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 # 58
May 31, 2026
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Colleen Addison * Joem Antonio * Nicole Caputo *
* Kimmy Chang * Chris Clemens * Marie Cloutier *
* Jasmine G. Crawshaw * Salvatore Difalco * David Henson *
* Lynn Kozlowski * George Anthony Kulz *
* Christopher Mattravers-Taylor * Mary Anne Mc Enery *
* Julie Mehta * Jordan Miland * Jason Pearce * Bud Pharo *
* James Van Pelt * Koay Xinyi * Huina Zheng *
* Colleen Addison * Joem Antonio * Nicole Caputo *
* Kimmy Chang * Chris Clemens * Marie Cloutier *
* Jasmine G. Crawshaw * Salvatore Difalco * David Henson *
* Lynn Kozlowski * George Anthony Kulz *
* Christopher Mattravers-Taylor * Mary Anne Mc Enery *
* Julie Mehta * Jordan Miland * Jason Pearce * Bud Pharo *
* James Van Pelt * Koay Xinyi * Huina Zheng *
Interview & Book Review
Midnight Moonlight
by paul Bluestein
Reviewed by Alison McBain
Welcome to our fifty-eighth issue of ScribesMICRO. I’m the Associate Editor Alison McBain, and our interview today is with paul Bluestein.
paul Bluestein is an obstetrician (no longer practicing) and blues guitar player (still practicing) who started writing poetry in college but got sidetracked by medical school, songwriting, and playing in a band that never got famous … or paid. More than fifty years later, he returned to writing poetry when he found there were things he wanted to say that did not fit easily into two rhymed verses and a chorus.
paul Bluestein is an obstetrician (no longer practicing) and blues guitar player (still practicing) who started writing poetry in college but got sidetracked by medical school, songwriting, and playing in a band that never got famous … or paid. More than fifty years later, he returned to writing poetry when he found there were things he wanted to say that did not fit easily into two rhymed verses and a chorus.
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Photo by Michael Leonard
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Fiction
Photo by Petra Blahoutová
Island of Echoes and Entropy by Mary Anne Mc Enery Fishermen once swore bones keeled the island’s foundation—animal and human skulls half-buried, biting through sand like whited clams. Now, from shore to spiny centre, technological fossils breach the surface. Smartphones moor in rows, charging in the sun. Earplugs by the millions drift and buoy on the surf, trailing the wake of faint podcasts, the low tide of a thousand songs. Maybe no one’s left. Maybe they’ve gone where seas are different colours. Or maybe horizon lights weren’t ships at all.
Meanwhile, the ocean’s roar swells on, unheard. The island founders, shrinking and shrinking to the size of a screen. * * * Mary Anne Mc Enery is an Irish and Dutch citizen, a senior living in The Hague, The Nederlands. She has fun writing micro and flash fiction. Some of her words can be found on Friday Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction North, Roi.Faineant, Worthing Flash and Fairfield ScribesMICRO websites.
Photo by Ruslan Sikunov
Love in a Riot by Joem Antonio She saw him enter the cafe with a sad excuse for a bouquet, hair disheveled by the same sweat that drenched his dress shirt. Behind him, people were in a frenzy with the riot police barking through megaphones.
“You shouldn’t have pushed through,” she said. “Didn’t you see the news? Explosions suddenly going on, riots, looting… I was trying to call you.” “Lost my phone trying to get here.” He took her hand. “Let’s get you to safety.” She nodded and followed him. At the end of the world, all plans went out the window. The breakup would have to wait. * * * Joem Antonio is a Filipino Playwright and children’s story author who discovered his love for microfiction in 2021. He teaches Creative Writing at the University of Asia and the Pacific. Some of his works can be seen in www.joemantonio.com, www.exesanonymous.com, www.compactshakespeare.com, and www.lovecafeproject.com. He also gives writing workshops through www.storywritingschool.com.
