IvanLuthier

I am a luthier specializing in Spanish and Flamenco Guitars in the Carpathians. I am also a writer, poet, engineer and artist.

[Mythic Picnic @MythicPicnic]

I view my twitter account as a used bookstore or library stocked with previously-enjoyed tweets written by a variety of authors.

And they’re all free! Look around. Take as many as you can carry.

[Mythic Picnic @MythicPicnic]

Check out the newest Mythic Micros curated by @TLTomljanovic then check the micros above from @NathanBorn2010 @KennethMGRAY2 @TaraCampbellCom @BechtolJay @glennorgias @lumchanmfa @happymil_ & @phantomsspleen and then check back here for more!
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https://t.co/IfE0uKIhXa

[Mythic Picnic @MythicPicnic]

Take a break and read the Mythic Micros from @NathanBorn2010 @keithroysdon @KennethMGRAY2 @andrewcareaga @RoopaMenon1 @mooninabucket @Depreciationism @LuthierIvan @amy_grech @Madeleine_write @WriterLeeFlatt @Lydiasta & @KMWriter01 — you deserve a break!
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[IvanLuthier @LuthierIvan]

@NathanBorn2010 @MythicPicnic Thank you!

[Mythic Picnic @MythicPicnic]

After you’ve read the newest Mythic Micros above, check out the previous collections curated by @NathanBorn2010 @KennethMGRAY2 @TaraCampbellCom @BechtolJay @glennorgias @lumchanmfa @happymil_ & @phantomsspleen below and then come back for more!
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https://t.co/AUMKegUotE

[Mythic Picnic @MythicPicnic]

Feast or Famine

Mythic Micros by @DChrisBader @twitnikki @NoraNadj @norabird @NinaMD1 @jenwithwords @FinnianBurnett @DelGeo14 @sugarpigblog @TKearnes96914 @bsherm36 @ashaughn & @Victoria_BPP

Curated by T.L. Tomljanovic / @TLTomljanovic

#MythicPicnicTweetStory

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In Feast or Famine, hunger takes many shapes—a crowded cafeteria, reality TV, a Travel Lodge, and memories that taste like survival. These stories wander from an 80s pizza joint to the family kitchen. Hands fold manti and crust for water pie. Between bites of nacho-flavored chips and mustard-slathered burgers, characters chase comfort in creamy green curries and borrowed recipes. In this collection, every flavour is a gamble, every meal a small act of hope. 🍽️📖

T.L. Tomljanovic

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Pizza Barn

by D. Christopher Bader / @DChrisBader
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The bell over the door jingles, same as in 1981 when the hand-painted sign went up, its green letters now sun-faded. It’s a quiet afternoon in downtown Greenwood, less bustling than before. Inside, the air hums with garlic, oregano, and warm dough. Dad’s in the kitchen, forearms dusted white, knuckles deep in a mound. He rolls, folds, turns it—patient, certain. Folks said it wouldn’t last. “Pizza? Here?” He’d smiled, having sunk his last dollar into an oven that burned hotter than Arkansas in July. The door jingles again. A kid, maybe ten, clutches crumpled bills and squints at the menu. “Y’all got the one with pepperoni that curls up?” Dad wipes his hands. “Crispy-cup kind. Best kind.” The kid grins. “Mama says this place was here when she was my age.” Dad pauses. In his mind, the restaurant rewinds: Arcade cabinets—Galaga, Pac-Man—buzzing with quarters and sugar-high kids. Pool table, felt torn, claimed by uncles swearing they’re “one shot away.” His younger self at the counter, hair thicker, worries louder, eyeing the door for tomorrow’s crowd. He slides the pie in. Forty-five years. Same recipe. Same hands. The crust snaps under the cutter. He boxes it, hands over the warm weight. “Tell your mama,” he says, “we’re still here.”
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D. Christopher Bader writes Western noir and small-town mysteries with a crooked grin and a soft spot for eccentric weirdos.

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There under the mother of all mango trees

by Elisa Dominique Rivera / @twitnikki
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At my grandparents’ farm, I would tell them. The one I used to climb even though red bull ants would beat me to the clusters of the sweet, golden fruits ready for the taking. There were always hundreds of them spraying us of their luscious, saccharine scent like a curtain dancing to the breeze and sway of the trees.

Under the mother of all mango trees whose leaves create dancing shadows and blow light balm on anyone sitting under its umbrella, we would gather.

Under the mother of all mango trees a wooden papag would be standing. My Atang built it with his own hands from one of the Narra trees. On it would be banana leaves laid flat like placemats, but there’d be no plates because we’d eat straight from the leaves. On them would be freshly grilled pork belly, large orange prawns, stuffed milkfish with reds and greens peeping out from its centre; marinated chicken bbq, and in the middle, fluffy clouds of rice.

Under the mother of all mango trees the whole family would be sharing the food. They’d be eating with clean hands and raucous banter. The younger ones would dart in between us adults asking for subo with their mouths open. We would feed them without missing the beat of the chuckling from an inside joke or latest tsismis.

Under the mother of all mango trees I’d quietly mention the prognosis. There’d be sudden silences and impromptu mango-picking. They’d peel the skin of the fruit, holding it in front of my mouth to feed me. There’d be rostered plans on who’d care for me, and who’d take me to the hospital. There’d be a combination of hope and despair mixed in with the sweet air.

