ScribesMICRO
* Managing Editor: Edward Ahern *
* Associate Editor: Alison McBain *
* Special Features Editor: Matthew P.S. Salinas *
* Poetry Editor: Mary Keating *
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 *
Submission Editors:
* Sarah Anderson * P.C. Keeler * P.M. Ray * Ira Rosofsky *
* Felicia Strangeways * Amita Basu * Julie Cadman *
* Scott Bogart * Leslie Burton-Lopez *
Issue # 48
July 31, 2025
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Richard M. Ankers * Val Athenar * Keech Ballard *
* Jennifer Blake * Angela Carlton * Gretchen Clark *
* Chris Coll * Markus Eymann * Jan Hassmann *
* Leah Hearne * Nikki Higgins * Jon Krafchek *
* Sean MacKendrick * Kelly Matsuura *
* Sarah McNamara * Jennifer Mungham *
* William Ogden Haynes * Bud Pharo * Terry Reilly *
* Alissa Sammarco * Johannes Springenseiss*
* Richard M. Ankers * Val Athenar * Keech Ballard *
* Jennifer Blake * Angela Carlton * Gretchen Clark *
* Chris Coll * Markus Eymann * Jan Hassmann *
* Leah Hearne * Nikki Higgins * Jon Krafchek *
* Sean MacKendrick * Kelly Matsuura *
* Sarah McNamara * Jennifer Mungham *
* William Ogden Haynes * Bud Pharo * Terry Reilly *
* Alissa Sammarco * Johannes Springenseiss*
Interview & Book Review
Stroll Down the Crooked Path
by Z. Martin
Reviewed by Matthew P.S. Salinas
Welcome to our forty-eighth issue of ScribesMICRO. I’m the Special Features Editor Matthew P.S. Salinas, and our interview today is with Z. Martin.
Z. Martin is a former Marine and a maven of horror writing. He lives to bring chills and thrills to the world at large with his quill dipped in blood. When he's not crafting horrific scenes, he spends his days working for the community and raising his beloved family.
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Photo by Michael Leonard
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Fiction
Photo by Bridget Neff
The Party Is Over by Nikki Higgins Breathing properly for the first time today, she surveys the hired room at the boutique pub. No jelly and ice cream or party bags, just haphazard beers and alcopops, disrespecting the uncut, eighteenth birthday cake.
The sudden silence slaps her when the rabble of youngsters head into town. No thank you for the party, which means eating from tins for a week. No heartfelt hug for giving up her life, to be both mum and dad. Just an announcement of the new journey… to find his real mum. Alone, she starts the clearing up. * * * Nikki Higgins is a dentist who started dabbling with flash fiction when her kids left home two years ago. In that time, they have provided a lot of material for her writing. She attends a weekly online course where she finds writing a great tool to explore this life stage.
I Know You Too Well by Jennifer Blake He was mid-lick of an ice cream cone when we locked eyes. It sealed our bond as two embarrassed people: he because he’d snuck a look at me while performing that childish, lascivious act, I because I’d seen his writhing tongue. He’d do well to bite the ice cream (no matter the cold—small horror for pride) or encase with both lips a slope of cream, shield the action of the tongue, and so pull the treat discreetly forth.
We look away; I wonder if I changed his life. Because how could it be that he never thinks of me again? * * * Jennifer Blake was raised in Los Angeles but grew up in San Francisco. Her work is inspired by human idiosyncrasies and the belief that cities are characters with souls. Her work has appeared in The Main Street Rag, The Writing Disorder, Sky Island Journal, and Collidescope.
Something Blue by Gretchen Clark “Boy meets girl on a tropical island,” he said as he slowly untied the straps of my bikini top. He’s romance novel handsome. I’m eighteen. I think I know how this love story will go, but I have no idea. Yes, there will be whiskey and roses, and slow dances and kisses sealed under falling stars. But there will also be drugs (his), drinking (his and mine), and psychotic depression (his). There will be four-point restraints and anti-psychotics. Attempts at suicide and sobriety and a marriage proposal in a psychiatric hospital. But there will be no happy ending.
