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 *
* Felicia Strangeways * Amita Basu * Leslie Burton-Lopez *
* Vincent Convertito * Benjamin Barouch *
Editors Emeritus:
* Ira Rosofsky * Micah C. Brown * Scott Bogart * Julie Cadman *
* 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 *
* Felicia Strangeways * Amita Basu * Leslie Burton-Lopez *
* Vincent Convertito * Benjamin Barouch *
Editors Emeritus:
* Ira Rosofsky * Micah C. Brown * Scott Bogart * Julie Cadman *
Issue # 54
January 31, 2026
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Robin Blasberg * DG Bracey * Michele Catalano *
* Chris Clemens * M.A. Dosser * Elliott Fielding *
* Franki Halliwell * Lee Hammerschmidt * Christy Hartman *
* Vali Hawkins-Mitchell * Beetle Holloway * Jon Krafchek *
* Diane Lee * Sarah Nolan * J.S. O'Keefe *
* Julia Rajagopalan * Marla Sterling * Ann Stolinsky *
* T.L. Tomljanovic * Van Wallach * Huina Zheng *
* Robin Blasberg * DG Bracey * Michele Catalano *
* Chris Clemens * M.A. Dosser * Elliott Fielding *
* Franki Halliwell * Lee Hammerschmidt * Christy Hartman *
* Vali Hawkins-Mitchell * Beetle Holloway * Jon Krafchek *
* Diane Lee * Sarah Nolan * J.S. O'Keefe *
* Julia Rajagopalan * Marla Sterling * Ann Stolinsky *
* T.L. Tomljanovic * Van Wallach * Huina Zheng *
Book Review
Words at Play
Edited by Ed Ahern
Reviewed by Alison McBain
The Poets: Ed Ahern
Sadiqua Asad Adele Evershed Dearta Logu Fusaro Alicia Gignoux Francie Grace Edward Kabak Pam Klem Janet Krauss Wayne Lysobey Ray Rauth Christopher Seep Marsha Temlock Debra Wagner Marsha Whitman D. C. Wilkinson |
I was happy to get a sneak peak at the forthcoming poetry collection Words at Play, an anthology put together by our very own editor at ScribesMICRO, Edward Ahern. Ed is the moderator for an in-person writing group in Wilton, Connecticut that meets once a month in the local library. He gathered together a number of the regularly attending poets to contribute to this collection, and the results are a diverse grouping of poems in all styles, from formal to free verse, from neatly delivered rhymes to sweeping and musical poetry.
The poets all contributed 1-2 poems, and the collection starts out with Sadiqua Azad’s rallying cry of “I am not a noun, I am a verb” in the poem “Identity.” This poem is one of my favorites of the collection with its strongly worded message and compelling themes. It explores how a person’s identity is wrapped up in labels, but that an individual is more than the sum of what other people see in them—not something static (“a noun”) but a creation in motion (“a verb”). There are moments of humor in the collection, such as Wayne Lysobey’s “Oyster Shucker,” a rhymed poem that reminds me of how Shel Silverstein tackles relatable subjects with a twist by taking an everyday premise and pushing it to the absurd. Another one is “Unscheduled Stop” by Francie Grace, which likens a train ride to a can of salty sardines. These bright spots of humor do a good job of contrasting with the serious subjects of other poems, such as the grieving themes of Marsha Temlock’s “Airplane” or the somber reflections about family found in Ray Rauth’s “Pebble on Stone.” There are also the poems that are one step away from being set to music, such as Dee Logu’s “It’s the same old song.” The rhythm and dialect of Logu’s verse strongly reminds me of the beautiful musicality found in the words of one my favorite poets, Langston Hughes. Other poets in the collection play with poetic form and the visual aspects of the written word, such as “The Quaking Aspen” by Debra Wagner. As you can see, this is an eclectic group of Connecticut writers who have produced a variety of entertaining and thought-provoking poems. I highly recommend this anthology to lovers of verse; in its pages, there's a poem to please every discerning reader. It will be available for purchase in February 2026. |
Photo by Michael Leonard
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In Memoriam
To the writer & editor friends we've lost in 2025, we'd like to take a moment
to revisit their work and their contributions to ScribesMICRO. We will miss you.
to revisit their work and their contributions to ScribesMICRO. We will miss you.
Ira Rosofsky was a valued editor at ScribesMICRO as well as a member of Fairfield Scribes, the writing group which launched our small press. He had a sly sense of humor in both his writing and our get-togethers, and he was working on a compelling picaresque novel for the years we've known him, a masterpiece yet to be published. His debut novel, Nasty, Brutish, and Long: Adventures in Eldercare, was a finalist for the Connecticut Book Award.
