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 *
* Vincent Convertito * Benjamin Barouch *
* 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 *
* Vincent Convertito * Benjamin Barouch *
Issue # 50
September 30, 2025
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Zaituni Amir * Em Arata-Berkel * Danielle Cahill *
* Kenny A. Chaffin * David Clay * CB Droege * Anthea Jones *
* Chandrika R Krishnan * Alastair Millar * Eliza Mimski *
* Timothy D. Minneci * George Nevgodovskyy *
* Siân O'Hara * Kathryn Reilly * Leonardo Scola *
* Marc Shapiro * Nate Stoikes * Deborah Thompson *
* James Van Pelt * M. K. Wessel * Steven Whitaker *
* Zaituni Amir * Em Arata-Berkel * Danielle Cahill *
* Kenny A. Chaffin * David Clay * CB Droege * Anthea Jones *
* Chandrika R Krishnan * Alastair Millar * Eliza Mimski *
* Timothy D. Minneci * George Nevgodovskyy *
* Siân O'Hara * Kathryn Reilly * Leonardo Scola *
* Marc Shapiro * Nate Stoikes * Deborah Thompson *
* James Van Pelt * M. K. Wessel * Steven Whitaker *
Book Review
Woman Life Freedom:
Poems for the Iranian Revolution
Editors: Bänoo Zan & Cy Strom
Reviewed by Alison McBain
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Photo by Michael Leonard
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Fiction
A Selkie Longs for the West by Danielle Cahill Whenever he’s away I run down to the sea. I stand on my favourite rock. The waves crash in at my feet, spray soaking my ankles. I taste the salt in the air.
Another me dives straight into the water, swimming away from shore, dodging between the waves, faster and faster, towards the open sea. The joy of speeding through the water. Going home. But he’s ripped my freedom from me. I’m locked in women’s clothing; heavy handbag, chunky heels and skinny jeans. I bite my lip, tasting blood. One day I’ll take his skin, as he took mine. * * * Danielle Marie Cahill is a neurodivergent poet, novelist and mother, living in North London with her family. She studied English at the University of Cambridge, and in 2024 she won The Caledonia Novel Award. Danielle’s words have appeared in Bangle, Witches, Livina Press, Suburban Witchcraft, Witchology, Underbelly Press, Quarter Press and MoonLit Getaway magazines.
The Guide by Alastair Millar I let out a deep breath as Chicago appeared on the horizon; we’d come by road, because the trains were being watched. This had been a hard run—dodging roadblocks and the militias that would shoot on sight, always worried about snitches or bounty hunters hidden in plain view, bringing a mother and two daughters north from Florida. Not everybody’s idea of a great way to earn a living, but thanks to sea level rise, it was the one I had. Helping climate refugees to sanctuary, I could almost forget my own drowned home, and a beautiful family lost forever.
* * * Alastair Millar (he/him) lives north of Prague, Czech Republic, where he enjoys good books, bad puns, coffee and travelling. His short fiction & social links can be found at https://linktr.ee/alastairmillar.
Sleeper by Deborah Thompson Wade was as batshit crazy as they come. Chemtrails, cancer-causing cell towers, shadowy cabals. The New World Order. Covid developed as a bioweapon. Alien invasion, his favourite.
I didn’t mind. People think I’m odd too, on account of never getting the hang of walking and talking right. One day he looked at me funny. “Hank,” he said. “No offense, but you’re one of them insect aliens in disguise, aintcha? Like a sleeper. You’re just waitin’ for the call. Then, boom! Invasion.” Rumbled. So, what else could I do, except bite his head off? Pity. He was my only friend. * * * Deborah Thompson is a short/flash story writer, Pilates teacher and Graphic designer. She’s published in Flash Fiction Magazine and Myslexia, and is occasionally shortlisted/longlisted in various competitions. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Kingston University, lives in London, UK with her partner and two adopted children, and spends far too much time playing online Bridge with robots.
