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 # 56
March 31, 2026
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Madeleine Armstrong * Sam Barbee * Livia Barder *
* Cameron Beale * Chris Clemens * Deanna Davidson *
* Debra Duel * Will Evans * Nissa Harlow *
* L.S. Mattison * R. S. Mot * Kirsty Nottage *
* Bud Pharo * AP Ritchey * B.G. Smith *
* David Sydney * Van Wallach * Lee Zanello *
* Madeleine Armstrong * Sam Barbee * Livia Barder *
* Cameron Beale * Chris Clemens * Deanna Davidson *
* Debra Duel * Will Evans * Nissa Harlow *
* L.S. Mattison * R. S. Mot * Kirsty Nottage *
* Bud Pharo * AP Ritchey * B.G. Smith *
* David Sydney * Van Wallach * Lee Zanello *
Photo by Michael Leonard
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Fiction
Photo by Michal Jarmoluk
Endless Unbirthdays by Van Wallach Sandy casually told Jason, “I was once pregnant for a little bit.” Three months into their relationship, she said, “I’m pregnant.” She knew the clinic to call, they agreed on what to do. Jason sat ashen-faced in the reception room while Sandy had the abortion, then they took a cab to her apartment. He nursed her with chicken soup, bagels, and Woody Allen videos.
They ultimately broke up; it wasn’t meant to be. Decades later Jason still thought about the abortion. He called it the unbirthday and counted the years: Our baby would be thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two… Did Sandy remember too? * * * 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.
In the Space of Contradiction by Will Evans Over dinner at my twin sister’s house, I ask if she recalls the night Daddy chased her upstairs to our room and beat her with his belt. She remembers it differently. It was me who was beaten.
Driving home, I stop at a light, convinced she was wrong. I can picture the hallway, Daddy kicking the door, my wincing at her screams-- And then I’m between the bed and wall, and it’s me who’s screaming. At home, I accept both versions. In the space of contradiction, no one was beaten that night. The door, the screams, the welts—nothing happened at all. * * * Will Evans has recently published stories in 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, Paragraph Planet, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Wave, Kelp Journal, and Portrait of New England. He retired from Johns Hopkins in 2021 and has also taught at Harvard, Cornell, and UNH. He lives in Baltimore, MD.
Bubbles by B.G. Smith Bubbles rise from the bottom of the pot.
Pasta? Rice? No—this boiling water is destined for something more sinister. My black eye stares back from the microwave’s reflection. The cut on my lip opens when I speak. His drunken snores echo through the small apartment. Potholder in hand, I creep toward the bedroom. Our daughter appears in the hallway. I look at her. At the pot. At the bedroom door. I return to the kitchen and make tea. It tastes like ash. Tomorrow, I’ll make another cup. And the next day. And the next. Until, one day, I won’t. * * * B.G. Smith writes flash fiction exploring survival, moral complexity, and the weight of difficult decisions. His work has appeared in Pocket Fiction, Microfiction Monday Magazine, The Drabble, 101 Words, ScribesMICRO, and Flash Phantoms.
Wish You Were Still Here by Madeleine Armstrong A house move; a clear-out; a rogue postcard in a dusty box, wedged inside a forgotten copy of The Book Thief.
On the front, Prague’s famous clock, the eternal swirl of the sun and moon, death’s skeleton striking the hour. On the back, your spidery handwriting, faded with years. I squint to make out the words. Dear Lizzie, Having a great time. Pints of beer cost 50p. Love, Dad xx I wipe my eyes. I’d been hoping for a more profound message from beyond the grave, but then we never talked about what really mattered, did we? * * * Madeleine Armstrong is a Pushcart-nominated author who has won the Hammond House short story prize, and been published in mags including BULL, Bunker Squirrel, Frazzled Lit, Hooghly Review, Literary Garage, Micromance, Mythic Picnic, Punk Noir, Temple in a City, Trash Cat, Underbelly, Urban Pigs and WestWord. She lives in London.
For Now by Cameron Beale I wrote the latest English grammar objective on the whiteboard. Present perfect continuous. Most of the eyes in the room did not notice, glued to some flashing screen or another as they were. Those few that did rolled.
I sighed, ducked down behind my desk and brought out the big red buzzers. Who wants to play a game? Heads shoot up, faces come alive, as if a switch flipped. Clack, clack, clack. Phones and tablets forgotten, their darkened faces placed down on desks covered in scribbles, at least for now. One object of stimulation supplants another. At least for now. * * * Cameron Beale lives in Turkey with his wife and two children. He writes short stories and novels in the genres of fantasy, science fiction and horror. He recently had his first short story, titled “The Hungry Mountains” published on the flash fiction site Suddenly and Without Warning and another soon to be released by Creepypod called “The Nameless Book”.