* * * Gretchen Clark's work has appeared in the Boston Globe, Literary Mama, The MacGuffin, Five Minutes, and Cleaver Magazine, among others. Her essay “Pink Chrysanthemum” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She teaches at Writers.com. When not working or writing she's out taking photographs of wild horses and burros across the American West.
Derby Day by William Ogden Haynes The old woman in the upstairs bedroom is confined to bed. Her mansion is only a few miles from Churchill Downs. The structure is embalmed in mystery, with secret drawers in antique tables and oil paintings of famous Derby winners. There’s a closet with thirty hatboxes holding quiet, feathered, wide-brimmed revelations and fascinators from past Derby days. The old woman always had outdone everyone with the finest Derby hat. She spent thirty years buying horses that always came close to winning the race, but never won. This year, she’ll watch the Derby on television and ask her nurse to populate the bed with her fine collection of hats.
* * * 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.
Photo by Andreas Glöckner
Swan Song by Bud Pharo Whenever possible, I wheeled my wife to the pond behind the hospice facility to marvel at a pair of swans. On her most trying days, their grace and beauty always lifted her spirits.
While visiting our “friends,” as she called them, she would always say, “You see, they’re in love and perfectly matched for life, just like us.” Her wistful comments brought gentle smiles and, usually, a few tears, as we knew our time together would soon end. After she passed, I returned to the pond to tell our friends we were not coming back. Now, just a solitary swan swam alone. * * * 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.
Keeping Him Alive by Sarah McNamara I remember him this way: walking with me toward the shore. He was always a step behind me and to my left, with his right hand pressed against the small of my back, reciting Keats or Rilke as if their words directed the waves.
When he died, I started taking the walk alone. With my hand pressed against the small of my back, I would stand at the ocean’s edge, recounting the poems he had loved while the frigid waves swelled and crashed at my feet. We kept him alive without effort or guise: the poets, the ocean, and me. * * * Sarah McNamara’s work has been published in Ink In Thirds Magazine, The Writing Disorder, Free Flash Fiction, and 101 Words, and has been featured on Ink In Thirds online.
Mother's Hands by Kelly Matsuura Eyes closed, I inhale the scent of nam pa and galangal.
Mother’s hands chop, pound, and peel, as she prepares her magical ping gai. She never shared the recipe before she died. I prayed for her return, but something went awry. What I stare at now are my mother’s precious hands, detached from her corpse and, incredibly, alive. She keeps the house as before, cooking, cleaning, and gardening. She washes Alani’s hair and massages Father’s aging feet. She loves us through work, not words. She can hold a pen, but she will not write down that damn ping gai recipe. * * * Story first published in Southeast Asian Fantasy Drabbles, Insignia Stories, 2020.
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. 
The Fallen by Richard M. Ankers I flail. I plummet. At no point do my feet, knees, or hands touch the ground. Not yet, anyway. There’s no whooshing of air, nor hair streaming about my face, just a gentle flapping.
There’s peace in the darkening blue. They might’ve forced me, but I might’ve chosen this, too. Flashes of light. Moments of unadulterated beauty. The oncoming night might take these things, but also deliver a dream. I cannot see, yet I’ve landed. World’s end. The longest fall. Not a bird shot from the sky, but a pirate pushed from a plank. The sea was ever my mistress.
* * * Richard M. Ankers is the English author of The Eternals Series and Britannia Unleashed. Richard has featured in Daily Science Fiction, Love Letters To Poe, House of Arcanum, and feels privileged to have appeared in many more. Richard lives to write.
Gift Horse by Sean MacKendrick “What am I supposed to do with this?” Izzy asked the bleeding man.
