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 # 55
February 29, 2026
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Michele Catalano * Chris Clemens * Greg Clumpner *
* Chris Cochran * Deanna Davidson * CB Droege *
* Nissa Harlow * David Henson * Keith Hoerner *
* Joseph Hyman * CF Long * Mike Murphy *
* Kirsty Nottage * J.S. O'Keefe * Julia Rajagopalan *
* Pippa Storey * David Sydney * Koay Xinyi *
* Lee Zanello * Huina Zheng *
* Michele Catalano * Chris Clemens * Greg Clumpner *
* Chris Cochran * Deanna Davidson * CB Droege *
* Nissa Harlow * David Henson * Keith Hoerner *
* Joseph Hyman * CF Long * Mike Murphy *
* Kirsty Nottage * J.S. O'Keefe * Julia Rajagopalan *
* Pippa Storey * David Sydney * Koay Xinyi *
* Lee Zanello * Huina Zheng *
Book Review
Real Television
by Matthew Salinas
Reviewed by Alison McBain
About the Author: Matthew Salinas is an author from Illinois who writes short horror stories and novels. He also dabbles in micro-fiction. He is a member of the Chicago Writers Association and Horror Writers Association. He had the honor of being a member of the first-ever American Library Association Reader's Advisory Panel on Horror Fiction. He lives with his wife, son, and their cats. Apart from writing, he also performs editing and interviewing duties for Fairfield Scribes based out of Connecticut. |
“This is how I’m going to die… on television… with everyone watching.”
If you’re going to buy one horror book this year, I’d recommend Real Television by Matthew Salinas. All proceeds from the sale of the book will be donated to the American Cancer Society in honor of the author’s late sister, Lisa Salinas. And you get a great exchange for the purchase: an edge-of-your seat, gory horrorfest that combines the idea of Saw with The Truman Show. It will appeal to fans of Squid Game or The Hunger Games—those readers who appreciate a dystopian near-future story that sucks you in with common elements that we can see today in aspects of reality TV, but which take it to a chilling and unexpected ending. The novella begins with five characters waking up in a bare prison cell, unsure of how they arrived. But they have their suspicions that they might be trapped at one of the infamous detention centers set up across the country. The purpose of these centers? They’re holding cells for contestants to enter a life-or-death game show. The contestants have been picked after they were critical of the current American government, which is the byproduct of a civil war where the anti-fascist revolution has failed. Now, the authoritarian forces have one way to silence dissidents: make them the central entertainment in a gladiator-style TV show. The story is told in an omniscient viewpoint, where the reader gets glimpses into each character’s thoughts. First up is Dawson, the initial guy to wake up, who tries to stay calm and rational. Then there’s Marcus, who panics and retreats from everyone. Stevie is the last to awaken and unfortunately (or mercifully) misses much of the build-up to the games. Millie is the only woman of the bunch, and she is practical in her outlook. Even more practical is Silas, an older man who’s participated in these games before and lets the rest of them in on a little secret: all but one of them is going to die. The characters realize there’s no getting out of their predicament when the devilish host of the game show, Chet Steazle, makes an appearance in their cell. In this future timeline, all the many news channels of the present day have been condensed down to one—Ox News Network—and Chet is the channel’s star sadistic bastard. “He couldn’t have done a better job of conveying how little he cared for the rest of humanity as he did by pretending he cared at all.” And so, the games begin. Who will emerge victorious? Will any of them even survive to the end? |
This is a novella that dives off the deep end into a world of gore, terror, and the cruelest side of humanity, so it’s not for the faint of heart. However, for true horror fans, it’s a wild ride that takes the reader on a journey with these five characters into the depths of human darkness and out the other side. I’d recommend it for readers looking for a quick-paced read to keep them up at night, while wondering, “Could this ever happen to us?” Life can sometimes imitate art, and like the growing realism found in dystopian works such as Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale and George Orwell’s 1984, the answer might unfortunately be “Yes.”
