ScribesMICRO
* Managing Editor: Edward Ahern *
* Associate Editors: Alison McBain * P.C. Keeler *
* Special Features Editor: Matthew P.S. Salinas *
* Poetry Editor: Mary Keating *
Submission Editors:
* Sarah Anderson * P.M. Ray * Leslie Burton-Lopez *
* Felicia Strangeways * Amita Basu *
* Vincent Convertito * Benjamin Barouch *
Editors Emeritus:
* Ira Rosofsky * Micah C. Brown * Scott Bogart * Julie Cadman *
* Associate Editors: Alison McBain * P.C. Keeler *
* Special Features Editor: Matthew P.S. Salinas *
* Poetry Editor: Mary Keating *
Submission Editors:
* Sarah Anderson * P.M. Ray * Leslie Burton-Lopez *
* Felicia Strangeways * Amita Basu *
* Vincent Convertito * Benjamin Barouch *
Editors Emeritus:
* Ira Rosofsky * Micah C. Brown * Scott Bogart * Julie Cadman *
Issue # 62
September 31, 2026
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Laura J. Bobrow * Philip Carron * Marc A. Criley *
* Elliott Fielding * Trudy Grienauer *
* Lee Hammerschmidt * Mark Hendrickson *
* David Henson * Lily Lachance * E.J. LeRoy *
* Henry Lin-David * James Machell * Jordan Miland *
* Leah Mueller * J.S. O'Keefe * Jim Pownall *
* Grace Susanna * David Sydney * Wai Mei Wong *
* Laura J. Bobrow * Philip Carron * Marc A. Criley *
* Elliott Fielding * Trudy Grienauer *
* Lee Hammerschmidt * Mark Hendrickson *
* David Henson * Lily Lachance * E.J. LeRoy *
* Henry Lin-David * James Machell * Jordan Miland *
* Leah Mueller * J.S. O'Keefe * Jim Pownall *
* Grace Susanna * David Sydney * Wai Mei Wong *
Book Review
(Re)generation
by Angelle McDougall
Reviewed by Alison McBain
About the Author: Angelle McDougall is neurodivergent and a world traveler, retired college instructor, mother of adult sons, graduate of The Writers' Studio at Simon Fraser University (2022), and loom knitter. She lives in Edmonton, Alberta, and writes poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. She also enjoys chronicling the travel adventures shared with her author husband. |
About a month ago, I was at an authors’ fair in Alberta not too far from home, where I had the good fortune to run into one of ScribesMICRO’s regular contributors, Angelle McDougall. Her debut collection of poetry had just been released, and I picked up a copy to read. (Re)generation is a chapbook just shy of 20 poems, and it centers around two key themes: women and generational connections. It examines the idea that women today are still carrying the messages and emotions of women from generations ago—that the quiet spaces of home and family are inalienably part of the feminine sphere through choice and history. There is a continuity to tasks such as planting gardens: “seeds / of the seeds of the seeds planted / by foremothers.” And this continuity reaches beyond a linear timeline and is as prevalent today as it was generations ago. The poems are mostly free verse of 1-2 pages and tend to be narrative, telling stories and capturing moments serious and silly. There’s the poem “Eating Mom,” which is a bit of tongue-in-cheek humor, since it’s based on what her mother always told her: “I put a little of myself / into everything I cook.” But then the poem takes a more serious dive into the idea of what it really means to infuse cooking with the self, both to the mother and to the child’s perspective of her. There are poignant moments of motherhood and grandmotherhood, such as remembering early moments of raising children as well as later ones, with children growing up and having their own kids. There are many poems that are centered around food—cooking between generations, eating together, preserving the fruits of the land, and all the many ways that food brings people and families and communities together. I imagine one could take two lines from McDougall’s own poem “Glean” to sum up this collection: “I imagine they say / You can’t see me, but I’m here.” In the same way, the poet gives voice to the unseen—the connections between disparate times, the passing down of traditions and shared values and love. The power of this collection lies in its quiet reflection about a subject that most of us hold dear: family. I’d highly recommend it. |
Photo by Michael Leonard
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Fiction
The Cartesian Robot by James Machell R. Graham broke the first law when he punched me to the ground. His knuckles were plastic but I only felt the metal. The second law was broken when I ordered him to put the knife away and he didn’t. I could only hope he’d break the third.
