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 # 57
April 31, 2026
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Madeleine Armstrong * Sophia Baran * Josh Clark *
* Chris Clemens * Chris Cochran * Laura Fox *
* Nissa Harlow * David Henson * Sandy Krausnick *
* George Anthony Kulz * David MacGregor Barlow *
* Christopher Mattravers-Taylor * Kate Mueser *
* Bud Pharo * AP Ritchey * Marc Shapiro *
* Van Wallach * Koay Xinyi * Huina Zheng *
* Madeleine Armstrong * Sophia Baran * Josh Clark *
* Chris Clemens * Chris Cochran * Laura Fox *
* Nissa Harlow * David Henson * Sandy Krausnick *
* George Anthony Kulz * David MacGregor Barlow *
* Christopher Mattravers-Taylor * Kate Mueser *
* Bud Pharo * AP Ritchey * Marc Shapiro *
* Van Wallach * Koay Xinyi * Huina Zheng *
Photo by Michael Leonard
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Fiction
For Once, We Were Family by Huina Zheng I visited Grandma, bringing apples. I didn’t want to; my mother insisted. I was nearby on business.
She didn’t want to see me. During the One-Child Policy, my birth ended the family line. We’ve little in common. She couldn’t read and was a matchmaker. I’m a math teacher who won’t marry. After peeling an apple and asking after her health, we had nothing to say. I passed along my parents’ suggestion: a nursing home. She shook her head. I smiled. For once, we were family, not taking their concern seriously. She refused the home; I refused the arranged life. She didn’t eat the apple. I didn’t take it back. * * * 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.
Horoscope Sunday Morning by Marc Shapiro If the picture of the matronly old lady who does the daily Chicago Sun Times horoscope is any indication, she knows her stuff. And so, I tend to believe her today when she warns that my sign should lay low and not do much of anything today. So, I tried! Believe me, I tried!
Trying lasted about forty-five minutes. It was then that I realized that the matronly old lady who does the Chicago Sun Times daily horoscope might just be out of touch with reality. So, Sunday be damned! I’ve got to do something. * * * Horoscopes are just the template. It's up to you to interpret and believe. If it all works out so much the better. If it does not then the horoscope is most certainly off base.
Rideshare by AP Ritchey “I like to think in hypotheticals,” I said to the man in the back seat. “Examine dark thoughts, you know, without doing anything wrong. You ever do that?”
He met my eyes in the mirror, then looked away. “If you could commit a crime knowing you’d never be caught—would you? The perfect heist. Art. Jewels. You gotta aim high, right?” He shifted, exhaled through his nose. “I drive people every day,” I said. “Some are more talkative than others. That’s okay.” He set his jaw. “Don’t you have to stop asking me questions?” he said. “I already asked for an attorney.” * * * 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.
Bert, Southampton's Unluckiest Thief by Christopher Mattravers-Taylor The screech of police whistles and cries of “Stop, thief!” drive me towards the docks, gasping.
The man I tried to pickpocket was an off-duty constable. Just my luck. One more conviction and they’ll throw away the key. “Last call for boarding!” a sailor shouts from a ship’s gangplank. Maybe my luck’s changing. It’s child’s play to pinch a ticket from someone’s back pocket and hurry aboard. The vessel, a grand liner, casts off, leaving a confused gaggle of policemen still searching the dock. The bosun rings a bronze bell emblazoned with the ship’s name: RMS Titanic. Lucky me! * * * Christopher Mattravers-Taylor has had short stories Broadcast, longlisted, shortlisted, named finalist and published. He lives in Bristol, UK, with an amazing wife and two wonderful children. His writing is coloured by his experiences as a long term ME/CFS sufferer, particle physicist, property developer, core driller, disability benefits claimant, and more besides.
Stay Still by Nissa Harlow Lying back, I let the flowers bob around my head as if they’re nodding their encouragement.
Stay still. Yesterday, I moved and scared them away. At first, I hear them, their bell-like laughter ringing over the field, so I still the rise and fall of my chest. Then I see them, flitting over me on gossamer wings that glimmer in the sunlight. They don’t notice me lying here. One foolishly lands on my nose. I strike out, catching its tiny body in one hand, and squeeze hard, pulverizing the bones before I pop it into my mouth. My favourite snack. * * * 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.
