* 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 # 52
November 30, 2025
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Jan Allen * Sophia Baran * Lisa Bernard *
* Jo Binns * Jennifer Chapman * Chris Cochran *
* R.J. Dashfield * Mel Fawcett * Jaime Gill *
* Ray Goodrich * Christy Hartman * T.J. Jourian *
* Elizabeth J. Kenny * Terri Mullholland *
* Cathy Oliver * Robert Runté * M.D. Smith IV *
* David Sydney * Kathleen Wagner * Huina Zheng *
* Jan Allen * Sophia Baran * Lisa Bernard *
* Jo Binns * Jennifer Chapman * Chris Cochran *
* R.J. Dashfield * Mel Fawcett * Jaime Gill *
* Ray Goodrich * Christy Hartman * T.J. Jourian *
* Elizabeth J. Kenny * Terri Mullholland *
* Cathy Oliver * Robert Runté * M.D. Smith IV *
* David Sydney * Kathleen Wagner * Huina Zheng *
Congratulations to the winners & finalists
of The Scribes Prize!
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Winners of The Scribes Prize
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My grandmother from Lviv stress knit her way through WWII. Only a single sock made it with her to Canada. The rest of her socks were lost between the Nazis and the Red Army alongside her family.
Her lone sock now rests on my desk in Toronto. As I scrutinize its construction, a Lviv-based internet radio station plays on my phone. Bouncy europop music cuts out. A siren blares. Then an announcement: “Attention, Lviv and Lvivska Oblast: Air Raid Alert.” I pick up my needles and yarn off a flyer seeking handknit sock donation for Ukrainian troops. To the sound of explosions too distant to hear, I replicate grandmother’s pattern. * * * Sophia Baran received her M.F.A. in Writing with a concentration in Fiction from the University of New Hampshire, and her B.A. in History from the University of Toronto. She is an alum of the Harvard Ukrainian Summer Institute and a former fiction editor of Barnstorm Journal.
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My starter bubbles—strong, alive.
I knead the dough, loose and sticky, clinging to my hands. I almost give up before the gluten finally activates, pulling the mess together. You kick hard, under my left rib. Deep breath. I vowed not to fall in love this early—again. My hands fold, form, force the dough into a perfect sphere. I swallow the need to feel you under my hands. The boule rises perfectly. But I know disaster can still strike in the bake. I wait impatiently, allowing a slice of hope that this time you’ll emerge golden, whole. That I did enough. * * * Christy Hartman pens short fiction from her home between the ocean and mountains of Vancouver Island, Canada. Christy has been shortlisted for Bath and Bridport Flash Fiction prizes and is a two-time New York City Midnight winner. She has been published by Sky Island Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, Sunlight Press, and others.
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No one reacts on the first day. Doomsdays have “threatened” Earth before, but nothing ever happens. This will be the same.
A light appears near the moon by the second day. Everyone takes selfies for clout. Some start withdrawing their life’s savings. “Why aren’t we doing anything about this?” The question is passed around by the third day like a hookah. “We need to do something.” No one does. By day four, there is no night. Claustrophobia runs rampant. Fights break out. Geiger counters click. The first roofs catch fire. Day five, six, and seven: it’s so hot. It’s so hot. It’s so hot. * * * Kathleen Wagner is a writer from North Carolina that dabbles in many forms. With a few poems published in literary magazines under her belt, her biggest dream is to write novels that both touch the heart in unusual ways and entertain readers with slapstick-esque humor.
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Honorable Mentions
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The AIDS crisis was winding down when I returned to hospital nursing in 1996.
Occasionally, I still detour when I drive across town. Past Ethereal Flats where Arthur rented. Past Mike’s place. His morning glories clawed their way to the third floor windowsill. Past Randy’s, the last house on the right before the steep descent to the river. Jason’s house was demolished—another Dollar General—but I drive by anyway. These men—like me: Late twenties. In their eyes: Grit, then terror, finally disinterest. I’ve been gifted thirty more years of joy and wonder. Fear and uncertainty too. Saying goodbye to this life should be only now crossing their minds. * * * 
Jan Allen is an old lady who is loving retirement, especially the time it allows her for writing. Her stories have appeared in Pithead Chapel, Fiction on the Web, The Orange Rose and a few others.