Photo by Engin Akyurt
The Apocalypse of Hair by Colleen Addison After the world’s warming, the deaths, there was an excess of life-force. In the yards, sheds walked away. Roof tiles began to slide around; chimneys sprouted wings and flew. People’s hair came to life. All strands stayed true to nature; locks that tangled kept on twisting. But the snarls were real snarls. The knots grew teeth and bit down on barrettes, brushes. Dry hair was the worst. As the climate storms started up again, hairstyles turned ferocious. Ponytails dragged people outdoors. As the thunder crashed, locks lifted upwards. As the drops fell, everyone’s tresses waved, uncontrollable around their tiny heads.
* * * Colleen Addison completed a PhD in health information; she then promptly got sick herself. Her work, written for joy between surgeries, has been published in River Teeth, Temple in a City, and Halfway Down the Stairs.
Photo by Aline Berry
A Distressing Absence of Eyes by Chris Clemens To: Meat-Carapace Beings of Photic 17 Meltyworld (“Earth”)
Hello! Impoliteness is not intended. You are very weak! And where are your eyes? Not your recessed optical orbs, unable to see beyond printed warnings. We have tasted these orbs, found them wanting. Range-limited. Spectrum-disabled. A distressing absence of eyes. Surely you have evolved or constructed some measure of your situation. Surely you can glimpse the swirling shadow of an Adversary creeping across your continents, sifting through your meat, into your broodlings, poisoning their potential to learn and ascend. Perhaps blindness is best. If not, signal in response. We will bring real eyes. * * * 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 Eray Genc
The War of the Beans by Jasmine G. Crawshaw Who would’ve thought the end of the world would’ve been caused by coffee?
Ever since we contacted the Martians, we were confident in a trade deal. Our machines amused them. Gold disgusted them. But nothing interested them. Until someone made coffee. They sniffed, sipped, and learned the word “refill.” Trade blossomed, but our harvests strained under their demands. They snarled at our pace, twitching for more brews. Like vultures, their armadas eventually descended upon Earth. Seizing beans, soil and slaves for their coffee colonies, killing any who rebel. But though outnumbered, we fight. Should we die, we die clutching our cups. * * * Jasmine G. Crawshaw’s work has been featured in magazines including Suburban Witchcraft Magazine, Working Title Magazine, and World of Myth Magazine. She has also written comics for Gravity Paper Studios and Paganini Stories. Jasmine holds two MAs in English and History. She lives in Ontario, Canada.
How to Survive a Stickup by Nicole Caputo She feels for the panic button, cursing the clutter under the till.
Keep him talking. Check the ruler on the wall (5’8”). Brown mole, right cheekbone. He barks at her, move faster, or doesn’t she want to live? This is my life right now, she thinks, I’m living it. She pictures her mother at home, asleep in front of a forgotten TV, People magazines from 1998. She dreams of a beach where it’s summer all the time. Her pulse ticks up at the thought. But she has been still too long now, and Randy, her manager, lands a pointed finger square on her chest. “Bang.” He sounds disappointed. “You’re dead.” * * * Nicole Caputo’s fiction and stage plays explore how people choose to spend their time, and what motivates them to change. She is based in Winter Park, Florida.
No Mistake by Huina Zheng I’ve a friend in Guangzhou who runs a roadside barbecue stall. I often stop by after work. When her five-year-old son cries and she’s busy, I help.
This one night, a man slammed his bottle down. “Does your kid ever stop? I’m trying to drink here.” She smiled, showing the gap where a front tooth was missing, and brought skewers on the house. He scanned the code. Caught sight of the boy tied to the stool—drooling, head cocked, laughing and crying at nothing. He stopped. The speaker crackled: “Alipay received. 780 yuan.” My friend called out to him, saying he’d pressed one zero too many. He waved. “No mistake.” * * * 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.
