* 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 # 46
October 31, 2024
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Ashleigh Adams * Nicole Babb * Autumn Bettinger *
* Jo Binns * Holly Brandon * Caitlin Carpenter *
* Chris Clemens * Chris Cottom * Jaime Gill *
* Christy Hartman * David Henson * Melissa Jornd *
* Jenn Keohane * Sam Lohr * Melanie Mulrooney *
* Antony Püttschneider * Jeanette Rundquist *
* Eva Sayn * Norman Thomson *
* Ashleigh Adams * Nicole Babb * Autumn Bettinger *
* Jo Binns * Holly Brandon * Caitlin Carpenter *
* Chris Clemens * Chris Cottom * Jaime Gill *
* Christy Hartman * David Henson * Melissa Jornd *
* Jenn Keohane * Sam Lohr * Melanie Mulrooney *
* Antony Püttschneider * Jeanette Rundquist *
* Eva Sayn * Norman Thomson *
Congratulations to the winners & finalists
of The Scribes Prize!
|
Winners of The Scribes Prize
|
I bought the bottle for our first anniversary. Instead, I drink it alone. Still, it works.
“Versatile,” the shopkeeper had promised. Swirl. Sniff. Aromas of honeysuckle. Like the perfume that lingered the days you worked late. Stone fruit. Peach, I think. Like the emoji your co-worker sent, “just kidding around.” Sip. Slightly sweet, like the lies you told. I always knew. Highly acidic. Like the bile that rose in my throat when I found you, in our bed, eyebrows-deep in her tunnel of love. Swish. Orange peel. Bitter as my words: “I want a divorce.” Swallow. Petrol on the finish. Encouragement. Burn it all down. * * * Nicole Babb is a recovering litigator who, now that she’s left private practice, is trying her hand at telling her own stories, instead of other people’s. She lives in New Orleans with her husband, Carlos, and dog, Daisy. She enjoys good wine, the occasional bad wine, yoga, and board games.
|
|
Aufnahmeschreiber Grussman spends his days recording casualties in the camp Death Books, his precise calligraphic script:
Korperschwache: Exhausted Korperschwache: Exhausted… Some days he inventories possessions: gold teeth, hair (by the kilo), wedding rings, clothing. Berga’s inmates hate him for his regular soup, separate room, abiding hope for continuing life. Occasionally, he smuggles anonymous notes to older children in the camp. A birthday greeting or a playful drawing from Aesop’s fables. When prisoner Schiff loses her starving husband of eighteen years to typhus, Grussman gifts her three inscribed lines from Euripides: Come back. Even as a shadow. Even as a dream. * * * Norman Thomas lives and writes in Ontario. His short fiction and flash have appeared in various outlets. He reads widely in Ancient Greek history and tragedy, and medieval whodunnits. In his rec moments he riffs Beatles and pop ballads on his Hohner harmonica.
|
|
I’ve always stuck with things longer than I should, impassively ignoring the best-by dates of yogurt and my marriage.
My book club meets today. I arrange chairs. Place paltry nibbles, my remaining wine. I yearn for fresh flowers. This tidy room is reflected in the window, a surreal tableau against views of dying trees and waves smashing through broken seawalls. I rearrange the chairs, moving Marg’s favourite. She cannot sit beside Rita—their disagreement about Heathcliff is ongoing, despite everything. Members arrive, wide-eyed and chattering. Putrid air clings to coats and hair. It’s too late to evacuate. I’ll be here, with these dear friends, discussing Mrs Dalloway until the end. * * * Jo Binns lives in Melbourne, Australia. She likes staying fit, but is often thwarted by gin martinis, cheese, and sitting down to read. Her first self-published book, “Trapped Inside a Dinosaur”, was enjoyed by her family and her Grade 3 teacher. No dinosaurs appear in Jo’s story in Crepuscular Magazine.
|
|
Honorable Mentions
|
Alice fumbled with a button on her flowered dress, fighting the arthritis swelling in her joints. Strange, she thought, how first dates feel the same whether you’re eighteen or eighty-two.