This is how it would be.
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Elisa Dominique Rivera is a Filipina living in Boonwurrung Country, Australia still craving for mangoes. Her big writing flex is being called a writer by her daughters. She's also published some stories.

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How to make manti

by Nora Nadjarian / @NoraNadj
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i
Knead the dough on a white-dusted formica kitchen table. Add water to the thirst, keep adding, inhale a puff of flour. Grandma pushes a loose hair up with her wrist and a bit of white rests on her brow. All ‘hands’ in these instructions. All hands for punching hunger, which lingers. ‘Make the perfect dough, be good humans, get good jobs, don’t go hungry like we did.’

ii
Chop up the onion and if it makes you cry, let it. Mix it with the minced beef in a bowl, get your hands as mincy and oniony as you can. There’s always a fork on the table to makes ridges on the mince. Turn on the oven, set it to 150.

iii
Cut the sheet of dough into thin squares. They won't be the same size, or perfect squares. There’s nothing perfect. Even the kitchen table wobbles. Place a little meat in each square, fold it in half, press opposite sides together. Seal each little dumpling boat so tight nothing can get in: no seawater, no doubt. ‘Let them survive, the way we did.’

iv
Grease the round baking tray with white, thick-as-paint Spry vegetable shortening. Place the dumplings in a circle going in, like embroidery. Soon, they sizzle golden in the oven. Soon, the plump dumplings are topped with yoghurt, sprinkled with burgundy sumac. Our mouths water. Grandma talks about waves crashing, boats rocking, history repeating itself.
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Nora Nadjarian’s stories have appeared in numerous journals including Centaur, Fractured Lit and CRAFT. Her work was chosen for Wigleaf‘s Top 50 Very Short Fictions (selected by Kathy Fish, 2022). She placed third in the Welkin Writing Prize in 2025.

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How to Speedrun an Eating Disorder

by Nora Rawn / @norabird
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First watch a lot of cooking videos and never cook. Go to dinner and order nothing, saying you already ate. Eat one apple slowly, over hours. Rotate the apple and eat it in a pattern of tiny nibbles, as if you were a very patient mouse. For lunch, try one container of snap peas: green, fresh, waxy. Ride the stationary bike for hours. Fit in crunches in bizarre places, on the floor. It’s not even about your body, except insofar as you are divorcing yourself from the realm of the physical. Eventually you may find your hip bones, though your face looks strange and drawn. Then find yourself hunched over a chicken carcass late one night in the kitchen, or another night, eating chili with your hands from the pot on the stove, red kidney beans, pink innards left to cool before refrigeration. Your body resurrects its demands, its needs, you can’t tell it no, you begin stealing food, you have shameful habits, you write post it notes, DO NOT BINGE, DO NOT OVEREAT, they fail, you are on the stationary bike again, your body is overfull, you have no control. Your hip bones recede, flesh reclaims them, your body asserts itself, who did you think you were to deny it? This takes years, flash flood receding slowly, puddles remain, you fall in the puddles, you are muddy of body and soul.
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Nora Rawn works in publishing subrights and lives in Brooklyn. She has pieces published or forthcoming in Dodo Eraser, Dreck Lit, Be About It Press, Burning House, Electric Pink, Burial Magazine, Some Words, and Michigan City Review of Books.

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Simmered

by Jenny Wong / @jenwithwords
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When Hana moved out, she took nothing from her mother's kitchen. No scratched aluminum pots with stuttering lids. No clattering dinnerware. No metal utensils that shoveled and scraped up foods that held uncertainty. These were the sounds of being sick as a child. Back then, her meals were bare out of necessity, deprived of colorful seasonings and the warmth of spice, unable to be loved, cautiously choked down as she and her mother waited to see what would trigger a reaction and what new things her body would reject.

Despite all that, she did have one favorite meal. A splash of water, a few cloves of crushed garlic, and cubes of beef all simmered together for hours. A few drops of soy sauce came after the beef was done, soaking into the tender meat. A gentle seasoning. Just enough to cover the underlying taste of a mother's grief. The chop of the kitchen knife never quite hid the heaviness of her mother’s exhales. There were so few things she could cook for her child to enjoy. Even the sharpest knives grew worn after cutting the same ingredients over and over.

But nothing is permanent. And not all illnesses stay in a body forever.

Hana eventually got her own pot. It was tall and stainless steel with a shiny lid that whistled steam out the sides and never boiled over as it concocted creamy green curries, Creole-red jambalayas, and dill-garnished lohikeitto. She rarely thought of her childhood dishes. But sometimes, when she was alone and had no one to feed but herself, or on the anniversary of her mother’s passing, Hana would cube up some beef and mince some garlic while a bottle of soy sauce waited on the counter, the only witness to the emptiness that ached in her stomach.
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Jenny Wong is a writer, traveler, and occasional business analyst. She is the author of “Shiftings & Other Coordinates of Disorder” (Pinhole Poetry, 2024). She resides in Canada near the Rocky Mountains. Find her on X, Bluesky, Instagram, and YouTube @jenwithwords.