Photo by Giulia Marotta
Hand-Me-Down by Julie Mehta I hang my daughter’s beautifully crafted birdhouse on a hook. “Any bird would be proud to call it home,” I say. She smiles but doubt crosses her face and I wonder why. Then I think of the times I’ve won a contest or someone told me I was pretty. Not many people entered the contest, I’d figure. They probably think everyone’s pretty. When a chickadee enters my child’s house as if it were a castle, she declares there must be something wrong with the bird. I insist she’s amazing. I wonder how long it will be before she believes me.
* * * Julie Mehta is a writer and editor based in the San Francisco Bay Area. She was a finalist for the PEN America Emerging Writers Fellowship and her fiction has appeared in publications including Flash Fiction Magazine, Literary Mama, and Elevator Stories.
The Blank Page by George Anthony Kulz On Monday, the words wouldn’t come. Malcolm couldn’t conjure up a single definite article or preposition with his pen. Nothing.
On Tuesday, an eye-sized hole appeared in the paper. He tried not to panic, but the words still eluded him. On Wednesday, the hole expanded to the size of his clenched fist. He took a break. The paper followed him everywhere. There, on the wall. Now, on the fridge. On Thursday, the paper clung to his clothing. He couldn’t shake it off. On Friday, he woke to a hole the size of his head. And he discovered it had teeth. 
Photo by Mathias Anding
* * * 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.
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My Neighbor, the Idiom Savant by Bud Pharo I hated my nosy, idiom-spewing neighbor Joe’s eternal optimism.
“Bill, sorry about your divorce, but remember, when one door closes, another opens.” “Yes, that’s exactly how the burglar broke into my house last month.” “Try to look on the bright side, Bill. What’ve you got to lose?” “Well, nothing, thanks to that fucking burglar!” “Things will get better; keep your chin up.” “How else can I hide my double chin for my Tinder pic?” “Ever try counting your blessings?” “Only if they’re tax deductible.” “Bill, before you know it, everything will be coming up roses.” Turns out Joe was right, especially after I buried his corpse under my flowerbed. 
Photo by Giulia Marotta
* * * 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.
Tarantella by Salvatore Difalco Cousin Filippo left his wife Maria for Tammy, this bosomy peroxide-blonde from Rochester. Maria moved back to Italy with their two daughters. The family vilified Filippo for his actions, and tried to shun him.
But Filippo had a talent not easily replaced: he was maestro of the organetto—a mini-accordion—which he was called upon to play at every important family function. Indeed, he showed up with his new squeeze at my cousin Donna’s wedding reception and got everyone dancing. “He’s good,” cousin Vince said. “He is,” I said, watching Tammy tarantella with a randy Uncle Frank. 
Photo by Michael Leonard
* * * Sicilian Canadian poet and storyteller Salvatore Difalco writes from Toronto, Canada. His short work has appeared in The Journal of Compressed Arts, Five Minutes, and Cafe Irreal.
Studying Krenz Cushart by Kimmy Chang Cubes. Grid. [A dog chasing its tail.] I square the page to the window and aim each face at the vanishing point. Sphere. Cylinder. Cone. The first rule is correction. In the park, the dog corkscrews at the leash. I redraw the block. Again. [Again.] It flops belly-up in the grass. I tug the contour straighter. The frisbee skims out of frame. Back home, everything is placed: bowl, mug, dish towel, knife. Light on upper planes. Shadow beneath plates. I set the dog inside the square of window light. Eraser crumbs gather at my hand. One paw keeps crossing the edge.
Photo by Martin Tajmr
* * * Kimmy Chang is a McKinney-based writer and computer-vision engineer. A 2026 Writers’ League of Texas Fellow and Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Apple Valley Review, wildscape. literary journal, Qu Literary Magazine, and Third Wednesday, among others. Read more at https://www.kchang.xyz/.
Cloves by Christopher Mattravers-Taylor The clove slides off the orange’s tough skin and slips through my little fingers, pinging onto the floor. The orange is for mulling the wine bubbling on Nan’s ancient cooker. Steam fills her tiny kitchen.
