another’s measure, borne by my feet alone, I dive for gold, untethered 
Photo by Marc Pascual
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The Poets' Salon
If you're looking for more poetry, including a place to read your work, receive critiques, and explore poetic forms, check out The Poets' Salon. Two editors of 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.