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Once We Were Whole

by Nina Miller / @NinaMD1
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Troy and I sat at the bar watching men feverishly working pork into balls. I bit my tongue before speaking of men and their meat. It’s not something we joked about anymore, but at least our appetites were unchanged.

Our friendship had become a tepid trickle of holiday wishes and birthday greetings. From feast to famine, he’d say, though never said he missed my memes, my wry commentary, or my not-so-subtle innuendo. He was busy with his growing family. It was best to fade away rather than linger past my expiration date.

“You happy?” I asked, just as they brought stacked bamboo steamers filled with soup dumplings.

“Now I am!” said Troy, joy lighting his eyes.

“Here, let me.” I took his cup and picked up the delicate parcel. It slid off the cabbage leaf without tearing.

“Thanks. Sucks when they break apart,” he said, looking at me. The old pang of affection resurfaced. Troy pierced it with his chopstick, dribbled sauce into the hole he’d made, and brought it to his lips. Sipping before he swallowed it whole. Working on the dumpling made Troy’s cheeks puff out. He saw me watching and winked.

“You happy?” I asked again, not sure what I wanted to hear.

I was ravenous for the friendship we once had. I popped a dumpling into my mouth, teeth piercing it to drown hunger with hot soup. He grinned. His boyish charm shone through middle-aged wrinkles. Troy’s answer stuffed my ears with his news.

Later, I placed a sliver of ginger on my tongue. Its spicy coolness radiated, soothed the burn of both the soup and Troy’s life without me in it.

We’d once been everything to each other. Failing that, I’d chosen nothing. A famine that had taken its toll… on me.

As I took another dumpling, it broke, soup trickling beneath cabbage leaves. I cursed, and Troy let out a chuckle. I dipped the broken dumpling into the sauce, realizing that, though it may not be the experience I wanted, there was still something to savor, something to enjoy.
.

Nina Miller is an Indian-American physician, epee fencer, and creative. Find her @NinaMD1 and ninamiller . bsky . social or wherever good stories are found. Read more at ninamillerwrites . com

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Leave it for the Buzzards

by Finnian Burnett / @FinnianBurnett
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There’s a dead dear in the field across from our house. I pass it on my daily walk and think about who to call, if anyone.

The buzzards will take care of it, probably. That’s what my wife will say when I come home.

In the meantime, it lies on the ground, one brown eye staring into space and I can’t stop looking at it, can’t stop wondering if was terrified in its final moments.

My therapist tells me to look for the good in the world. Retraining my brain, she calls it.

I remember the last time I saw a live deer, craning a neck toward the sparse greenery in the tree in our yard. I’d told my wife I wanted to throw it some apples, and she told me animals who become acclimated to humans are more likely to die than those who know how to forage in the wild.

But there’s nothing to forage, I said. They’re already starving.

The deer is still there the next day. I can hear buzzards, and I shade my eyes, watching them circle high above, black wings unfolding in the air currents.

The deer looks sad, I think, and though I hear my therapist telling me not to anthropomorphize everything, I want to touch it, to offer some comfort.

Something stops me. Fear of dead things, maybe. I’m afraid of the deer’s body, the crusted blood in the corner of its eye. Or my sudden understanding that it could be me lying in that field, waiting for the buzzards.

Because if the deer run out of leaves and water what’s going to be left for me?

I kneel beside it and close its one staring eye.

I’m sorry, I whisper and stand, wiping dirt from my jeans. I want to bury the deer, hide it from predators, but I leave, turning my back on it.

Something in me urges me to look back, to say a final goodbye, but I don’t.

The buzzards won’t die hungry tonight, I tell my wife when I get home.
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excerpt from new novella-in-flash “Life in Dead Trees”

Finnian Burnett writes tiny stories and patchworks them into long-form novellas. The latest, Redshirts Sometimes Survive, is available through Off Topic Publishing.

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Emotional Famine

by Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos / @DelGeo14
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Jane craves to complain and scream and growl and be (heard). But her social media ‘friends’ are all colleagues, bosses, customers, suppliers, ‘whateverers’ expecting her to smile, nod her not-just-a-pretty-face to their mansplaining, to be normal. Yet efficient.

She scrolls through her contacts, kicks the kitchen counter, and shrieks in pain. She has no one, has nowhere to turn to except her fridge. So she shouts at cherry tomatoes, barks at courgettes, slaps lettuce, and eats cheese. And jerkins.

Jane reads her father’s email again—a reminder for her to call her mother on her name day. She moans and opens the kitchen cupboard, grabs the funky, ridiculously priced nuts covered with honey she’d kept for a special occasion. ‘Happy name-day, Mummy’. She sucks the artificial sweetness, crunches the real anger, and swallows the overall bitterness.

Then she eats radishes for good measure, and cries.

An old rum bottle hides at the back of the cupboard, behind the chickpeas Jane doesn’t remember buying or wanting to cook. Rum, her mother’s alcohol of choice for cakes and pancakes and ‘grog’. Rum, warm milk, honey, thyme—the ultimate remedy for cold and flu or hyper, over-excited kids wanting to stay up late. ‘Have some grog and go to sleep.’

But her mother would deny it now, just like her father will deny sending that email.

