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 # 53
December 30, 2025
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Robin Blasberg * Angela Carlton * Jay Castello *
* Chris Cochran * Nicole Cremeans * Nicholas De Marino *
* Joe Greco * Irfan Hassan * Gabriella Dolores Menezes *
* K.L. Mill * Jennifer Monsen * Mike Murphy *
* Karama Neal * Vinnie Oakes * Jason Pearce *
* Julia Rajagopalan * Donald A. Ranard *
* Tracy Royce * Greg Schwartz * Van Wallach *
* Robin Blasberg * Angela Carlton * Jay Castello *
* Chris Cochran * Nicole Cremeans * Nicholas De Marino *
* Joe Greco * Irfan Hassan * Gabriella Dolores Menezes *
* K.L. Mill * Jennifer Monsen * Mike Murphy *
* Karama Neal * Vinnie Oakes * Jason Pearce *
* Julia Rajagopalan * Donald A. Ranard *
* Tracy Royce * Greg Schwartz * Van Wallach *
Book Review
Tension Wrench
& 99 Other Micro Horror Stories
by Johnzy Zombee
Reviewed by Matthew P.S. Salinas
Welcome to our fifty-third issue of ScribesMICRO. I’m the Special Features Editor Matthew P.S. Salinas, and our interview today is with Johnzy Zombee, with a review of his short story collection Tension Wrench & 99 Other Micro Horror Stories.
Johnzy Zombee is an Irish filmmaker, writer and paranormal investigator. His prose and screenwriting work span horror, including the psychological horror subgenre, with several of his short stories featured on Creepy Pod. He also holds a BA (Hons) in Film & Broadcasting and is a trained screen actor. His college graduate film, Battle Scars, earned a Royal Television Society Best Drama award and has reached over half a million views on his YouTube channel. The channel also features a series of personal videos documenting his experiences on Zyprexa, blending his candid storytelling style with insights into mental health and psychiatry.
Johnzy Zombee is an Irish filmmaker, writer and paranormal investigator. His prose and screenwriting work span horror, including the psychological horror subgenre, with several of his short stories featured on Creepy Pod. He also holds a BA (Hons) in Film & Broadcasting and is a trained screen actor. His college graduate film, Battle Scars, earned a Royal Television Society Best Drama award and has reached over half a million views on his YouTube channel. The channel also features a series of personal videos documenting his experiences on Zyprexa, blending his candid storytelling style with insights into mental health and psychiatry.
|
Photo by Michael Leonard
|
Congratulations to our 2025 Pushcart Prize nominees!
Fiction
My Little Girl by Gabriella Dolores Menezes I remember the day they brought her home like it was yesterday. The first spring rains were just beginning to hit my branches as I looked at the tiny newcomer.
That spring and her babyhood were fleeting. Soon, she was a bold little character, happy to play in the mud all summer and jump in piles of my leaves in the fall. I’ll admit, I grew attached. She cried when they had to move away. I would’ve, too. Humans forget a lot, and I don’t know whether she’ll remember me. But trees never forget; I’ll always remember my little girl. * * * Gabriella Dolores Menezes is an autistic, emerging writer from Washington state who writes speculative and surreal flash fiction.
The Ten-Year-Old Caregiver by Angela Carlton After my sister’s funeral, neighbors bring delicious food, but mother won’t eat. The whiskeys beside her, eyes empty, mouth turned down like a pansy wilting in the sun. Dirty-dirty hair, sour-smelling flesh like the sheets beneath her. She’ll lie there in that ratty bathrobe glaring at nothing.
Still, I’ll open windows, play her favorite records. She likes songs by the blind man with the w-o-n-d-e-r word in his name. He sings about believing in things that you don’t understand. “You like that?” I´ll whisper. And maybe there will be a part of her that won´t look through me, something could stir inside. My mother will listen, she’ll know I’m here. * * * Angela Carlton’s fiction has been published in Every Writer, Everyday Fiction, 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.