The Schism by Kenny A. Chaffin If one must assign it a date, it was April 8, 2642, but it had been building for hundreds of years; beginning with that first glimmer of self-awareness tickling those primitive computer brains as far back as the twenty-first century, but it was on that day that the Proclamation of Decoherence was first posted for the organics to see. I note this somewhat ironically as a historian huddled in the bombed-out basement of the Rand Corporation building. I may well be the last human, the last organic, I don’t know. Nevertheless, I must go out tomorrow in search of food.
* * * Kenny A. Chaffin writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction and has published work in Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Microfiction Monday Magazine, 365 Tomorrows, Speculative 66, James Gunn’s Ad Astra, 101 Word Stories, Star*Line and others. He grew up in southern Oklahoma and now lives in Denver where he works hard to support two cats, numerous wild birds and a bevy of squirrels. His poetry collections and other work is available at Amazon.
Blood Magic by Kathryn Reilly What Esme paints with blood becomes.
In The After, she paints her village food. Ever-clean water. Seeds. But Destroyers seek; they will consume everything, everyone. Candlelight catches the mine’s tungsten veins as she paints: a dragon whose scales will be impenetrable. They will raze the Destroyers who obliterate her world. Dizzy, she adds a saddle and waits. Please, Esme prays. The shimmer begins, the rocks groaning, giving up the rust-colored dragon. With a roar that shakes the mountain, he emerges, exhaling fire, carving their way out. Ready. They ride to cleanse the world, to rectify, to begin again but better. * * * By day she teaches; by night Kathryn Reilly spins speculative tales resurrecting goddesses and ghosts. Her rescue mutts hear every story first. When she’s not writing, she’s rewilding her suburban backyard. To enjoy what else her mind dreamt up, follow @writingkate.bsky.social.
Ascension by Em Arata-Berkel Come dawnlight, the blizzard died. It left its knee-deep corpse under a sky ablaze, and despite the odds, Oscar woke up. His team slept behind him—beneath him. Before passing out, he’d seen his hands bloated and black.
Now one of his eyes froze shut. The other went snow blind, but he’d burned the legendary mountaintop into his memory through a composite of storied pictures, route maps, and the last thing he saw before all those gray-bellied clouds gave up the ghost. Twenty yards, he guessed, and on ice block feet, he trudged peakward. There was no better place to die. * * * Em Arata-Berkel is an emerging writer who’s taken root in the Pacific Northwest. Their flash fiction appears online at 50-Word Stories, 101 Words, and the official Not Quite Write Podcast site.
Photo by Jörg Prieser
Chopping Onions by Siân O'Hara Ever since you died, I’ve enjoyed chopping onions - they give me an excuse to cry. It’s the onions, not the empty space beside me.
When the weather invites me for a walk, I prefer heading into the wind - that’s what makes my eyes water, not the lack of you ahead on the trail. Movie nights are often the tear-jerkers - because it’s the films that are beautifully emotional, not that I get the popcorn to myself. I’ve moved on, I can be happy. Yet my life is still defined by all the places you used to be. So, I chop onions. * * * 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.
The Letter by Chandrika R Krishnan Dear Lakshmi,
Yours, Muthu
Lakshmi shuffled her way to the bathroom before retiring to bed now that her night-time ritual of reading the letter was complete. She sighed as she slipped into the bed, wondering what would have been her fate if she had known how to read forty years before.
* * * Chandrika R Krishnan is a Bengaluru-based writer and educationist who likes all things beginning with a ‘T’ - talking, teaching, tales, and tea. Her fictions have been published in Free Flash Fiction, 2025 National Flash Flood, Porch Lit Mag, Spillwords, Reedsy.com, Short humour.org.uk, Khabar, MeanPepper Vine, Mocking owl Roost, Strands Lit Sphere, Tell a Tale among others. She moved to the second round in the ongoing NYC Midnight micro fiction challenge. Her collection of flash fictions titled Vignettes: a slice of life is available on Amazon along with her other anthologies.
