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 # 59
June 30, 2026
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Livia Barder * Guy Belleranti * Kimmy Chang *
* Christine H. Chen * Chris Clemens * Jasmine G. Crawshaw *
* Salvatore Difalco * Lee Hammerschmidt * Mark Hendrickson *
* Sarah Meade * Jordan Miland * Mikaila Nalbantova *
* Alethea Paul * Zvi A. Sesling * David Sydney *
* Van Wallach * Wai Mei Wong * Huina Zheng *
* Livia Barder * Guy Belleranti * Kimmy Chang *
* Christine H. Chen * Chris Clemens * Jasmine G. Crawshaw *
* Salvatore Difalco * Lee Hammerschmidt * Mark Hendrickson *
* Sarah Meade * Jordan Miland * Mikaila Nalbantova *
* Alethea Paul * Zvi A. Sesling * David Sydney *
* Van Wallach * Wai Mei Wong * Huina Zheng *
Book Review
Ex Partum
by Emma Burnett
Reviewed by Alison McBain
About the Author:
Emma Burnett is a recovering academic. She’s big into cats, sports, and being introverted. You can find her @slashnburnett.bsky.social or emmaburnett.uk. |
I was excited to dive into the novella Ex Partum by Emma Burnett—we’ve published several of Ms. Burnett’s short stories in the pages of ScribesMICRO, and I was very interested to see her longer work. The book is a literary, near-future dystopia that starts out slowly, with a restless baby in the early hours of the morning, and a tired mom trying to get her to go to sleep again. Panya could really be any mother living today as she takes care of her new daughter, Liber. But starting from page one, the differences in the world begin to appear. Panya and Liber live in the Blocks, which are heavily regulated and controlled neighborhoods inhabited by subscribers. The other half of society are the excoms, who Panya is both afraid of and oddly fascinated by. The excoms live out on the fringes of the cities, and they protest against the big corporations who carefully regulate all aspects of human living. Beyond that, Panya knows very little about them.
On top of that, even the food is one of the signs of class differences. Panya survives on nutribulbs, a liquid diet that “taste[s] pink” and is delivered daily by drones. Panya’s best (and only) friend is Gabbi, another new mother whose role seems to exhibit all the qualities that Panya does not. Gabbi is messy and absent-minded and vicious in her complaining about petty conflicts, whereas Panya seems quiet and reflective. Panya’s husband, Thio, is gone for long stretches of time in order to pay their skyrocketing bills as prices from the corporations keep going up, and he’s inattentive to her needs when he’s actually there. Panya is both self-isolating and isolated from any strong form of community—a situation that provides the perfect recipe for a downward spiral. |
This story doesn’t shy away from normally glossed-over, female-related subjects, such as breastfeeding, periods, and the intimate details of post-partum bodies. Each scene is carefully constructed to hint at the main character’s melancholy, with a tone that paints a slightly brooding, slightly hopeless outlook on the world and the trap it’s become. It’s a dystopia that is chilling precisely because it is so normal—there are no grand-scale wars, no overlords so suppressive that Panya can’t take her daughter for a walk in the local park. The repression is more subtle, and ties into an overarching commercial control of society—a background reality that resonates particularly well in today’s modern world.
This story isn’t for someone looking for explosions or a large-scale fight against the systems of oppression. It is a story about a quiet and personal rebellion, told on a scale that isn’t grand and overarching, but individual and intimate. If you're looking for a reflective commentary about the limitations of motherhood, the helplessness of the individual against large and faceless systems, and a deep dive into the isolation of modern Western cultural trends, then I’d recommend picking up a copy of Ex Partum today. It’s a story that will linger long after you turn the final page.
This story isn’t for someone looking for explosions or a large-scale fight against the systems of oppression. It is a story about a quiet and personal rebellion, told on a scale that isn’t grand and overarching, but individual and intimate. If you're looking for a reflective commentary about the limitations of motherhood, the helplessness of the individual against large and faceless systems, and a deep dive into the isolation of modern Western cultural trends, then I’d recommend picking up a copy of Ex Partum today. It’s a story that will linger long after you turn the final page.
Photo by Michael Leonard
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Fiction
Buster by Jordan Miland “You’ve not filled out the questionnaire,” said the Angel.
Buster said nothing. “How can I know which way to send you when you don’t fill out the questionnaire?” Buster blinked. Sighing, the Angel rubbed their halo. “We can fill it out together. First name?” … “Last name?” … “Past occupations? Relationships? Hobbies? Oh, for God’s sake, say something! Did you like going on walks?” At this Buster barked and wagged his tail. Coincidentally, Saint Peter happened to be passing and saw this exchange. He laughed heartily. “Don’t you know,” said Saint Peter, opening the golden gates, “that all dogs go to heaven?” * * * 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.
