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 # 42
June 22, 2024
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Patrick Campbell * Jay Castello * Chris Cochran *
* Jaime Gill * David Henson * Jeff Kennedy *
* Jennifer Lai * Mercedes Lawry * K. L. Mill *
* Elspeth Moon * Melanie Mulrooney *
* Tim F. Nichols * Siân O'Hara * J. S. O'Keefe *
* Bud Pharo * Ken Poyner * Antony Püttschneider *
* Terry Reilly * Greg Schwartz * Huina Zheng *
* Patrick Campbell * Jay Castello * Chris Cochran *
* Jaime Gill * David Henson * Jeff Kennedy *
* Jennifer Lai * Mercedes Lawry * K. L. Mill *
* Elspeth Moon * Melanie Mulrooney *
* Tim F. Nichols * Siân O'Hara * J. S. O'Keefe *
* Bud Pharo * Ken Poyner * Antony Püttschneider *
* Terry Reilly * Greg Schwartz * Huina Zheng *
Book Review
A Life in Pieces
by D. X. Lewis
Reviewed by Alison McBain
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Photo by Michael Leonard
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Fiction
Uncle Lin Isn't My Dad's Friend by Huina Zheng He’s just the fruit vendor. He brings me and Mom the unsellable fruits—brown-dotted bananas, overripe apples, wrinkly oranges. Trimmed, they become our salad. He tells his wife it’s a visit to a late friend’s family. After dinner, he and Mom waltz in the living room. “It’s my birthday,” Mom whispers. He holds her close, one hand caressing her back. “If I stay too late, my wife will get suspicious.” I watch all this through a crack in the door. Mom leans against Uncle Lin’s chest. I pick an apple piece, savoring the sweet crispness as it crunches between my teeth.
* * * 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.
Full-Court Fellowship by Chris Cochran I stood uncomfortably in gym shorts, amongst a throng of teenage churchgoers at the local YMCA. Wearing khaki pants and modest sundresses, they swayed with their arms extended as a worship band sang praise to their lord and savior.
“It goes all night,” Andrew had said. “When we’re tired from basketball, we’ll just jump in the pool.” There was talk of girls and pizza, but he conveniently forgot to mention the three-hour church service. I was ready for bed by the time they lowered the hoops. We still played, but I avoided the pool in fear of being baptized. * * * Chris Cochran is a high school English teacher who writes first drafts on an old typewriter in a small nook beneath his basement steps. He lives in Michigan with his wife and son, where he spends most evenings drinking tea and falling asleep to comedy podcasts.
Dog Whistle by Jennifer Lai In a landslide win for a town seeking change, Chewy the basset hound is elected mayor. He takes the floor at the public meeting hall and the room floods with silence before a cashier breaks the ice.
“How will you fix the rising housing costs?” he asks. “Woof,” Chewy says. Heads nod; murmurs abound. “And access to healthcare?” a nurse inquires. “Woof, woof.” Some applaud. “Damn straight,” others cheer. “What about the increasing crime?” a mother adds. “Woof, woof, woof.” Most of the crowd stands, pumps their fists, chants, “Chew-y! Chew-y! Chew-y!” “What did he say?” the mother asks. The nurse and cashier shrug. * * * 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.
Memories to Sustain Us by Melanie Mulrooney When I kiss my husband goodbye, we’re surrounded by screens advertising risk-free experiences—climb mountains! Fly planes! Fall in love!
A doctor, his tailored suit worth more than my memories, explains the procedure. New information that I’ve heard before. I wipe sweaty palms on grimy pants and sign with calloused fingerprints. Yes, I understand that removal is permanent. Yes, I consent to the sale of my mental records. Yes, I accept the increased risk of repeat extractions. This time, they’ll take the last of him and leave me with a stranger. Our children will eat today. We’ll make new memories. * * * Melanie Mulrooney lives in Nova Scotia with her husband and a gaggle of kids. When not writing stories, she can be found with her nose in a book, researching her latest special interest, or begging her family to play a board game.
The Innate Goodness of Udon by J. S. O'Keefe In Manhattan I often eat in a Japanese restaurant known for its udon. Udon is chewy Asian noodles best served in hot umami broth made of awase dashi.
My lunch companion today is an advocate of innate goodness, i.e., people are inherently kind and right-minded. The soup is delicious as usual, and his sermon is so convincing I’m beginning to see the world through different lenses. While we’re waiting for the check, he tells me that since udon is exceedingly hard to knead, traditionally the top chef of the restaurant performs the arduous task with his bare feet. For me it’s a double whammy if there ever was one. * * * 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.
