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 * 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 * Leslie Burton-Lopez *
Issue # 45
September 30, 2024
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Joem Antonio * Tom Barlow * Robin Blasberg *
* Greg Clumpner * Frank William Finney *
* James Flanagan * Hannah Greer * Paul Lewthwaite *
* Trisha Dhar Malik * Stephen Mead * Siân O’Hara *
* Maximilian Querubin * Terry Reilly * Jeanette Rundquist *
* Alissa Sammarco * Maddison Scott *
* John Szamosi * Van Wallach * Huina Zheng *
* Joem Antonio * Tom Barlow * Robin Blasberg *
* Greg Clumpner * Frank William Finney *
* James Flanagan * Hannah Greer * Paul Lewthwaite *
* Trisha Dhar Malik * Stephen Mead * Siân O’Hara *
* Maximilian Querubin * Terry Reilly * Jeanette Rundquist *
* Alissa Sammarco * Maddison Scott *
* John Szamosi * Van Wallach * Huina Zheng *
Announcement of the semi-finalists for
The Scribes Prize
Congratulations, authors!
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Ashleigh Adams
Nicole Babb Autumn Bettinger Jo Binns Kaity Blackman Holly Brandon Caitlin Carpenter Chris Clemens Laura Cody Chris Cottom Jeff Currier |
Meghann Elgert
Jaime Gill Christy Hartman Rachel Henderson David Henson Melissa Jornd Jenn Keohane Jon Krafchek David X. Lewis Sam Lohr Leigh Loveday |
Amber Mars
Anna Mazurenko Ashley McCurry Angelle McDougall Melanie Mulrooney Antony Püttschneider Grace Quon Tracy Roe Jeanette Rundquist Eva Sayn-Wittgenstein Norman Thomson |
Photo by Michael Leonard
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Fiction
Photo by SV Klimkin
Just Once by Huina Zheng Is love ever true? I doubted it. Growing up, I saw Dad’s countless affairs, each followed by Mom’s forgiveness and his empty promises of “never again.” Their cycle was my lesson in disbelief.
Fairytales or romantic movies? Not for me. Every “I love you” seemed a prelude to disappointment, every commitment a setup for heartbreak. But then I met him. No promises, just presence day after day. A stranger, then an acquaintance, a friend, and finally a trusted confidant. His consistent care chipped away at my skepticism. When he proposed, I said, “Yes.” This time, I decided to believe just once. * * * 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.
The Last Watch by Maddison Scott It was a bad night to be in the crow’s nest. Dim stars. Moonless sky. Calm, glassy sea. No waves to break the monotonous abyss of water. I blink back the frigid, stinging air. I need to piss.
“Binoculars would be nice,” my crewmate moans. “Can’t believe they forgot the bloody locker key.” I study the ghostly haze on the horizon and notice a black mass rising. Instinctively, I reach for the bell and ring three times. It echoes across the ocean like a death knell. “Iceberg, right ahead!” They’re not my last words, but they may as well be. * * * Maddison Scott is a teacher, writer and former film projectionist from Melbourne, Australia. Her short stories have appeared in, among others, Maudlin House, The Molotov Cocktail, Flash Fiction Magazine, Five on the Fifth and Stupefying Stories. You can find her online at: maddisonscott.wordpress.com.
Empty Vessels by Maximilian Querubin It was just me and the shipwreck, alone together on the glacier. The frost gripped her tighter, a vice blue and white.
The ship had been gutted. All of her insides, her heart, torn and ripped away by callous ice. “How are you doing, Ronnie?” I asked her in a whisper, despite the emptiness encircling us. Her name, Acheron, was still visible on her side, near fully hidden by freezing white. She groaned in agony. I understood. The same had happened to me. So, we waited there, alone and empty and together. Just two broken vessels in a god-forsaken place. * * * Maximilian Querubin is a warehouse worker. For introspection and to maintain his sanity, he writes.
Frozen in Time by Jeanette Rundquist Cold. So cold my hand can barely clutch the pencil stub. Yet I must write. For how else to share our tale?
“We, the crew of HMS Erebus, have abandoned ship under desperate conditions. We take this step gravely. Our commander perished. Rations depleted. Our ship, encased in ice, freezes more each day. “Tomorrow, we set out on foot, seeking rescue, Lord willing. To future readers, and to family I—as ship’s boy and youngest crewman—shall never have: a plea for understanding. We failed to reach the Northwest Passage. But let history recall we tried.” Horatio, age 15, April 1848 * * * Jeanette Rundquist is an award-winning journalist, editor and writer, now working in higher education. Her flash fiction has been published in ScribesMICRO, the Montclair Flash Fiction Anthology, and placed in NYCMidnight writing competitions. She is currently querying her first novel, contemporary women's fiction. She is a proud graduate of Syracuse University.