Jane grabs a bag of crisps and salts her way through sadness, and grills some cheese to ease her growing bellyache as she books a train ticket to her hometown. To her parents.

Daughter’s guilt is eating at her and making her hungry simultaneously, so she devours all the biscuits and chocolate she can find, and drinks all the rum—but without the milk. Or the honey. Or the thyme.

Because she’s not ill, just sick of it.

Because he’s getting old, and the flowers on her mother’s tomb are as dead as she is.

Because her father’s denial is called dementia, and Jane’s is called bulimia.
.

Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos is a Breton writer, Pushcart Prize nominee, co-founder of The Pride Roars and the EIC of Raw Lit. Her debut historical novel, Laundry Day, was a Novel Fair runner-up.

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In the Cafeteria

by Megan Hanlon / @sugarpigblog
.

I remember free breakfasts—a piece of golden toast topped with a puffy American cheese slice just beginning to soften, the yawning cafeteria dotted with a few kids like me.

I remember the stubby half-pint carton of chocolate milk—waxy white cardboard printed with brown ink—and struggling to open it, reluctant as it was to show what it held inside.

I remember free lunches—rectangular pizzas topped with congealing mozzarella cheese, served alongside bright yellow corn, and a purple push-up popsicle that hid until it was squeezed into life.

I remember being nervous to tell the stern hair-netted cafeteria woman "mayonnaise" or "mustard" when it came my turn to get a hamburger, so I rehearsed the two syllables as I waited in line, saying it over and over to myself—mustardmustardmustard—until the word didn't make sense anymore.

I remember a hollowness inside me that had nothing to do with food.

I remember other kids jostling around the cash-only snack bar, eating a paper boat of fries and a Dr Pepper for lunch, or eating a huge sour pickle and a bag of vinegar and salt chips for lunch, and wondering how they weren't left hungry.

I remember wondering what they hungered for—at home, at school, in crowded cafeterias where everyone was alone on the inside.
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Megan Hanlon has a silly little writing habit. Her words have appeared in more than two dozen literary magazines. She is currently working on a memoir about the meaning of home.

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The Next Kind Thing

by Thomas Kearnes / @TKearnes96914
.

“You’ve got to believe in something that will work.
I don’t, but you have got to.” -Amy Hempel

We’re walking through Montrose. We stop at a Kroger and he buys some sort of wrap. We perch outside the store while he eats. He’s never more alive than when he talks about food. He picks up the cigarette butt I flick on the concrete. My own Jiminy Cricket. I have no soul, but perhaps he will lend me his. Less than an hour later, we stop at a drug store and he buys nacho-flavored chips. While we walk, I joke about my lifelong distrust of flavored chips. Actually, I want to cry. Pardon me while I’m unladylike, he says, and dumps all the crumbs in the bag into his mouth. He’ll be fat when he’s older. I love him anyway. He tells me food is how he scratches the itch, the itch he can’t permit the dope to satisfy. It’s better than being strung out, he insists. I wonder if this is true. I need this to be true. But desire leads to disappointment—always. I want to tell him he’s still hurting himself. With him, there’s so much I almost say.
.

originally published in JMWW Journal

Thomas Kearnes bills himself as the QueerJudas of Swamp City, TX. He hopes to find a home or representation for his 12-story collection Rehab Redux! He went cold turkey the moment that draft printed

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The Practical One

by Beth Sherman / @bsherm36
.

Great-aunt Charlotte baked water pie the night the gentleman came to dine. A Depression-era dessert, with water substituting for pricy milk or eggs. Her specialty. Charlotte had three sisters: Eva, the beauty; Mary, the brain; Abigail, the coquette. The gentleman married Eva, though reportedly he only had eyes for Charlotte, flirting with her as the moon drooped low in the sky. Each year, at her sister’s anniversary party, she brought water pie, which always tasted of sugar and home. Simply exquisite, the gentleman said, offering Charlotte his elbow, his handkerchief, his heart. Aunt Eva busied herself with the children, always underfoot, and the roast, always undercooked. She fussed over Charlotte, offering to set her up with one of her husband’s golfing buddies or even the gasman. But Charlotte demurred, smiling, insisting she was a happy spinster. Everyone aged poorly. We noticed in the photographs how Abigail’s spine curved, the sag in Mary’s cheeks. Eva lost her looks the way we’d misplace an odd sock in the dryer, certain it had been there before. Charlotte’s hair turned white. She worked in the library, spent summers in Greece. The gentleman grew portly. When Eva died, we were sure he’d begin courting Charlotte. But he took up with an audiologist half his age. Poor Charlotte, we said. Deserted by love. Destined to end her days alone. Each Sunday afternoon, she fed her famous water pie to the seagulls on the boardwalk. We can still see her face–joyful, laughing, tipped toward the sun.
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Beth Sherman’s novella-in-flash, How to Get There from Here, will be published by Ad Hoc Fiction in July. She is also the author of five mystery novels.

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Face-off

by Andrew Shaughnessy / @ashaughn
.

The celebrity host faced the studio audience, hiding the disappointment of being told by his agent it was ‘this’ or a pet food commercial. “Welcome to the finale. Tonight, two culinary talents will square off head-to-head. Welcome, past winner Sue Romero and her challenger, Nick McGovern!” Nick, well-groomed, bearded, middle-aged, wore a blue chef’s tunic bearing the logo of a popular hockey team. “Nick may be a stranger to our stage, but he’s no secret to hockey fans—a former enforcer and now owner of The Stanley Cupcake.”

