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 # 44
August 31, 2024
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Richard M. Ankers * Ariya Bandy * Tom Barlow *
* Chris Clemens * Chris Cochran * Lauren Dennis *
* Mark Grinyer * Venita Januarie * Ani King *
* K. L. Mill * Nina Miller * Jennifer Mungham *
* H.R. Parker * Bud Pharo * Elysia Rourke *
* Greg Schwartz * Sarp Sozdinler *
* Dick Westheimer * SB Young * Huina Zheng *
* Richard M. Ankers * Ariya Bandy * Tom Barlow *
* Chris Clemens * Chris Cochran * Lauren Dennis *
* Mark Grinyer * Venita Januarie * Ani King *
* K. L. Mill * Nina Miller * Jennifer Mungham *
* H.R. Parker * Bud Pharo * Elysia Rourke *
* Greg Schwartz * Sarp Sozdinler *
* Dick Westheimer * SB Young * Huina Zheng *
Photo by Michael Leonard
|
Fiction
Photo by Trung Nguyễn
The Summer You Left by Huina Zheng Days lingered, long and heavy. Cicadas screamed under the sweltering sun, people said how desperate their songs. Lychee trees hung heavy with fruit. I sought solace in iced watermelon slices, fleeting respites from the heat. Lotus blossoms unfurled in the pond. The electric fan’s relentless hum filled our empty room. And the rains came, sudden and fierce. I pictured you under a different sky. Where the heat was a gentle embrace, not this stifling blanket. Since you left, my thoughts followed you, a free bird in distant realms. Yet, here I remained, a lone figure anchored in a lingering, endless summer.
* * * 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.
Presto, Change-o by K. L. Mill Pulling the white rabbit from his moments-ago-empty top hat was cliché, but Harrison still got a smattering of applause from the mostly geriatric audience. The magician exited the stage with a flourish of his cape, smile fading with the spotlight.
His sunken eyes stared back from the dressing room mirror. Since losing his assistant, his career was nothing but moose lodges and retirement homes. Harrison lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Hopping over, the rabbit tugged on his tuxedo pants. “Gimme a drag, Harry…” Harrison held the cigarette for his former assistant. Nicotine addiction was the least of her problems. * * * 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.
The Persian Rug by Chris Cochran The pieces of our separate lives clashed spectacularly. My wicker armchair, his leather sofa. My wooden table, his modern lamp. He suggested, tongue in cheek, that we just needed something to tie the room together.
In the back of the resale shop down the street, an old Persian rug beckoned. We marveled at how perfectly it fit, how it somehow forgave the decorative faux pas of our shared space. Now, as the movers load the last of my furniture onto the truck, I recognize the Persian rug, its worn, fraying edges exposed, for what it had always been—a false comfort. * * * 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.
Artistic Differences by Bud Pharo The number wasn’t in my contacts, but I recognized it all the same. “Do you remember our discussion about The Kiss?” she asked.
“So, you called after twenty years just to rekindle an argument?” We’d been in love once, but never in agreement—especially about art. “No, I called to see if your opinion regarding Brancusi had softened,” she said. “No. Brancusi’s Kiss lacks passion, while Rodin’s exudes sensuality.” “Agree to disagree,” she said. “But I have a question: when we kissed, was it more Brancusi or more Rodin?” “Rodin, definitely!” I said. “You see, we finally agree on something! So, are you free for lunch?” * * * Bud Pharo is a disabled veteran who writes short stories and flash fiction.
In Fairest Time by Elysia Rourke She always asks the same question.
“You,” I say, though the flesh around her eyes has begun to wrinkle, for she is fair. “You,” I say, though vanity rests unpleasantly on her bloodless lips, for she is fair. “You,” I say, though her jawline has sagged into the hint of a jowl, for she is fair. “You,” I say, though blue veins pulse beneath her paper-thin skin, for she is fair. And when her truth is exhausted, I tell my truth. Her body is a wasteland, a filthy cottage hoarding a rotten soul. “Her,” I say. A mirror never lies. * * * Elysia Rourke lives in Almonte, Ontario with her husband, two sons, and dog. She has a weakness for London fogs, Christmas morning, and a salty ocean breeze. Elysia is the founder of the Almonte Writers Guild.
Photo by Mari Loli
Mayhem by Sarp Sozdinler Dad’s car lives in our kitchen. He rammed it straight into our house one night, stopping just before the patio door. The tire tracks have since chalked up de facto rooms along the hallway, a message written in the language of burnt rubber. What set my father off before the incident was my mistaking Barry Bonds for Hank Aaron, which he didn’t take in good faith. These days, he lives in a tent he’s made for himself on the second floor, where my sister’s bedroom used to be. He plays with the radio to contact the spirit of my mother.
