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 # 43
July 29, 2024
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Lee Hammerschmidt * Christy Hartman * Liam Hogan *
* Ese-Ose Idemudia * Liam Kerry * Richard Korst *
* Jon Krafchek * Sean MacKendrick * Elly McFadden *
* Chris Morse * Arthur Shattuck O'Keefe *
* Antony Püttschneider * Yudai Sanada * Kayleigh Shoen *
* Johannes Springenseiss * Michael Strickland *
* Noland Taylor * Mark Zec * Huina Zheng *
* Lee Hammerschmidt * Christy Hartman * Liam Hogan *
* Ese-Ose Idemudia * Liam Kerry * Richard Korst *
* Jon Krafchek * Sean MacKendrick * Elly McFadden *
* Chris Morse * Arthur Shattuck O'Keefe *
* Antony Püttschneider * Yudai Sanada * Kayleigh Shoen *
* Johannes Springenseiss * Michael Strickland *
* Noland Taylor * Mark Zec * Huina Zheng *
Book Review
Recalibrating Gravity
by Mary Keating
Reviewed by Alison McBain
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Photo by Michael Leonard
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Fiction
Parasitic Twin by Huina Zheng Throughout her pregnancy my mother felt two heartbeats, but at birth I arrived alone. The enigma unraveled thirty years later when a doctor removed a parasitic twin from my body—a silent twin I never knew yet always felt. In solitude, I’d whisper to the scar, sharing stories with him as if he listened.
After the surgery I performed a ritual at home, burning paper houses and money, sending wishes for his prosperity in the afterlife. “Farewell, my brother,” I whispered, a mix of emptiness and bond lingering in my heart for the sibling who was, in essence, part of me all along. * * * 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.
And What If by Antony Püttschneider Pause.
My father stomps in, beer in hand. “What’re you watching, bud?” This is it. “Just some new show.” He studies the plastic case, turns it around, squinting, taking a sip. “Hm.” Breathing has become a faint memory. “ ‘Queer’? That’s gay, ain’t it? And you’re interested in that?” My innards gargle menacingly, eyes remain glued to the giant pause label. An attempt at indifference comes out as, “I guess? It’s—it’s good.” “Uh huh. So, are you…?” The two men on screen are frozen in an eternal dance. “And what if?” “Well, I’d tell you I got us pizza for lunch.” Then, in leaving, “And that I love you.” Unpause. * * * 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.
Photo by Angela Yuriko Smith
A Culinary Tragedy by Arthur Shattuck O'Keefe He was an accountant, having earned his degree and license only six weeks prior to the incident which would end his promising future.
Deciding on a whim to go hiking in the hills near his alma mater in Arkham, Massachusetts, he fell victim to a cult of cannibals inhabiting the woods, on the prowl for victims. Their culinary habits involved not only human sacrifice to unnamable, horrific deities, but the infusion of exotic herbs and spices alien to the blander palate of the New Englander. Despite the short span of his career, he ended his days as a seasoned professional. * * * Arthur Shattuck O'Keefe was born in New York and lives in Kanagawa, Japan. His debut novel The Spirit Phone was released by BHC Press in 2022. His short fiction has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, Manawaker Studio’s Flash Fiction Podcast, Ragazine, and The Stray Branch.
Last Cast by Christy Hartman My twitching fingers slide roe onto the sharpened hook, blood blooms on my pierced thumb. In one smooth motion, I propel the filament across the water into the churning river shallows. The drift in this spot is long. I grip the rod, eyes intent on the tip; I command my hands to remain still.
Fish don’t care about neurodegenerative disorders. Fish don’t conspire about poor dad when they think I can’t hear. Fish don’t want me to sell my house. Fish fight until they can’t. The line pulls taught. Instinct takes over. My traitorous hands reel in a silver trout. * * * Christy Hartman is a Canadian writer based on Vancouver Island. She is published in Elegant Literature, Bright Flash Literary Review, and Fairfield Scribes. When not writing, Christy loves experimenting with creative vegan meals in her kitchen and convincing her husband they taste like chicken.
Do It Now or Else! by Michael Strickland After ignoring it for months, I finally opened the blank journal. Inside, I found a Post-It note:
Dad, you said you’d write in here. Do it now or else! “Dad”? Whose joke was this? I had no child. But I also had no more excuses, so I started writing. The sun shone on the green grass. Outside, the sun broke through the clouds. Coincidence? I kept writing. He found ten thousand dollars in the desk. I opened the drawer. A pile of cash greeted me. I hesitated before continuing. Was I finally ready? His daughter walked in and hugged him. * * * Michael Strickland’s fiction has appeared in Cast of Wonders, Shacklebound Books, and elsewhere. This story was based on a real-life note from his real-life daughter. He’s writing about his pursuit of an MFA in Creative Writing at www.stricklandia.com.