Clockwork Girls by Jay Castello Clockwork girls wind each other up. It’s a motto in the community. When there’s a key in each of your backs that you can’t reach but needs turning every day, you help each other out. Those bonds grow into a cup of sugar between neighbours. Cash handed over for an unexpected bill. No expectation of repayment, but the knowledge of return in kind when it’s needed. Clockwork girls wind each other up.
That kind of closeness breeds resentment. Rumours whispered behind hands. Poorly disguised sniping at disliked associates. A string of small, needling cruelties. Clockwork girls wind each other up. * * * Jay Castello is a freelance writer, editor, and podcast host based in Sheffield, UK. If they're not down a research rabbit hole you'll probably find them taking bad photographs near a riverbank or old tree, but you can also try Bluesky, or their website.
Image by Felicia Ruiz
Textbook Romance by Chris Cochran Her frantic pencil rustles like dry leaves across her sketchbook, falling silent only when he raises his hand to speak. He’s pretentious, sure, but it’s hard to hide intellect in a lecture hall among classmates incapable of original thought.
His response, though insightful, fails to elicit discussion. He sits, having stood to address the room, a custom she imagines he learned at private school. Convinced he’s desperate for approval, she makes eye contact. He quickly looks away, and his disinterest lands with unexpected force. She buries the sting in her sketchbook, breaking lead on overworked lines. * * * 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.
Micro Revenge by Joe Greco She’d become a famous novelist; I was lucky to get my microfiction published.
At a party with literary friends last month she said, “If his stories get any shorter, they’ll fit on those little papers inside fortune cookies.” They all snickered. Tonight, she returned from another book signing. I dished her some take-out Chinese while she crowed about her adoring fans. When she finished, I gave her a homemade fortune cookie. She opened it, smirking, and read aloud: “There once was an arrogant princess, done in by cyanide in the chow mein.” Her eyes widened. I grinned. “It’s just microfiction, princess.” * * * Joe Greco is a lawyer and writer who lives on California’s Central Coast. His flash fiction and microfiction have appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, 101 Words, Literary Heist, Right Hand Pointing, Long Story Short, and other publications.
Close by Tracy Royce The bears look like yearlings. My husband and I watch them gnaw on each other, leaves in their fur as they tumble and sprawl in the middle of the street. Absorbed in play, they seem oblivious to our presence—until we step closer, eager for a better view. They stop tussling, split apart, head for opposite sides of the road. And then turn. The bears are coming our way now, gazing at us as they advance.
“They’re flanking us,” I say, as we back up slowly, trying not to trip on the cracked asphalt, trying not to make another mistake. * * * Tracy Royce is a poet and writer with words in The Dribble Drabble Review, Does It Have Pockets, The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen's Quinterly, ONE ART, and elsewhere. She lives in Southern California, where she hikes in the region's many mountains. You can find her on Bluesky.
Photo by Marcel Langthim
The Memory Gardener by Irfan Hassan Her mind was a garden I was hired to weed. “Just the thorns,” she whispered, her voice thin as paper. I worked carefully, snipping away shadowed betrayals and rusted heartbreaks. Then, I found it. A memory of her son’s laughter, bright and wild on a sun-drenched beach. It was a single, perfect rose. But its roots were sunk deep in the black soil of grief from the wave that followed. She wanted the pain gone, but you can’t separate the bloom from the root. I left it standing, a beautiful, terrible thing. A gardener’s failure.
* * * Irfan Hassan is a storyteller who finds extraordinary tales in ordinary moments. He believes a good story, no matter its size, can change the way we see the world.
Ship in a Bottle by Robin Blasberg My father had thought the streets would be paved with gold. But he rarely had a job in America. He kept himself busy building a boat in a bottle. He said it was a treasure ship that would bring us riches. When Mama was promoted to head housekeeper, though, my father stopped working on his craft. He became irritable. Then he was gone. Years later, I finished his ship, and I took it to the shore. I tossed the bottle into the ocean hoping the currents would carry it to my father. I didn’t want him to forget his treasure.