Howard beamed like the sun when he saw her, his watery blue eyes crinkled at the edges. “You look beautiful.” He kissed her cheek, smelling of fresh pine and Brylcreem. They sat by the duck pond, a chilly breeze rustling the peonies. “Would you like my jacket?” Alice nodded. He laid it over her shoulders and held her hand, his fingers entwined with her knobby knuckles. She smiled, surprised after all these years her heart could still flutter. * * * 
Ashleigh Adams is a creative director and fiction writer living in Dallas, TX. Her short scribblings have been featured in ScribesMICRO, Sci-Fi Shorts, and Witcraft, among others. You can likely find her copious amounts of iced coffee and complaining about the Texas weather.
In forever twilight I follow Pops into the pasture, boots crunching over frosty remains of butterflies and hummingbirds, casualties of light-starved flowers.
Parsnip is our last cow, raised on childish secrets whispered in soft ears. Pops squeezes what remains from her frail udders. * * *
Tucked in a blanket, I perch on our kitchen stool. Pops rummages around, humming off-key; proof some things don’t change, even at the end of the world.
He slides a milkshake over. “Happy Tenth Birthday! Here’s to…” His voice falters as I sip my milkshake. I look up, but he can’t meet my eyes. * * * 
Autumn Bettinger is a short-form fiction writer and full-time mother of two living in Portland, Oregon. She is a 2024 Fishtrap Fellow, has won the Tadpole Press 100-Word Writing Contest, The Not Quite Write Flash Fiction Prize and has been highly commended in the Bath Flash Fiction Awards.
I bounce my wailing, nap-deprived baby on my knee. Irritable stares from other airplane passengers claw at my paper-thin sanity, barely held together by Diet Coke and ibuprofen.
The man beside me responds to my apologetic wince by rolling his eyes and turning to look out the window. What a nightmare. A woman seated behind us taps him on the shoulder. “Wanna swap?” The man grunts agreement, rising to trade seats. “Could I hold him? Those blue eyes remind me of my son’s.” She smiles, tears brimming. “He was my greatest joy.” Was. As my baby melts against her, I realize one mother’s nightmare is another’s dream. * * * 
Holly Brandon is the world’s okay-est wife and mom of four adorably feral children. She enjoys sleeping, chocolate, and mind-numbing television. She has an unhealthy addiction to writing competitions, and recently took first prize in Writer’s Playground and placed in the top ten of NYC Midnight's 2024 Microfiction Challenge.
Their ravenous mouths gulp the milky sustenance from my body. From the moment they burst into the world, helpless and pale, I feed a perpetual hunger as old as life itself. Flattened against my web, I am depleted, drained. They frantically crawl, blind mouths futilely searching.
I must awaken their killer instinct to survive. I tap once, twice, thrice. The vibrations call to their emerging souls. They swarm. I press myself into their bodies, exciting them. As hundreds of tiny fangs sink into my eyes and each of my eight legs, I experience the pinnacle and end of motherhood. * * * 
Caitlin Carpenter is a writer in Waterloo, Ontario where she lives with her husband and three young children. Her short stories have appeared in New Canadian Stories, Dark Winter Lit, and the forthcoming Seaside Anthology (Polar Expressions).
You can’t close your eyes for long, not until downtime tonight. Four seconds alone in the swimming darkness before the ads begin.
Unless you’re on a Premium account, of course. The ads are clever, engaging, insidious, enabled by AI and a lifetime of social media data. A long blink is bottomless: new show, fast food, mushroom coffee, exercise game, a guided scuba trip through your childhood home in Florida. Your long-dead father appears again and again, trying to get you to switch cereal brands. Sometimes he is weeping, holding out the cardboard box for you to take. Upgrade to Premium? * * * 
Chris Clemens lives and teaches in Toronto, surrounded by raccoons. His stories have appeared in Invisible City, JAKE, The Dribble Drabble Review, Apex Magazine, and elsewhere.
I push Torsten outside in his chair and wipe his dribble before it freezes. Here, one long-ago morning, my screams of joy shattered the ice-fresh air as, ruddy-cheeked, he knelt in the snow to offer his ring. I could never closet a man like that by the hearth, in a tilth of crumbs and despair, joints cold-brittled, unable even to moisten his own lips. Muttering a prayer, I heave my love onto the permafrost. Then I lie down beside him and take his hand, to wait for a spring we know will come, but shall not see.