The Small Hours Runner by Jaime Gill Lately, I’ve been slipping out of the house after my kids and wife fall asleep. I run. I’ve never much liked running, but I have to get out, and walking the suburbs looks sinister. Runners look harmlessly crazy, not call-the-police crazy.
When you’re running at night and are halfway between streetlights, your shadow splits in two: one ahead, one behind. Try it, you’ll see. I often forget this until I glance down and see the two shadows. For a heart-stopping instant, it looks like someone’s running behind me, perfectly silent, very close. Sometimes I want him to catch me, to know at last how it ends. * * * Jaime Gill is a British-born writer living in Cambodia, whose stories have been published by Litro, The Guardian, Beyond Words, voidspace, Wanderlust, and others. Several of his stories have been finalists for awards including The Masters Review Annual Award, Bridport Prize, Rigel Award, and Plaza Prize.
Traffic Jam by Jeff Kennedy When my phone went from flashing traffic delays to flashing ads for camping gear, I should have known I was screwed.
A couple hours after traffic came to a grinding halt, people started congregating in little flocks every half mile or so. That night, we were still waiting to hear what happened. Some just abandoned their cars on the freeway. The second day, I rigged up a tarp to collect water. The third day, people started dropping by to barter for stuff. Two cases of protein bars made me a rich man. One guy was pissed. Tomorrow should be interesting. * * * 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 Flash Fiction Magazine and Fairfield Scribes.
Photo by Nanthapongs Songsil
Soon, Rubble by Jay Castello In the house where the kids used to laugh, a robin perches on the windowsill. No sound disturbs her: no hurried school runs, no teenagers sneaking out, no Christmas visits from sudden adults with their own busy lives. A spider crawls from where the baby used to sleep to the spot where the last box was packed. Nothing memorialises those moments or the ones in between. Even the carpet has sprung back, leaving no trace of crib or clutter. But perhaps the walls themselves remember.
Then, in the distance, the sound of bulldozers, and closer, quieter, the flutter of wings.
* * * Jay Castello is a freelance writer, editor, and podcast host based in Sheffield, UK. If they're not down a research rabbit hole you'll probably find them taking bad photographs near a riverbank or old tree, but you can also try Twitter, Bluesky, or their website.
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Visitor by Greg Schwartz Joseph sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. Something had woken him… more a feeling of unease than anything specific. Then he remembered the events of the evening—celebrating another anniversary with his lovely wife and a bottle of wine—and smiled.
A woman in a nightgown stood at the window, silhouetted by the silver moon. The air around her seemed to shimmer. “Can’t sleep, honey?” Joseph asked. He groped around on the nightstand for his glasses. “Hmmph?” his wife mumbled, half-asleep, rolling over next to him in bed. * * * Greg Schwartz writes speculative fiction and poetry. He lives with his wife, children, and dog.
Image by Julio Vicente
Backward Burglary by Elspeth Moon The tractor purrs.
Grinning, Daphne puts down her spanner. Tomorrow, the farmer will be confused—puzzled by a happily running machine that hasn’t worked in weeks. More fodder for the village too, abuzz over the spate of miraculously repaired vehicles. Old Mrs. Morton had declared it the work of pixies. Little Briony Midgen, luck. Father Paul, God. No one suspected Daphne. It was thrilling: creeping about, fixing by darkness, fleeing before first light. Like burglary, but backward. Daphne wipes oil from her hands, her eyes catching on a dusty motorbike. Tempting. Dawn was still some hours off. Plenty of time. * * * Elspeth Moon is a queer British writer currently based in Boston, MA, USA. Her fiction is best described as whimsical and odd. Her work has not been published before.
Photo by Chris Reading
Tranquillity by Patrick Campbell My neighbour hung a set of wind chimes in his Japanese garden. I must admit, they looked pleasant among the Acer trees, white gravel pathways, and the koi pond. He tells me he’s making a sea of tranquillity.
Last night a storm blew in and set the chimes clattering loudly into the small hours. It was, by chance, I saw him from my bedroom window at 2 a.m., braving the winds in his dressing gown on a mission to silence the cacophony, only to trip over a tiny Buddhist shrine. He howled profanities as the chimes mocked him in the wind. * * * Patrick Campbell doesn’t exactly enjoy writing but feels he has to do something with that weird stuff in his head.
The Decision by Siân O’Hara Drip. Drop. Drip drop.