He still clutched a knife in his fist. “It’s yours, now. Just be nice with it.” Blood poured out of the hole in his chest, splashing her shoes. His heart stuttered in her hands, slippery and hot. “It’s a gift.” She said, “But I didn’t ask for it.” “It’s a gift.” “Please take it back.” He scowled. “What is your problem? You think you’re too good for me?” “I’m sorry,” Izzy said, and set his heart on the ground. She left it there and walked away, flinching with every word screamed at her back. * * * Sean MacKendrick splits his time between Colorado and Texas. He works as a software engineer. You can follow him on Twitter/X at @SeanMacKendrick or BlueSky at @seanmackendrick.bsky.social.
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The Story of Love by Johannes Springenseiss “Maybe you should view it in a positive light…”
“There ain’t no positive light, only darkness. My life is over. Beth left me at the altar.” “Frank, it’s high time to come to terms with it,” I tell him. “Blow away the cobwebs. If anything, count yourself lucky to be a free agent again.” He sobs. “There ain’t no other woman in the world I’d ever lay my eyes on.” I see an opening. “Consider it a lucky break. According to long-running FBI statistics, up to seventy percent of homicide victims are killed by loved ones. In light of that, ‘never been kissed’ sounds like a clever survival strategy.” * * * Johannes Springenseiss is a world citizen and raconteur. He mostly writes speculative fiction and creative essays, which he has published in various literary magazines.
Passenger Injury by Chris Coll We roared around the curved Union Square platform, the familiar screech of metal echoing in the operator’s cab. A figure appeared, pacing nervously. Suddenly, he darted towards the platform edge—a college-age kid with striking blue eyes and a mohawk.
We locked eyes. Through trembling lips, he mouthed “I’m sorry” before disappearing off the platform. “No!” I screamed, slamming the brake. A violent bump reverberated through the car as the steel beast devoured its victim. I wonder why he apologized. For the mess? The delays? Or did he know I’d see those blue eyes every time I close mine? * * * Chris Coll is a writer from the Bronx, New York. When he’s not writing, he can be found training in Kyokushin Karate and reading thriller novels. Chris speaks English and Japanese fluently, and is currently learning Irish. His short fiction and nonfiction works have been published in the Wilderness House Literary Review, Free Flash Fiction, Hey! Young Writer Blog, and Farnham Flash Fiction. Links to Chris' work are available at chriscollstories.com.
Old Habits Die Hard by Jon Krafchek Old habits die hard and sometimes they don’t die at all. Like when I’m running and I turn my head to see if my dog has paused somewhere behind me on this lonely trail to pee or sniff a bush. Even though he finished his run years ago, I still shout his name, hoping he’ll come galloping up from the rear and run beside me. And if he doesn’t, I believe he’ll be at the trail’s end, wading in the sun-sparkling river with one eye always on the bridge, waiting to guide me over to the next trail.
* * * 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.
Photo by author Jon Krafchek
Winter Afternoons by Jennifer Mungham Muffled sounds of merry madness were lost beneath the crunching of last night’s blanket. Wind crashed through the tree line below like a waterfall and soaked into my skin. My steps became slower. Heavier. Breath rasped out in ragged clouds.
Finally reaching the top, I dropped to my knees, twisting, landing flat, looking up at grey skies. I flapped my arms half-heartedly, trying to make an impression on the landscape. My feet formed little drifts as my legs kicked out in time to my slowing breaths before stilling. I leaped up and pulled my sledge closer, ready to ride down again. * * * Jennifer Mungham is a scientist and fiction writer.
Caravanserai by Keech Ballard I was born to travel and to eat things right up. That’s what Ma always said about me. Hard to picture Ma as a fancy dan jiggle queen. But there you go. People change. Farm life was not for me. I saw how it wore my parents down to the ground, leaving them with less than they had before. The world ocean rushed in and took away our dear sweet sunshine lollypop Florida. We headed north for Nirvana. The distant shores of balmy Hudson. The modern sultry sea. Not that puny milkweed pond that went before.
We were the lucky ones. Most did not survive. * * * Keech Ballard is a speculatory writer lost in the deep woods at a previously undisclosed location. His dreams and nightmares may be consumed in fire at Fantasy, Utopia SF, Illumen, Scifaikuest, Hungur Chronicles, Dark Moments, Bag of Bones, Angry Gables, and Antipodean SF, inter alia.