Don’t fret, sweetheart. Nan’s warm presence behind me is comforting. She smells of fresh scones and Rosewater perfume. *
My hands are old now, crooked and swollen. Another clove falls. The memory evaporates like the steam from the pot.
“Granny, can I help?” My granddaughter selects a clove and tries to push it into the orange. “Of course, sweetheart.” I stand behind her, guiding her hands. * * * 
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.
Night of the Living Cheerleaders by Jason Pearce Gimme a C!
Cassandra would taunt me for the high crime of eating lunch. “Fries are for fatties!” Then she got hooked on Cheer. The horde claimed her as leader. Gimme an H! Hallways echo their chants. I stand silent, upright, axe ready. Defend the lab. My mission depends on chemistry. They trudge past, unseeing. Gimme an E! Every zombie has weaknesses. I’ve found Cassandra’s. Gimme an E! Easy entry. Cassandra used to sing her locker combination while dialing it. Gimme an R! Rummaging hands find the pillbox. Whatcha got? Cheer! Whatcha gonna do? Contaminate their supply. Save the world. 
Photo by Hasty Words
* * * Jason Pearce’s work has appeared in ScribesMICRO Issue 53, as well as Flash Fiction Online, The Deadlands and Malahat Review. His story “A Concise History of the Goldfish Trade” was nominated for the 2026 Pushcart Prize. Jason’s debut novel will be released by House of Anansi Press in Fall 2027.
Carnivorous by Jordan Miland We were visiting my grandfather up near the border. The way his garden opened up into the forest made it seem like he owned all that leafless wilderness.
“Stick season,” he said. “Makes you look right through them trees. See a whole lot of deer, I’ll bet. Just watch out for them windigos.” One night we saw a deer grazing between the naked oaks. “Come here,” my sister whispered. “Come on, we won’t hurt you.” I remember the deer turning its head, then rising, tall and thin, on two legs. I remember screaming as it dashed towards us, jaws open. 
Photo by Diana Parkhouse
* * * Jordan Miland is an English Literature student from Denmark. His other work is scheduled to be published in Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder in August, and HORRORSMITH in July.
Purple Feet by David Henson Sitting at the patio table, she clinks her empty wine glass with her fingernail and chuckles. “Middle C. Let’s have one more. Just one.”
He looks away. “I don’t think there is any.” “So you say.” Clink, clink, clink. “Sounds out of tune.” “The glass or me?” “The glass is fine.” He sighs and goes inside. She watches a blue jay splash in the bird bath. He returns with another bottle of merlot. “Do you have a secret vineyard?” He twists the corkscrew. “Haven’t you noticed my purple feet?” They laugh. Neither thinks it’s funny. 
* * * 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.
Some by Lynn Kozlowski After some active decades together, he is bent with pain, disability, and frailty. She is now caregiver-in-charge with helpers on day shifts. She keeps asking him what he wants. He answers with a nod or shake. She struggles to get him onto their mattress at night. She goes to read or watch TV until she slips into their marital bed, hoping not to rouse him and expecting another fractured night. Now three years into it, lying next to him, she takes some comfort being next to his stretched-out, tall frame and feels for moments some of what they were together.
* * * Lynn Kozlowski is in Citron Review, Molecule, Every Day Fiction, 50-Word Stories, The Dribble Drabble Review, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Zodiac Review, The Malahat Review, and The Quarterly. He has a book of short fiction, Historical Markers (Ravenna Books). He is based in the US, but spends time in Canada.
Photo by Adina Voicu
Back Forty by James Van Pelt Glen meandered through Lazarus Park, noting frost on fallen leaves. At the park’s edge sat the Back Forty Center and his appointment for his third visit in eighty years.
Life at biological sixty: less energy. Morning stiffness. He’d discovered bird watching; needed reading glasses. Memories bubbled: his family, his career. They’d remain, vague, distant, soon to be overwhelmed. A reset. Glen sat on the bench where he’d met his wife, two years his elder. A month ago, she passed him on the sidewalk while riding e-scooters with young friends, not recognizing him. The Center waited and youth again. He rose.