My Dad's Eighth Grade Science Project by Richard Korst My dad was a mechanical engineering professor, embodying all the associated characteristics and peculiar attributes. He could explain a curveball’s mechanics but couldn’t throw a ball more than twenty feet. He could solve any math problem but wouldn’t give you an answer to an equation until you showed a proof of theorem.
In the eighth grade, we (and I mean my dad) built a science fair project involving a vacuum cleaner, ping-pong balls, and scales to measure the Magnus effect, a doctorial concept. My contraption was displayed between an exploding volcano and a Tinkertoy solar system. I had no idea how to explain my project. The volcano won. * * * Richard Korst lives in the Chicago area with his wife of 44 years, twin daughters and two dogs. A University of Illinois graduate with an MBA from the University of Texas, Rick worked in Human Resources for over 40 years, is an avid cyclist, aspiring author, and huge Illinois fan.
Taken Away by Noland Taylor Sitting on the edge of his bed, clean-shaven, hair trimmed, and looking dapper in his J.C. Penny sport coat, he leans on the overnight bag handle in front of him. Underwear, razor, comb, two Oxford shirts, and a pair of khakis. It’s always the same.
The nursing assistant knocks. “Your cafeteria tray arrived, Mr. Peterson.” “No need.” His voice cracks. “My son is arriving to take me away for the weekend.” Undeterred, she calmly removes his coat and shoes as she has done every weekend since he first arrived over one year ago. “Maybe your son meant next weekend.” * * * Noland Taylor’s flash fiction appears in multiple publications and has been “highly commended” in judged competition. His work has also been translated and published in audio format. He holds a master’s degree and has studied at over a half-dozen colleges and universities, including Penn State, Purdue, and UNC Chapel Hill.
Death Is by Sean MacKendrick Death is kind, in the end. He says nothing while I watch my family crowded around the bed, giving me room as I try in vain to assure them that it’s all OK. Death is quiet and understanding.
He opens a window through which I rewatch days gone by. Happier, healthier days. Big important moments and small unimportant ones that only now seem so meaningful. He stands beside a black doorway, not rushing me. He waits as I whisper goodbyes to my life. Death is patient. All the same, I spit in his face before we leave. Death is unsurprised.
* * * Sean MacKendrick splits his time between Colorado and Texas. When not writing fiction he writes code as a software engineer.
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Baked by Liam Hogan You creep bare-footed down the stairs and hover by the hall clock. It reads three—the devil’s hour. You ought to be able to hear the tick, but the noise from beyond the door that bleeds light from its edges drowns it out.
Someone is in your kitchen. Cooking and singing. You know the words. You know the smell—your mother’s traditional cake, the rich scent of molasses, the ginger that tickles your nose... But you buried your mother at the turn of the year. Whatever’s in there isn’t her. You breath out, slowly, and creep back up the stairs. * * * Liam Hogan is an award-winning short story writer. He helps host live literary event Liars’ League, and volunteers at the creative writing charity Ministry of Stories. More details at http://happyendingnotguaranteed.blogspot.co.uk.
Photo by Long Nguyen
At the Bottom of the World on a Warming Planet by Mark Zec The penguin stood on the beach, contemplating what to do. Millions of years of evolution had driven him to return here from the sea. His mind wasn’t capable of wondering why. He just knew that he was supposed to be here now.
The day was warm and mild. He looked around, alone amid the grasses and flowers, and saw no others of his kind. He wandered the beach, braying in isolation, occasionally reentering the sea for food, but waiting predators relentlessly pushed him back to land. After weeks of solitude, the last penguin, heartbroken and starving, lay down and died. * * * Mark Zec is a fledgling writer living in rural Virginia with his wife, daughter, dog, and a small flock of chickens. After almost 25 years in the IT field, he decided to pursue his dream of writing full time. He has (so far) two published stories.
Muse by Ese-Ose Idemudia The moon bathes our compound with its light. Earlier, I had taken my canvases inside. They’ll need one more day to dry before they’re ready.