Photo by Michael Leonard
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Fiction
Photo by Jill Wellington
Mel's Meal by David Sydney The fly on Mel’s chicken noodle soup did everything possible to remain afloat, but the surface tension gave way and it sank, with its bulbous head and six legs, like a stone. Mel hadn’t noticed. Sitting at the counter of Al’s Diner that Thursday, he’d been staring at the pie rack. He was ahead of himself, thinking already of dessert. Should it be lemon meringue or… wait a minute… was that a fly buzzing around a few remaining slices of pumpkin pie? My God, a fly, thought Mel, grimacing, turning away on his swivel seat. Pumpkin was definitely out.
* * * David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).
Age Gap by Nissa Harlow My date knows something’s up. He stares at me over the breadsticks. Concern creases his features.
Guts churning, I reach for my purse and fumble within for the vial. I thought I took enough of the youth serum, but I suppose not. My fingers curl into gnarled husks as I struggle with lipstick tubes, used tissues, and old receipts. “Are you okay?” my date asks. “Yeah.” My voice comes out as gnarled as my hands. Then one of my thumbs snaps off with a sound like a breadstick. “Maybe we should reschedule,” my date says. “No,” I say. “I’m fine.” * * * Nissa Harlow lives in British Columbia, Canada where she dreams up strange stories and writes some of them down. Her short fiction has appeared in Scary Stories Whispered in the Rain, Space Squid, and Tales from the Crosstimbers.
Soul Food by Mike Murphy The eternal soul fluttered about the bedroom, waiting for instructions either to return to Heaven or the dying man. Joel’s family clustered around his bed, the lights from the blinking monitors casting off-and-on red shadows on their faces.
Finally, the soul got its orders and began the careful descent to its host. Seconds later, Gravy, with her incredible feline sight, pounced on it—snatching it from the air and pinning it down. Joel’s blue-haired mother cried out as the heart monitor went flat. In a dark corner, the orange tabby ate happily, knowing she would soon have nine lives again. * * * Mike Murphy has had over 150 audio plays produced. He’s won The Columbine Award and a dozen Moondance awards. His prose has appeared in many magazines and more than two dozen anthologies. His scripts have placed in contests from Filmmatic, Creative Screenwriting, Emerging Writers, the NYISA, and Shriekfest. His blog: audioauthor.blogspot.com.
Her Gift by Greg Clumpner She checks the envelope and counts the $100 bills. Enough.
Pressing two fingers to the man’s temple, she closes her eyes and focuses on the pain. Her mind is seared, burning with visions. A woman in a hospital bed, gaunt, an IV running from her arm and an oxygen tube under her nose. The beeping. The smell of cleansers. Fluorescent lights hum over tile. She opens her eyes and the man exhales, his features calm. The scent of sterility lingers. She tries to push the images away. They’ll continue to haunt her—the price she pays for this month’s rent. * * * Greg Clumpner is a product of Wisconsin residing in Pittsburgh, PA. Greg is published in multiple journals and is Editor of the Triangulation anthologies Seven-Day Weekend and Hospitium. When not working, writing, or playing with shelter dogs, you’ll find Greg engaging in any form of sport. Explore more at gregclumpner.com.
From Afar by CB Droege Lenses in hand, notebook ready, I lay supine on the soft bed I made for us in my hideout in the trees. As I watch your day: Each step you take is a walk together. Each deal you broker is date night. Each weapon crate you pack is a brick in my towering love for you. So beautiful, mysterious. My therapist says I’m attracted to emotional unavailability. She doesn’t know you like I do.
Soon, they’ll have enough evidence. They’ll order me to take the shot. The free world will be safer, and you will live on in my heart. * * * 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.taplink.ws.
Love and Rockets by CF Long The rocket took off and everybody waited. Not with bated breath, because who bates their breath? But suffice it to say that everyone involved was extremely nervous.