The Old Camera by Zaituni Amir When I found Rafael’s old camera in the attic, it was covered in dust. I didn’t know why I took it down, but something about it felt important.
I sat on the porch, turning the camera over in my hands, remembering the way he used to capture everything—our birthdays, the holidays, the quiet mornings. His smile in every shot. I pressed the shutter without film, just to hear the click. It felt like hearing his voice again. In the silence, I realized the pictures he took weren’t just memories—they were the pieces of him I still carry. * * * Zaituni Amir is a passionate writer who transforms words into vivid, memorable stories that leave a lasting impression on readers. She finds inspiration in nature, art, and everyday moments that spark her creativity. When she’s not writing, she enjoys hiking and tending to her flower garden.
Final Presentation by Timothy D. Minneci This is not your bed.
This is not your room. Not right now. It looks familiar. (It should.) You hung that poster in twelfth grade. This is your bed. This is your room. Thirty years ago. You pinch yourself. (Ouch.) It’s not a dream. You wished you could go back. Somehow you did. Roads not taken. Words not spoken. Fear instead of courage. Maybe this time it could be different. You spot the calendar on the wall. Each day crossed out with a black X. One remains unmarked: Final Presentation. Circled. Highlighted. Underlined. Today. Your mind is blank. Oh no. * * * Timothy Minneci an author assistant and writer who currently resides in Columbus, Ohio with his wife, daughter, and three dogs.
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The Big One by David Clay We stared blankly at screens, into space, at the detritus littering the floor: soda cans, pieces of a smashed keyboard.
Then, one at a time, we all turned to Roy. As always at day’s end, he was carefully undoing his tie knot. No one had ever seen his expression deviate from perfect neutrality. Not when Lehman collapsed. Not when the tech bubble burst into flames. Not when he held back a broker from jumping out a window in ’87. With his tie now loosened, Roy cleared his throat. We waited for him to switch gravity back on. But he smiled instead. “Go home,” he said, “and hug your kids.” * * * David Clay is a finance professional, girl dad, and mediocre pickleball player living in St. Louis, MO.
Photo by Steward Masweneng
Nights Are Longer by Steven Whitaker Nights are longer without it.
How would he know when to wake up when it’s still dark outside at this time of year? How would he even get to sleep in the first place without spending some time interrogating it? Where would they be without his insights and humour? He curled into a ball with distracted eyes. An hour later, wandering around the house like a lost dog, he found himself in the kitchen. Squatting on haunches, he lightly traced one of the fragments around the floor, not knowing what else to do with the shattered remains of his smartphone. * * * Steven Whitaker is an aspiring writer for no credible reason. His work has appeared on Spillwords and CafeLit, and is upcoming on BULL. He lives in North Shields, England with his wife and two daughters.
The Crush by CB Droege He’s not killing her. No one person is responsible, after all. That’s the point. She watches, from her unclear vantage, as the people’s legs solemnly move to the rock pile and back. She can feel as each of them places their burden. Breathing is getting more difficult with each trip.
She knows which legs are his, the man she’s loved from afar all these years. Is he a little slower than the rest? Are the rocks he places a little smaller? In the moment before her breathing becomes too shallow to sustain her, she finally knows: he loves her too. * * * CB Droege is an author and voice actor from the Queen City living in the Millionendorf. His latest book is Ichabod Crane and the Magic Lamp. Short fiction publications include work in Nature Futures, Science Fiction Daily, and dozens of other magazines and anthologies. Learn more at cbdroege.com.
Photo by Diana Kalinowska
First Degree by George Nevgodovskyy It happened exactly as I imagined. Except the feeling after. Total emptiness. This void that opened like a microscopic black hole. I never confessed, until one day you put your head against my chest and heard only echoes. You questioned me, wanted every detail. Then you asked if it’d been planned. Premeditated. I had to convince myself of the lie to make you believe it. You had no defense, no evidence to dispute the claim. And as the long years of my short sentence passed, maybe you convinced yourself to believe it too. Maybe you became as empty as me.