Photo by Martin Fuchs
A Stitch in Time by Terry Reilly A new day dawned in ancient Athens. The sun’s heat was punishing.
The renowned playwright left the Agora, seeking a quiet side alley. He paused outside the shopfront. The sign above the door told him he had found what he sought. “The Furies. Seamstresses. Repairs our Specialty.” He entered the shop and placed two tattered garments on the counter, a chiton and a chlamys. The three fearsome women behind the counter eyed him with suspicion, inspecting the items. The tallest woman growled: “Euripides?” The playwright raised a quizzical eyebrow, acknowledging the question with a nod of the head. “Eumenides?” * * * Terry Reilly. Retired psychiatrist. Writing children’s fiction since 2020. Recently discovered flash fiction. Intrigued by the discipline of the genre.
Deepest Fears, Darkest Desires by Hannah Greer My grandfather taught me to read the colors of a heart. In a gleam of purple, I can see someone’s deepest fears. In a crimson glow, someone’s darkest desires. It’s made my life easy. Dull.
But then there’s you. A heart I can’t read. You wade through the crowd just out of reach, a tantalizing mystery. I’ve never met an enigma like you, so I follow. I catch you glancing back, once. You lead me to a quiet alley. Too late, I recognize you. Remember how I took advantage of your broken, black heart. Too late, I see the knife. * * * Hannah Greer’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in PseudoPod, MetaStellar, and Solarpunk Magazine. She resides in North Carolina with her partner, a trio of cats, and a small flock of pigeons. Find her on Bluesky @hannahgreer.bsky. social or on her website, hannahgreer.carrd.co.
Daddy Dearest by Robin Blasberg “It’s just a calf.” Those were Daddy’s exact words. He made it sound like it was no big deal. Giving it up like that. He said it was important. And I was such a Daddy’s girl that it never occurred to me to say, “No.” Only later did I learn that Daddy had already promised it to someone. It was a done deal, no matter what I had said. He and his sacrifices. It was me who did all the sacrificing when I look back on it now. Anyway, this prosthetic leg doesn’t look too bad on me, does it?
* * * Robin Blasberg's stories often make connections in unanticipated ways. Expect the unexpected because clever twists and surprise endings are trademarks of her work.
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Job Interview by John Szamosi I remember the first time I heard about this new thing I considered it the ultimate weakness. I am talking about the weird practice of applicants showing up to their job interview with a parent. However, last June after I graduated from college, my mother insisted that the presence of an older authority figure might sway the outcome favorably. Also, she would make notes of my obvious mistakes. I still said no, absolutely not.
Long story short, she did come with me. It turned out to be mixed success. They rejected me but offered her the job. * * * John Szamosi is a wordsmith and peace activist who has published over one hundred short stories, satires and poems in print and online magazines.
One Job by Joem Antonio “Heading up,” replied Alice to Mina’s sudden message. She rushed back, careful not to jostle her newly purchased five dozen eggs. “You had one job, Mina,” Alice fumed to herself.
Alice stopped and saw the condo elevator shut down. Broken. It was just fine when she stepped out to restock eggs. “One job…” muttered Alice. Alice trekked up the stairs. Seven floors up to the unit. Great. At the fourth floor, Alice tripped. The eggs cracked. She trudged home. “I didn’t mean it, Mom,” Mina stuttered. “The rice, it—” “It happens, darling,” Alice replied, hugging Mina. She too had one job. * * * 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.
Notes on a Marriage by Paul Lewthwaite An empty, cold, dark house greets me after work.
Inside, you’ve been busy. All your clothes and jewelry are gone. Did you have help from him? Thanks for taking our cash and savings books. You left me a little scrap of conscience; a hasty scrawl on a torn sheet of paper tacked onto a kitchen cabinet. Sorry for everything I put you through. This is for the best. One word per year. How poetic. I add a message of my own, below yours. You might read it one day. I forgive you. In the garage, I unlock the gun cabinet. * * * Paul Lewthwaite lives in Scotland with his wife and a small, all-powerful cat. His micro/flash fiction can be found at Dark Moments, Deathcap & Hemlock, and 101 Words.