The studio audience erupted cheerfully. The judges clapped. A team cap flew towards the stage. Nick caught it midair and put it on. “I’ll give ‘er one hundred and ten percent.”

The host continued, opening an envelope: “Tonight, your test will be an art cake, allowing each of you to present a dessert that looks as good as it tastes.”

Sue shot Nick a look. He wasn’t looking back. He was fixated on the judges, who were fist-pumping to chants from the audience: “Stanley Cup! Stanley Cupcake!” Sue wished she’d allowed her mother to come. If she’d had a friend who played trombone, that might have been nice.

The host yelled “Go!” and Sue and Nick rushed to their work stations. Sue was distracted by her tall, good-looking opponent, who seemed all too adept in the kitchen. Good technique. Ease with multitasking.

Sue, flustered, struggled. Her finished product—a structured cake she called Picasso’s Violin—was a chaotic sculpture of pink fondant, a chocolate fingerboard, and toasted caramel strings. It stood in awkward contrast to Nick’s sleek hockey helmet—complete with its sugar-glass protective visor.

The bell sounded and Nick backed away from his creation, arms aloft—with a raised wooden spoon as if he had just scored a goal. As the cake trolleys were wheeled to the judges, the ‘face’ of the helmet cake, its visor, detached.

The crowd gasped.

“I knew we’d need a face-off to get us going,” Nick joked. The audience erupted. Judges laughed hysterically.

Sue wished she had made a pink electric guitar and smashed it to smithereens.
.

Andrew (Andy) Shaughnessy is a Toronto-based intellectual property litigation lawyer, writer, and poet. He overuses em dashes (and parentheses) and has (the love of) a dog.

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What the Travel Lodge Kitchen Sees

by Victoria Maxwell / @Victoria_BPP
.

You sit as if in a sacred moment, paying homage to the meal before you. Not because a cow was slaughtered—harvested—as placating ranchers say—but because you are a sommelier of flavour and taste. You are a devotee of deliciousness. A love child of Demeter and Dionysus.

Then you smile as you slowly raise the burger to your mouth. Pupils spread like butter melting in a pan. You open. You take a bite. That first bite. Oh, that first bite.

A chewing like a lover wraps his arms around his dear one.

You swallow. Eyes closed, your focus follows the morsel as it descends leaving a fatty trace on your tongue. Your breath slows; hands rest on your lap. You are full.
.

Victoria Maxwell writes microfiction and solo shows exploring the messiness of being human. She suspects all good stories begin with an appetite for adventure. victoriamaxwell . com

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[IvanLuthier @LuthierIvan]

@MythicPicnic thank you! I am honored.

[IvanLuthier @LuthierIvan]

Hello! I am Ivan, a Luthier in the Carpathians specializing in Spanish guitars. I am also a writer, an engineer and an artist.

[IvanLuthier @LuthierIvan]

@MythicPicnic @NathanBorn2010 stunning playing

[IvanLuthier @LuthierIvan]

so honored to be part of this excellent collection of Flash Fiction @MythicPicnic . Thank you to curator @NathanBorn2010 !

[Mythic Picnic @MythicPicnic]

MICRO MAYHEM v5
(Sci-Fi & Horror edition)

Mythic Micros by @keithroysdon @KennethMGRAY2 @andrewcareaga @RoopaMenon1 @mooninabucket @Depreciationism @LuthierIvan @amy_grech @Madeleine_write @WriterLeeFlatt @Lydiasta & @KMWriter01

Curated by @NathanBorn2010 / Nathan Pettigrew

#MythicPicnicTweetStory

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The Only Truth
Brought to You by Somnolent Mattresses

by Keith Roysdon / @keithroysdon
.

“Welcome to The Only Truth, the only podcast that tells you the truth! I’m Jackson DeGuerre and we’re here thanks to our sponsor, Somnolent Mattresses.

We’re doing a special live ‘cast on all our channels today because this is a five-alarm fire, fam!

I’ve been telling you for weeks about the infestation of “Others,” those unknown, unknowable creatures from … OUT THERE SOMEWHERE that have been infiltrating our society.

I’ve warned you as they made their way into society and began to control the levers of power in government, politics, business … everywhere but here at The Only Truth!

But today, fam, I’m sounding the general alarm because they’re trying to make good on their threat to take me down for speaking my truth!

A large crowd of them has gathered outside The Only Truth Studios, demanding to be let in. What do they want? Members of their collective say they just want to talk, that they only want to be interviewed to talk about all the good things they can do for our planet. Peace! No more war! I don’t know about you, fam, but I don’t want anybody telling me when to wage war-

Skip? Skippy, you alright? Fam, Skippy Jones, my trusted audio engineer, is no longer in the control booth.

Now there’s pounding at our studio door!

*pounding sounds*

Fam, the Others are here at The Only Truth Studios!

*muffled voices*

*dead air for two minutes*

Fam, I’m sorry for the interruption. Everything is fine, absolutely fine! They’ve explained their position to me and I agree.