To him, it was neighborly banter. To me, a reality check, biting as the 20-mph wind chill.
“My wife would never shovel, even if I were on my last leg.” I started shoveling at sunrise to get to the pharmacy for my husband’s post-chemo prescriptions and to the clinic with doctor’s orders for a blood-draw with results by noon. Saturday plows don’t come by until eleven. Too late to secure a timely lab report with indication of our next step to stave off infection as his immune system caves. Hospitalization? Or will oral antibiotics suffice? My chapped lips split with a knowing smile. “Of course she would.” * * * 
Lisa Bernard is a CT-based, award-winning writer of creative and nature nonfiction, keen on humankind’s interior spaces and wildlife in its habitat. Lately, she’s published fiction and completed her debut novel. Links in her ink? A quill that reveals the heart of the matter in her native NY minute.
Mum’s breathing vibrates wrong, like strumming a distuned guitar.
“Need help?” I ask, reaching for the peeler. She swims through jelly to tap my hand away. “Sit. Let me use my energy on this.” I slide into my usual seat, longing for chatty banter. But time’s too short for banalities. Besides, she’s concentrating. Shaking hands layer lasagna sheets. Disease-slackened skin hangs over feathery bones, veins popping blue and worn from prodding needles. “Help me put it in the oven.” I lift the heavy dish for her. Mum sits. Brushes her hand across her eyes. Winces, but she’s still breathing. When she lifts her head, she smiles. “So, how was school?” * * * 
Jo Binns lives in Melbourne, Australia. She likes staying fit, but is thwarted by gin martinis, cheese, and sitting down to read. Jo’s words can be found in Crepuscular Magazine and Elegant Literature, and awarded stories from ScribesMICRO and Not Quite Write.
Summer, 1979. I wasn’t the only military brat in my school, but I was the only one with a mom like Soey. So I was horrified when she volunteered to be a chaperone on our trip out West, wearing her shiny raincoat as she sang show tunes on the bus from Mount Rushmore to Yellowstone.
As wisps of steam rose from Old Faithful she shouted, “Thar she blows!” The geyser sputtered out and the class groaned. Mom shrugged. I wiped her painted kiss from my reddened cheek. But now, the steam blows the whistle of the teapot, and I smile as I swirl bright honey in my mother’s faded cup. * * * 
Jennifer Chapman is currently pursuing a Newport MFA in Fiction at Salve Regina University. She loves to travel and recently took an epic road trip through the West. Jennifer lives in the Chicago area, where most of the time she’s either writing or working in the library at Lake Forest College.
An educational consultant with impeccable skin lectures our department via videoconference. Your students, she says, are already using artificial intelligence to cheat. This is a threat to your school’s academic integrity.
She shows us a website that can calculate the probability that a student plagiarized using chatbot text. Software created to fix a problem that software created. I’m transfixed by her countenance—slim jawline, large blue eyes, unnaturally full lips. Her complexion is flawless, impossibly, and that’s what gives it away: She’s using a filter, presenting someone else’s version of beauty as her own. * * * 
Chris Cochran is a professional English teacher and amateur writer whose work has appeared in Santa Barbara Literary Journal, Dunes Review, Doubleback Review, The 2024 Northwind Treasury, and Write Michigan 2023 Anthology. He lives in Michigan with his wife and son.
How does it feel to be a fly trapped in someone’s attic? It’s suffocating. Hopeless.
At least I’m not lonely. I’ve been stuck here my whole life. See that corpse hanging from the rafters? My entire generation was hatched inside his left eye socket. Talk about flourishing real estate. Our maggots have brought new life to his decaying gaze, but I’m sick of it. Being trapped is a serious buzzkill. All I need is a way out. The stench of living has me begging for a new metamorphosis. It’s a depressing existence. I’ve never believed in reincarnation, you know. But I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that body was once mine. * * * 
R.J. Dashfield is a self-diagnosed writer; he’s been suffering the pages of various passion projects for approximately three years, living his life in Glasgow, and, having recently completed his first book manuscript, the 25-year-old book-muncher aspires to one day make a stable living out of making people shiver.
He said it was an early Christmas present. That was in September, so at least he got one thing right. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d given me anything, no matter what time of year. Certainly never a box of paints.
