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 # 47
June 30, 2025
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Val Athenar * Emma Burnett * William Cass *
* Chris Clemens * Chris Cochran * Haley DiRenzo *
* Hannah Greer * William Ogden Haynes * Tammy Komoff *
* Mike Lines * Amber Mars * Kelly Matsuura *
* Monica McHenney * Arthur Shattuck O'Keefe *
* N.N.Petersen * Bud Pharo * Alissa Sammarco *
* Greg Schwartz * Calla Smith *
* Laura J. Vollmer * Van Wallach *
* Val Athenar * Emma Burnett * William Cass *
* Chris Clemens * Chris Cochran * Haley DiRenzo *
* Hannah Greer * William Ogden Haynes * Tammy Komoff *
* Mike Lines * Amber Mars * Kelly Matsuura *
* Monica McHenney * Arthur Shattuck O'Keefe *
* N.N.Petersen * Bud Pharo * Alissa Sammarco *
* Greg Schwartz * Calla Smith *
* Laura J. Vollmer * Van Wallach *
Book Review
At Play and other stories
by Amita Basu
Reviewed by Alison McBain
|
Photo by Michael Leonard
|
Fiction
The Conversation Icebreaker by Bud Pharo Our school bus driver had assigned our seats together that year, mine right next to hers. We rode in polite silence for the first few weeks, neither mustering enough courage to start a conversation.
One day, she took my hand, looked into my eyes, and asked me how I was doing. Her touch sent a surge of electricity coursing through me. Had I been standing, I would’ve fallen. How could her compassionate gesture elicit such a highly charged emotional response? From that heartfelt conversation, an everlasting bond of friendship and love was born. Unfortunately, it only took my father’s untimely death to break the ice. * * * Bud Pharo is a disabled veteran who writes short stories and flash fiction. He typically writes humorous sci-fi and fantasy pieces because he thinks our world could use more levity but will, on occasion, write serious pieces. His work has appeared in numerous magazines and journals, both online and in print.
Scarcity by Chris Clemens After school, Mama announces that Snowball has eaten her babies. White gerbil skulls line the cage bottom. The sisters all scream, then skip away to watch TV.
I stare into Snowball’s remorseless red eyes as she nibbles, dismayed by her gruesome feast. “It’s cramped in there,” says Mama, plucking tiny bones out of the wood chip bedding. “Maybe she knew they wouldn’t have enough food, a comfortable life. Quit bothering her. Does it really matter? They’re free now.” Later I set the dinner table, pull the many chairs round, nervously eye our diminishing portions and the growing curve of Mama’s belly. * * * Originally published in 101 Words.
Chris Clemens lives and teaches in Toronto, surrounded by raccoons. Nominated for Best Microfiction and Best Small Fictions, his writing appears in The Dribble Drabble Review, The Woolf, Acta Victoriana, JAKE, Dreams & Nightmares, and elsewhere. The Trestle by Arthur Shattuck O'Keefe The trestle was a place to carry out some of the stupid things we did as kids. We’d go up there late at night to drop water balloons onto cars as they passed under, aiming for the windshields. There were no crashes, luckily. When you’re thirteen, you assume no one’s going to get hurt. At least I did.
On occasion, we’d stand along the tracks shouting obscenities at the caboose men on the passing freight trains. It felt exhilarating to insult adults with impunity. Most were poker-faced, but one day one of them looked distraught. I stopped doing it after that. His face is the only one I can remember. * * * Originally published in Free Flash Fiction.
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. 
Growing Up Too Fast by William Ogden Haynes She always knew he would grow up too fast. When he started school, he dressed, ate breakfast and packed his lunch. She offered help, but he valued independence. Each morning, she and their Labrador retriever stood on the front lawn and watched him board the school bus. The dog always chased the bus to the end of the block. Now, four years after the school shooting, she knows it was silly to worry about growing up too fast. He didn’t have a chance to grow up at all. Still, every day at three o’clock, she watches the school bus pass by, and the dog grown old, waiting at the curb.
* * * William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short fiction from Alabama who was born in Michigan. He has published several collections of poetry and many of his poems and short stories have appeared in literary journals and anthologies.
Smoking on a Wet Evening by Monica McHenney You know the way it rains at night after the dog’s been out. After everybody settles near the fireplace, shoes kicked off, feet warming. That kind of night when, like as not, a banshee will slip in through the cracks in the ceiling and make herself at home.