Up, up it went… Stratosphere, thermosphere, exosphere, then… disappear. Not just out of sight, out of radar range too. No signal. Nothing. Observing this, the key investor collapsed into a tiny black hole of his own self image, while everyone else watched the sky erupt with trillions of flowers, coming down like multicoloured rain. Which, in truth, seemed far more spectacular than a comfortable landing. But maybe not as impressive from a technical standpoint. * * * CF Long is a writer from Greater Manchester, England. He enjoys reading science fiction, running from the neighbour’s dog and watching Fulham Football Club lose games on a regular basis. You can find his work in all of the usual locations: Toilet walls, bus shelter windows, the inside of cigarette packets and on used napkins poking out of a waste paper basket.
They by Chris Cochran They think this could have been an email. It would be true if they read the memorandums that I crafted. Instead, they fill the conference room with exasperated sighs while scrolling on their phones. Even their disobedience is lackluster.
Still, I’m rattled. The bullet-pointed slides keep me afloat, but I’m unraveling, stumbling over words, failing to string coherent thoughts together. They aren’t paying attention. I will not be ignored. I slam my palm against the table. They jump. They gasp. I laugh, nervous. “Bug,” I say, pretending to wipe its carcass on my slacks. I click to the next slide. * * * 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.
Image by Gerd Altmann
Workplace Incident Report 22 by Chris Clemens Date: today
Person(s) Involved: Gerry C Witness(es): none Incident Details: Gerry C used incorrect paper in the East Closet copier tray, jamming machine. Deb V couldn’t print my notes for the status meeting in time. Gerry—stupid questions, face, demeanour: “It’s not working!” No, Gerry, YOU’RE not working. I showed him:
Follow Up: Persistent questions from Deb V: “What’s that red oozing under the door?” Told her it’s just a Gerry jam, go use the copier downstairs, etc. but Deb was surprisingly inquisitive! Insubordinate? Not a team player. See forthcoming Incident Report 23.
* * * 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.
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My First Car by Joseph Hyman The cracks on the windshield branched out in every direction like a spider web. The fender was a different shade of white than the rest of the paint. The door made a horrible crashing sound whenever it was opened. The rear window wiper had been broken off. There were five quarts of oil in the trunk because the engine burned oil. The tires had to be reinflated weekly. When the air was frigid, the power steering failed and there was a loud squeal when the steering wheel was turned.
It was perfect. It was freedom. And it was all mine. Change of Plan by Keith Hoerner Every time he checks the blueprints, something’s different. When he questions the builder, he sneers, as if to demand, “What are ya talkin’ about, bub? You were on board with the designs—just yesterday.”
But upon today’s examination, the roofline has taken on a monstrous fortress-like appearance. Worse yet, each day, it continues to grow in strangeness. Now, as the house is complete, he does not question its organic shapeshifting. He lies in bed, aware, as walls fold and floors slide around him. The house lives, takes on new forms, and against his will, locks its doors and windows. * * * Micro-maniac Keith Hoerner writes in Southern Illinois under the shade of the Shawnee National Forest.
Photo by Marc Pascual
The Elephant in the Room by David Henson She walks down the road, her front porch leading the way, windows rattling like castanets with each step, asphalt shingles drinking the heat of the sun. He said she was getting big as a house, and now that’s how she feels. When he called her a stupid cow, she trudged about mooing all day. Oh, how he laughed when she flipped open the mailbox with her nose. He never should’ve said she was wrinkled as an elephant with ears as big. Elephants never forget. Elephants can take only so much. Stomp, stomp.
Stomp. * * * David Henson’s work has been selected for Best Microfictions 2025 and has appeared in various journals, including ScribesMICRO. His X handle is @annalou8. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com.
An Emotional Affair by Julia Rajagopalan They talked on the sidewalk in front of their houses, but never went inside. Leaning against the century oak that shaded the old neighborhood, they discussed books, movies, and sometimes life.
For hours, they sat on front steps, heads leaning together, legs crossing toward each other. They debated politics, but mostly agreed. They laughed at bad jokes and cried at disappointments. They stood innocent before their doorbell cameras’ watchful eyes, as nosy neighbors peered through blinds. Always outside, through misty rain or sweltering heat. When their spouses said, “We’re so lucky to have such friendly neighbors.” Each guiltily, separately, agreed. * * * 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.