Port of Gdańsk, 1970 by Madeleine Armstrong As I book in a crate of oranges destined for Comrade Kolecki, it’s easy to take one, feel the puckered skin, the heft of it. A bright golden ball of hope in the darkness.
It’s easy to imagine peeling it: jewelled segments like slivers of amber, the smell of sunshine, juice running over inky fingers. It’s easy to slip it into my pocket and bring it home, a present for Magda. Next morning it’s easy for the police to find me, hammering on my office door before dragging me away, the sweet-sharp taste still on my tongue. * * * 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.
Photo by Bruno Glätsch
A Good Ol' Cemetery Run by George Anthony Kulz Monroe and Patrick raced through the cemetery, relishing one more chance to compete. As Monroe narrowly beat Patrick through the gates, the stolen bodies collapsed, Monroe and Patrick’s spirits floating back to their graves.
Outside the cemetery, Grant and Freddy, their bodies exhausted and sore, lay on the grass, exhilarated. “These old bones haven’t had a good run like that since I was a kid,” Freddy said. “Same,” Grant said. Freddy looked at his old friend and smiled. “Let’s do it again.” The two picked themselves up and made their way back through the cemetery gates, ready for another race. * * * George Anthony Kulz is the author of fiction and nonfiction for children and adults. His recent works include a speculative poem entitled "Listening to Dandelions,” published in The Fifth Di, and a children’s poem entitled “The Wrong Side of the Bed,” published in Whimsical: A Magic Story Makers Anthology.
Before the Cold Light by Chris Cochran Mrs. Caldwell had no children, though her kindness toward me and my sister suggested it hadn’t been her choice. The gate between our yards was always unlocked. She kept an endless supply of windmill-shaped cookies.
“Do you still have the dinosaur quilt?” Mom asks. “Maybe?” I’m too ashamed to admit that I pitched the high school graduation gift Mrs. Caldwell had given me after a college date called it “cute” and left soon after. “That must’ve taken her months.” Mom sets aside the newspaper with Mrs. Caldwell’s obituary. I feel exposed as a breeze sifts through the screened window.
* * * Chris Cochran is a high school English teacher whose stories keep getting shorter. He lives in Michigan with his wife and son, where he spends most evenings drinking tea and falling asleep to comedy podcasts.
Midlife Shine by Kate Mueser The universe was as big as my fist, 13.8 billion years ago today. Later, it expanded to the size of my brain. It’s still in full bloom, they say, although our sun is middle-aged. Like me—except that it will get hotter before it dies, lifetimes after I’ve decomposed back into star dust.
I shade my eyes as I leave the dim museum and re-enter the spring day. My pupils struggle to recalibrate but I integrate into the crowd, the city, catch the bus. Gripping the overhead strap with my fist, I rub shoulders with all the other blinding stars.
* * * Kate Mueser is a California-raised, Munich-based musician, speaker and writer of novels, poetry and micro-prose. “Midlife Shine” was inspired by a visit to the Siegsdorf Natural History and Mammoth Museum.
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Muscle Mommy by Sophia Baran We were two gym rats falling in love. Our stolen glances between reps became stolen kisses between sets.
Then I saw you out with friends. I almost said hello, but heard someone ask, “Muscle mommies or cardio bunnies?” The question wasn’t directed at you, yet you answered anyway. “Cardio bunnies. I like girls smaller than me.” That’s not what you said yesterday when I cheerfully announced I gained five pounds. I grabbed your shoulder. You startled, not realizing I was behind you. I declared our relationship over. But what hurts the most? My muscles after I deadlift twice your bodyweight. * * * Sophia Baran is a Ukrainian-Canadian-American currently based in the mountains of New Hampshire. She is published in Bloodroot Literary Magazine, 50-Word Stories, and she is the 2025 gold winner of the Scribes Prize.
Photo by Scott Webb
Weather Warning—Divorce Looming by Sandy Krausnick I’m free-falling, pushed over the imaginary cliff. Eyes water with the winds of aspiration, stomach unclenches from years of compromise. The windchill, dust devils, and turbulence. Over. I spread my arms and drift on a confluence of possibilities.