* * * Robin Blasberg's stories often make connections in unanticipated ways. Expect the unexpected because clever twists and surprise endings are trademarks of her work. Her writing has been published in The Pink Hydra, ScribesMICRO, and Short Circuit online. Her plays are available from Big Dog Publishing and YouthPLAYS.
Somewhere, Beyond the Sea by Mike Murphy Roberta despised the waves.
The sandcastle, being built far up shore, was how Gramma liked it. “We’ll live in a castle one day,” she assured the girl before the sickness came. Due to the storm, the earliest flight out to her was tonight. The tide rising, Roberta refused to leave. She had to finish. She worked frantically, the sea lapping at her toes. Castle Gramma was complete—but only momentarily. The waves took it, bit by bit. Mom’s phone rang… the ring reserved for Gramma’s doctor. Roberta clutched at some sand and wept into what might have been. * * * Mike Murphy has had over 150 audio plays dramatized, won many awards, and had two short film scripts produced.
|
One Toe In, One Toe Out by Julia Rajagopalan When I died, I went to the beach. Floating above the fickle ocean edge, where seafoam frothed like a milky cappuccino, I placed one foot in the water and one on the sand.
Soon she arrived, dressed in black, carrying a somber gray jar, leading two sad friends, their faces shining wet. “This was her favorite place,” she said, then tilted the jar. Dust blew out, half on the land, the rest in the sea, as clouds slid in over a pinkish-orange sunset. I placed a hand on her shoulder, but she shivered, so I removed it, letting her be. * * * Julia Rajagopalan is a writer of speculative fiction who lives just outside of Detroit, Michigan, with her husband and their very grumpy dog. For a list of her publications, check out her website: www.JuliaRajagopalan.com.
Diviner 3000 TM—Smart Divining Rod, Lightweight by Karama Neal The Diviner was making me sick. I had it pointed at the TV and it beeped and displayed the President’s name whenever he spoke. I’d programmed it to detect lies.
He spoke, it beeped, I raged. My blood pressure was getting worse so I considered selling the Diviner. I certainly didn’t need it to know he was lying. “I can’t change anything anyway,” I said as I turned off the TV. The Diviner beeped and displayed my name. Had I lied? Was there actually something I could do to help change our political state? Perhaps so. Maybe I’ll keep it. * * * Karama Neal lives, writes, and thrives in the Lower Mississippi River Watershed. Her fiction has appeared in 101 Words, Bewildering Stories, and Stygian Lepus, among others.
The Catalyst by Jason Pearce Making death is like making love. Heavily mood dependent. But moods can be formulated, a personalized chemical reaction. For my reactions, laughter is the catalyst.
It starts with a loosening of back muscles, my diaphragm preparing for its mission. The lightness of being wafts up my insides, a glow filling my eyes. My head tosses back and giggles erupt, cutting through the club’s din. This stand-up artist surpasses my expectations. I roll through his set, slapping knees, guffawing on cue. He sounds close to finishing. I slip past security and wait backstage, scalpel in hand and laughter in my heart. * * * Jason Pearce is an Ontario-based fiction writer whose work has appeared in Grain, Flash Fiction Online and The Deadlands. His flash fiction story “A Concise History of the Goldfish Trade” has been nominated for the 2026 Pushcart Prize. He recently finished his first novel with the generous assistance of the Ontario Arts Council.
What Haunts Me by Jennifer Monsen I used to fear the faceless man. Not anymore.