The Transformation of Billy Mendel by James Flanagan The library was Billy’s refuge, not because bullies couldn’t follow, but because Billy could transform into any character he read.
He lunged for The Three Musketeers. Bully One sent it flying. Bully Two blocked the aisle with Harry Potter. Book titles blurred in his teary eyes as Bully Three backed him into the children’s section. Where’s Wally—”They’ll find me.” Peter Rabbit— “They’ll skin me alive.” The Gruffalo— “They’ll never believe it.” Caught in a headlock, tackled, twisted, he stretched for the only book he could reach, opened it, and transformed. On Wednesday, the Very Hungry Caterpillar ate three bullies. * * * James Flanagan is an author of speculative fiction with several short fiction publications and one long one. His debut sci-fi novel GENEFIRE won several awards and is garnering excellent reviews. You can find more of his work on www.jimiflanwrites.com or lurking on Twitter at @jimiflanUK.
One Among Many by Siân O’Hara Sunlight woke me, encouraging branches to stretch, leaves to grow. The deep, loamy comfort of soil swaddled my roots, holding me firm, anchoring me in place. Wind whispered through my leaves; tickling breezes, playful and teasing.
One among many, I grew taller, surrounded by others seemingly similar, yet small differences discerned us. Seasons turned and years passed. The roots I spread for my growth became connections to my companions, linking us. What helped one, helped all. Shared resources meant shared strength, resilience. Such bonds allowed us to thrive, not just survive. And so together we stand, grow strong, and blossom. * * * Siân O’Hara has long been an avid reader of SFF. 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. Several of her flash pieces are published online.
Photo by Gennaro Leonardi
Aunt Bess by Greg Clumpner Divorce drove Aunt Bess to move into the empty study next to my room. Every morning, she said, “Breakfast is served,” pinched my cheeks, then “Nummy, nummy, I could just eat you up.”
I’m seventeen. “How about a treat for your Auntie Bessie?” she’d say as she encroached for a sloppy kiss on the mouth, leaving half my face covered in her bright red lipstick. At dinner, she’d slurp her soup, staring at me like she was consuming my soul with her eyes. She has a severe shellfish allergy. I started a job at a fish market. Game on. * * * Greg Clumpner is a proud product of Wisconsin currently residing in Pittsburgh, PA. Greg has been published in multiple journals and is Editor of the Triangulation anthologies Seven-Day Weekend and Hospitium. When not working, writing, or playing with shelter dogs, you’ll find Greg engaging in any form of sport.
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Creative Nonfiction
Return to the Primitive
by Van Wallach
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With my Significant Other visiting her baby grandson for a month, I promptly reverted to my antique life in the singles' wild. I watched Roku at 6 a.m., shows like Band of Brothers and Godzilla Minus One that aren’t on our couple’s viewing queue. I made brownies, baking them after thoroughly enjoying half of the raw batter.
I left lunch dishes in the fridge, at least until dinner, after which I vigorously scrubbed them (I’m a clean freak at heart). Without mandatory weekly haircuts, my stubbly beard exploded to rabbinic proportions. She’s returning soon—and not a moment too soon. * * *
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.
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Poetry
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Late night movies by Alissa Sammarco Netflix is full of movies about fathers
in armchair recliners watching tv, beer after beer in brown necked bottles. I watch the movies loving the son and hating the father and filling a glass and filling a glass. And watching tv and watching the glass. And pouring a glass. and pouring a glass. And welling the tears and barring the tears. But this is not my life. It is only me talking in my sleep and you wondering what language I speak to men on tv before I come to bed. * * * Alissa Sammarco, a writer/attorney, was drawn home to the Ohio River Valley after years in the West and South. Her poems have appeared in Sheila-Na-Gig, Black Moon, Main Street Rag, Quiet Diamonds, Stone Canoe and elsewhere. Chapbooks: Beyond the Dawn, I See Them Now,
and Moon Landing Day. 
Photo by Felix Wolf
Sand Bums by Trisha Dhar Malik Frothy lipped, blue and deep, with pulpy, meaningful interiors. Loud, sexy, wise, showy, unhappy. We watch her come and go and come and go as we wonder about what it means to love and be human and here and now. In your eyes I see her do her dance and am filled with something that feels quite like she, herself, coming undone inside me. I want to shrink you to the size of my pocket. I want to eat you in one whole, jumbo, hyperbolic bite of a lifetime so you can never leave. But I can’t and so you will.