Don’t disturb her. She’ll get loud. Nobody dies if she stays calm. Don’t be alarmed when she squats, knees up around her head, haunches down on the floor. Offer her a pipe. The one you’re smoking. It’s likely why she came. After a heavy drag, she’ll nod and disappear up the chimney. * * * Monica McHenney edits every day. Her New Year’s resolution, to finish a novel-in-stories, depends on this. She is pretending that Rosh Hashanah begins the new year. She’s not fooled by this, but it gives her practice with deadlines. To keep things interesting, she posts a drabble every week at https://monicaflash.com.
Retail by Chris Cochran An ill-mannered woman with a face like a cabbage entered a sporting goods store, flagged down the first employee she could find, and asked where she could locate a pedometer. Smartphone apps had made this step-counting device obsolete; however, the worker knew there were still a few in the exercise department in the opposite corner they were standing.
“Right this way,” he said. After a few paces, he turned to make sure she was following him and realized she hadn’t moved an inch. “Ma’am?” “You mean I have to walk all the way to the other side of the store?” * * * Chris Cochran is a high school English teacher who writes first drafts on an old typewriter in a small nook beneath his basement steps. His work has appeared in The Dunes Review, The 2024 Northwind Treasury, and the Write Michigan 2023 Anthology. He lives in Michigan with his wife and son, where he spends most evenings drinking tea and falling asleep to comedy podcasts.
Ten Seconds to Remember You by Hannah Greer Amid the stars, a warship looms, seconds away from crashing into our little diplomacy spacecraft. I curl my body around your small one, as though that will do anything.
“Ten seconds until contact,” the captain cries. You love to count to ten on your fingers, over and over. “Eight!” It took eight months for you to say “Mama.” “Six!” You’ve lived six years. “Four!” You always demand four scoops of ice cream. “Two!” Every morning, you insist I tie your hair into two pigtails. “Brace for impact!” I hold you tight. You bury your face against my chest. Our ship jolts and the floor disappears. * * * 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.
Space Junk by Greg Schwartz Larry looked up from the monitor as his wife floated into the cockpit. “She’s gone!” Eliza wailed.
Larry frowned. “Who’s gone, dear?” “Mother! She’s gone!” Tears streaked down Eliza’s face. Larry drifted over to his wife. “Where was she last?” “In the suitcase,” Eliza sobbed. “Wrapped in a shirt. I can’t find her anywhere.” Larry put his arm around his wife and moved between her and the porthole. “Come on, honey. I’ll help you look for her. She can’t be far.” He ushered her toward the corridor. Behind him, out the porthole, a silver urn floated off into the blackness.
* * * Greg Schwartz writes speculative fiction and poetry. He lives with his wife, children, and dog.
On Leaves by Laura J. Vollmer The window frames the cottonwood’s last leaf clattering in its hard, dried form. Clank, clack, it says, striking the branch that gave it life and protesting its own persistent presence at winter’s brink.
I want to stay; I want to go. Clack, clank, I say to the still form lying on the bed, even as I cling. Mother, say something. Silence answers silence—the façade of sleep cannot hide this conscious response. The late fall has made me cold. Time to take my leave. At last, the leaf gives, quietly gliding beyond view. And I cannot see what the future holds.
* * * Laura J. Vollmer, PhD, is hitherto unpublished in fiction but a prolific nonfiction writer, with over 200 academic contributions related to religion and spirituality—the very same sources of inspiration for her creative works. Dr. Vollmer lives in Missouri, where she works as a freelance editor and independent scholar.
Valley of Broken Things by Amber Mars They left me here in this valley of broken things. In this valley of trash and mismatched parts. They saw no further use for me. I was too defective to be useful and too stubborn to be used for scraps.
I found you here in this valley where nothing fits together, though your hand in mine came dangerously close. Perhaps that was my mistake. Maybe that is what inspired you to rebuild. So, you made something of yourself and left. You did not want me to be alone but how could I follow? You have the kind of wonder that could move valleys and I was always a broken thing.
* * * Amber Mars is a writer and English literature major. She is an enthusiast of speculative fiction and anything in life that is fantastical. When she isn’t writing, she is often seen with her nose in a book and a cat in her lap.
|
Chiseled Stories by Van Wallach Sheri wandered the cemetery looking for her grandmother Mae’s grave. Fifty years earlier she had attended the funeral, but she forgot the location. Searching the straight rows, she read names, dates, and quotes. Wives and husbands sharing a gravestone, friends, children gone too early, her imagination conjured life arcs from details.
Each story stood out as sharp as chiseled granite. Stones were placed on some headstones, flowers and notes graced others. Sheri clutched a book of poems Mae read to her as a child. When she found Mae’s grave, she said, “I’m here.” She heard in the breeze, “I’m listening.” * * * Van Wallach is a writer in Reading, MA 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.