A robot must protect its own existence so he deflected every blow from my bat. “I’m human!” I cried as he sank in the blade. “See! This is my blood, there’s copper in the air, and if you keep stabbing, you’ll see organs, bile, death…” “Yes,” replied R. Graham. “But how do I know? How can I know?” * * * James Machell doesn’t always live in reality but when he does, his dormouse reminds him that he is the author of Human Voices, Alien Conversations and The Kingdom of Hell is Inside You. For more, see jamesmachell.com.
Detonation Unknown by Lee Hammerschmidt “Whoa, Boss,” entry-level Bomb Technician Rick Bait said, looking at the explosive device in the auditorium of the Lake Pesto Playhouse. “Two bombs in one!”
“Yeah,” Lead Tech Vic Voit said. “But one of them is a decoy.” “Decoy?” “It’s the work of the madman, Reinhold Maas. Cutting the wires on the wrong one can activate the other.” “Yikes! What do we do?” Vic studied the wiring. “My guess,” Vic said, “is the one on the left is the real deal.” He pointed to the bomb on the right. “So,” Vic said. “We need to snip it in the dud.” * * * 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!
Fourth Grade Reading Comprehension Workbook by E.J. LeRoy Assignment: Write a letter to the characters in the story you just read.
Dear Stupid Workbook, I’m sick of your dumb stories and writing assignments about the boring kids at Smith Elementary School. I don’t care about Raquel getting chewing gum stuck in her braces or Ramon finding a worm in his sandwich. Why don’t the fourth graders in Miss Appleton’s class ever do anything interesting like discover a lost city or fall into a time portal? School stinks enough without having to read about some other boring class. All of your stories are lame, and they suck. Love, Terry * * * E.J. LeRoy is a Pushcart Prize nominated writer and poet with credits in several publications including Big Score Lit, The Carrier Bag, Neon & Smoke, Rat Bag Lit, Samjoko Magazine, and Usawa Literary Review. Visit the author’s website at https://ejleroy.weebly.com.
Expressive Feet by David Henson I scratch behind our rescue’s ear. She spreads the toes of her front paws. No tail wagging. No tongue-lolling smile. I tell her I like her expressive feet. She spreads her toes again. I look up what her life in a puppy mill was like. Livestock, not a pet. Grabbed, never stroked. Relentless breeding pushing body to physical limits. Environment devoid of positive stimulation. I force myself to continue. No toys or treats. Babies snatched before weaned… Life in a cage with wire floor causing feet to flatten and toes to… Enough. I kiss her nose. She licks it and spreads her toes.
* * * David Henson and his wife reside in Illinois, USA. His work has been nominated for multiple Pushcart prizes, selected for Wigleaf’s Top 50 Very Short Fictions 2026 longlist and has appeared in various publications, including ScribesMICRO and Best Microfictions 2025. His X handle is @annalou8. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com.
Photo by Petra Fischer
The Migraine by Elliott Fielding Invited by mistake (strong smell, bright light?), the unwanted guest wakes me by poking my left eye. For days it lurks, a constant companion—often on my left, sometimes switching disorientingly to my right—an obstacle avoided with careful soft steps, a pulse restrained by a press of my hand so it won’t pound down the stairs, a presence denied with one squint-closed eye. I try to evict it (hydrate, medicate?), but it leaves as it arrived: unasked. When I am finally alone, I bound down the stairs and out into the bright day, both eyes open to the sun.
* * * Elliott Fielding is a Colorado scientist and emerging author who weighs phrases and measures words. Xyr short narratives have appeared or are forthcoming in MoonPark Review, ScribesMICRO, 50-Word Stories, Five Minutes, Hoolet’s Nook, Emerge Literary and elsewhere.
Mutually Assured by Philip Carron She said she’d stopped drinking. As if he couldn’t count the empty bottles in the trash. He wouldn’t be the one to cave, though. He knew she was waiting for him to slip, hoping he’d hand her a reason so she wouldn’t have to ask. He slid the receipt into his coat pocket where she’d find it.