Changeling Child by Jasmine G. Crawshaw Mama says I’m just special.
But I want to be like everyone else. I laugh when they laugh. Blink when they blink. I try to stay clean and not fidget, like Mama says. I try really hard. But even when I don’t flap my arms or roll in the earth, I always feel their eyes. I think about running away sometimes when the moon shines through my window. To see if I can find where I really came from. We both know I’m not like her… But then Mama tucks me in. And whenever she holds me, I wanna stay. * * * 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.
Photo by Natalia Kogut
Catch the Sky by Alethea Paul I used to think if I could spin hard enough, with my arms wide, I’d helicopter away. Defy gravity. Fly.
Was never fast enough, though. And always tired from trying to outrun everything. “Course you are, baby.” Mama would say. “You’re no force of nature. Can’t outwit gravity or outpace the wind. Can use it, though. Make something other than dust in your wake.” So, I traded in my rotor blades for windmill sails. I’m still spinning, but I’m less tired. I’m rooted and grounded, making something from nothing. Now, instead of disappearing in it, I catch the sky. * * * Alethea Paul’s writing was forged in the chaotic depths of internet Role Play Forum Boards and Fan Fiction. Now she forges her own worlds, usually speculative and sometimes with a literary twist. Several of her works were published on Curated Micro Fiction. You can find her @aletheapaul.bsky.social.
I Crossed Out the Sentence by Huina Zheng The class monitor placed the anti-bullying petition on my desk. The paper was wrinkled from too many hands. Victims of bullying carry lifelong scars. Beneath that sentence were over thirty signatures.
My eyes stopped at low self-esteem, depression, self-doubt. “Pig.” “Fatty.” “Nobody likes you.” The laughter from the hallway came back. “I can’t sign it,” I said, “unless you remove the last line.” “So, scars don’t matter?” he asked. I met his eyes. “I was bullied for six years in elementary school.” His eyes widened. “Do I look like someone in the shadows?” I smiled, picked up the pen, and crossed out the sentence. Then I signed my name. * * * Huina Zheng is a writer and college essay coach based in Guangzhou, China. Her work appears in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and other journals. She has received multiple nominations, including for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction.
The Lake by Kimmy Chang The monitor burns a weak rectangle. Gnats jitter across the LaTeX document like screentone dots. Green crosshatches fill the one-inch margin. Figures need captions.
I get up for a drink. In the kitchen, the fridge hums. It’s one. The kids are asleep. My husband audiobooks on the couch with the cat. The manuscript is almost complete. I hit the green Recompile button and wait. The gray circle spirals. In the faint fizz of staling Coke Zero, under stray phone light, I catch my face in the oven’s opaque glass: a conch, its hollow briefly upturned before the dark draws it back. * * * 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/.
Peacemaker by Sarah Meade It’s their tenth anniversary, and they don’t have a sitter.
Laney scowls and Gary sighs as Tyler and Abigail push each other while waiting at the hostess stand. When they’re finally seated, Laney inhales the tantalizing scent of tomato sauce and garlic and looks forward to the first pour of sauvignon blanc in her glass. Tyler knocks the heavy menu out of Abigail’s hands. “Mom!” she cries in outrage. Laney takes a deep breath, pulls her phone out of her purse, and, against her better judgment, hands it to Abigail. “I want quiet for the next forty-five minutes.” Gary hands his over to Tyler. Happy anniversary. * * * Sarah Meade’s work has been published in Hop to It: Poems to Get You Moving, Babybug, Ladybug, Highlights Hello, High Five, and more. She’s a PAL member of SCBWI, mother of two, and constant reader. You can visit her at her website: https://sarahmeadewrites.wordpress.com/.
Family Dinner by Wai Mei Wong My brother brought her to the family dinner, unannounced. His girlfriend, if you can call her that. Did he introduce her as Lindsay? Lily? Never mind. Not like it’s a real name anyways.
I can see why my brother got rid of the last one for her, though. She is smarter and funny, even more easygoing. I almost feel pity to watch her keep up a smile through Mother’s sarcasm all night. She tries hard to fit in. But Mother will never approve of this relationship. Mother slams her chopsticks down on the table. “She’s an AI, for God’s sake.” * * * Wai Mei Wong is an author who lives in Toronto. She likes to write stories that weave elements of paranormal, urban legend, and mysteries of human nature.
Happy Anniversary by Mikaila Nalbantova The little, white box with its golden foiled stars was no longer than her index and no wider than her thumb. It only fit three macarons.
“The bakery has the best reviews in the city,” he boasted, “A line around the block.” The macarons were all flavored with florals and colored to match: lavender, rose, and orange blossom. Pretty and pastel. She’d never enjoyed the taste of florals. She’d never even liked macarons. He should’ve known that. But then, after so many years together, there were many things about her that he should’ve known but did not.