Rain splashes from the wonky gutter, landing on the cafe windowsill. The broken rhythm a mirror to my thoughts. Drip, drop. Stay or go? It’s not the first time I’ve thought this question. Not the first time I don’t know my answer. Staring out the window, bruises hidden. But this time, I’m not just answering for myself. Drip, drop. “More coffee?” the waitress asks. Her kind eyes meet mine and I know I could tell her, ask her advice. I realise I don’t need to. My hand drifts to my belly. “No thanks, I’m not staying.” * * * Siân O’Hara has long been an avid reader of SFF (thanks to her mother, and then a chance encounter in her school library). With other worlds only ever a daydream away, Siân started writing as a way to get her thoughts and feelings out of her head and onto paper.
My Faith Restored by Bud Pharo My father’s physical and verbal abuse transformed my mother into a timid remnant of the vibrant, loving person he married. Nothing she did was ever good enough!
Once, while I held an icepack to her swollen cheek, she insisted he was a good man who just had a drinking problem. One evening, after a night of drinking, his car hit a tree. We rushed to the hospital—he had undergone emergency surgery. The surgeon said he might die. Mother insisted we go to the hospital chapel and pray. Two hours later, he passed. My prayers, not my mother’s, were answered. * * * Bud Pharo is a disabled veteran who writes short stories and flash fiction. His work has been featured in 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, and 50 Word Stories.
Photo by Jenny Friedrichs
Thoughts by Mercedes Lawry I had a thought the other day. Remy told me to stuff it in the furnace before anyone found out. I told him I would, but I didn’t. I hid it in the linen closet where he never goes. Remy says it was a glitch and not to worry. I’m not worried—I’m excited—that more thoughts might come—that they will link up and present an alternative, perhaps a future. Supposedly they’d weeded out any chance of thought. But there are always mistakes, human error. I visit the linen closet daily, with what I vaguely remember as hope.
* * * Mercedes Lawry’s most recent book is Vestiges from Kelsay Books. She’s published three chapbooks and poems in journals such as Nimrod and Alaska Quarterly Review. Her book Small Measures is forthcoming from ELJ Editions, Ltd. in 2024. She’s also published short fiction and stories and poems for children.
When Lady Luck Is Near by K. L. Mill Death knocked back his third whiskey and pouted. It used to be so simple, gathering souls: just show up with the scythe at the appointed time, and collect. But love always complicates things, doesn’t it?
The leggy redhead slid onto the barstool next to him, kissing his cheek like a whisper. “Sorry I’m late, G.R.” “You’re fine. I’m just waiting for—” The sweaty man in the corner let out a whoop as his slot machine clanged and whirred and lit up like a Christmas tree. Death glared at his Lady. “Dammit, Fortuna! He was supposed to have a heart attack!” * * * K. L. Mill’s Midwest roots are so strong, she lives in the house she grew up in, designed by her father. Most recently her work has been published by Black Hare Press, Hungry Shadow Press, and Atomic Carnival.
Chronography by Ken Poyner There was a boy trampled in this year’s clown drive. He got away from his parents and ran to the middle of the street through which the clowns were being herded. A second sooner, he could have been pulled away; a second later, the massed clowns would have been abreast and he would have been brushed back. His plight being an emergency, he could have turned and led the clowns, certainly not legal but permissible in the circumstance. But he did not have a second to think. His example is used to teach the parsing of time in grade school.
* * * Ken Poyner’s nine collections of flash fiction and speculative poetry are available from most web booksellers. He was an information warrior for thirty-three years, and now supports full time his wife’s powerlifting. Recent work has appeared in Analog, Café Irreal, Rune Bear, Tiny Molecules.
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Poetry
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Auditioning the Alternatives by David Henson The first twirls in top hat and tails,
glides onto chairs that swoon from its perfect balance. Seen it before, I snap from a dozen rows back. Next one tap dances while swallowing swords. Next croons moonlight. Next. Next… The last one trips wearing giant red shoes, gets up, hoots and pratfalls again. I groan and start to leave—freeze when bullets crack the seats on either side of me. The clown smiles, walks like a duck and honks a horn, then, aiming again, says Applaud. I do and whistle and stamp my feet. * * * 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.
Just Another Family Suppertime by Terry Reilly Mummy called us through to eat,
The kitchen smelled like Daddy’s feet. Thomas said: “I don’t like meat, Can I just go straight to the sweet?” The cat jumped up and licked my plate. Mum was getting in a state. She didn’t have too long to wait Till Felix puked back all he ate! Mum said: “That’s the final straw!” As Felix scratched her with his claw. Thomas howled: “My chicken’s raw, Can I just eat that cool coleslaw? Dad stood up and said: “OK.” “Why don’t you kids run off and play?” Mummy scowled and growled: “No Way!” It seemed like just a normal day. * * * Terry Reilly. Retired psychiatrist. Writing children’s fiction since 2020. Recently discovered flash fiction. Intrigued by the discipline of the genre.