A Restless Night by Kirsty Nottage After the post-conference drinks, Michelle returned to her hotel room.
Exhausted, she prepared her defences. She wedged a doorstop under the flimsy door and rigged makeshift chimes from hangers, ready to jingle at the slightest shift. She drifted into uneasy sleep, a glass bottle strategically placed by the bed. Just in case. Around three, footsteps halted outside her door. She held her breath, fingers tightening around the bottle. Nothing moved. At breakfast, Robert beamed. “I love hotels—finally got a bed to myself. Best sleep I’ve had in weeks.” Michelle nodded, smiling weakly. She stirred her coffee, stifling a yawn. * * * 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.
PT by Livia Barder This young man, her physical therapist, is so handsome. He offers her his arm to help her walk without her walker. Who invented the concept of physical therapy? What a hopeful idea. Her daughter wants to move her to one of those “Assisted Living” places with the addition of “Memory Care” in their name. She does not need care of her memory. All her memories are alive: her parents, her first beau, her beloved high school teacher. She cannot drive anymore and a van came to pick her up today. Who is this handsome young man offering her his arm? She smiles at him.
* * * Livia Barder lived her childhood in communist Romania, her adolescence and college years in Paris where her family emigrated to, her twenties sailing the Caribbean, teaching French in St. Thomas and Newfoundland, before settling in CT and being a school librarian. Now retired, she pursues her passion of dancing, drawing, and started to write.
Preparing for Piledriver by David Sydney The bout between Lefty Louie and Piledriver Rocco was a week off. With a brutal left jab, devastating right cross, and 15-0 record all by KOs, Piledriver was the clear favorite.
Moe, Louie’s manager, sat with Curly, his corner man, as Louie worked on the heavy bag in training camp. Moe called him over. “How do you feel, Louie?” The heavy bag took a lot out of Louie, so it was a moment before he caught his breath. “Moe, I’m gonna pound Piledriver the way I’ve been pounding that damn bag.” Moe turned to Curly for his opinion. “I was afraid Louie might say that, Moe.” * * * David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).
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Sap by R. S. Mot I shudder as she digs the knife into me, and sigh as she draws the weapon away.
It doesn’t end, though. She stabs it into me again and again. Each time I hope it’s the last but she continues to add ragged cuts to me. She sets the blade down next to me and clutches her lover’s hand. “What do you think?” she asks. He sighs. “I told you, Katie, I don’t think you should carve things into the trees.” “Why not? They can’t feel pain.” My leaves quake and sap drips from my wounds as they walk away, hand-in-hand. * * * R. S. Mot is a queer author of speculative fiction. Their work has been published in the Silver IBPA award-winning Neurodiversiverse anthology (Thinking Ink Press, 2024), Rat Bag Lit, and 100-Foot Crow. Outside of writing they spend their time obsessing over D&D and hanging out with their cats.
Heartfelt by Bud Pharo The email from donor services sat unopened for weeks.
For two years, I tried writing to the family, but the words never came. What do I say to the family of the young man who died so that I might live? Finally, I sent this brief email: “I may never know of your loved one, whose heart now beats in my chest, yet every day I celebrate his life-giving gift while deeply grieving his loss.” Their reply: “Please do not grieve, but be like him; live fully, love deeply, and take care of his precious heart because losing him broke ours.” * * * Bud Pharo is a permanently disabled veteran who writes short stories and flash fiction. He typically writes humorous sci-fi and fantasy pieces because he thinks our world could use more levity; however, he will, on occasion, write more serious pieces. His work has been featured in a number of literary magazines, both in print and online.
Photo by René Schindler
Green in the Grey by L.S. Mattison I couldn’t save it.
The sprout pushed through the crack in the asphalt, thirsting for the sunlight that hid behind the smog. We choked on the fumes together. A dog trotted up, tail wagging. It licked my face as I squatted, trying vainly to scoop up the doomed sprout, stymied by the asphalt that concealed the soil below. The dog left as it came—suddenly and without ceremony. My cheek was cooled by the moist tongue until I rubbed away the sensation. The sprout would breathe in the poison and breathe out life, but too little. It couldn’t save me. * * * L.S. Mattison is an educator and spec fiction writer. He is currently completing work on his debut novel, Echoes of Osiris. He lives in Minnesota with his wife and four children, who are constant sources of support and inspiration.