He said he’d stopped stepping out. Then left the hotel receipt in his coat like a damn fool. She’d endure. Just needed him to believe she’d broken first, give him a reason to say the word. She poured another bottle down the sink. * * * Philip Carron is a teacher and serial procrastinator who lives and writes in Salt Lake City. After starting and stalling on three novels, he has discovered and fallen in love with flash and micro fiction.
In Real Time by Grace Susanna I lie down to go to sleep and then it happens. Again. I hear the garage door open, footsteps coming up the stairs. A man turns the corner to come into my bedroom, but it’s not my husband coming home from work. He darkens the doorway. He is there to hurt me.
I see this every night. It’s not a dream. I’m awake. A month later, he comes. He holds a gun to my head. I am seven months pregnant with twins. I am not afraid. I’ve seen this before. Not in a movie. I lived it. In real time. * * * Grace Susanna is a writer and artist residing in the Midwest. Her writing is drawn from an interest in unresolved human emotions and in the way the ordinary can become unexpectedly extraordinary. Outside of writing, she can be found reading, sewing, or looking for her next creative project.
The Box by Laura J. Bobrow The box in which I dwell keeps others out. Translucent, it has little extra room to move about.
In a dream last night, I found that I was at my childhood home, though much too big to fit inside the door. The box held me ensnared. No pounding on its sides could set me free. Until a child appeared. She smiled and stared. That child… those eyes… were mine! And suddenly the walls were leached away. My box became a rocking chair. Myself at five was cradled in my lap. I hugged her, and we cried. And it was good.
* * * Multifaceted poet Laura J. Bobrow was once dubbed “the American Milne” by then poet laureate Louis Untermeyer. in addition, she is an author, professional storyteller, painter, sculptress, folk singer and lyricist. Please refer to her website www.laurajbobrow.com for a list of publications.
I'm in Love with a Barista by Jordan Miland I see our kids in the backyard. They climb the tree we planted together. Our dog lies in the shade. It is old now, and tired.
You sit on the porch and I come sit by you. I hold your hand as you look at the setting sun. I watch you smile. This house we built together. This life of ours, weaved from your soul and mine. The garden blooms, and still my passion grows every waking minute as I am filled with a love for you that-- “Sir. Sir!” “Huh? Oh, sorry, I was daydreaming. Black coffee’s fine, thanks.”
* * * 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.
The Gamble by Mark Hendrickson I told all my lovers to never fall in love with me. All my relationships had failed, so I made sure everyone knew I would not risk another. One-night stands were to remain just that. But then I met him. He knocked an old woman over in a church pew just to catch me before I left. He switched the place cards at a dinner party just to sit across from me. Over pizza I laid out for him my every fear, regret, and character flaw, then asked if he would be with me anyway. That was twenty-three years ago.
* * * 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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One Last Hike by Lily Lachance They shouted our names in the darkness. Rescuers. Lots of them. They were close, but they couldn’t see us.
We huddled in a ravine, exchanging body heat, teeth chattering, our packs nearby. Ashley stayed quiet, thinking. The shouts faded. “Rick?” “Mmm?” “Do we have to? I mean, what if we…” I understood. Rescue meant returning to the eternal rat race. But if we played dead, that could be our new start. We had to at least try. I reached into my pack, grabbed the emergency flare, and threw it into the bushes. She stifled a laugh. A new life awaited. * * * Lily Lachance (she/her) is a trans woman, immigrant, award-winning filmmaker, author, poet, nomad, and adventurer based in Montreal. She's been published in the Antifa Lit Journal, Gavagai, and multiple anthologies. She enjoys bakeries, museums, and hiking from Mexico to Canada. Find her at www.lilylachance.com.
Going, going, gone, beyond by Trudy Grienauer Sometimes, things come back to you. A book you were looking for. Your husband found it behind the shelf. A high-school friend on WhatsApp, who calls you by a long-forgotten name. A pair of geese returning in spring to nest on the Federal Building. Lilac blossoms.