* * * Mikaila Nalbantova is a speculative fiction writer with a focus on the epic, the folkloric, and the Classical. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming on Apex Book Company and 50-Word Stories, in Club Plum, Tension Literary, and others. You can find more of her work at linktr.ee/mikaila.nalbantova.
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Made to Order by Christine H. Chen She was as he’d wanted: blue eyes, thick amber curls framing her heart-shaped face, pink skin the perfect temperature of warmth, tender lips that only spoke of love. He kissed her. I love you, she said, eyes flashing alive.
Three months in, and she never tired of making love, nor needed to be recharged. I love you, she whispered. When he didn’t reply, she repeated louder: I love you! I’m tired, he said, wishing she were a person he could talk to. That should have turned her off. Instead, she shoved a knife to his throat: SAY YOU LOVE ME! * * * Christine H. Chen was born in Hong Kong and grew up in Madagascar before settling in Boston where she worked as a research chemist. Her fiction has appeared in CRAFT, SmokeLong Quarterly, Time and Space Magazine, and anthologized in Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions and other collections and journals.
Photo by Daniel Nettesheim
Skimp My Ride by Lee Hammerschmidt “A Chevy Spark!” Reef Wellington bellowed. “That’s the rental car you booked for our road trip? Are you flippin’ kiddin’ me?”
“It was a great deal,” Reef’s wife, Wilma, said. “The Manager’s Special. I saved us at least a grand compared to everything else. What’s the problem?” “I can’t go cruising down Route 66 in a tin can like that. I need something fast and flashy, like a Camaro or Challenger. I’ve got an image to keep up. I’m a hip, swingin’, virile, with-it cat. I need wheels that reflect that.” “Oh, get over yourself,” Wilma said. “That’s just highway snobbery.” * * * Lee Hammerschmidt is a Visual Artist/Writer/ Troubadour. He is the author of six collections of short stories and illustrations. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!
Heartless by Guy Belleranti “You call this slop dinner! I want a steak.”
“We’re short this month, Roy,” Debbie mumbled. “Ever since you quit your job—” “Ask for more overtime and we won’t be short!” Roy slammed down his coffee. “And dump this crap out and pour me a beer.” Debbie opened her mouth, then touched her bruised cheek and trudged to the kitchen. Before pouring Roy’s beer into his favorite mug, she added a handful of his heart pills. Funny, she thought as she stirred in the overdose, that Roy should need heart pills when he didn’t even have a heart. * * * Guy Belleranti writes fiction, nonfiction, poetry and more for adults and children. His work has been published by over 200 different publications including Mystery Magazine, Scifaikuest, parABnormal Magazine, ScribeMICRO, Woman’s World, Highlights for Children and many educational publishers for children. His author website is guy-belleranti.weebly.com.
Disastrous Trip Raises Serious Questions by Chris Clemens What if you drove alone crying in the rental car to retrieve your suitcase from the in-laws’ (correction: ex-in-laws) farmhouse outside Oslo, but while obsessively dialling Grace to explain you tumbled down a rotting well instead, waking up mostly unharmed in the mud, stumbling through waterlogged tunnels as Grace’s condescending words reverberate from memory (real men provide grandchildren), eventually discovering a strange altar stone bathed in moonlight, a glinting obsidian obelisk with a white rectangle—a common light switch? And what if the swirling carvings beneath arranged themselves into a simple, unfathomable possibility: RESET EVERYTHING?
The switch wants to know. * * * 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.
Scherzo by Salvatore Difalco “Ma,” I said, “what’re you doing in there?” She’d been in the bathroom for over an hour. And the door was locked. I had to talk to my sister about removing the locks inside the house. My mother’s dementia had become hazardous. “Ma,” I repeated. No answer. I didn’t want to break down the door. “Ma!” I called again.
“Okay,” she said, and opened the door, fully dressed and dripping wet. “I took a shower,” she said, trembling. I thought she was going to cry, but she burst out laughing. “You should see your face!” she said, holding her stomach. * * * 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.
Testing Mel by David Sydney “Just tell me what you see, Mel.”
“You mean, other than an inkblot?” “Exactly… We both know it’s an inkblot, but let your mind go.” “I guess it looks a lot like a plate of spaghetti, Dr. Fromson.” “Spaghetti? That’s an interesting answer.” “What’d you mean?” “I’ve never heard anyone say that, Mel. It’s unusual.” “You wouldn’t think so, not if you knew my mother.” “Really? Maybe you could tell me something about her.” “My mother, huh?” “Yes.” “She wasn’t much of a cook. Everything she made looked like inkblots, just like your picture there of her spaghetti with clam sauce.” * * * David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).