Ordinals by Marla Sterling Numbers are important
I calculate how many times I have folded the soft indigo throw that sits beside the couch Fewer times than I have folded hampers-full of underwear and tees emerging fresh scented and clean, whites and darks together The scoured floor below the family table where I deliver our meals whispers scratch by scratch how often we’ve hiked ourselves close first, apart after Like the winter birds I wait for, still, to see who and how many will flock to the feeder It’s important to divide the sums fairly when it’s time so soon for an accounting * * * "Ordinals" was originally published in ScribesMICRO's Issue # 15 and nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
Marla Sterling’s writing was another passion in her life, following careers as actor, storyteller, and teacher, with degrees from NYU in Education and MFA from Manhattanville College in Creative Writing. Her work has been published in Plum Tree Tavern, ScribesMICRO, Connecticut Bards Poetry Anthology, and elsewhere. She lived in Connecticut, where contact with the garden, woods, and beach invigorated and inspired her daily. |
Fiction
Photo by Engin Akyurt
Living During Covid by Ann Stolinsky I espy my friend sitting at the table, talking on her phone. I shake my head as I wind through the tables to reach her. I sit and take a sip from the wine glass in front of me.
“He’s had all his shots?” My eyebrows raise at my friend’s comment. “Okay, my friend’s here. We’re going to have lunch. I’ll think about this and get back to you.” We raise our glasses, and toast to each other. “That phone call, sorry, I overheard. Are you getting a dog?” “No,” she answered, almost spitting out her wine. “A blind date.” * * * Ann Stolinsky is an author, and a partner in Gemini Wordsmiths LLC, a full-service copyediting and content creating company. Visit www.geminiwordsmiths.com for more information and testimonials. She is also a partner in Celestial Echo Press. Her short stories have been published in 30+ anthologies.
A Laundry Dad Horror Story by Van Wallach After my daughter Debbie’s birth, I became Laundry Dad. Daily I lugged wipes, nursing bras, and spit-up stained onesies to our basement laundry room. Mom Shira appreciated the fresh baby supplies. Then I got cocky, dumping two loads in. Full to the top, double the detergent. What could go wrong?
I discovered the load marinating in silent soapy water. Removing everything and swishing my hand around fixed nothing. Shira ordered me to call a repairman ASAP and start over at a laundromat. A day and $500 later, I learned my lesson, until the too-hot dryer shrank the dainties… * * * 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 Ryan McGuire
Taking a Break by Beetle Holloway Tired of playing with the dog, I flick on the TV.
From Crook to Cook is all penitentiary kitchen vibes: chrome, groans, clanks, and chains. Faded tattoos creep out of rolled-up sleeves, scarred hands whisk roux, confused detainees follow the instructions to make a soufflé. I switch channels to Green Card Love where asylum seekers find a partner or get deported. Then to Homeless Wars. Then to ICE Raids Live. Then I switch off. What has the world come to? All this is gonna have a bad effect on people. I pick up my shears and go back to torturing the neighbour’s bichon frise. * * * Beetle Holloway is a UK-based copywriter with a weird name. When he’s not writing words for other people, he likes to write weird, funny and dark short stories—mostly about everyday people in unusual situations or unusual people in everyday situations.
Compassion by Jon Krafchek As I wept for Cleo throughout the autumn, winter, and early spring, you never said, “You didn’t cry half as much over the death of your father.”
You quietly held my hand and listened. 101 times a day you heard me say, “Every day without her is midnight at thirty below. She was my goose down duvet and solar noon.” You never said, “Pull yourself together, man! She was a dog! Get another one already!” You quietly held my hand and listened until crocuses arose in the spaces where love melted the snow. * * * 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.
Outside by Michele Catalano Look out the window. Look at that.
There’s a sky the color of childhood summers. There’s sun and warmth. A tree bends and bows in the wind, inviting them to come out. There are other windows in the house. Some of them have been boarded up, shut tight against the world with rusted nails. Some of them are streaked and cracked, a history of lies and secrets etched in the dirty panes. Some are just illusions. He comes at this lighted window with hammer and nails. It’s for the best. She memorizes the color of the sky. I know. * * * Michele Catalano is a retired civil servant who has found a second life in maintaining the website ihavethatonvinyl.com. She has been writing flash and micro fiction since 2001, and has had several of her works published. When not writing, she can be found on bluesky talking mostly about music.