Hugging Hannah by Lee Zanello The yard isn’t deep enough to go far, but if we go behind the shed and we play our little singsong games, it’s enough to drown out the yelling from inside.
I’m teaching her how to count syllables as we sing the things we spy. “Caterpillar.” “Four!” Breaking glass. Words I’m not allowed to say. Hannah hands me a dandelion and tells me it’s a flower. She’s five and I’m seven and I don’t correct her. I take it and put it behind my ear, hug her, and say thank you because that is what big brothers do. * * * Lee Zanello is a writer living in Bancroft, Ontario, Canada with his wife and daughter. His writing journey can be followed at leezanello.com and his daily flash fiction is on Bluesky under @lima-zulu.bsky.social.
The Wrong Monster by Huina Zheng Every morning on my way to school, I sprinted past the “haunted house.” The adults said the family kept a dog that tore out children’s hearts.
That day, our drunk father swung at our mother again. “Run!” she cried, shielding us with her body. My six-year-old sister bolted. I froze for a few seconds before fleeing into the dusk. Somewhere in the alley, a dog barked. I ran harder, until I found my sister curled by the haunted house’s rusted iron gate. The dog did not bark. It lay across her trembling back, its head lowering in the streetlight to gently touch her face. * * * 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.
Just One Wish by Michele Catalano There’s a certain joy in wishing for things, even if you know they won’t come true. In this moment when she is holding her breath and squeezing her eyes shut and dreaming the impossible dream, it’s the only time when anything seems possible, when everything she wants is in her grasp. Somewhere between exhaling and watching the flames flicker and fade, she will let those dreams go. But she has this minute, just one minute where true love is possible and fortunes are made and everyone lives happily ever after.
Blow out the candles, already. She does. And it’s gone. * * * 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.
Balloon Animals by Deanna Davidson Rubber litters the carrot garden, pieces tossed about like confetti. String wraps around Rabbit’s foot, latex trousers melted to the ribbon, tethering him in place. A duck, mouse, snake, and coyote are secured in a tight bundle of colorful ribbon, held tightly by the snake oil salesman wearing the pinstriped suit. Rabbit quivers as Mouse is dragged from the group and passed to the man waiting for his purchase. Mouse bites the man and he squeezes, popping Mouse.
“Sorry for the defective product! Please, pick another.” The salesman grimaces. The man smiles, canines visible between his parted lips. “The rabbit.” * * * Deanna Davidson has a Bachelor’s in Creative Writing from California State University, Northridge. Some of her work can be found in Flash Phantoms, Sword & Kettle Press, Northridge Review, Mythulu, Vine Leaves Press, and ParABnormal Magazine.
The Well at Dusk by J.S. O'Keefe When the heat loosens at dusk, the elders drag their chairs into a crooked circle.
They talk about the old days: wells that held, quarrels that cooled quick, children playing outside and always safe. They say it plain, that was simply how things were. I want to believe them. I want to think peace once lay across these roofs. Still, I hear what goes unsaid. Years of telling have worn the stories smooth. The present feels heavy and jagged. They pass the old tales, leaning on the past to get through the night. The well will never run dry.
* * * 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.
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Creative Nonfiction
Photo by Ryan Schwark
F***! by Pippa Storey I’ve since wondered how a single person could do it. Because the railcar was huge! One of the cavernous behemoths designed for the old diesel locomotives. It happened just as the train was about to leave Grand Central Terminal. I was cozily immersed in a book and initially thought I’d missed an announcement—a platform change, maybe. When I glanced around, the far end of the railcar was already deserted, and commuters were scrambling to their feet in a rapidly oncoming wave. As it engulfed my row, I understood: nobody wanted to be the only remaining suspect after that fart.