Cozy Night by William Cass In the gloaming, she shifted her back against the granite and her bottom in the still-new grass. Four months ago, she would have been starting their dinner about then. Maybe tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. They’d called the meal “cozy night”: a favorite. She tucked a strand of gray hair behind an ear and began to weep.
Twenty minutes later, she took that day’s note to him out of her pocket, pushed it down into the soft earth below her hip, felt the others there, and stood up. She kissed his headstone, then started back to her car where she’d parked it on the cemetery’s narrow cinder lane. * * * William Cass has had over 350 short stories appear in literary magazines and anthologies. A nominee for Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net, he’s also had six Pushcart nominations, won writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal, and had two short story collections published by Wising Up Press.
Urban Fantasy by Haley DiRenzo In a city I don’t live in, I am a Broadway star clad in black velvet, leaving the theater after dark. A lipsticked dream chaser, pirouetting and high-kicking my way to the leather-boothed bar down the street. The waiters wearing their three-piece suits don’t question when I order a burger and fries with champagne at midnight. Portraits of actresses in their prime line the wall, their taunting gazes peering over lit cigarettes through the smoke, confirming--yes, you could have been one of us, if only you moved to New York.
* * * Haley DiRenzo is a writer, poet, and practicing attorney specializing in eviction defense. Her poetry and prose have appeared in Gone Lawn, Epistemic Literary, Eunoia Review, and Panoply, among others. She is on BlueSky at @haleydirenzo.bsky.social and lives in Colorado with her husband and dog.
City Living by Calla Smith The people come from every direction, covering every inch of asphalt. I join them, clawing my way up from a manhole to become one with their steady footprints. I am human for a brief moment as the rays of the afternoon sun filter between the buildings with an unexpected intensity to warm my skin.
But I keep moving and the sun is gone and with it the illusion of belonging. Once again, I know I am something wild. I have claws instead of hands, and my lips are curled back into a snarl. I don’t even have to pretend anymore. I was born for this. * * * Calla Smith lives and writes in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She enjoys continuing to discover all the forgotten corners of the city she has come to call home. She has published a collection of flash fiction What Doesn’t Kill You, and her work can also be found in several literary journals such.
My Way In by Kelly Matsuura In my teens, I liked to spy on “Crazy Neil” as he dug and prepped his Doomsday bunker. Every Sunday, he worked on it. Alone. Focused.
When the hordes came, I headed straight there, but he wouldn’t let me in. I had nothing he needed. Weeks later, I happened upon his wife trapped in an old station wagon. Dehydrated and bone-thin, she herself reeked like the dead. I cleared the surrounding zombies and gave her some water. “I’ll take you to Neil’s bunker, but you have to promise to let me in too,” I insisted. Her eyes flickered. “Neil has a bunker?” * * * Kelly Matsuura is an avid short story writer, with a focus on fantasy, horror, and literary fiction. She has stories and poetry published with Black Hare Press, Iron Fairie Publishing, Wolfsinger Press, Ravens Quoth Press, Stringybark Stories, and many more. Kelly lives in Nagoya, Japan with her geeky husband.
Photo by Nick Magwood
The Coming Dark by Tammy Komoff Darkness doesn’t kill shadows. It sets them free. Light stops them, like the spotlights I’ve trained on myself in this empty shed. They wash away the shadows that mirror my body, using copies of my hands to claw at me, searching for the shadow of my soul I took to replace the one I lost.
Outside, the gas generator’s rumbling suppresses the sound of shadows scratching at the door—forty minutes till dawn. “We can bargain too!” “Too late,” they hiss. “We’ll never work for you again.” The generator sputters—fuel’s almost gone. I brace myself for the coming dark. * * * Originally published in 100 Word Story.
Tammy Komoff's work has appeared in Abyss & Apex Magazine, DreamForge Anvil, All World's Wayfarer and more. When not writing, Tammy spends her time chasing after her semi-feral daughters and their escape-artist mutt while her husband attempts to keep up. For more information and stories follow her on Bluesky @tammykomoff.bsky.social or check out her website, tammykomoff.com.
Plenty to Eat by Emma Burnett I let them in when they bang on the door. A half-dozen people from down in the village, people who ignored the meteorologists, who refused to leave when they said the river would overflow. Now they’re up here on my hill, not mocking me but begging for shelter.
I let them in and give them hot drinks. I tell them to help themselves, smile at their false gratitude. I’m mindful not to drink anything. In the coming days, I practice my sad face at hearing about so many people being washed away, glad that my pigs have plenty to eat. * * * Emma Burnett is a recovering academic. She’s big into cats, sports, and being introverted. You can find her @slashnburnett.bsky.social or emmaburnett.uk.