No door closed without another opening by Sarah Nolan Cha d’dhùin doras nach d’fhosgail doras. She tries to recall the phrase as he knocks a stick against a rusty door hinge, using a hatchet to pry the metal as it clanks. The baby screams again. The fire flickers. Another gust hurls through the stone windows, kicking up dirt from the floor. In the corner where a cow once stood, hay trembles as the man begins dismantling the door and tossing scraps of wood on the open fire. But for the first time, it doesn’t feel like another door will open. It feels like the old language has failed her.
* * * Sarah Nolan was raised in Southern California and currently lives in Ireland, where she was born. In her spare time, she enjoys walking the beautiful trails of West Cork with her family and overly-friendly dog, Clover, and the thrill of starting DIY projects that never get completely finished.
Photo by Viviane Monconduit
Cherry Pickers Emporium of Curiosities by T.L. Tomljanovic Feathering her fingers over racks of pebbled leather, faux fur, and nubby wool, Eve paused at an unusual texture. Cold, hard, smooth. She pulled a suit of silver chainmail from its plastic hanger. Surprisingly light, maybe an aluminum alloy? Flicking the price tag with a lime-green lacquered nail, she grinned. Fifty percent off. She double-checked the uranium power source—still glowing.
Strutting to the cashier, she slapped the mithril on the counter. “I’ll take it.” Flashing her wrist, her savings ticked down to zero. Still worth it. No goblin knives would slice her up in an alleyway through this beauty. * * * T.L. Tomljanovic dabbles in drabbles, micro, and flash fiction writing from Vancouver, Canada. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best Microfiction nominee. Her work has been featured in Gooseberry Pie Lit, MoonPark Review, The Woolf, and other fine literary journals and anthologies. Find her at tomljanovic.wordpress.com/.
Next Time by M.A. Dosser “What’s wrong with the time machine?” Gus asked
“Faulty battery. Coils smell mustardy when it’s powered on,” Deegan said. “I just want it out of my garage.” “Twenty bucks?” “I don’t want it out that badly. Two hundred.” “I’ll have to buy a new fusion battery. Fifty?” “Nah, just a quantum dot. Lowe’s has them. One-fifty.” “A hundred?” “Deal.” Gus handed Deegan five twenties. “You know,” Deegan said with a grin, “I would have gone down to eighty.” “I’ll remember that for next time,” Gus said. “Next time?” Deegan asked. Four twenties rested in his palm. They smelled like mustard.
* * * M.A. Dosser (he/him) is the co-founder and editor of Flash Point Science Fiction and a senior lecturer of communication studies at Vanderbilt University. He is the author of Nostalgic Futures: The Reactionary Fantasies of Speculative Fiction Fandoms (Rutgers University Press, 2016).
Lest We Forget About the Boy Upstairs by DG Bracey Her finger heavy over the red button, her hand hovers and shakes. The button, a bloodshot eye in a box, stares at her.
“One press of a pinkie and your sickness goes away,” he’d said. “The randomizer will strike down five others, sparing you.” Who? she thought. What others? Others with lives to lead, with loved ones? Maybe their actions save lives, hundreds or thousands of lives. But she’d be saved. She could live for him. She wipes thoughts away, in tears. Her finger falls. The click… the silence… a thud upstairs. Her sky crashes as earth rushes to meet it.
* * * DG Bracey is a teacher and a freelance writer from the Carolina coast. He’s picked up degrees from the University of South Carolina, Coastal Carolina University, and the University of North Carolina-Wilmington. He's published short stories in various journals and been a feature writer for several newspapers.
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Easier Wins by J.S. O'Keefe Small choices feel like tests: half a dozen pears or a watermelon; roughly the same price.
The watermelon is bright and heavy. Cut it open and suddenly I’m committed, my day reshaping itself around one act of eating, and I haven’t planned for that. The pears wait. I could eat one standing up, leave the rest. The pears are modest, a little bland, but forgiving. It isn’t desire; it’s the level of chaos I’m willing to carry. I’ve become someone who measures. I still like watermelon but I’ve cordoned myself off without meaning to. Someone politely coughs behind me. I take the pears. * * * J.S. O’Keefe’s work spans short stories, essays, and poems. They have been featured in a variety of publications, including AntipodeanSF, Roi Faineant, 101 Words, Spillwords, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, 50 Word Stories, ScribesMICRO, etc.
The Psychiatry of Roadside Psychics by Julia Rajagopalan I close my eyes as I walk past the coffee shop. It’s called The Thirteenth Hour for some stupid reason. I can’t look at the red neon sign, but it shines through my eyelids, infecting my corneas like pinkeye pus.