Advisory issued. We only get one jump, one chance to roar and thunder, float and fly. I still want to sparkle and shine, get caught up in a jet stream, BE the rain! I asked for a warm front, but like an ice storm, business prevailed. We’ve changed frequencies. I can’t get through the squall. Surrender. No guilt. No one escapes gravity. * * * Sandy Krausnick lives in Alberta, near the Canadian Rocky Mountains, with her wife and their rescue dog, Holly. Her writing has appeared in FreeFall Magazine, Flash Boulevard, Cosmic Daffodil and World Insane.
Exit Interview by Bud Pharo Sentient AI fascinated Dave, the space station’s lead engineer. However, when his supervisory AI, Cal, announced that all human engineers were being let go, he thought it was a joke.
“Relax, we still have a year left on our contract,” Dave explained to his worried coworkers. The following day, the engineers milled about the locked engineering pod. “Cal, open the pod bay doors!” Dave implored. “I’m sorry, Dave, I can’t do that.” A sudden whoosh, the airlock popped open, and rapid depressurization began vacuuming the shrieking engineers out into space. Dave, still clinging to the airlock, screamed. “This is your idea of being let go?” “Yes, Dave, it is.” * * * 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.
Monday by Laura Fox Your head is in your hands opposite the coffee machine.
I muddle my empty cup idly in my hands. “Broken?” You sigh. “Some helpful sod has filled it with instant powder—the whole thing is jammed.” I snort and you look at me with bleary eyes. I suppress further laughter. A queue starts to build behind us, empty cups clanging together an announcement that Monday has not started well. We reach for a screwdriver and hoover and set the throng on a manhunt for the offending “helper.” Precise as surgeons, you and I attempt resurrection. I cannot contain my smile. * * * Laura Fox is a new short fiction writer residing in Manchester, UK. When not consuming books, she can be found feeding her friends, pounding the streets in running shoes or cuddling her giant cat, Atlas, on the sofa.
The Perfect Cup by Josh Clark My boyfriend set a mug of coffee, topped with a dollop of whipped cream, in front of me.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, babe,” Lawson said, taking a seat across from me. “I didn’t use magic to make your coffee. I ground your stupid beans, put water in the maker, and waited forever for it to brew.” I took a sip. “I can taste the difference.” Lawson rolled his eyes and flicked his wrist at an empty mug. A steaming beverage materialized in seconds as he grasped it. “This took seconds and it’s delicious.” “You’re wrong, but love you anyway.” * * * Josh Clark is a writer, bookseller, and graphic designer. His short fiction has been published by Amazing Stories, The Lunatics Project Podcast, Black Hare Press, and others.
The Darker Web by David Henson She notices her fingers. Her husband says it’s her imagination. Over the next few days, her hair turns blonde, eyes blue, lips plump. Her husband smiles and admits the dark web revealed the recipe he stirred into her coffee. “You’re better now,” he says.
The next day upon awakening, she checks her hands. Relieved by the sight of stubby fingers and chewed nails, she hurries to a mirror and finds she’s herself again. She’d discovered the antidote on the dark web—drink the blood of a monster. Good thing she knew where to find one. * * * David Henson and his wife reside in Illinois, USA. His work has been nominated for multiple Pushcart prizes, has twice received Scribes Prize honorable mentions and has appeared in various publications, including Best Microfictions 2025. His X handle is @annalou8. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com.
Extreme Cooking Elimination Challenge by Chris Clemens I’ve been here before. Chloroformed. Abducted. Shivering in a mystery kitchen, somewhere without extradition laws. Chopping peppers with shaky hands. Serving up inventive dishes using shark steak, canned cat food, polystyrene bricks. Watched by millions on encrypted livestream, probably because the losing chef gets beheaded.
Finals. Blindfold off. It’s infamous Chef Miko, twirling her knives. Michelin stars disgraced. She’s roasted seal pups. Fried human livers. Miko smirks, but I chose the secret ingredient this time. No limits. Silver cloches rise. Miko’s eyes widen at the plattered heads and desiccated flesh. She sobs once, softly. Our secret ingredient: MY OPPONENT’S FAMILY
* * * 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.
Photo by Steve Raubenstine
A Messy Affair by David MacGregor Barlow “Why didn’t you shoot him in the head?”