* * * Trisha Dhar Malik is a queer writer based in Mumbai, India. She has acted in several plays during her time studying in Canada, including "Water, Baby!" which she also produced and wrote. With a combined Honours in English and Creative Writing, she is now back home in Mumbai, navigating what it means to be twenty-three and know nothing.
Evacuate by Tom Barlow The guy says he’s
scalping tickets to the past cash only no food stamps no refunds seats on the fifty yard line back in our sophomore year I buy two for me and the wife we roll out in our golf cart reach our seats just in time bask in our new bodies and laugh at our adorable hubris before the follies begin if we turn around in our seats we can see clear back to today the ticket line there is stretched out all the way to the horizon. * * * 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.
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Photo by Klára Sedláčková
Sheltering by Stephen Mead Cold hands coming in from the rain
as if they needed to be out there, palm up, testing sky. The knowledge they now have is fearsome but human. One could not stand back unmoved. Instead, at slightest contact, the head seems to crack open like an eggshell while the face, a worn wound, shudders to comfort. Soothing, this lamp casts a small circle. Hot toddies dot the table cloth, beside them, a flung towel. Outside wind dries the streets, a dog barks, moves on and catalpa bean pods, in longing, press shriveled fingers against upper floor windows. * * * Stephen Mead is a retired Civil Servant, having worked two decades for three state agencies. Before that his more personally fulfilling career was fifteen years in healthcare. Throughout all these day jobs he was able to find time for writing poetry/essays and creating art. Occasionally he even got paid for this work. Currently he is resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall.
The Rime of the Rookie Realtor by Frank William Finney Cozy little corner,
don’t you think? Needs a little work and a bit of paint. Noises? What noises? Oh, just the wind and squeaky hinges-- Some silicone will do the trick. Oh, that’s strange, I didn’t hear anything. No—no ghosts here, I promise you. The widow kept a few cats and a mangy old mastiff. No, the dog died a week after she did. Yes, indeed-- I understand. Take your time then. Talk it over. I’ll get a small commission, if you change your minds. * * * Frank William Finney is a poet and retired lecturer from Massachusetts. A Joint winner of The Letter Review Prize for Poetry, his poems have appearing in Blue Unicorn, Dipity Literary Magazine,, The Wise Owl, and elsewhere. His chapbook The Folding of the Wings was published in 2022 (FLP Books).
Photo by Paul McGowan
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Editor's Corner
Everything I know about the art of escape was learned by studying Harry Houdini. He was the master. It took years of hard work and practice, but eventually I could do it all. Even his most difficult escapes became easy.
But there was one big problem. My lovely, who had once enthusiastically supported my endeavors, eventually grew weary and loathsome of my obsessive dedication to the trade. To remedy this, I resolved to perform a different trick—one more suitable to her liking. I planned and practiced for months on end, and then, when the moment was right, I simply disappeared. At first Bhola isn’t sure what, exactly, was distracting him when, somewhere along his beach walk, he forgot his shorts. In their left pocket he’d stowed for safekeeping the brand-new eighteen-thousand-rupee eyeglasses from Appa and the gold locket, age-grimy, from Amma.
As the week ages, and every search of the sand dunes and beach shacks proves fruitless, and the hour for homegoing approaches—Bhola grows certain that it’s while he was scrolling Grindr, or scouting the Russians tanned red on the deckchairs, or finger-combing his hair for the fiftieth time, that he lost his clothing, gold, vision. And the growing mountain of lies he must tell his parents shadows his heart. |
Mama feeds her baby bitter milk from a mangled heart. Years drip by and the hungry boy cries, but Mama’s hands are empty. She slaps his face until it’s as ragged as hers.
He grows older. When he’s fifteen, he gets a job at the corner store. He stacks food in towers so high, they’re unreachable. Mama swallows down his paycheck—he sits alone and gnaws bone and gristle. When the boy becomes a man, he could do as Mama does—ignore, abuse, betray. Instead, he takes her hand in his. She shakes under the burden she’s carried so long alone, but he promises her: “We will walk together now.” 
None of these words are my own. I found them all somewhere else. In a way, I stole every one of them and brought them here. Immortalizing them on the page whether or not they wanted to be. Such is the fate of found words.
Nothing makes them particularly special, just like myself. The amount of average shared between us is the only profound thing. Maybe there’s something to be said about the expression of mediocrity. Not everyone can be a winner and not every expressed idea is a revelation. But then again, I stole them, so who’s to say? |
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.