Whispers by Angela Carlton When I was five years old, he took me away, Mother. We lived on the run between Texas, Mississippi, and Georgia, and he beat me down. The man I never called Dad beat me with words, his fists, fists. If sleep did come, your whispers were loud, loud, loud in my dreams, saying, “Run, run, go son, run!”
At fourteen, I did make my way to the Chattahoochee River. I found myself floating amongst the drifters, moving with the broken and the poor, living, as we pitched tents beneath the Georgia stars. * * * Angela Carlton’s fiction has been published in Every Writer, Everyday Fiction, Pedestal Magazine, 6S, 50 Word Stories, Spillwords Press, The Dribble Drabble Review and Friday Flash Fiction. In 2022, A Jigsaw Life, a collection of stories was released. In 2023, her story “Swallowed,” was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
The Trick to Letting Go by Leah Hearne I think of you when I find a thin and rounded stone, when I send it spiraling across the water with the flick of a wrist. One, two, three, four, five skips and then it sinks beneath the algae into the blue of the bank. Your voice is in my head, whispering, “The trick is in the ease of the movement, in not trying to control the trajectory.” I find another stone, loosen my grip, let it slip from my fingers when it wants to leave. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. I wonder how the hell you always managed to get exactly eight.
* * * Leah Hearne is a creative writing student at Hollins University in Roanoke, VA. Her work has been previously published in Front Porch Review and Trouvaille Review. She loves buying journals and never finishing them, meticulously editing first sentences, and dozing off as the cursor blinks on the screen.
Seep by Jan Hassmann Those days, all I wanted was to talk to the trees, hear their silty whispers as I traced my fingers over their calloused scars, about the half-muffled bells on the waning wind and the fat worms below, feasting. About stiffening and sway, and the hemlock cold in naked winters when the leaves and the light fail, and about yielding. But then, when I did, and the withered ash rustled how it will dig its roots into my corpse after I drop from the rope and seep into its arms, I knew I wouldn’t go there anymore.
Or maybe just once. * * * Jan Hassmann first studied and then taught English Literature at universities far from home. He has recently returned to Europe, where he runs an amicable poetry club in Plovdiv, Bulgaria. His poetry and prose have appeared in Seaside Gothic, Dishsoap Quarterly, WireWorm Magazine, Stone Circle Review, Sparks of Calliope, and others. He's on X: @ItsJanHassmann.
Cat Café by Val Athenar “Some of them only pretend to be stupid,” the host said as he sealed the door’s many locks. My eyes fell on a cat that napped inside a vase, its tag pressed against the glass. Slimeball.
I manoeuvred to the staffroom. Another, Hydra, attacked my shoelaces along the way. Before the host finished pouring coffee, Pyro pushed his nose over the cup, savouring the steam. I expected as much from my interview at the Polymorphed Monsters Cat Café. “Are you up for it?” “I…” My throat stiffened. A void-black cat sat on the host’s lap, looking into my soul. Smiling.
* * * 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.
Photo by Angeles Balaguer
Curb Your Enthusiasm by Terry Reilly The trattoria lunch was over. Laura pointed through the window. “Look!” A cop was writing a parking ticket. We hurried to the sidewalk.
“Is that necessary, officer?” I said. He glared and continued writing. “Asshole,” I complained. A scowl, and another ticket for worn tires. “Dickhead,” offered Laura. Muttering to himself, the cop issued a third ticket. “Motherf—r,” I said. Another ticket followed. This continued for about ten minutes. Each new insult prompted another ticket. It was a war of wills. Laura said, “I’m bored. Let’s go.” Why should we care? We had come in by bus as always. * * * Terry Reilly. Retired psychiatrist. Writing children’s fiction since 2020. Recently discovered flash fiction. Intrigued by the discipline of the genre.