I’ll be back in two minutes to explain everything to you! First, here’s a message from Somnolent Mattresses!”
.

Keith Roysdon is the author of THAT OCTOBER and SEVEN ANGELS.

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DEMONS PT. 1

by Kenneth Gray / @KennethMGRAY2
.

"You're gone for weeks, then show up and tell me you were possessed by demons?" Rose asked her brother.

Randall flopped into the kitchen chair, drool hanging from his chin to his chest.

"They wouldn't let me go."

"Speak up, Randall, I can barely hear you." Rose noticed tiny insects in his hair.

"Jesus, Randall, you look and smell like shit."

Randall sagged further down, a Wellscroft Behavioural Health Facility jacket hanging on his skinny body.

"It was in Better Life Rehab that I heard their voices. I was ready to call it quits, but they told me they would help. They got me through detox, told me what to say and how to behave in front of the doctors. When I was released, they came with me."

Rose slid her portable radio to the side and took Randall's hand in hers. "Shit, you're cold as ice. I'll make some hot tea."

"Social Services put me up in that hostel, then everything changed. The voices told me‌ to do things.‌ I tried to say no, but they insisted. I walked the streets looking for small animals to take back to my room. Somebody heard the cries, and I wound up on the streets again. I wandered for days until they told me to break into that old woman's house."

Randall's head lifted toward his sister.

"Someone needs to go there. Look in the basement."

Randall's head sagged back down.

"I was in that house for weeks. Every night, they passed me around, sometimes triple-teamed me. Asmodeus called me their 'meat sack slut.' They played Nickelback the entire time. I didn't know if they liked the music or if it was just to torture me.‌"

Randall slid his tongue over his blistered lips.

"I'm sorry, thought you were just tweaking out, but Nickelback? Holy shit, definitely demons."

The pot whistled, and Rose headed to the stove. Did he just laugh? She glanced back and thought she saw three shadows writhing on the wall behind Randall.‌ She blinked, and they were gone.

Strange.
.

X- @KennethMGRAY2 Instagram- @graykennethm Bluesky-@kennethmgray. bsky. Social

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DEVIN FOUND A FLASH DRIVE

by Andrew Careaga / @andrewcareaga
.

It was on the sidewalk at his bus stop. Devin grabbed it—maybe it’ll have some games on it, he thought, or better yet, porn—and when he got home, plugged it into his laptop.

But the only file he found was called “readme.txt.” He opened it and read.

“Dear stranger,” it began. “I need your help. Desperately.”

Devin read on.

“I need you to contact my beloved Amelia. Her life is in danger, all because of my foolish actions. And now we both are being hunted down like animals by the one they call the Minotaur. Perhaps you’ve heard of this man. Not a man. A beast—as beastly as the mythical creature he is named for. I ran into some trouble with this criminal—I was desperate for money to repay an impossible gambling debt—and now he and his gang are tracking us down.

“So please, contact Amelia. Her email is at the end of this message. Tell her there’s an envelope of cash stashed in our storage unit at 14th and Maple. Number 44. (She knows the padlock combination.) Tell her there’s enough cash to get her on a Greyhound out of here, maybe a few cheap meals.

“I hope you’re an honest person. I’m counting on you to do the right thing.”

Devis paused to breathe, then read on.

“You might think I’m crazy, but the Minotaur really is a monster. He (or it) is EXACTLY like the one from Greek mythology: half man, half bull. A vengeful, bloodthirsty demon. He’s also tech-savvy. He’s tracked my phone, my computer, all my devices. He may even be tracking this flash drive if that’s possible.”

Devin swallowed.

“If that’s the case, your only hope of escape is to be old. The Minotaur feasts only on the flesh of the young. If you are young, may God have mercy on your—”

Devin swiveled in his chair as a crash blasted through the house, followed by loud, angry voices and the sound of hooves galloping.
.

Andrew Careaga is a writer from Rolla, Missouri.

===
===

How to assemble a sister

by R.R. Menon / @RoopaMenon1
.

1) First, unwrap the DIY sister kit. Check if all the body parts are intact. We recommend you cross-check the face of the sister and ensure it is in line with your request. If you had requested a Taylor Swift face for the sister but got Mariah Carey or if you had requested a face like yours but got a Taylor Swift face. You get the picture. Just put the pieces back and let us know. We will replace ASAP.

2) Assuming you have the right kit. You are ready to assemble the sister from G- A. We recommend starting with the limbs and working your way up.

3) The sister is ready. Put the sister in the oven for 5 mins or until colour returns to her pallid face. Do not preheat.

4) Remove from the oven. You can now show her to your mother. If your mother is unimpressed or horrified or asks you how you paid for our services and looks at you as if you are one sandwich short of a picnic, all we can say is we are sorry. We are so sorry. Feel free to call our customer care, available 24 hours 7 days a week. We always answer. We have been waiting for your call.
.

RR Menon is a Dubai-based writer. At the age of seven, she was so obsessed with having a sibling that she once considered making one out of papier-mâché.

===
===

How to Make a Ziggy Stardust

by Francesca Leader / @mooninabucket
.

Start with one thin, pale youth,

preferably shielded from sunlight

for at least seventeen

of his twenty-odd years.