He sits across in the shadows, his usual spot. If he can speak, he never has to me. I used to think he was Sam, but not anymore. Sam never had such good posture, or such jerky movements. Truth is, I don’t know what haunts me. I don’t know what draws him. I only know that on nights like this, he’s here. The clock chimes. He’s gone, like he was never there. But I know better. “Thanks for the company,” I murmur, grateful I no longer spend the bad nights alone. * * * Jennifer Monsen works as a music therapist by day. By night she is an aspiring writer with a bent towards the strange and the fantastic. Her first love is storytelling in all its forms; her second love is pizza. Find her at https://jentellingstories.blogspot.com.
A Dream of Paradise by Donald A. Ranard Who would’ve thought? Here I am in Heaven--me of all people—and there he is, my kid brother, handsome and healthy, with a full head of hair, the way he looked before the cancer. We hug, something we never allowed ourselves to do before. Look who they’re letting into Heaven these days, we joke—we must be on provisional visas. I’m sorry, I say and begin to weep. I should’ve been a better brother. No, no, he says, putting his arm around my shoulder, none of that matters now, not here, and all that we feel, all that remains, is love.
* * * Donald A. Ranard is an award-winning writer whose work has appeared in The Atlantic, New World Writing Quarterly, The Los Angeles Review, Vestal Review, The Washington Post, The Best Travel Writing, and elsewhere. In 2022, his play ELBOW APPLE CARPET SADDLE BUBBLE placed second in Savage Wonder Theater’s playwriting contest.
Wormhole by Greg Schwartz None of us could’ve imagined what existed on the other side. We all had our guesses, but the reality was far more terrifying.
We emerged into a nightmare world draped in disarray. War was king—creatures fought each other to the death seemingly at random. There was no order to be found… at least none that made any sense. Hideous monsters fed on the misery of others. Chaos was the only constant. Shocked and saddened, we returned home and reported our findings. The elders immediately ordered the wormhole sealed. None of our kind would ever set foot on Earth again. * * * Greg Schwartz writes speculative fiction and poetry. He lives with his wife, children, and dog.
Body Surfing by Nicole Cremeans On good days, he remembers he’s old, even when the mirror’s reflection is unrecognizable. His nurses murmur his name when he asks. They force him to eat. He’d rather sleep.
“What a lovely fresh body,” they compliment. As if he has a choice. “You’ll get at least fifty years out of it.” Why won’t they let him die? The new bodies beg him not to eat them. Hunger drowns them out, and the cycle starts again. Only his mind ages. He’s grateful for dementia, for forgetting centuries of violence, but demon kings must endure. There’s no rest for the wicked.
* * * Nicole Cremeans accidentally majored in accounting and is trying to make up for it through her writing. A native Texan, Colorado always called to her soul, and she finally listened several years ago. When not glaring at a manuscript that refuses to write itself, Nicole can be found rock climbing with her husband, playing with her kid and dogs, or discovering a new whiskey for her smoked old fashioneds. She is agented by Bonnie Swanson at FinePrint Literary Management.
No-Elf by K. L. Mill “It’s slave labor!” Snuffly’s pointed ears pinkened when he got angry. “We work 364 days a year—for what? Extra peppermint in our hot chocolate on Christmas?”
A murmur of dissension arose from the toy factory floor. Snuffly had just started chanting, “Hey, hey, ho-ho-ho, Santa Claus has got to go,” when he was whisked into the Big Man’s office. Laying a finger aside of his nose, St. Nick pondered the elf’s proposal… CORPORATE MEMO:
“We are pleased to announce Snuffly Gingerball’s promotion to our South Pole location, effective immediately. Celebration to follow with eggnog and freshly ground Christmas sausage.”
* * * K. L. Mill is a voice actor who writes fiction that’s short and a little strange. Like herself. Most recently her work has been published by Small Wonders, Cursed Morsels and Crepuscular Magazine.
|
Creative Nonfiction
Photo by Marco Pozzi
Alan Freed's Christmas Jubilee by Vinnie Oakes On New Years Day 1958, Bill and I, aged thirteen and fourteen, had scraped together enough money to hop a bus from Teaneck headed into the city. We then took the subway to Times Square, and after stepping over a drunk lying in the gutter on Broadway, we arrived at the Paramount Theatre.