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Poetry
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Our Daily Death by Markus Eymann When I was a child
someone asked me “Why do you resist going to bed at night?” “Because each evening is like a small death, you only get so many days in your life, and every time you go to bed another day has passed.” “Oh, really, that’s why?” Replied the questioner, appearing surprised and moved by my answer. At least, that is how I remember it. Possibly, it’s all a product of my imagination, our memories are faulty and many days have passed since then. But I still go to bed as late as possible. * * * Markus Eymann is an Edmonton poet (a real poet now that he has been published in ScribesMICRO) who is very interested in biology. He also likes gardening, hunting and buying and selling antiques.
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Image by Adis Resic
Holiday on Pluto by Alissa Sammarco We wake from that dreamless land
cocooned for almost 10 years, tubes down our throats. Charlie coughs up what feels like a hairball. Miranda files her nails to sharp points, poking holes in the plastic wrap packaging. You tell me that you can’t remember, that my face is not the woman you signed up for, that somehow, ten years ago, the babies were switched at birth. All the nurses said it could never happen. But here we stand on Pluto, holding hands with a stranger, plucking the ice crystals from between our toes. * * * 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.
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Editor's Corner
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His fingers were always half cupped,
the nails dirty, horny and split, the knuckles over large and gnarled. He perched his hands in his lap, as if lifting them was a chore. Those hands were the sigil of his life, abused by weather and rough work. But then he stood up in the boat, picked up his fly rod and cast, line undulating like a dancer, his callused palm and fingers caressing the weathered cork, and I understood that this at least was still his to enjoy, hands whole enough for grace.
I gather the knives and barbs
the swords and other pointy things that cut and scare scar and bleed me I gather hate and fear self-doubt and self-talk that zaps and saps life until days lie dead I gather all the nasty words that spill from the basket of human mouths, multiplying like fishes on the mount I gather all these things but they never stop There’s always more than my arms can hold And in that realization a seed is planted-- the growing knowing I finally gather I just need to let it all go “There wasn’t a point,” Gibson sighed as he flicked his cigarette off the balcony.
“Was there ever in the first place?” Charles looked down at the burning city. Plumes of smoke danced into the sky. “I suppose it’s a consequence to everything?” Gibson let his head droop and closed his eyes. “We are but cogs in the machine, friend.” “Hard to think about it,” Gibson admitted. “That it would ever come to this.” “I think we all knew, deep down. One day, there would be no more heroes.” Gibson shook his head. “Why are we the ones left?” |
The old dun labors forward, struggling to maintain its footing over rugged terrain. Its eyes are wild, its nostrils flare, and its mouth froths. Its rider resembles a dusty bag of bones wrapped in buckskin. His bowed head bobs and his body sways in a serpentine motion. A bone-dry canteen clangs without rhythm.
But they’ve spotted a rippling, blue oasis just ahead. Merciful relief. It beckons them. They can taste it. They lurch slowly onward as kindred spirits. Neither are aware that trailing behind them is a dark, hooded specter, riding upon a horse whose eyes burn like fire. When the round-faced nineteen-year-old off Grindr paused while fellating Bhola to demand money, and when Bhola, shocked, refused, and when the boy threw open the door on Bhola, buck-naked, and made a scene in the hostel Bhola had just moved into, that cost Bhola his brand-new job.
Bhola was furious. Months passed. All Bhola’s job applications went unanswered, for academia’s a small world, gossipy and backwards. Bhola’s parents stopped believing his stories and answering his phone calls. Bhola began spending hours inhabiting that boy’s life. New in Delhi, jobless, with parents to support—poor chap! Now, curled on sweaty bedsheets, Bhola wonders why there’s never anything midway between fury and sympathy. I’m tired.
Often. I don’t know how people get to sleep. Close your eyes and try to hide from thought, but endless patterns of stygian white wander along, amoeboid gestures for attention. Free-associate, start building dreams, try to segue into the real ones without noticing it, but ignoring the effort it takes to avoid concentration. Wait for biology to suddenly demand what you’ve been trying to give it all night. Cyclobenzaprine doesn’t count; that’s only a side effect. I exaggerate, but what the heck, I’m tired now. I can be melodramatic on the topic of sleep if… if... I… Zzzzz…. 
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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.