* * * 
Chris Cottom lives near Macclesfield, UK. He has work published or forthcoming in 100 Word Story, Eastern Iowa Review, Flash 500, Free Flash Fiction, Heimat Review, Leon Literary Review, NFFD NZ, NFFD UK, On The Premises, One Wild Ride, Oxford Flash Fiction, Roi Fainéant, The Centifictionist, WestWord, Witcraft, and others.
Stop laughing.
And if you’re doing this, it’s not funny. Okay, maybe slightly. People shout from below, saying we’ll move soon. I don’t look down—obviously. You said you fell for me on this contraption in 1951. You wanted to ride, I said “sure.” You wanted to kiss at the top, then noticed me trembling. “Imagine! This big man who’d fought a war, frightened of heights,” you’d later tell our kids. “But he rode anyway, for me. That’s when I knew.” I hug your urn closer. I’ll scatter the ashes up there, when they fix this infernal thing. You are doing this, aren’t you? Wanting longer together. Okay, darling. Okay.
* * * 
Jaime Gill is a queer British-born writer happily exiled in Cambodia, published in Litro, The Phare, Good Life Review, Stanchion, and others. He won 2024’s Honeybee Literature Prize, Berlin Literary Review’s Flash Fiction Prize, and was a finalist for awards including the Bridport Prize and Bath Short Story Award.
Ben’s yellow emoji sticks out among the red hearts and love eyes—a sore-loser’s thumb.
We were a Molotov cocktail. Forever holding matches to already scorched skin, craving the relief of explosion. Intoxicated by the ride. His fuse fizzled out two years ago. Leaving me with nothing but heartbreak and a college football jersey to fuel my lonely nights. A month later, I flung my battered heart at an uncomplicated hometown boy. My sun-speckled engagement photo was Ben’s chosen moment of resurrection. I slide my mouse across his name, finger twitching with the chaos one click could ignite. * * * 
Christy Hartman is a Canadian short fiction writer based on stunning Vancouver Island. She is an NYCM contest winner and Bridport finalist. Christy has been published in Elegant Literature, Bright Flash Literary Review, and Fairfield Scribes among others.
|
I recall tomorrow morning’s first cup of coffee. The aroma, breath of steam, the sip that teases the tip of the tongue. I remember how I’ll stretch to loosen the years from my back, how I’ll squint when I open the blinds.
I didn’t start recalling the future until I outgrew the haze of youth and distractions of middle-age. Now, remembering tomorrow’s tufted titmice flitting to and fro the feeder, I try to avoid dwelling on the memory of the long winter coming. And the day that will be without memories. * * * 
David Henson and his wife reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions and has appeared in various journals including ScribesMICRO, Literally Stories, Pithead Chapel, Fiction on the Web and Moonpark Review.
As a star, the sun didn’t have favorites—but it did have places it enjoyed illuminating, pockets of peace amongst a chaotic world.
Like the cottage where the woman poured steaming coffee into mugs and added in shimmering sugar crystals, one scoop each. She met her partner outside, barely placing the drinks down before he spun her around, laughing, buoyant. They swayed together, faces tilting upwards like sunflowers, acknowledging the morning glow as it passed. The sun couldn’t stay much longer; others needed light too. But it warmed their cups as a parting gift, letting this couple bask in their personal light a few moments more. * * * 
Melissa Jornd’s stories have appeared in Crepuscular Magazine, 101 Words, and Microfiction Monday Magazine. She was the 2023 Gold winner and has also placed in contests from NYCMidnight, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Writer’s Weekly. When not writing for work or play, she enjoys force-cuddling her cats and gushing over Bluey.
I crossed them for good luck, pointing towards a godless heaven. Old wives’ tale, maybe. But it worked.