A roadside psychic told me the number would kill me, but my psychiatrist says it’s irrational and prescribes medication. I can’t take it. I need to stay vigilant. Red light gleams behind me, so I squeeze my eyes tighter. I hear cars, but I’m on the sidewalk, completely safe, until a bicyclist clips my hip and I spin helplessly toward the street. * * * 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.
Shift Happens by Lee Hammerschmidt “Well, Shade,” Mercedes McCoo, bodacious bartender at Spunk’s Saloon, said, serving me my Beam and beer back. “Haven’t seen you for a spell. That exotic dancer you’ve been dating keeping you occupied?”
I tossed back the shot and took a gulp of suds. “Desiree Sachet,” I said. “Works at the Pesto A-Go-Go. The timing was off.” “What happened?” Mercedes asked. “I’ve been working this insurance fraud case. I had to tail the guy at night. She got tired of waiting around.” “She’s a dancer! She doesn’t work nights too?” “Nope. She works the lunch crowd. She was a day stripper.” * * * Lee Hammerschmidt is a Visual Artist/Writer/ Troubadour. He is the author of six collections of short stories and illustrations. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!
The Legend by Robin Blasberg He never missed a single practice. He never let up no matter how long they drilled. He loved the sport and he loved the team. At the end of his last season, he even hung on to his headgear.
Later in life, he’d regale those he met with tales of his exploits while donning his treasured helmet. But, truth be told, he had never left the bench, not once, in all those seasons. He had instead committed every move from every play for every game into memory, inserting himself into those visuals until the memories had indeed become his own. * * * 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.
Photo by Andzelika Tokarska
One Hundred Copies Fell from the Sky by Chris Clemens Instead of supplies, our remote village found plastic bodies entombed within snowbanks, tangled in lines, bobbing in Hudson Bay. Looking exactly like us.
My pal Zev found himself on the rooftop. They tended the general store together, whispering furtively. Soon folks couldn’t tell the difference anymore, captivated themselves. The Judys dog-sledded north. Steves vanished into their cabin; in love, they said. Where was I? After the Zevs went fishing, claimed they weren’t coming back, I was lonelier than ever. It was almost a relief when I arrived home to find the lights on, my silhouette standing dark against the window. * * * Chris Clemens lives and teaches in Toronto, surrounded by raccoons. Nominated for Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net, his stories and poems appear in The Dribble Drabble Review, JAKE, The Woolf, Strange Horizons, Year’s Best Canadian Fantasy and Science Fiction, and elsewhere.
Fan Girl by Vali Hawkins-Mitchell I cringed for hours after sending her a poem about her poem. “Fool. Needy,” I scolded myself. “She’s famous. Crap.” I woke up depressed. I knew I’d see her at her one-woman show. “Maybe I won’t go.” The day began anyway. As they do. The dog. Coffee. The laptop had ants inside it. I saw one crawl like it was running from a fire across the inside of the screen. The poet responded sweetly. I cried. Relieved of my stupid, I promised not to be a fan-girl ever again. Until next time. I sealed the computer in a plastic bag.
* * * Vali Hawkins-Mitchell writes from her office across the street from the Honolulu Zoo, where she works as a Trauma & Disaster responder. Published in numerous literary journals, such as Sky Island Journal, Spank the Carp, of Rust and Glass, and many others. See more at www.valihawkinsmitchell.com.
The Opening Act by Franki Halliwell The prologue pages sat in the dusty slush pile, ignored for months.
It had set the mood once, fresh, exciting, whispering warnings the main chapters were too polite to voice. Now it waited patiently, if a little resentful. Towards the end, the protagonist wandered back through the draft and found it. She read the forgotten history, and the pages fluttered in celebration. Memories snapped into place. Suddenly the whole story shifted around her, revealing what had always been missing: the beginning. The prologue wasn’t dead weight after all. It was the key. And some doors only open at the beginning. * * * Franki Halliwell writes uncanny flash fiction and eerie little tales, mostly to unsettle her loved ones and procrastinate editing her novel. She was longlisted for the Mslexia Flash Prize and is based in Devon, where she works in the NHS and volunteers with beavers to offset the screen time.
Almost by Huina Zheng She gripped her handbag tighter. Snatch thefts had surged, motorcycles flying past, the back rider grabbing whatever he could. When she first arrived in this city, she’d been robbed at the station.