(Ask about the distillery:

How many days of the year does it rain there?)

His face should be attractive,

with an eerie incongruity—

sharp nose, voluptuous mouth;

neotenous skin, raptorial brow, etc.

Mismatched eyes are a plus.

His hair should be red, but blonde hair works, too—

you can dye it with cinnabar

Add some bitters.

Doesn’t matter what kind—

abusive father; first love that left a deep,

festering wound tinged

with perversion;

bullies who called him a girl;

maybe a schizophrenic older brother.

Lacking any of these,

emotionally-distant parenting.

combined with a keen artistic sensibility

will work equally well.

Now, give the lad a guitar.

It helps if he can sing, but that’s not vital.

Stir in liberal amounts of:

Glitter; Chuck Berry; Sequins; Beat poetry; Gold leaf;

Blues; Soul; Disco balls; Diamond rain

Spandex; Elvis; Synthesizers;

Buddhism;

Uranium; Japonisme,

and every mind-altering

substance in this galaxy,

and others. (Note:

Before starting, secure

passage on an intergalactic spacecraft

to access worlds wherein some

of these ingredients are more plentiful.

Diamond rain, for instance, is common

On Uranus and Neptune.)

And finally,

you must crush his sweet hands,

for only the nacreous marrow

of his fingerbones contains the right

concentration of stardust.
.

Francesca Leader is a writer and artist originally from Western Montana. Since she began publishing in 2020, Francesca's work has appeared in more than 100 literary journals. One of her proudest achievements was being selected as a Mythic Picnic $20 Tweet Story Winner in August 2022. You can find Francesca on most socials by the handle @mooninabucket/moon.in.a.bucket, or visit mooninabucket . com to learn more about her work.

===
===

Until They Do Not

by William Draycott / @depreciationism
.

The mummified corpse of the pilot rocked gently in the cockpit of his bomber, The Jenny, as they roared through enemy airspace. The air defence guns were dead silent twenty thousand feet below as they passed overhead. Nothing lived below.

A single defence drone rose to meet them just as it had done on the previous run, and every time before. It traced a path behind The Jenny, cruising in its jet stream like a minnow. It opened up with its main guns. A series of rapid clicks tore through the air as the firing mechanism pistoned into nothing— still empty.

The Jenny’s auto guns returned fire in kind, and the defence drone broke away unscathed and returned to base for a fruitless reload. It docked in its bay, surrounded by the shattered remains of its comrades and waited for a service that would never come.

The city lights below were long dark, but the onboard computer navigated its route flawlessly; it required no eyes to see. It cruised over the strewn rubblescape and readied the payload. Stuttering light filled the cockpit as the main screen displayed its intentions and counted down to release. The hatch doors swung open with a clank and released a dozen warheads. They spread in a wide net and whistled to earth, where they landed with great force, but failed to detonate amongst the ruins of the enemy capital. The screen read, payload delivered — another successful mission.

On its return flight, it was watched by the people of the wood as The Jenny cruised overhead. They knew not what it was or where it came from, but only that it would be back again tomorrow, the purpose of its ritual long forgotten — like their clever ancestors who set its cycle in motion. The people of the wood will bake bread, and raise their children; The Jenny will pass overhead, and the sun will rise and fall — until they do not. The cycle of their lives will continue, and they will endure, as did their ancestors — until they do not.
.

Avid human being, William Draycott appears in a dozen publications, including Scaffold Lit Mag, Prosetrics, HAWKEYE, RatBag, ExPat Lit, and is a winner of Writing Battle Tempest Owl Pro Battle.

He can be observed on Twitter @depreciationism

===
===

Desert Lily

by Ivan Kotzig / @LuthierIvan
.

The sun was unbearably large and bright. Sand reflected it from every direction. He should have trusted the north-east path, following the falcons, instead of taking this shortcut. The last drops of water he’d held back were a reminder of the final hope he had clung to yesterday. So long ago.

Even if he tried, those drops would cling stubbornly to the bottle's surface, refusing to extend the clock. The clock of his life. As if he could muster the strength to hold the bottle upside down long enough to let gravity grant him one more precious sip. Drops. Drops. All he could think about, the only thing of value in this world. For him, now.

Is he still walking in a straight line? The sand must end sooner or later. Sand. Sand. Sand.

Is there really anything else, or are things just a dreamy imagination? What if we are nothing more than a speck of sand in a cosmic desert, and nothing else exists?

He opened his eyes again, just a sliver, trying to filter the blinding, endless yellow. And then—there, a change in the monotony. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Green. An olive-green stalk. Thin, wavy-edged leaves... and behold — two white flowers! Was this the most important moment of his life? It filled him with an immense sense of appreciation. The gentle goodbye he had always wished for. Fulfilled.
.

Ivan Kotzig started writing in elementary school in former communist-era Czechoslovakia. He is currently creating Spanish guitars as a luthier.

===
===

Miniature Sun

by Amy Grech / @amy_grech
.

Douglas is surrounded by nothingness. Above him it is black; beneath him white. The cigarette he takes from his shirt pocket blends with the ground. When he lights it, he resembles a man clenching some distant universe’s smoking sun between his teeth.