* * * Pippa Storey grew up in New Zealand and now lives in New Rochelle, just north of New York City. The incident she describes occurred at the beginning of her commute home one evening on the Metro-North Railroad. For more of her writing, digital artwork and videos, please visit https://sites.google.com/view/pippastorey.
Never Got to Say Goodbye by Koay Xinyi I used to think that the hardest part was saying goodbye. It hurt when my grandfather’s health deteriorated and family members flew back from all around the world to see him for the last time. But being able to say goodbye entails some sort of luck. To know when things are coming to an end—like at graduation or at retirement, to prepare for the farewell.
Now I know it’s the goodbyes we didn’t get to say that hurt the most. I lost my grandmother during the pandemic. I can’t remember if I hugged her when we last met, and now I’ll never be able to know for sure. * * * Koay Xinyi is a writer and translator from Singapore. She is currently working on a collection of essays that reflect upon her journey to discover what truly matters in life. Her ideal afternoon is one spent in a library, a good book in hand.
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Poetry
A Mass That Matters by Kirsty Nottage Treading lightly,
I step forwards, as if a tiptoe could change reality, make me thin. I hold my breath, close my eyes, willing the arbiter of worth to judge me kindly. “Too heavy,” it replies. Always the same, leaving me to chase the unattainable. I imagine each molecule filling with air, until I am truly weightless-- floating upwards, walking on air, dancing in light. But my stones and pounds keep me grounded, reminding me of my own gravity. Perhaps I should be relieved by my own substantial hereness-- my own worth. Not eroding, but present-- a mass that matters. * * * Kirsty Nottage is a UK-based writer who balances her day job with fiction writing whenever and wherever she can. She recently won an award from Elegant Literature for new writers and was a runner-up in a Globe Soup competition. Her work has been published in NUNUM, Curated Micro Fiction, and 101 Words. To read more of Kirsty’s writing, visit her website: kirstynottage.com.
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Editor's Corner
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A third of my life is spent being disappointed.
Some men can dream of riches, sex or glory, my dreams are of getting and staying lost, of repeating grunt work over and over, or of providing favors without thanks. Just occasionally, a grudging pittance is tossed me by a snide subconscious, and I’m allowed to take pleasure in little achievements gone at rising. Is my waking ego so inflated that I must be humbled every night? I long for orgies of interesting imaginings leaving me smug and smiling in the morning. 
Photo by Eak K.
“I don’t follow,” Marc said.
Stevens smiled as he stirred the spoon in his coffee. “The sunlight coming in through that window behind you is blinding.” Marc turned and shielded his eyes from the sun’s unforgiving glare. “Yes,” he agreed. “I could ask the server to move us, draw the blinds, or complain to management as to why this seating arrangement is unfavorable.” “Okay?” Marc questioned. Stevens took a sip of coffee while looking at his watch. “However, if I wait thirty minutes or so, I’ll have the best view of the sunset possible. It’s all a matter of perspective.” |
The filmmaker who wanted to change the world had an idea: targeting people’s values might get her farther, faster than targeting government policy.
How d’you make kindness sexy? In her new teleseries, the protagonist was svelte. Gloria’s skin shone like glass. She turned not just men’s heads, but women’s, too. Gloria greeted her doormen by name. She paid to educate her help’s daughters. She mentored her female colleagues. She had a rescued pug. The filmmaker proved right. The Kindness Experiment changed the world. Sales of Gloria’s Boden sweaterdress doubled. At spas worldwide, demands for ‘the Gloria’ quadrupled. The biggest profits went to breeders of pugs: purebred, bulge-eyed, struggling to breathe. It’s an old trick. Sugar in the oil filter. Dangerous, but what isn’t dangerous in a city under occupation? Disrupting the bad guys who think they can do anything they want with impunity is important. They think their leader is infallible and anything they do is automatically justified because it fits their ideology.
They’re wrong. They’ll find that out. But it takes time. They’ll fall back, convinced all the while that they’re right. In the end, the victors will take away that veil, force them to see what they were really doing. History doesn’t repeat itself but it often rhymes. 
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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.