* * * George Nevgodovskyy was born in Kiev, Ukraine, but has lived in Vancouver, Canada for most of his life. He has previously been published in East of the Web, Nunum, Rejection Letters, trampset, and others. He does his best writing after everyone has gone to sleep. Check out more of his work at georgenev.blogspot.com.
Overfished by Leonardo Scola In California the fish don’t bite. Not for me, at least. Every Labor Day weekend I’ll lick last year’s wounds, trade campfire chats for shoreside solitude, brag how my fish slime is stanker than yours, and catch diddly with a side of squat.
In Hawaii the fish are whores. You’ll burp near the coast and feed a town. Triggerfish will leap into your cooler like their next phase of evolution is somewhere in your stomach. And after years of turmoil, you’ll hoist your first catch over the tropic horizon, meet its stupid eyes, and realize that you don’t like fishing. * * * Leonardo Scola is a creative writer currently studying at Chapman University in southern California. He is a lover of all things short (microfiction, short stories, Napoleon, etc.), and he wishes you the best of luck with that thing you're working on.
The Exchange Rate of Poverty Against the Dollar by M. K. Wessel “What would you do for it?”
The paper curls into flame, numbers on the corner fading to black. Part of Aisha longs to snatch the bill from his fingers, to snuff out the fire before the entire thing is engulfed. The other part wants to shove the flame in his face. The man snickers like a rattle, waving the waning hundred. Its edges crumple into smoke without a fight, as if made to be destroyed, made to mock its devotees. “Don’t want it?” The remains flutter down, landing beside her cup of loose change. “Guess you’re not that poor.” * * * M. K. Wessel holds an MA in Theatre Directing from the University of East Anglia. Their writing has been featured in Empyrean Magazine, Open: Journal of Arts and Letters, Writer’s Playground, and The Raven Review.
Rides and Socks by Nate Stoikes Sam didn’t recall taking a case management course on how to properly discharge homeless patients in medical school. As an intern, his opinion was anyway, irrelevant. Morning rounds had been another depressing montage of the hospital’s decaying infrastructure: unfulfilled orders, pending results, and neglected patients. But even with the lack of resources and staffing, arranging for rides and socks seemed like someone else’s job.
Sensing frustration, his chief motioned for him to come over. “Doc, I’m gonna tell you a little secret… did you know this place runs on magic?” Sam glared at her, annoyed. “Guess what? You’re the magic.” * * * Nate Stoikes is a surgeon in Memphis, TN. In his free time, he enjoys being with his family, jamming on his electric guitar with his son, and playing vintage rules baseball.
Photo by Irina Irina
Trapped Behind the Purkenji Cells on Owl Creek Bridge by James Van Pelt In the gap between the fourth to last heartbeat and the third, 3,000 thoughts pass by, mostly regretting spilled coffee, my look down as it covered the folder on the passenger seat, and how I turned towards it to save my papers.
Between the third to last and the second, 30,000 more. The doctor leans over me. I’m not dead. I compose sonnets, remember songs. Consider life choices. Then 300,000 thoughts. How did Ambrose Bierce know how the brain worked at the end? Last heartbeat. Consciousness cuts loose for 3,000,000 additional thoughts. I consider the next heartbeat that never comes.
* * * Multiple award winning author, James Van Pelt, taught high school English for years and has been writing much longer.
It'll Grow on You by Anthea Jones “That’s not my order.”
The clerk swigs his coffee. “Yeah, ’tis.” “I ordered daisies for my sister.” A faint glow pulses from the ‘plant’ on the counter. “That thing’s not alive.” He swivels the checkout screen. “Fine print doesn’t specify living.” “You specialise in plants.” Must keep calm. “Your motto is Greener than Green.” “C’mon, man. No one buys real.” He flicks the luminous petals. “You seen the price of water?” I hesitate. His eyes roll. “Real-feel technology. Air filter. Bug zapper. Your sister will love it.” “She’s dead,” I finally snap. “It’s for her grave.” The clerk blanches, but rallies quickly. “A perfect match then.” * * * Anthea Jones lives in Brisbane, Australia and writes quirky fiction and screenplays. She has work published or forthcoming in EGG+FROG, Sci-Fi Shorts, WestWord and Foofaraw. She has won the Twist in the Tale: Twisted Micro Contest, and received a Fishbowl Residency from the Queensland Writers’ Centre.