‘After forty years of marriage, you should know I’m not the artistic type, ‘ I said. ‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘You can learn. Everyone needs a hobby.’ It turned out that he’d seen a television programme of a chimpanzee painting watercolours and the owner of the chimp making a lot of money from them. It wasn’t long after that that I filed for divorce.
* * * 
Mel Fawcett lives in London. Over the years, his stories have appeared in various print and online magazines, including Interpreter’s House, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Smokebox, The Nonconformist Magazine, Roadside Fiction, and, of course, ScribesMICRO. Mel can also be seen reading one of his stories (“Unstable”) on YouTube.
The explorer knew love—she’d roamed its expanses, mapping its mighty landmarks and miserable limits. Her twenties were a storm of romances. Sex sizzled like lightning and hearts thundered. Then those loves receded over the horizon like rain clouds.
Her husband offered a more permanent love—tree-like and rooted. It bore fruit in the form of two walking, wondrous universes. A jackknifing truck taught her permanence was a lie. She severed all ties, collected the insurance, and sold everything. She had enough money to disappear into the world’s limitless embrace, a backpacked wanderer. She’d love the world now. That was safe. She’d leave it, but it could never leave her. * * * 
Jaime Gill is a British-born writer living in Cambodia. He reads, writes, boxes, travels, and occasionally socialises. His stories have appeared in Fractured, Trampset, Oyster River, NFFR, f(r)iction, Litro, etc and won awards including a Bridport Prize and the Luminaire Prose Award. He’s currently working on a novel. More: www.jaimegill.com.
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.
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“Stan, I can make you rich.”
First thing any armadillo ever said to me. Fresh from an MRI, brain foggy and dizzy, I spotted him at my bird feeder. “The magnetics realigned your brain,” he said. “Now you understand me. Most armadillos are financial geniuses—we dig for hidden assets and roll into a ball when the market dives.” His plan: invest in a tiny guava jam startup in Paraguay. Headquarters? His burrow under my deck. By sunset I had pages of scribbled notes—and one pressing question: call my broker, or my doctor? * * * 
Ray Goodrich trained dolphins, won eighteen Emmys, ran seven marathons, then decided to become an author. His debut thriller novel, Nature Of Evil, was long-listed for the Cheshire Novel Prize and will hopefully find representation in 2026. A native Floridian, he now lives and writes in North Carolina.
“You can spend the night or you can go, but it’s past my bedtime. And just so you know, I’m a big spoon.” She nonchalantly gets up and gathers the to-go boxes, as if that was the most normal thing to say at the end of a third date.
I decide to stay. Lying in bed, I hear a click and the room goes dark. She slips behind me, wraps her arms around my chest, and nine years of not being held rush into my right eye. She squeezes me a little tighter. I blink and nine years trickle down my cheeks and disappear into her pillow. * * * 
T.J. Jourian is a Middle-Eastern Armenian, trans writer. After unceremoniously leaving academia, he’s been honing a non-academic writing voice to tell stories itching to bust out of him. To feed and shelter himself and his cat, he currently does too much—a hodgepodge of gigs so workplaces can suck less.
I did not jump off the bridge. I drank a Diet Coke and put on neon red lipstick. Then I walked back to the convention center and tried to find the Crescent Ballroom. I had four minutes to run down two escalators and a crowded hallway. I should have jumped. I entered the rear of the ballroom. A woman with hot pink highlights gave me a handout as the speaker was introduced. She was thirty-three and best known for her book on treatments for bipolar depression. As the applause started, I strode up the center aisle and took the podium.
* * * 
Elizabeth J. Kenny is a long-time closet fiction writer who is just beginning to share her work. Her stories often explore rural settings, family dynamics, or characters struggling with mental health issues. Elizabeth grew up in New York and currently lives in Louisville, KY.
When we were children, Mother tied our mittens, one on either end of a piece of string, and threaded them through the sleeves of our winter coats. When we held hands, the string always tangled, joining us together. We thought that string was magical, that it would keep everything from getting lost. Now, I’m hoping that is true as I watch the tubes stringing through your body and the tangled line on the heart monitor. The hospital is too warm for coats, but your hand is snow cold. If tomorrow comes, I’ll bring your mittens.