Regeneration by N.N.Petersen Regeneration is as much a curse as a blessing. It robs you of the records of your life, souvenirs cut into your flesh.
There are some scars that should never heal. Many might believe every mark carved upon their skin would reflect some mistake, some transgression, or some fear. Some bear the joys of time. When I was a boy, I had a scar on my upper lip. I don’t recall its cause. My father remembered, and he smiled. I remember his sadness when he gazed upon my face and lip pristine. The deepest wounds leave no scars at all.
* * * N.N.Petersen is an Iowa native and lives nestled in their private little corner surrounded by corn and soy. They once had a story published in the now defunct Kris Straub project "Ichor Falls".
The Well of Welcomes by Val Athenar “But I came all this way to drink from the Well of Welcomes—”
“It’s dry, young lad. Best seek refuge elsewhere.” Hundreds of people filled the shades of the dozen clay houses around the well. They had come from all corners of the continent, their appearance as diverse as autumn leaves. Some glanced briefly at him and the endless desert behind him. “If I turn back, I die.” “If you don’t, you might too.” The lad sat down on the edge of the well—and a push sent him spiralling down. The Well of Welcomes held blood once more.
* * * Val Athenar works as a location coordinator of two libraries in the Netherlands. She’s been published in Dutch magazines with short stories and is currently facing the most daunting of challenges: querying literary agents in order to get her book on the market.
A Kindness by Mike Lines My rifle raised, I find the pilot slumped against the old oak behind our farm. Flames from the Messerschmitt wreckage reveal terrified eyes watching my approach. Shaking hands press his gut wound tight, making no move for his pistol.
A scared lad, maybe a year older than mine had been. Christ almighty. I gather kindling, and soon the crackling of wood fills the air. Silently, we watch the fires rage. By morning, his breathing turns to rasps. I take his gun, load one round and press it into his hand. The shot rings out as I reach the paddock gate.
* * * A data engineer by day and word engineer by night, Mike Lines has spent the last few years honing his passion for creative writing, placing several times in the NYC Midnight writing challenges. Originally from the UK, Mike now lives in Auckland, New Zealand, enjoying his wife's cooking far too much and trying to wrangle their cat/shadow demon, Nyx. When he's not writing, you can find him on a walk through the lush NZ greenery or on the internet at @mikewriteslines.bsky.social.
|
Poetry
Photo by Dirk Wohlrabe
Goody Goody by Alissa Sammarco I hope you’re satisfied, you rascal you.
You know it’s what we want, that everyone gets what they deserve, if not what we think they deserve. But who can see what really happens to the gnat who finds his paradise at the bottom of a wine glass. He is happy until his wings are soaked, until, in his gnat brain rises panic – fight or flight – neither of which he can do. And in his final moments, he is suspended on the surface, knowing he will be forever embalmed in what he desires most. * * * 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.
|
Editor's Corner
|
“…I wake up at one a.m. to my beloved roommate spray-painting the room with vomit.”
Smriti smiles uncertainly, trying to acknowledge my humour without condoning my lifestyle. “…having a massive allergy attack, totally stuffed up. I’m defending my thesis, pausing every few words to gasp for breath. Like a kissing fish. My dramatic pauses make chins settle on palms and eyes open wide. Everyone’s thinking my nonsense work is groundbreaking.” “Hmm.” Smriti’s a trainee. If I can keep her smiling, spellbound with my sit-down comedy, these twelve sessions they talked me into will pass painlessly. I’ve got self-awareness. Don’t they say that’s half the battle? I scrutinise her face for restlessness. |
I know you feel it. Right behind your ears and crawling down the tops of your shoulders. Eating away the precious hours of sleep that hectic society allots you. It’s terrifying how rampant it has become without anyone so much as batting an eye at it. People die from it every day and no one is working on a cure or universal preventative measures. Even trying to prevent it causes more of it. There lies the paradox of it all.
It makes a catch-22 seem like an insignificant joke. Because we know stress is real and that there’s no escape. 
Photo by Victor UzihBen
|
|
Melinda plunged into the ocean, but Paul quickly pulled ahead of her using steady strokes. She really shouldn’t have boasted in front of everyone that she was the better swimmer, pricking Paul's ego.
Her friends chanted her name from the shore, encouraging her. Even with lungs burning and muscles aching, she put on a burst of speed at the sound. It wasn’t quite enough to make a difference. When the sea monster rose up out of the depths, Paul was still far in the lead. Darn. He had been a good boyfriend, too. At least she won the race. |
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.