Sometimes, what’s gone is gone. A birthday cake whose last crumbs you licked from your fingertips. An old house you used to live in. Google Maps is showing a patch of grass. A forest burned down to black trunks and bare rock. An old woman’s thumb that marked a blessing. * * * Trudy Grienauer writes poetry in her second language on Treaty 6 territory in Edmonton, Alberta. Her poems have appeared in journals, anthologies, on public transit and on beer cans. She holds a graduate degree in mathematics and has been a student of Soto Zen for more than two decades.
Photo by Servet Törer
Weathered Oaks by David Sydney Ed glanced from Fred to his cards.
“Okay, I’ll see your two trazodones and raise you a Xanax.” He pushed the pills to the center of the table. Out of habit, Al drummed his fingers on the inexpensively-veneered tabletop. “I’ll see that… And I’m raising two Ambiens.” The three looked to Mel. It was another Friday night poker game at the Weathered Oaks Retirement Center. “I’m in… And I’m raising three Viagras.” “Are those brand-name Viagras?” “Yeah.” Fred was out. Ed was out. Al folded. Mel? Viagra? The real stuff? Obviously, he held a full house or maybe higher. * * * David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).
Family Tree by Wai Mei Wong I debated whether to call, but you’re my father. As usual, my answer to your “How’s it going?” cut short. You complained about Mother, blamed the weather, grumbled about politics. You didn’t notice I started crying. “Dad, I went to my doctor. He found something—”
“Scammers are everywhere. Idiots,” you interjected. “It’s my stomach—” “The news said the man transferred twenty thousand to a stranger. Stupid.” “Dad!” I shouted. “It’s cancer!” For a while we stayed silent. I savoured your sole attention. “Dad, don’t worry—” “I’m thinking,” you interrupted again. “Nobody in our family tree had cancer. Maybe you—” I hung up, and found my tears had long since dried. * * * 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. She would love you to find out more about her on Instagram @wmwongcreator.
Bookmarks by Jim Pownall Dad spent his last decade in the bleak light of his cottage, working through Dickens, Shelley, Proust. He’d always loved reading, using whatever scrap he had in his pocket as a bookmark. Strange for a man who’d spent half his life on the motorway, sleeping in Travelodges, feeding our joke that he had “another family.” After the heart attack, I was tasked with sorting through his books. As I pulled them from the shelf, hotel receipts fluttered to the floor, each holding his place on nights spent in anonymous rooms. I’d always thought Dad was a simple man, but those receipts suggested something else—a mystery I’ll never solve.
* * * Jim Pownall is an English teacher based in Cheltenham. His short fiction has appeared in print and online, including the upcoming anthology Islands. He is scheduled to read at Cheltenham Literature Festival in October 2026.
Departing on Time by Marc A. Criley A cappella “O Death” scorches the station’s ancient public address speakers. A train whistle pierces the cold dark. I glance up.
DEPARTING ON TIME: 0242 AM “You’re really going, Dad?” I squeeze my daughter’s hand. “I am, and I’m sorry for keeping you up so late. Thank you for waiting with me. Tell everyone I loved them.” “I will. We’ll miss you.” “I’ll miss you all too. Go on now, be safe.” *
Metal screeches as a black-iron locomotive hauling three Pullman cars pulls in.
A window slides open. “Stanley, is that you?” “Eileen?” “Get on the train, Stan, supper’s waitin’.” * * * Marc A. Criley avidly read fantasy and science fiction for over forty years before deciding to try his hand at writing it. He has since been published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Galaxy’s Edge, Worlds of Possibility, and elsewhere; so rest assured it is never too late to start writing.
Photo by Mika Bergman
The Unfastening by Leah Mueller A black SUV pulled up in front of my house. It didn’t fit my image of a hearse: the old-fashioned, Halloween variety. This one was anonymous, upgraded for the twenty-first century. Two men stepped out, efficient as plumbers. They had come to take care of death.
My husband lay on his rollaway hospital bed, waiting. The pair zipped him into a red vinyl bag and slid the bundle into their SUV. The hospice worker squeezed my hand. “It’s best to look. I think you can handle it,” she whispered. I knew that I couldn’t handle it, but I watched anyway.
* * * Leah Mueller’s work appears in Rattle, Best Small Fictions, Certain Age, Writers Resist, The Shallot, Brilliant Flash Fiction, New Flash Fiction Review, Does It Have Pockets, Outlook Springs, Your Impossible Voice, etc.