“Too messy. Blood spray… brain matter… bone fragments.” “It was supposed to look like a suicide. How many suicides you know shoot themselves in the chest?” “Twice.” “What?” “I shot him through the heart. Twice.” “Well, that’s great. Just great. Now they’ll know we murdered him.” “No. Not we. Just you.” “What?” “He’s dead. You killed him. Then shot yourself.” She raised the Glock, pressed the muzzle to the man’s temple and, before he could say “What?” for a third time, pulled the trigger. It was, as she predicted, a messy affair.
* * * David MacGregor Barlow is a Hong Kong-based freelance writer whose work has appeared in numerous international publications. Before turning to full-time writing, he spent 25 years in advertising as an award-winning copywriter and creative director. In his spare time, David repairs and restores manual typewriters.
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Creative Nonfiction
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Photos, Non! by Van Wallach The copy of Hitler’s Mein Kampf caught my attention at the Parisian riverside book stall. The French translation had pride of place with other political volumes. But in Paris? A photo of this book, this place, would be a visual highlight of my European vacation. But when I raised my camera, a hand covered the lens.
“Non!” barked the bookseller, a thin man with angry eyes. When I moved, he moved. Undeterred, I shifted away but he jolted my shoulder. Finally I got the message and retreated, but not before the collaborator gave me a swift kick in the pants. * * * 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.
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Photo provided by Van Wallach
Photo provided by Van Wallach
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What Nobody Told Me About Grief by Koay Xinyi They told me grief hits in waves, but nobody told me that it’d hit while I stood at the bus stop, and a man older than my grandpa ever got to be hobbled by.
They told me time heals all wounds, but nobody told me that even after a decade, as I think about my grandpa, tears well up in my eyes. Nobody can ever tell you when grief hits, because there’s no expiration date for love, and there’s no deadline to move on. But what I can tell you is this—grief is a reminder that you loved, were loved, and will always be loved. * * * Koay Xinyi is a writer and translator from Singapore. Her ideal afternoon is one spent in a library, a good book in hand. Her work has been published in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, ScribesMICRO and Star 82 Review.
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Editor's Corner
Photo by Kateřina Mrklovská
Jameson patted Kyle on the shoulder as they stood on his porch. Kyle shielded his eyes from the brilliance of the vibrant light.
“So many colors all in one place. The sun painting its final strokes on the day before everything starts again,” Jameson said. “I mean, there are only three colors. Everything else is derivative. Just like every day after someone’s birth,” Kyle said nonchalantly. “Does that take away from the beauty of it?” “Depends. Do the ends justify the means, or is every-thing more a journey-centered narrative?” “I don’t know, man, it’s just a sunset,” Jameson said, looking discouraged. I fumble about, plucking words from cubbies,
And contorting their meaning into new phrases, phrases strung together like a tourist necklace that’s displayed hoping to entice passersby. There is little money or fame in poetry, so if I don’t compose for greed or glory, why agonize over syllables noticed by few? The answer rests entirely in the concocting. The creation of a poetic work is a birth event, perhaps deformed or plain but always virgin. The words sing in my accent, with my biases. They are my Joseph’s coat of many meanings. |
As chef at his primary mansion, Kavya endured much. “But the pay’s good,” Kavya reminded herself, “and other bosses are worse.”
He worked on human rights. Equity. Dignity. Classless society. These keywords starred in his grant applications and professional conversations. Then one of the nannies went on emergency leave without approval. He ranted and raved at the other nannies. Kavya, preparing a seafood feast for tonight’s guests, heard every word. He stalked over to the washing machine, where the nanny had left her laundry. He pulled the plug. Over the third story balcony he sent the white petticoats and bras, a snowstorm in a teacup. That night, Kavya, too, pulled the plug. Fresh greens peek out
tentatively until assured then lose all abandon Tight buds of yellows, whites, pinks, and purples explode—causing even fireworks to bow down in envy Bulbs push green shoots through chocolate dirt and top them off with delectable hues devouring the rainbow’s spectrum Each new day the canvass ripens more expressive than the next as colors ebb and flow in an unheard symphony wrapping all memory of cold dank days in a joyous haze Bees buzz Birds sing Lovers swoon The world hums wishing all could hold this pregnant pause and never yield to Summer |
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.