She walked along the innermost edge of the sidewalk. There were cameras. She breathed easier. A handsome man approached. Tall, long-limbed. She remembered the boy she once loved; a flutter rose in her chest. He glanced at her. For a moment, she almost believed he felt something too. Then a violent tug tore her bag away. He jumped onto a waiting motorcycle and sped away, leaving her with the familiar despair this city always knew how to give.
* * * 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 has received multiple nominations, including for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction.
The Proposal by Christy Hartman Fat raindrops ricochet off the princess cut diamond and splash onto his bent knee. Thunder fills the gulf between us, drowning my reply in the belly-rattling boom.
His friends and family huddle under twinkle lights. The wind tears through the rooftop garden, uprooting the Japanese maple, flinging it heavenward to then fall eighteen stories to the concrete below. Lightening reflects in his anxious eyes, waiting for my trembling hand to extend. An atmospheric river opens above; I’m waist deep in seconds. The rising water licks at his lips, then covers them completely. I repeat my answer, and he is washed away.
* * * Christy Hartman pens short fiction from her home on Vancouver Island Canada. She writes about the chasm between love and loss and the morsels of magic in life’s quiet moments. 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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Creative Nonfiction
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Gavel | Gravel by Diane Lee I only have my bantam hens now (one gray, one brown), who sprint on cute little legs when I call to them from the back door (girly, girls!) and they eat the dry oats I fling at them (telling them what good girls they are), their butts fluffy and upturned (and also cute) as they peck, peck, peck at the gravel, which sounds like the tap, tap, tap of the gavel when the judge handed down his final orders saying no, you cannot see your grandchildren because your daughter (and the law) won’t allow it.
* * * Diane Lee is based in Adelaide, Australia. A final year law student, she is interested in writing about everyday people and the everyday decisions that impact their lives in extraordinary ways. Her non-fiction has been published in Word Vietnam, PS I Love You, Entropy, Motorcycle Mojo, Get Lost and Flung. Her flash fiction has been published in The Victorian Writer, Pure Slush, A Plate of Pandemic, Flash Phantoms and made the Australian Writers’ Centre Furious Fiction LONGLIST. Diane speaks better than basic Vietnamese, fosters timid-spicy cats for rehoming and writes best when constrained.
Photo by Vicky Morrison
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Photo by Sebastian Perez Hernandez
No Bananas by Elliott Fielding We stopped at a fruit stand perched between empty road and unbroken jungle, a footpath behind it leading to a hut in the trees. My monolingual American ass held up the tiny bananas and my smallest bill. The boy selling his harvest answered, “No tengo cambio” with a shake of his head: no change. I walked away.
Miles down the road, it hit me. My hundred-peso banknote was worth only $6. Little to me. How much to the fruit seller? If I’d predicted the years of remorse, I would’ve said: yes, drive back! For all the fruit $6 could buy. * * * Elliott Fielding is a Colorado scientist who writes for the love of words and the challenge of remembering xyr regrets with joy.
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Editor's Corner
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“Why don’t you come closer?” the old lady on the porch asked Simon.
He did his best to keep walking and avoid her hostile gaze. He could feel the heat of her glaring eyes. It burned a pinhole in the nape of his neck and he rubbed at it. “Boy! I said, boy!” she yelled, attempting to stand from her rocking chair. A loud exhale was accompanied by her falling back, unable to get to her feet. Simon quickened his step and began racing home. He knew it wasn’t safe for him on this side of town. Hallmark holiday or
A special day to say I love you? People in love, love it either way. People alone, not so much. Yet either way expectations rise on Valentine’s Day. An annual reminder that Love and loved ones Everywhere should be honored and Not taken for granted. The day for red roses, gooey chocolates, Intimacy, and candlelit dinners. No matter how corny it may seem Everyone loves to know they are ‘bout the most important thing and Special to someone else. Don’t make the mistake And ignore February fourteenth. You do so at your peril. Love from all wives On the planet Voraciously awaiting an Extraordinary show of affection. |
Artwork by Andō, Hiroshige
Ma is empty space filled with meaning
from Japan’s history. Mountain landscapes traced in black shadows, gray seas, creams yearning toward cherry blossoms and sketched through shapes unfinished. Hundreds of hushed words, a thousand withheld brushstrokes, stories told in silence, a lone hourglass paused in shifting its sand from one life to the next. Japan is dense and ancient, a rocky island chain lush with the secrets of millennia. Art is the greatest mystery of all, flush with centuries of lust and hate and the start of something fresh. My inheritance, you see-- I feel Ma, know Ma, hold Ma within me. *Quote attributed to Bernhard Karlgren.
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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.