Exhale by Henry Lin-David She hates the church choir, has nightly hallucinations where she’s choking that cherubic child with the bright white shirt, both hands crushing his throat.
She shouldn’t think these things--they’re unheavenly, her father might have admonished her. Huh, she chirps, what phrasing! Had heavenly thinking thwarted his chest tightness, his hacking cough, his freakish asthma? What heavens helped him when he shuffled through those hospital hallways, strength diminishing with each inch? Where had the holy ghosts hidden themselves while that hulking machine authorized each breath? Three months she’s shunned that chapel hall. When the kitchen’s hardwood shatters her whiskey highball, she hears the preacher’s laugh: Ha, ha, hallelujah.
* * * Henry Lin-David is a writer and crossword constructor living in Pittsburgh, PA. His fiction has been published in Inquisitive Eater, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Little Old Lady, and his crosswords have appeared in the New York Times. Learn more at henrylindavid.com.
Loss by J.S. O'Keefe She finds a heavy silver tray beneath a splintered beam. Wipes the ash away with her sleeve. “Nice and bright. Not a single scratch on it.” She weighs it in her hands. “Beautiful piece,” she says.
Then she turns to me. “Whose place is this?” She glances around. “Can’t seem to find my handbag. Might’ve lost it. Where are we? Can’t remember where I parked.” It’s an out-of-body experience for me too. Yesterday we stood in this kitchen, arguing if to replace the heater now or wait till next year. Now she’s a stranger holding a serving tray, asking for directions. She looks down into the silver. Her reflection waits.
* * * J.S. O’Keefe is a trilingual translator and writer. He has published over 500 short stories, creative essays and poems in print and online literary journals.
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Editor's Corner
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“Suppose we blew it up?” Juhn turned to Ryan.
“And why’s that?” Ryan asked in dazed confusion. The moon’s shine had him inebriated with the warmth of once celebrated nostalgic nights. Revitalizing ripples of a soothing sensation waltzed across his skin. “I don’t know. Suppose I’m bored,” Juhn, the celestial body, replied. “I could never destroy something so much younger than us, sis.” Ryan drifted in between pools of the atmospheric tincture. “That doesn’t make it special, Ryan. We aren’t special.” “Suppose we are?” Ryan asked. “Are what?” Juhn questioned. “Special,” Ryan meekly answered. “We are sentient stars, after all.” 
Photo by H. Newberry
The side door to the mausoleum hadn’t been opened in living memory. Jules, the groundskeeper, gasped as it groaned open, mortice dropping down onto the flagstones. A woman’s nude, gaunt figure emerged, sallow skin stretched over bones. Her eye sockets seemed to glare at him.
“Is it Halloween yet?” she gasped. Jules had dropped his hedge trimmers in shock. “Nuh, nuh, not for another three weeks.” “Do you swear it on your soul?” He choked back a scream. “I, I swear it.” “Bad timing for me, good luck for you,” she hissed, and pulled the door shut behind her. |
Photo by SC Media
Dolly’s a pretty, laughing dog. She’s laid back with everybody and clings to nobody. She monopolises the dog bed. Dolly’s the one everybody wants to kiss.
Dolly’s son, Roro, has bald skin and a permanent frown. Roro barks at everybody. When he finally warms up to you, he follows you around. To the few who know him, Roro’s the special soul. Roro rolls over, inviting Dolly to play. Dolly ignores him. Angry at Dolly, the cold mother, I go tickle poor Roro. But Dolly, under her thick fur, has old scars from dog attacks. Fingering my empty pendant, I remember: some mothers are just cold. Cold and maybe it isn’t their fault. Hard to believe they were once human. Five hundred years of genetic modifications had created yeti out of the population of ice planet Skadi. Their zealot prophet Khione made them monsters.
News feed, year 3145: “Thousands more killed in New Earth Alliance’s outlying regions. Authorities advise evacuation of all low-population zones to larger settlements.” Mom and Pop had lived that land since colonization. There was no convincing them to go. I watched their farm burn on the news feed. Gone, like so many others. The next day, I signed up for military service. Goddammit! We would take this galaxy back. 
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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.