I’ve just finished a piece, but already I want something new to draw. I often do. The little bonfire we’ve got going crackles with delight, illuminating our faces in a warm orange glow. Papa’s voice is doing that thing it does when he’s being philosophical. As he talks, I take in my surroundings and its people. Suddenly, a picture dances in my mind like folded tapestry and nestles itself there. I know my next piece. * * * Ese-Ose Idemudia is a Law student and writer who has been interested in so many forms of art for as long as she can remember. She enjoys writing and encourages people to find beauty in everything that can be expressed through words.
99% Perfect by Kayleigh Shoen Every day our hero makes his bed, filters the water, replaces the oxygen canister, fills in the door jambs, broadcasts the alarm, scans the radio waves, checks radiation levels, and says his prayers.
So many tasks demand his attention; the algae beginning to bloom in his makeshift aquarium, the chicken flock he nursed back to health by following the book’s instructions, the thousand little things that fill his every minute, every second. The entire world now requires his perfection. He never forgets. He never makes a mistake. Not once since the day he accidentally pressed the big red button. * * * Kayleigh Shoen is a writer and writing instructor in Boston, MA. Her stories have appeared in MoonPark Review, Maudlin House, Barrelhouse and elsewhere. You can find out more about her on her website: KayleighShoen.com.
Photo by Tom & Elisa
Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea by Liam Kerry The ark came in the form of a Dutch cargo ship once the war was over. Although to be Dutch meant little when most nations populated bunkers. Laatste Hoop carried the last manned crew in the no-longer-developed world. Her cargo: Earth’s remaining seed collection.
The captain took the waves head-on during the storm to avoid capsizing, risking the lives of all mankind. The crew secured cargo as the propeller chewed through the ocean, spitting a white foam as it went. There were cries as water thundered onto the deck. “Crate overboard!” The new world would never know tomatoes. * * * 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.
Fast Track Citizen by Johannes Springenseiss The immigration officer at Ellis Island tells the young man from the Mediterranean island, “Kid, you’re alright, you speak good English, but your name is way too long. Let me do you a favor. I’ll make out your papers to George Smith. But only if you agree.”
The man hesitates. The other immigrants standing in the long line begin yelling at him to hurry up. “I guess it’s a good idea,” he says finally. “Thank you, sir.” As he steps away from the desk, George Smith turns toward the others. “Hey, assholes! Why don’t you go back where you came from?!” * * * Johannes Springenseiss is a world citizen and raconteur. He mostly writes speculative fiction and creative essays, which he has published in various literary magazines.
You Bust Remember This by Lee Hammerschmidt “Ah, she’s almost complete, Tarot,” Agave Bolla, madman bent on world domination, said to his assistant. “My most voluptuous, sensuous, cunning, clever sex-bot yet. No agent or government official will be able to resist her charms. They will reveal all of their top secrets while kissing her persuasive lips.”
“She’s quite the dish,” Tarot Burlap said. Bolla finished attaching the left arm. “Now, all that’s left is the bosom,” Bolla said. “Hand it to me, please.” “Sorry, sir,” Tarot said. “But that piece hasn’t arrived yet.” “What? How can that be?” “Supply chain issues. The breast is yet to come.” * * * Lee Hammerschmidt is a Visual Artist/Writer/ Troubadour. He is the author of six collections of short stories and illustrations. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!
The Bitch in My Brain by Elly McFadden Wakes me with regrets, worries, politics. Insists I step on the scale. Laughs at my neck creases and underarm fat as I brush my teeth. Derides my mediocre workout, questions my outfit, resents my husband, and doubts my kids’ future success and happiness. Ridicules neighbors and reminds me, as I walk under blue skies into a fresh breeze with birds serenading me, that I’m not good enough, never was. Regrets, worries, politics.
“Get out,” I say, but she won’t leave. So, I lock her in a dungeon deep in my mind where she clangs her empty cup against the bars.
* * * Elly McFadden lives in Denver, North Carolina with her husband and two children. She teaches online rhetoric and composition courses and obsesses over gardening and aquascaping. Her work has appeared in 50-Word Stories, Quail Bell Magazine, and The Chamber Magazine.
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Creative Nonfiction
Photo by Denis Doukhan
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Homesick by Yudai Sanada A strangely familiar feeling rushes through my brain as I walk across the wonky, wooden bridge over a small green pond in the town’s Japanese garden.
Do I know this place? The dryness of the air and the green-dyed water do not match how I remember the bridge with the same zigzag shape in my hometown, but somehow, I sense the same smell of lawn freshly watered by sprinklers in the morning and the moisture mixing into the hot, breeding air. The tiny details instantly closed over 6,300 miles of gap from my home and a hole in my heart. * * * Yudai Sanada is a Japanese graduate student in Missouri, voicing his memories recalled by visiting different places that remind him of his home country.