* * * 
Terri Mullholland (she/her) is a writer, researcher, and teacher living in London, UK. Her flash fiction has appeared in various journals and anthologies, including Ellipsis Zine, Litro, and Mercurious. Her pamphlet of hybrid pieces Weather / Patterns was published by intergraphia books. She loves stories, cats, and tea.
26 weeks pregnant and my baby has stopped moving. No kicks, nothing.
Not again. Please. Last time was 19 weeks. Better, but I can’t relax. My doctor sends me to the hospital saying I’ve ‘earned the right to be paranoid’. He’s sure everything’s fine. While I’m waiting, nervously, for the ultrasound she starts moving! She’s an acrobat. Full of energy. Everything is okay! Until 10 days later, when it’s not. She is stillborn. Dead because her cord couldn’t give her enough oxygen. Later, the realization: I’d felt her fighting for air, struggling to survive, dying inside me. At the time, I’d been happy. * * * 
Cathy Oliver was born in the U.K. but moved to Canada at the age of 13. She now lives in Wasaga Beach, Ontario with her husband, two newly adult children, and her dog. Currently recovering from a stem cell transplant for MS she is finally giving writing a try!
Lester had always sensed the comforting presence of his mother’s spirit whenever he returned to his childhood home after an overseas contract. He had rented the house out this time, thinking his mother’s ghost might enjoy the company.
Now, standing in his living room once more, he could detect no trace of his mother’s familiar warmth. On the contrary, the room was chilled, an overwhelming darkness pressing in from all sides, just beyond his peripheral vision. It hadn’t occurred to Lester that the renters would come with their own histories--or that those dark phantoms could push his mother out. * * * 
Robert Runté is Senior Editor with EssentialEdits.ca. A former professor, he has won four Aurora Awards for his literary criticism and currently reviews for the Ottawa Review of Books. His own fiction has been published over 130 times, and several of his short stories have been reprinted in "best of" collections.
On the edge of Maple and Fifth stood the loneliest lamp post in town. Rusted and chipped, she cast her warm yellow glow over cracked sidewalks and weary footsteps.
She’d seen lovers meet, children hurry home through the rain, and the same old man limp past nightly at eight. One summer, a teenager wept beneath her light. Snow buried her base in winter, bugs swarmed her glow in summer. Through sleet and storms, when trees bent in surrender, she burned on. But no one ever whispered, “Thank you.” Not a glance or breath of gratitude for her faithful watch—until the evening the tiny girl looked up, smiled, and waved. * * * 
M.D. Smith IV of Huntsville, Alabama, writer of over 350 flash stories, has published digitally in Frontier Times, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bewilderingstories.com, and many more. Retired from running a television station, he lives with his wife of 64 years and three cats.
“Al, this one’s on me. What flavor do you want?”
“What are you talking about, Mel?” “On the flavor board up there…” Mel pointed. They were on their hands and knees in the middle of the desert. There was only sand, more sand, the brutal sun, and a few ugly buzzards in a cloudless sky. “Do you want vanilla, or chocolate, or…” “Mel, we’re dying of thirst in the desert here.” Could they even make it to the next sand dune? “You’re hallucinating again.” “Look, Al… It says they’re out of cookie dough.” “No cookie dough ice cream?” “Right.” “What kind of hallucination is that?” * * * 
David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).
I still keep these rituals, taking the long way for Old Li’s pork buns before visiting Grandma. The doctor says she no longer remembers. But I do. They were her favorite.
The hospital corridor erupts: screams, rushing bodies, a baby’s piercing cry. Through the crowd I glimpse a knife sink into a white coat’s abdomen, blood blooming like untimely flowers. Security lunges, nurses shout for pressure, chaos unfolding only steps away. I hurry into the ward with the warm bag. Grandma sits by the window, then turns with a tender smile. “Listen,” she says. “So lively this Spring Festival, firecrackers everywhere.” Sirens wail closer, sharper. “Yes,” I answer. “Lively. Celebrating.” * * * 
Huina Zheng is a writer and college essay coach based in Guangzhou, China. Her work appears in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and other journals. She’s a four-time Best of the Net, five-time Pushcart, and Best Small Fictions nominee.
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