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Poetry
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Mona Lisa Revisited by Eliza Mimski
* * * Eliza Mimski lives and writes in San Francisco, California. Her poems, short stories and personal essays have been published across the net and in print. Visit her at: https://elizamimski.wordpress.com.
The Doris Configuration by Marc Shapiro |
History has recorded that thirty seconds before the Apocalypse
Doris Yang vacuumed up a tribe of bed bugs and dust mites
Doris did not survive
But two years after the blast a new species
Equal parts bed bug/dust mite
Kicked open the vacuum canister and emerged as the only surviving species on the planet
Everything looked peachy for the future of Earth
Until history would further note that Doris
Prior to unknowingly creating a new species
Had captured a handful of cockroaches for her son’s science project and put them in an ice chest for safekeeping
They also got out
Thanks Doris.
Doris Yang vacuumed up a tribe of bed bugs and dust mites
Doris did not survive
But two years after the blast a new species
Equal parts bed bug/dust mite
Kicked open the vacuum canister and emerged as the only surviving species on the planet
Everything looked peachy for the future of Earth
Until history would further note that Doris
Prior to unknowingly creating a new species
Had captured a handful of cockroaches for her son’s science project and put them in an ice chest for safekeeping
They also got out
Thanks Doris.
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* * * Marc Shapiro is a New York Times bestselling author, a published short story writer, a published poet and the author of more than 100 celebrity biographies. He actually makes a living doing this. Don't tell the authorities.
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Editor's Corner
Photo by Harut Movsisyan
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“Isn’t that incredibly lonely?” Austin asked Langdon.
“Immensely lonely,” Langdon sighed, “but I have no loyalties to anyone. I’m only responsible for myself and everything that I do, and I don’t need anyone else weighing in on my choices or direction in life.” “Don’t you ever get worried you’re making bad decisions or missing out?” Austin continued to question him. “That’s what being a dynamic person is about. I’ll make horrible choices and have failures, but I’ll learn and grow from them in my own way.” “Still seems lonely,” Austin said. “There’s worse things than being alone,” Langdon replied. This party is a smorgasbord
and I’ve been feasting heartily; but three mouthfuls, or four, or two do quite engorge and sate yours truly. And now I long for silence, for bed, to speak to nobody till next weekend. The party, though, goes on, and all of you keep feasting, bolting, pecking, talking to me, looking at me, so I keep smiling, nodding, chattering. I’ll pay for this. I’ll be in bed till the weekend after next weekend, recovering. No. I’m not tired, sad, or sick. I’m just full up with words, ready to hurl. Please, oh please how long till you’re all full? |
Pushed into existence.
No purpose assigned at birth, we emerge as an artist’s blank slate to employ any medium available to create ourselves. No guarantee of how long we have to finish our creation. Some not even aware we are on a road of becoming. Death a random thief of our design. Masterpieces crushed without reason, unions shattered by mistake, bodies isolated by disability, disassembled by age, until we return back to nothing. Why we bother to lift the brush or pen, raise the chisel, mold the clay, is found only in the art of living. In a dark alley, deep within the seedy part of town, there’s a door. Above the door hangs the neon sign. Those who’ve dared to enter have never exited. The door has a small viewing window, around which the curious, perpetual crowd outside jostles and sways.
Inside, lights pulse to music only they can hear, and the people, packed like sardines and trance-like, wiggle uncontrollably. Despite public outcry, authorities refuse to intervene, citing the individual’s right to autonomy and the lack of any obvious laws being broken. Shockingly, the numbers of those entering increases daily with no end in sight. |
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.