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Idiot Child by Chris Morse The sign on the store window read:
“Shoplifters will be prosecuted and given a free ride in a police car.”
I was seven. I knew that shoplifting was something you probably weren’t supposed to do. On the other hand, a ride in a police car sounded like the most fun on earth. And they’d give you a free ride! Would they let you play with the lights and siren? I had no idea what “prosecuted” meant but I hoped something like “treated to ice cream.” Anyhow, I knew that a word with “cute” in it couldn’t be bad. I decided to give shoplifting a try… * * * Chris Morse is a writer, actor, and rare book dealer living in the arts-oriented mountain community of Idyllwild, California. Among other works he has authored some twenty-five plays and one-acts, most of which have won awards and/or been produced in venues around the country. Several are published.
Photo by Stephan Wusowski
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Poetry
Calendar by Jon Krafchek Fallen leaves ride eddies around my head.
My night light casts shadows of the four horsemen onto my calendar, shouting threats and pointing cocked pistols at the days and even entire months. As they storm past the March photo of the yellow crocuses breaking through the snow, I remember honey. I pour a jar from John over the horsemen. They struggle to get out of the honey, but like ancient wasps trapped in balsam resin, they stiffen into fossilized curiosities. The leaves rot into my brain and then crocuses open in the stillness around my head. * * * Having taught kindergarten, Jon Krafchek’s writing is influenced by two of the giants of children's literature, Mother Goose and the Brothers Grimm. Two other influences, although never studied in kindergarten, are Charles Bukowski and Leonard Cohen. Jon lives beside an enchanted walnut forest teeming with wonder in West Montrose, Ontario.
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Editor's Corner
Photo by Gerald Rose
Somersaulting into liquid space─
a paraplegic plunging into the sea I venture forth intrepidly Galaxies whirl by with every breath as I dive deeper into the depth Angelfish curiously stare in my mask─ beckon me join in their play while butterfly fish glimmer yellows away Suspended in this watery mix where diffused sunlight falls I float down coral walls Out in the luscious blue glides a lone eagle ray capturing my freedom this day Gravity’s prison unlocked for a spell I forget my limits on shore─ falling to rise─ diving I soar To be published September 2, 2024 in the poetry collection Recalibrating Gravity by Mary Keating. I sometimes wonder if
there is no burning hell, just all spirits assembled without masks or costumes, indelibly imprinted with the unrepented sins of their lifetimes, long or short. Some few tinged off-white while the more fecally spiritual eternally face their colleagues deformed and stinking and unable to lie or protest about subverting their souls. There is a blessed monotony to breakfast,
eating the same foods at the same time, more stable than anything else in our day, the capstone satisfaction to our ablutions, the reassuring and predictable tastes reinforcing order in the universe before launching into the day’s changing menus. 
Photo by Krisztina Papp
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Shivering from drugs, blood loss, and fasting, she lies on white sheets—the monster, razor-tongued, cold-eyed, who shadowed my childhood, who’s bound me since. For how can you escape someone till you’ve beaten them? Finally, I’m free to stride away.
Shivering, she lies, bleached and shrunken after her knee-replacement surgery. Soon she’ll be awake and warmed with soup. Now I can desert her, as, time after time, she has deserted me. But Ma has never seemed able to choose how to behave to me. I clasp Ma’s hands, massage them, weeping with resentment mostly. For if you’ve got a choice how to behave to someone, you’ve got no choice at all. 
They always boarded last. It didn’t matter, really, to any of them. The destination was the same, and time spent in transit was equivalent no matter where or how one sat.
Yet, some travelers couldn’t resist the uncontrollable urge to equate some form of importance to the gods of organization whims. Establishing a feeling of feigned superiority when there was nobody to be dominated. It only stood to reason that some people would do anything they could to feel important. After all, there needed to be someone to pity, to feel better than. “It’s a shame that they paid to be considered so.” 
Photo by Rene Rauschenberger
On a ridge beneath a cliff, two bandits waited. Having rigged the roadside boobytrap, they peered through binoculars as the stagecoach and escort riders approached. The bandits watched impatiently as the convoy stopped short and its riders dismounted to perform what appeared to be a rather perfunctory inspection of the coach and team.
When falling pebbles pelted the bandits a moment later, they exchanged quick, wild-eyed glances, then their hearts and stomachs dropped. The explosion shook the valley. When the dust settled, the forward scout galloped up, grinning. “Nice work,” said the coachman. “Those short fuses really did the trick.” |
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.