Goodnight by Lee Zanello A nice big blanket near the pond in the park, good cheese, and the bottle we’ve been saving for a special occasion poured.
We’re not alone; the park is full tonight. Glowing headbands, music, laughter. Our hands intertwined, nervous and flirty for the first time in years. The kids are passed out at our feet, cups empty, bellies full, smiles on their faces, peaceful. You kiss my neck as I look up at the sky. No stars tonight. The asteroid takes up the entire sky, and it is all we will see for the rest of our lives. * * * 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.
Photo by Alina Kond
Subterrania's End by Chris Clemens I was late to market the day the Timeless Bridge fell.
First came a tremor, my torches sputtered, then a terrible crack echoed throughout the All-cavern. Foot-worn marble, cracked mole-god keystone, lordlings on spiders, hundreds of screaming souls: all plummeted down into that ravenous chasm. *
A fortress of generations: cut off, isolated. Unthinkable! And still no word from the colonies. Desperate figures line the cliff. I throw them mushrooms – not even close.
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The keep’s fires are out. I must leave soon, find help. Wave encouragingly to thinning survivors.
But across the darkness, knives glint in the dwindling torchlight. * * * Chris Clemens teaches and writes in Toronto, where he has defeated 8.5 raccoons (with help from his wonderful family). Nominated for Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net, his stories and poems appear in Best Microfiction 2026, The Literary Review of Canada, Baffling Magazine, Year’s Best Canadian Fantasy and Science Fiction, and elsewhere. Find more at linktr.ee/clemenstation.
The Woman in 7B by AP Ritchey The woman in 7B argued that authoritarianism thrived on courtesy. “Order doesn’t shout. It reassures, with a smile.”
The other woman listened patiently. “The patriarchy loves neutral language,” she continued, typing another message on her laptop. “When safety becomes habit, resistance feels rude.” A smile appeared, rehearsed. “I follow your logic,” the listener said, aware of others nearby, eavesdropping. “Safety is a story they tell until you stop questioning it.” A pause stretched, deliberate, trained. “I agree the patriarchy is a misguided relic,” the other woman said, “but I still need you to put away all electronic devices so we can land.” * * * AP Ritchey is a professional graphic designer, published board game inventor, multi-instrumentalist and accomplished printmaker. (https://adamritchey.com) His work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Zodiac Review, AntipodeanSF, SciFi Shorts, Eye to the Telescope, Rat Bag Lit, Nunum, 4lph4num3r1c, Club Chicxulub, and Frightening Tales, among others.
In the Mojave Desert by Deanna Davidson Engines purr at midnight, as lights flicker in the Boneyard. A mysterious Boeing 777 rumbles down the empty tarmac on refurbished wheels, the pilot absent from the cockpit. Radio waves inside distort voices from air traffic control into mechanical echoes. Chilling fog surrounds the desert grounds of the airport, lights casting an ominous glow upon the severed wing. Sparks flicker in the decades-old gash. Whispers reverberate through the vacant aisles, a reflection of former passengers, the ones that never left. A ghostly crew prepares for takeoff. The glow on the runway vanishes as the plane takes one final flight.
* * * 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 Skies Aren't Big Enough for the Both of Us by Nissa Harlow I peered out the window, watching the shadow of the airship skim over the clouds below. I was alone in the observation lounge, the only passenger who preferred the sight of clouds to the vertiginous view.
A second umbra, steely against the clouds, sped around the shadow of our ship. My heart quickened as alarms rang and we began to sink. A crackling voice roared from a speaker in the corner of the room. “Good afternoon, folks. Please remain calm during the dragon-evasion protocol. Secure all belongings and move away from the windows.” The lounge immediately swelled with curious passengers.
* * * Nissa Harlow lives in British Columbia, Canada where she dreams up strange stories and writes some of them down. Her tiny fictions have appeared in Dark Moments, Kinpaurak, and Rat Bag Lit.
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Creative Nonfiction
Photo by Debra Duel
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A Beautiful Dog by Debra Duel When my father was ninety, he asked me what I wanted when he was gone.
Nothing, I said. He pressed on. Pictures, I guess. He lit up. Wait, he said. He left the room, searched his bureau drawer, and returned with a framed, tintype photo of a black Labrador Retriever. Who is this? I asked. I don’t know, he said. I found it at a yard sale. He looked at it and smiled. This was a beautiful dog, he said. I thanked him for the picture. After my dad died, I displayed the photo on my shelf of special things. I smile at the beautiful dog every day. * * * Debra Duel created and directed humane education programs in Washington, DC, for more than 35 years. She encouraged youth to create kinder, more compassionate, and just communities for all living creatures. She is the author of two children’s books, Nigel (2008, Operation Outreach USA) and William’s Story (1992, Storyteller’s Ink).