* * * A Turkish writer, Sarp Sozdinler has been published in Electric Literature, Kenyon Review, Masters Review, DIAGRAM, Lost Balloon, Maudlin House, and elsewhere. His stories have been selected and nominated for numerous anthologies including the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and Wigleaf Top 50. He's currently at work on his first novel.
A Cold Tap on the Canvas by SB Young Right now, Mary is huddled under a tent in the clearing and rain is tapping on the canvas above her head. Not even twenty-four hours ago, she was in her bedroom. It’s funny how that works. She closes her eyes and feels the bedroom's walls around her in puke yellow shades, still suffocating her. Her skin prickles with goosebumps. Across from her, Tilly is huffing greedily on a cigarette, blowing smoke back at her. The tobacco smells bitter, and Mary settles into calm in the second-hand smoke, snuffing out that metallic blood smell from her clothes that aren’t yet washed.
* * * SB Young (he/it) is an emerging writer of many hats, currently in undergrad at SUNY Stony Brook's creative writing program. He can be found in Braided Way Magazine, and on the Masthead of the Sandpiper Review.
The Swimmer by Richard M. Ankers She wandered the vale, an apparition, a discontented stain. One last voyage, she told herself. One final journey. A person needs completion when their time comes, or it troubles the mind forever.
The cliffs came soon. The drop came sooner. But she’d seen the sea. Would soon swim in it. They couldn’t take that from her. It was so much bigger than the lake she drowned in. Of course, she did not fall, nor tumble, nor plummet to her death. She was dead already. The girl drifted at best, passed at worst. But this time, she did so through choice.
* * * Richard M. Ankers is the English author of The Eternals Series and Britannia Unleashed. Richard has featured in Expanded Field Journal, Love Letters To Poe, Spillwords, and feels privileged to have appeared in many more. Richard lives to write.
|
Watch Out for Deer by Ani King And then three boys in a car. And then a white-tailed deer, yearning for fields on the other side of the road, parting tall, green stalks of corn like a curtain, proud of its small antlers, darting and leaping.
And then, collision. And then a wooden cross on the shoulder of the highway. And then dollar store fake flower bouquets, soggy stuffed animals, even a pair of underwear, even a carton of cigarettes. And then crying, clutching each other tightly. And then a cluster of deer staring, waiting to mourn, bodies pulled tight as arrows, ready to be loosed. * * * Ani King (they/them) is a queer, gender non-compliant writer, artist, and activist from Michigan. They can be found at aniking.net, or trying to find somewhere to quietly finish a book without any more interruptions.
Photo by Linda Janes
Imaginary Friend by Greg Schwartz We’re jumping on the bed and laughing. Typical summer day. Davy stops jumping first.
“What should we do now?” I ask, flopping down beside him. “Truth or dare,” Davy says. I groan. Davy always thinks up the craziest dares. “Truth,” I say, knowing it won’t be. Davy grins, shaking his head. He has a mischievous glint in his eye; he must be cooking up a whopper of a dare. Just then a voice floats in from the hall. “Suppertime!” The dare will have to wait. Davy leaps off the bed and dashes out the door. “Coming, Mom!” Everything goes black. * * * Greg Schwartz writes speculative fiction and poetry. He lives with his wife, children, and dog.
Gorgonsight by Chris Clemens What’s in a body?
Baby giants and winged monsters, apparently. Wretched curves to please. No, I’m happier without. Now, my hair whispers sibilant stories at bedtime about vengeance and delicious red apples. Now, the pretty one carries us around, our hisses twisting through his fingers, entwining his arms, encircling his heart. Now, our goals are his goals, our adventures his, although he believes the opposite. This is acceptable. But what we are doing is ending bodies. I gaze at a body and it is stone, merely a thing. The pretty one asks: what’s left inside? Stone, I laugh. Only stone. * * * Chris Clemens lives in Toronto, surrounded by raccoons. His stories have appeared in Invisible City Lit, Apex Magazine, and elsewhere.
Colleagues by Jennifer Mungham Winter was tired. It had been a long season and everyone complained constantly, again. Not enough snow. Too much rain. Too cold. There was no way to make everyone happy.
His shift was supposed to be over a fortnight ago. Flowers were getting impatient under his frosts and trees were barely holding back their blossoms. Summer smiled encouragingly and patted Winter on the shoulder as they passed in the corridor. Their hot hand sent warmth running down Winter’s body, melting the last of the frost at his feet. Spring came hurtling down the corridor, late for their handover, as usual. * * * Jennifer Mungham is a scientist and fiction writer.