For about $1.50, we got to see Alan Freed’s Christmas Jubilee, a live show with Fats Domino, The Everly Brothers, Jerry Lee Lewis, Paul Anka, Buddy Holly, and about a dozen other rock and roll legends. It was a great show, but what remember most was stepping over a drunk. * * * Vinnie Oakes spent half a lifetime in restaurants, hotels, and casinos, and is the author of Sauté Them Babies, his memoir detailing some of his adventures “in the biz.” He has been a food banker for the past 20 years, and resides in Reno, Nevada.
|
The Lady and the Gentleman by Van Wallach I was strolling to my condo building when a woman, dressed to the nines, walked ahead to the entrance. She couldn’t open the door. “I’ll get you in,” I said.
“I’m looking for the restaurant,” she replied, referring to an upscale place in the building’s commercial level. “I can walk you there,” I said, so we strolled around the corner. She slipped her arm into mine. “Aren’t you the gentleman!” As I left her at the reservation desk, she asked, “Can I buy you a drink?” I passed on the offer, sensing she had already planned an exciting night. * * * Van Wallach is a writer in Reading, Mass. He's a native of Mission, Texas and a graduate of Princeton University. Besides writing short fiction, blog posts and journalism, he's also a veteran open-mic performer at venues like the Hudson Valley Writers Center.
Photo by Alessandra Conte
|
|
Blink by Nicholas De Marino Here’s what it felt like: I hear myself speak, and I’m already gone, ears buzzing, limbs numb, terrified, and it feels like facing my father, and she’s really a proxy for him and I desperately, physically crave his/her attention and approval, and there’s this lump in my throat, and this moment is never going to end, and I’ll never breathe ever again, and I just want to hold our daughter, run my fingers through her hair and say “everything will be okay” until I believe it too, and never, ever let her go, and here goes: “I want a divorce.”
* * * Nicholas De Marino is a former journalist, neurodivergent poet, and published crackpot. He founded 5enses and is a foofaraw columnist. He likes petting spiders and watching cats. SFPA and Codex, too. More at nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
|
Editor's Corner
Photo by Dimitris Vetsikas
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. With flood waters rising every hour, all of their downstream lodges were threatened. Wally summoned a crew of their sharpest Genus Castors and sent them to the predesignated choke spot upstream. The crew divided into a widening V formation before making landfall on opposite banks. One by one trees were felled, interlacing like wooden fingers. As dawn broke, the flow had been stemmed just enough to allow a gentle receding. The crew, sore-jawed and exhausted, lay recuperating amongst heaping piles of sawdust. Wally stood proud along the bank. He knew they’d almost bitten off more than they could chew.
|
When Shigeo drowned in a well, Yuriko thought it bad luck. After Raiden succumbed to a fever, she was heartbroken. She tore her breast at Jirou’s funeral and cried endlessly for Daiki. So when Fumio began to court her, she went immediately to the family shrine.
“Please,” she prayed. “Protect Fumio, so that I may finally marry.” The ancestors cast their eyes over the hapless Fumio, just like they had each time Yuriko came to them with a name. “Too lazy.” “Too ugly.” “Not good enough.” The next day, Yuriko heard the dreadful news about what had happened to Fumio. While the mortals sleep, I dream. Wide awake, with shifty eyes poised on an un-eclipsing sun. My memories prepare to dance. There are no sounds in the bedchamber of my mind. Echoes are nonexistent and visions are all colorless. Traumatic experiences and triumphant elation join hands as they take turns on the dance floor. The tempos change and their shoes scuff the pristine tile. Leaving only traces of revelations to be washed off by the mental mopping of a forced reconciliation. Coming to terms with the futility of dreams, of nightmares, and of hope, I vow never to sleep again.
Photo by Mary Ann Gregoriou
|
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.