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Poetry
Photo by Ronny Overhate
Intuitive Kisses by Sam Barbee I wipe your stray gray hairs from my cheek, clear my throat.
You summon your part-lips-just-right gene to calm my jittery DNA, and explain there’s nothing vital about a knock on the door. While I debate where our forearms should rest, you convince me I am not the impartial witness I claim. I crave another smooch, not certain why, but you encourage nibbles when my inclination is to gnaw. Kissing me again, you find the seam in love’s curtain, and calm my butterflies by whispering let the phone ring. We have paid fares to ferry uncertainties until we get this right. * * * Sam Barbee newest collection is titled Apertures of Voluptuous Force (2022, Redhawk Publishing). He has three previous poetry collections, including That Rain We Needed (2016, Press 53), a nominee for the Roanoke-Chowan Award as one of North Carolina’s best poetry collections of 2016; and is a two-time Pushcart nominee.
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Editor's Corner
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Somersaulting into liquid space--
a paraplegic plunging into the sea I venture forth intrepidly Galaxies whirl by with every breath as I dive deeper into the depth Angelfish curiously stare in my mask-- beckon me join in their play while butterfly fish glimmer yellows away Suspended in this watery mix where diffused sunlight falls I float down coral walls Out in the luscious blue glides a lone eagle ray capturing my freedom this day Gravity’s prison unlocked for a spell I forget my limits on shore-- falling to rise-- diving I soar "Fluid" was previously published in Recalibrating Gravity.
Photo by Royan Cholilir Rochman
Her stance was isosceles, elbow cocked, gun hand flexed and ready.
His eyes were ghostly and unreadable as depicted on the wanted poster. Gawking townsfolk took cover behind wagons, horses, and porch posts. In a flash of movement, gun barrels cleared leather, one a millisecond before the other. Two gunshots melded into one soul-rattling explosion. Both shooters crumpled, one facedown and motionless, the other supine, eyes stabbed by the sun. With her breast searing in pain, her fingers clumsily searched for the wound, but there wasn’t one. There was, however, a large dent in the once pristinely polished sheriff’s badge. “I’ve tried and tried,” says Anuragi, wiping her face. “But the stress is killing me. I can’t believe I’m dropping out of PhD. I was always the star student. I wanted to spend my life learning.”
“You’re the most popular T.A. here,” says Anuragi’s friend, Mahesh. “All the guys admire your style, and, may I add, your figure.” “I’m killing myself and still I never feel good enough,” Anuragi continues. “But I’m heartbroken about dropping out.” “All the guys will also be heartbroken.” Anuragi gapes at Mahesh. Are you not hearing me? she wants to shout at him. Then she understands. He’s offering what he honestly considers the best consolation. |
“Hey, hey, hee, hee, it’s over the bounding sea,” the unwilling sailor sang out in failing memory of the proper lyrics. “The sharks come to feed, if ever you bleed, so take a fair warning from me.”
He looked over the side of the small lifeboat. Perhaps that would be a cleaner way to go. All over in a few chomps instead of slowly feeling his mind crumble to pieces as malnutrition took its cruel toll. Another face looked back at him. Ah, yes… another thing his decaying memory had forgotten. The drowned sail on the underside of the surface. He came back from New Guinea
after World War II and gave his daughter, my wife, a doll. Dark-complected, hand-sewn from coarse trade cloth, a rough-featured Raggedy Ann with mitten hands and feet, toting a baby in a back pouch, meant for a young island child. The doll came with my wife and lolls on a tall bureau. A painted eye has flaked away and eighty years of dust has accreted onto its body but it still holds it heritage intact. Since we cannot give it back to a culture long transformed, we save it for the first girlchild of an unwitting granddaughter. “You carve the name in the ice,” Chester told Ned. “If they accept the sacrifice, the name will disappear and you’ll see the reflection of the cursed trapped beneath the lake’s surface.”
“What do I use?” Ned asked. “This,” Chester said, throwing him an old ice skate. “Portable, inconspicuous, and sharpened for things just like this.” “O-o-okay.” Ned waddled slowly out onto the ice as it began to crack and shift. “You’re doing fine!” Chester yelled. The ice creaked softly. Ned looked down, and by the time he saw his name carved in the ice, knew it was too late. 
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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.