Hydroponic Garden on a Colony Ship by Nina Miller White plastic cylinders hide damp roots whose unsightly tendrils hang like wet hair, twisting and braiding, finding no comfort in the surrounding air. Sanitized nutrient solution sprays at intervals to satiate any need for a life outside their temperature-controlled environs. They grow and search, longing for errant pebbles to coil around in loamy soil. They ache for pockets of nitrogen from long-dead legumes and the taste of decaying rodents. They miss the warmth of Earth’s hug and their conversations with the surrounding trees. Now they wait and wait and wait, no different than the humans that tend to them; isolated, lonely, and living merely to survive until transplanted once more.
* * * Nina Miller is an Indian-American physician, epee fencer, and creative. She loves writing competitions and nursing cups of chai. Find her work within Cutbow Quarterly, Raw Lit, Jake, Bright Flash, SciFi Shorts, Five South, Roi Fainéant, Five Minutes, and more. Find her on X @NinaMD1 or ninamillerwrites.com.
On Schedule by Ariya Bandy One of you has come to feed me as you always do at this time. Your whole team would be found dead before failing to attend to your greatest catch. Your spectacle. Your alien.
You play a game of sustaining me in this torture, but we all know you’d never let me loose on your home planet nor let me free to return to mine. Still, you know we can’t stay on a ship forever. The question is whether or not I will be the cause of my feeding schedule’s disruption. This cage traps you more than it does me. * * * Previously published in The Book of Drabbles from Shacklebound Books.
Ariya Bandy is a writer of fiction and poetry whose debut chapbook, Painted Winds, is out from Bottlecap Press. Her work appears in Stone Circle Review, it always finds me (Querencia Press), and elsewhere. Find her online at @storyofariya or on ariyabandy.com. Etched in Starlight by H.R. Parker The secret to the universe isn’t written in the stars.
It’s written in my skin. I was created to keep the secrets… well, a secret. My skin harbors the code of life, death, birth, destruction. Radiant starlight floods my veins, making the code visible. But for only those worthy enough to see it. I was a top-secret project, kept safe and hidden for millennia. But the secret of my existence leaked, and now I am a fugitive, drifting from world to world, place to place. If I die, all the secrets die with me. Yet still, I search for the worthy. * * * This story first appeared in The Fiction Writer’s Den, October 2023.
H.R. Parker is an author, poet, and editor who hails from the subtropical wilds of Georgia. When she's not writing, she's got her nose shoved in a book, cuddling cute, furry animals, or embracing her hobbit DNA and eating po-tay-toes. Connect with her via Instagram and Medium: @authorhrparker. |
Poetry
My Life in Stories by Venita Januarie I learnt how to be a person from Pascal,
who wrote about the transcending love of sisterhood. Stroud introduced me to my imaginary best friend, Nathaniel, a character prone to moods and broods. I travelled to India to dwell in Seth’s haunts and cried with Hosseini while his countrymen fled their bombs. Austin called me to peace with green, open grounds while I followed Lee’s Mockingbird sweet justice sounds. This life in stories, filled with vicarious memories, of past and present; a future probable. I thank these literary friends whom I never shall forget, Etched in my psyche, with pen, ink and parable. * * * Venita Januarie is passionate about social justice and completed her master’s degree in Educational Policy Studies in 2019. As a thought leader in education and training, Venita writes about sustainable development, veganism and how to combat food insecurity in the face of climate change, rising inflation and unemployment.
|
|
Always Forgetting in the Time of Warming by Dick Westheimer The garden starts with rhyme
the plants in pots the bargains I make with the gods the slant of sun not quite enough to warm the soil the sleeping worms the mycelium biding in dendrite time. There is a confusion though among the blossoms the heat last month tricked the trees all budded too soon like teens in halter tops they swooned in the furnace of February apple cherry pear consumed with the hot body of blooming the throbbing work of spring. A late freeze undoes us all is the apple to the Eden we dreamed, the nightmare of summer before spring. * * * Dick Westheimer lives in rural southwest Ohio. He is winner of the 2023 Joy Harjo Poetry Prize, and a Rattle Poetry Prize finalist. His poems have appeared or upcoming in Only Poems, Rattle, Abandon Journal, and Stone Poetry. His chapbook, A Sword in Both Hands is published by SheilaNaGig.
Easter Sunday by Mark Grinyer Light creeps gently, into the corner I’m in.