Wasted Time by Livia Barder He slowly, carefully, lifts his overweight body from the small seat of the chest press machine, grabs his cane, and shuffles to the next machine. He leans his cane against the post, lifts his leg in slow motion over the seat, sits, and adjusts the weights. When he is done, he painfully retrieves his body and his cane and goes to the water fountain.
Today’s workout keeps his spirits up. He has not yet succumbed. He will drive home and make his lunch, and eat alone without his wife, whom he lost five years ago already, and to whom he did not tell enough how much he loved her. * * * 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.
Not Ready by Zvi A. Sesling Benedict cannot sleep because dreams foretell his death. In the first dream he crosses Kenya’s savannah but a cheetah spots him. The second dream finds him in the Amazon jungle where a boa constrictor crushes him like a plastic bottle. In the third dream, as he crosses Fifth Avenue, a city bus doesn’t stop in time and runs over him.
Benedict wakes up wondering if the reality of his demise is actually a bullet to the heart, a knife in his chest, or maybe a poisoned drink. As he goes to sleep that night, he thinks, I’m not ready yet.
* * * Zvi A. Sesling, Brookline, MA Poet Laureate (2017-2020), has published numerous poems and flash fiction. He edits 10 By 10 Flash Fiction Stories. His flash fiction books are 40 Stories (with Paul Beckman), Secret Behind the Gate and Wheels. Sesling lives in Brookline, MA with his wife Susan J. Dechter.
I Swear by Mark Hendrickson I promised my grandfather on his deathbed that I would keep playing the piano. My father made me swear to never quit. I promised my teachers, friends, all the people at church. And I kept my promise. My every thought bent to practice and perfection. Beethoven and Liszt became my only college friends. My hands grew strong with obsession; my fingers blurred with mania. My music teacher said to have fun with it; I looked back without comprehension.
I failed my grad school auditions. Now I just sit alone in the spare room and stare at my keyboard, gathering dust. * * * Mark Hendrickson is a gay poet and former psychiatric nurse living in the Des Moines area. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, his work appears in McNeese Review, Vestal Review, Variant Lit, The Ekphrastic Review, and others. Follow him @MarkHPoetry or visit www.markhendricksonpoetry.com.
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Creative Nonfiction
No More Little Bunny!
by Van Wallach
Photo by Van Wallach
Driving our two-year-old grandson home from daycare is always a bonding experience. My partner Naomi and I love his hugs when we arrive, soothe his frustrations with books and snacks, and sing children’s songs.
But did we sing one song… too seriously? One night when we were drowsy, I broke into song, chanting, “Wake up, little bunnies, hop hop hop!” “No, Van, do not sing the bunny song again. I’ll never get it out of mind!” “Okay, I’ll behave,” then said softly, “Wake up, little Naomi, skip skip skip!” A whack with a pillow ended my vocalizing. * * * 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. He recently performed at a Moth StorySLAM in Boston.
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Editor's Corner
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I hate sending my dog away
when we are traveling. The moment I first held her, the softest, sweetest fur ball, I already felt her loss, her time marked by another sun-- seven years to our one-- heightening each moment, and reminding me to pay extra attention. Stopping to kiss her and calm myself, A few strokes on her fur, magically turn her upside down for a tummy rub, a constant reminder to embrace life’s small pleasures as her soulful eyes speak unconditional love in between asking for another Milk-Bone. 
Photo by Claire Diaz
“It is a loss one can only imagine. A bridge that, once crossed, alters the very perception and course of everything beyond. Yet, inevitable of all existence. All things must eventually run their course toward predetermined endings,” the man in brown said from the podium.
All the eyes in the room watched him with sorrowful anticipation. Eating the words from his lips first before determining if they would make their ears nauseated after digesting them. It was one thing to see the words as opposed to hearing them. Before letting them course through the blood slowly down to the heart. |
Perhaps giraffes should
slow down their speed of living, savor moments like riding in a truck, moving to new grassland-- the art of being saved by the same species extincting them. There is the marvel of soldiers in camo who chauffeur creatures to a residence unknown, armed with water bottles instead of semi-automatic rifles. The people on the ground applaud the graceless grace of galloping animals who do not know where or how or why they’re running down the truck’s ramp; they're running into grass; they're running from the foreigners who beam at saving something besides themselves. Sixty-six and savvy, the Chief Minister learned the lingo of ‘net-zero emissions.’ He vowed that, before the next election, his constituency would be net zero. At least on paper.
In his tiny town he got thirty projects running, led by researchers, green manufacturers, and educators. At the watercooler, they complained how little time they had for real work. The C.M. demanded daily progress bulletins (five bullet points minimum), weekly progress reports (with the statistics, ahem, adjusted), and three events monthly for newspapers to photograph (preferably mass rallies with colourful banners). But when the C.M visited his to-be-net-zero constituency, the complainers all queued, like freshly laundered lambs, for the photo op. |
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.