I counted the months on fingers rife with maroon scabs. I wouldn’t have chosen a late December baby, although I’d throw a lavish Dec 26 birthday bash—with a Blue’s Clues bouncy house—anything for my Christmas miracle. But our holidays have opened up. I can’t go to my sister’s place. Not with her working womb and Ford Expedition family. Not after my failed pregnancy. Not after my hope hardened into a sharp stone, chiseling my sanity. I’d forgotten that dreams were outlined in smoke, a sand castle between the tides. * * * 
Jenn Keohane has been writing fiction and creative nonfiction, primarily micros, since 2022. Beyond the written word, she enjoys hiking with her naughty rescue dog and baking treats no one suspects are vegan. She lives in sunny Northern California with her husband and has two young adult children.
Each desperate step burns in her legs, lungs on fire with cold night air, but she cannot stop. The hunters are closing in. Thorny brush bites into her ankle and she crashes into the damp earth. Voices echo through the trees.
Rolling to her back, she sees black sky. There is text in the sky, but the words are reversed. Beyond the text, she sees the reader. The reader does not see her, but their comprehension determines her fate. “Please stop,” she pleads, sweat and blood streaming. “Stop or they’ll kill me!” The hunters are nearly upon her, blades hungry. She screams to the sky. The reader ends her story. * * * 
Sam Lohr currently lives in Las Vegas with his wife and son, dog, cat, and two parakeets. He is an avid absorber of stories in all their shapes and sizes, which benefits his day job in the TV and voiceover industry. At night, he haunts the page, keyboard, console, and screen.
I attempt to yell over you but my pleading goes unnoticed, as it did when I was alive. This new wife can’t hear me begging her to run.
Your dinner hits the wall, green peas flying like shrapnel. Spewing vitriol, you lunge. Reflexively, I jump between you; an impotent defense for her cowering body. You march through me, strike a ruinous blow. She goes down hard—eyes vacant, blood-soaked hair splayed across broken china. You check for a pulse, saunter away. Vicious. Infuriating. Familiar. You’ll run, start again, choose someone else. We’ll follow. Maybe next time, our screams will be enough. * * * 
Melanie Mulrooney lives in Nova Scotia with her husband and a gaggle of kids. She loves cloudy days, campfires, and hot tea. When not writing or child-wrangling, she can be found devouring books, playing board games, volunteering in her community, or strolling through the woods. Find her at melmulrooney.com.
I’m hovering in the timeless void between my father’s car and mother’s house, duffle bag held tight. The smell of dirty laundry whisked away by the afternoon breeze.
Sundays are reserved for departures. You alone welcome me back; paws pressed against the window, trying to catch insects or just a shadow passing by. Relief measured in nine lives of which we only have one to share. The sun lowers and tomorrow looms in fire and lavender. Lying next to each other in the faint glow of the nightlight, your velvet warmth softens the lump in my throat. After all, pleasant dreams may yet grow out of this well-salted bed. * * * 
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 partner.
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 deeper each day. “Tomorrow we set out on foot, seeking rescue, Lord willing. “To whoever shall find this, and to family I—the ship’s boy, the youngest crewman, shall never have – a plea for understanding. “We failed to reach the Northwest Passage. But may history recall we tried.” Horatio, age 15, April 1848 * * * 
Jeanette Rundquist is a journalist as well as a fiction writer. Her flash fiction has been published in ScribesMICRO; Montclair Flash Fiction Anthology; and placed in NYCMidnight competitions. She is currently querying her debut novel, and working on her second. A graduate of Syracuse University, she works in higher ed communications.
Long time since I last wrote, sorry for the wait. Wanted to be sure things had cooled.
Settled into town nicely. Life is slow around here, lots of coming and going. Mostly going, that’s what I like. Been seeing one of the few bar regulars after hours. He’s the type to always be wearing one of those chunky silver watches, like what Bill used to have. Same wallet too. Took me out shooting one night. Said I was a good shot. Ha! He’s a quiet one. The ones with money usually are. I suppose you’ll be wanting to come out soon. He’s big. I could use the extra hands. * * * 
Eva Sayn is a Montreal-based (very) amateur writer and is currently a student at Concordia University. She is involved in the environmental non-profit scene and finds her inspiration most often when she is enjoying the great Canadian outdoors and the solitude of nature.
Thank you to all the wonderful writers who entered The Scribes Prize! We really enjoyed all your stories, and we look forward to reading more of your writing in the future. |