* * * James Van Pelt writes in western Colorado. His fiction has made numerous appearances in most of the major science fiction and fantasy magazines. He has been a Nebula finalist. His latest, The Best of James Van Pelt is available through Fairwood Press.
Image by Gerd Altmann
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Creative Nonfiction
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Car Accident by Marie Cloutier Crossing the street near school I think I can dodge the screaming ambulance. I feel the thud. My body hits the ground. Pain fills me like oxygen. I think it’s my leg. I’m staring at the perfect blue sky, the June afternoon. There are voices, metal sounds, scraping, clicking, wheels. Big hands pick put me on a stretcher. I’m limp, eyes wandering, watering, wondering will I make it home in time for my soaps. General Hospital. One Life to Live. They load me into the same ambulance. They say I’ll be all right. Right now, I don’t know what happened.
* * * Marie Cloutier writes poetry and creative nonfiction just outside New York City. She is working on a memoir and is an avid quilter and beginner piano student. Her work has appeared in Haiku Universe, redrosethorns, Scribes*micro*fiction and elsewhere. Her website is www.mariecloutier.com and you can find her on Instagram @bostonbibliophile2.
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Have You Eaten? by Koay Xinyi “Have you eaten?” my grandfather would ask once he picked up the landline. I’d sigh internally before telling him, “Yes,” just as I did on every other call.
This was at a time when it’d cost us a dollar per minute to make a call from Singapore to Malaysia and, of all things, he just chose to ask me if I had eaten. While it seemed mundane then, I know now how precious it truly was—because to eat well is a sign of a life well-lived, and behind that routine question were all the “I love you’s” he never got to say out loud. * * * 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
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Making the Grade—A Teen's Hail Mary by Mary Keating When my report card blows in by snail mail,
my granny cops the letter from the box. Should I spill to her why I always fail or just keep acting like a sneaky fox? I know when I hear that envelope rip I’m fucked for sure no matter what I choose. While Mom and Dad enjoy their summer trip, she better stay in her lane with bad news. Perhaps she’ll be chill ’bout how I’ve behaved like a teenager trying to be cool. But suddenly I’m woke that I’ve been saved as she delivers up the dope from school. “Angel, tell me the grades for your classes. Seems I’ve misplaced those darn reading glasses.” 
Rage for the Machine by Amita Basu Eventually, we wearied of the images the machine was generating. Too perfect. Perfectly forgettable. All surface. In the machine’s images of us, our skin had no pores. Our glossy almond-shaped eyes had no soul.
Images with depth can come only from a creator with depth. So, we set to work on the machine. How d’you torture a machine? We short-circuited some microchips. We tossed the motherboard into a blast furnace. We picked the parts apart and hammered them back in willy-nilly. We made our child, the machine, scream for its own good. Even the artist Francis Bacon would be proud of the tortured images of us that the machine generates now. |
Difficult Questions by Matthew P.S. Salinas They were reserved for special occasions. The meaningful ones that mattered. A sense of reverence was always handed over to a thoughtful question. People more often than not refused to even engage in such momentous discourse. A well-placed question was sharper than a knife of betrayal or more fearsome than standing alone in the dark with one’s sordid demons. For one often felt subjugated by the confines of another’s word choice. Vernacular was half the battle.
There were, of course, simple whats and whys, but the most ferocious was the how. “How did we get here?” being a prime example. Forward Speaking by Edward Ahern The only way to talk forward a millennium
is to figure out how we’d have been understood to those who lived a thousand years ago. The letters of the alphabet unreadable, the speaking Anglo-Saxon and French, most of the vocabularies unknown, a shorter folk in height and life and temper. These problems will persist with future speak, our English morphed perhaps into Chinese or Russian or an unintelligible Spanglish dialect, frames of reference and word meanings unknown, customs and mores as distant as Alpha Centauri. Hardest perhaps, the psychic and ethical differences that view us as a broken rung in social history. 
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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.