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Another Mother by Tim F. Nichols My mother knew how to be fully present
for me, how to cool my fevers and emotions, to coax manners and laughter from me. When she stopped remembering things, almost everything really, I realized that instead of resisting and lamenting, I would need to learn to love a completely new person. A mother with no shared history, no nurturing glances, no idea that she should tell me to eat fewer desserts. When she looked into my light green eyes, identical to hers, and smiled broadly—perhaps believing I was her old college roommate─ I knew that I could. * * * After a career as an award-winning television writer, Tim F. Nichols has turned to his real love, writing poetry and short fiction, as his creative outlet. His writing has appeared in The Oak Parker Magazine, Bristol Noir and the New York Times.
Silk and Silver by Antony Püttschneider With silken step, a feather-light caress,
A cut-throat on her umbral quest to reap The concrete garden’s harvest: loneliness; And clang the mourning bells with every leap. Upon the prowling grounds, the world asleep, Her silver shadow-slicing sickles shine Submerged in tender crescent light and weep With scarlet flowers blooming so divine. A butcher deified, a friend benign, Morose of heart, each death yet tongue-in-cheek, Her ambiguity is by design, In unison discordance rings unique. The bravest kind are those to seek out that Which elegance and bloodlust weds: a cat. * * * Antony Püttschneider tries to find beauty in bleak places in his writing. His stories and poems have appeared in Elegant Literature, Friday Flash Fiction, Five Minutes, and ScribesMICRO. He lives in a quiet mountain town in Germany with his husband.
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Editor's Corner
Father was back on the sauce. Everyone in the neighborhood was aware. Mother refused to show her face in town outside of grocery shopping and the occasional necessary errand. Jessica and Aubrey felt embarrassed among their friends, who told them it was okay and they understood.
“Maybe one day he’ll stop,” Jessica said, holding Aubrey close and patting her on the head. “I hope he never does,” Aubrey said defiantly. “What do you mean?” Jessica asked. “If he does stop, that means he would have been able to all along and we just weren’t important enough for him to stop for,” Aubrey stated. 
After the detonation of EMPs over America, the buildings stood, but electrical power plants were lost. Almost every machine was rendered useless. There was no News anymore. Exactly who’d done it? No one could say, but everyone knew what happened. For some, survival meant sacrifice—not their own, but that of others. A relentless tsunami of blood swept the land.
It’s been years since I set sail. Now, the sea provides until necessity requires landfalls. I’m like Crusoe, only on my 22-foot Catalina. My sole companions are fairy terns. They keep me company while I await the day the pirates come. |
The worst is not when he’s fathoms below, among the monstrosities of the deepsea’s evernight. Yes, the water crushes his spine, but he soon grows numb to the pain, hobnobbing with the ocean’s habitual bottom feeders, bleached and blind.
The worst is when he finds himself drifting upwards, sights fellow sun-dwellers in the warm upper waters, and, breaking through the surface, gasping air, cranes his neck to the jewel-blue sky. Terrible then is life’s beauty, terrible his sin in having deserted it. He peers back down into the murk, thinking how easy it would be to sink again, to defer by yet another day the moment of rising, birth, agony. She waits
crowned in bridal illusion under glowing cobalt fruit, twigs ribboned together beneath cotton-colored clouds. Harmonies tangle─ hollow echoes carrying centuries of tradition Mendelssohn's wedding march, a high-tech rebirth on electric speakers. Sudden blustering─ lightning forecast creating ricochets of thunder ripping through cascades of rain hailing Captain Noah until she stops, takes a deep breath to tame her wild self and tells it, Max-like, to be still. Floods recede─ music chimes. a woman emerges, her candy-apple hair crowned in roses and lace, facing the bride waiting for her cocooned in swathes of white. 
Photo by Tú Anh
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My son arrived just now, his son in tow.
Our meetings are too few to keep abreast
of how our lives have shifted tone and flow and how we had to change as we were stressed.
The love still shared was born with traits now faux yet it abides in changeling sympathy.
Our differences are gulches set below the bridging skeins of trust and empathy.
For there’s no judgement shown by we who know we cannot let the facts malform the true,
its basking warmth enabling us to glow in spite of lives that wandered off askew.
Our meetings are too few to keep abreast
of how our lives have shifted tone and flow and how we had to change as we were stressed.
The love still shared was born with traits now faux yet it abides in changeling sympathy.
Our differences are gulches set below the bridging skeins of trust and empathy.
For there’s no judgement shown by we who know we cannot let the facts malform the true,
its basking warmth enabling us to glow in spite of lives that wandered off askew.
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.