As the dawn rain falls, its patter recalls the shiver of wind waking doubts within, to spall my witness of spring’s return. The fall’s revelation of frissionless weeks of boring grays represses all thoughts of stepping outside into the lengthened nights, of winter weeks, the days when strength retreats from rooms to skew the lives of minds straining to retain the need for resurrection in spring, when wildflowers bloom in the sun breaking through, and the seed- time’s green rises from earth to shatter the gloom of Good Friday’s insistence that hate is triumphant when good will fails to read nature’s testament. * * * Mark Grinyer has published poems in Rattle, The Main Street Rag; The Pacific Review, Perigee, and elsewhere. A chapbook: Approaching Poetry, is available from Finishing Line Press and Amazon. He graduated from the University of California, Riverside, where he received a PhD in English and American Literature. He now lives on the edge of the Cleveland National Forest in Southern California.
|
Photo by Jay Mantri
A Quarterly Business Trip by Lauren Dennis There is only one corner room
With one bed For the two people At the only hotel Almost at the end of their journey. The one waitress One hour past her shift Studies the two silent stoics Seated at her only table Almost at the end of their meal. One more whiskey sour With one more Disaronno Releases two desires As the only bartender observes Almost at the end of their shift. The one mirrored elevator Reflects the one steel rod And two pairs of darting eyes As the only bed waits for inamoratos Almost at the end of their denial. * * * Lauren Dennis is a writer from Johns Island, South Carolina. She writes about ghosts, gags, and boo-hags. She has been published in Roi Fainéant Press. You can follow her writing and adventures on Instagram, LaurenWritesLoud.
The Exchange of Fire by Tom Barlow He tells her he loves her like the bullet
the sniper kisses before sending it off to do its work. His wife makes a pistol of her thumb and index fingers plugs him right between the eyes. But infidelity leaves shadows that the sun will not tolerate. While his wife dozes poolside soaking up the summer unaware, he wears his bullseye like a little hat. His widow waits at the viewing until no one is looking before slipping a bullet into his mouth. Just in case the fire isn't enough. * * * Tom Barlow is an Ohio writer of poetry, short stories and novels. His poetry has appeared in over 100 journals including Ekphrastic Review, Voicemail Poetry, The North Dakota Quarterly, The New York Quarterly and The Modern Poetry Quarterly. See more at tombarlowauthor.com.
Photo by Tec Nitty
|
Editor's Corner
|
Medlian was the land they called home. Every night the inhabitants dug their own graves and then slept in them. It was the only way to ensure less work for the survivors in the morning.
Beyond their bizarre sleeping habits, they had everything a civilized society needed: schools, writing systems, religion, farming, and organized labor. However, all they knew how to say was, “Why?” It never occurred to any of them that this fact might be something peculiar. Certainly, there was a purpose to questions beyond simple comprehension. The best philosophers and intellectuals of their culture remained stumped, as no one could figure out why. Lily focused intently on something out the window. “What are you looking at?” asked her mother, who was driving.
“A unicorn running next to the car.” “You!” Her mother laughed. “What a great imagination.” After dinner at Grandma’s house, they piled back in their car to go home. Lily stared out the window once more. “Another unicorn, sweetheart?” “No. The unicorn didn’t reach Grandma’s. It got tired and slowed down.” Her mother smiled. “What’s out there now?” “A dragon,” she said. “He’s much faster.” “How nice, dear.” The little girl sighed. “No, not really. Not for the unicorn, it wasn’t.” |
And it is, paradoxically, Shobha, red-lipped, big-busted, long-lashed, wasp-waisted, who’s engrossed, giggling as her body learns to ride the waves, guffawing when a wave crest catches up with her, capsizing her. Strangers’ ogles form the bed of roses on which Shobha rests, self-forgetful, studying sandpipers, her back turned to her admirers.
From the waterline, Saada, hairy arms shielding bulging belly, keeps shouting, “Watch out! You can’t even swim.” She glares at the potbellied dads ogling Shobha. Unheeded, the hermit crabs, venturing from their shells, reconnoitre Saada’s toes. Unheeded, the beach-shack puppies gambol around Saada’s feet. At dusk Shobha wades out, dreamy-eyed, to her friend with the sober face and the restless mind. 
Photo by Dimitris Vetsikas
It’s late and a lazy rain is falling. I love it, especially at night. It’s a warm and cozy feeling like nothing else on Earth. It’s cathartic. Perhaps that’s why I find myself standing on the porch with no recollection of how I got here. I could fret, read into it, but maybe it’s best to it accept as a gift. Maybe it was a gentle nudge from things unseen and for reasons unknown. I really have no idea, but since I’m here, I’m going to enjoy it and breath it in. After all, it is one of my favorite things.
|
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.