Whiteness blinds him, making the wasteland harder to bear. Douglas soldiers on, until nothingness surrounds him and only the blackness, the whiteness, and the ashes of some distant universe’s sun remain.
.

Amy Grech has sold over 100 stories to various anthologies and magazines including: 10 by 10 Flash Fiction Stories, Apex Magazine, Even in the Grave, Gamut Magazine, Punk Noir Magazine, Roi Fainéant Press, Tales from the Canyons of the Damned, Yellow Mama, and many others. Alien Buddha Press published her poetry chapbook, A Shadow of Your Former Self. She is a 2x Pushcart nominee.

Amy is an Active Member of the Horror Writers Association who lives in Forest Hills, Queens. You can connect with her on
Bluesky: @amygrech . bsky . social
Medium: https://crimsonscreams . medium . com
X: https://x . com/amy_grech
or visit her website: https://www . crimsonscreams . com

===
===

One Hundred Strokes

by Madeleine Armstrong / @Madeleine_write
.

Each evening, Mother gives my hair one hundred strokes with great-grandma’s boar-bristle brush. It’s one of the only things we’ve got left to remind us of our family, since we were barely allowed to bring any luggage onto the spaceship.

We were very lucky to be chosen, Mother says in our pod every night, after she’s wept over the little photo of Father, which is worn and creased after being stuffed in her bra all day long.

There’s no need for more men in the colony, so Father got left behind, along with my brother Theo. I try not to think about the Earth burning. From this distance, all greens and blues, you can’t tell.

I’ll be trained to be a wife. Most of the men will have three or four, maybe more, so hopefully it won’t be too bad, Mother says. But I must keep up with my one hundred strokes, so I look my best and get picked by a decent type.

I hope we both get chosen by the same man; that way we can stay together. Mother has plenty of childbearing years left, Captain says – that’s why she was allowed to come too. She heaved with great wracking sobs when she begged him, her face ugly and blotched, but it worked out in the end, because now we have each other.

At least that’s what she says every night as she brushes my hair, even though she won’t stop crying.
.

Madeleine is a Pushcart Prize-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, Trash Cat, Underbelly, Waffle Fried and WestWord. She’s a journalist and runner, and lives in London.

Twitter/X @Madeleine_write

Bluesky @madeleinewrite . bsky . social

===
===

The Feet

by Travis Flatt / @WriterLeeFlatt
.

We rush headlong for the feet. They came from above, are made of dark matter and asteroids, take steps that crumble houses from foundations, stomp mountains flat, or slurp lakes dry with their vampiric gravity. If the void swirling their ankles ever disperses, we’ll learn the terrible truth of the ankles, unravel the mystery of the calves, and enlighten ourselves to the knee. There’s mad talk of suiting and mounting the toes, but up close, they’re too hungry and cold. We retreat. “Make peace,” some say, “with the feet,” and tunnel underground. The feet lift Earth from its eons-old orbit and dribble her back and forth, and then, with one long, languid kick, send us spinning, spinning in one glorious arc for the sun.
.

Travis Flatt is an epileptic teacher and actor living in Cookeville, TN. His words appear in Had, Flash Frog, Fractured Lit, and elsewhere.

===
===

The Watching Breath

by Lydia Psaradelli / @Lydiasta
.

Sigma-12. Year 2478. Brigadier Tritus Leo crouched behind a ridge of craters. The ground shook. Plasma cannons fired in chaotic bursts. Armor-clad soldiers moved like shadows, weapons humming, shields glowing.

Shadows twisted unnaturally. Distant echoes sounded like warped human screams. Shapes moved where no one should be. The terrain felt alive—watching, breathing.

Then he saw it: a massive, transparent dome. Hidden inside, a portal to Earth. The lost planet. Forbidden. Dangerous. Irresistible.

Leo activated the gateway. He slipped through. Earth was silent and broken. Streets forgotten. Collapsed buildings. Shadows moved where no life should tread.

He moved cautiously through the wreckage. A battered flower pushed through cracked soil. A glowing worm wriggled nearby, leaving strange traces in the dirt.

Then he heard it—a breath. Soft, faint, but wrong. Not human. Behind a collapsed wall, the ground shifted, twisting unnaturally. Something emerged.

A form. Human-like, but alien. Wrong. Every movement deliberate, every breath a threat. Its eyes glowed with foreign light. It watched him.

Leo froze. Earth was regenerating—but not as he remembered. Life had returned… but twisted, alien, and hungry. The dome pulsed above. The gateway shimmered.

He stood at the edge of discovery—and the terror that had just been born.
.

Lydia Psaradelli writes at the edge of fear and wonder, crafting dark Sci-Fi stories where humanity faces alien horrors, twisted rebirths, and the fragile spark of hope in a dangerous future.

===
===

Grow

by Michael Downing / @KMWriter01
.

Marilyn knew her husband was cheating on her. Late nights on campus, sudden out-of-state conferences, distracted smiles — the pictures on his phone confirmed it. David hadn’t been studying the evolution of a new plant species. He’d been studying the curves of his twenty-something teaching assistant’s naked body.

The same body now buried in Marilyn’s backyard beside David.

Along with his precious plants.

The assistant hadn’t put up a fight. No pleading. No excuses. Just a few tears, like she understood how it would end. David, on the other hand, offered plenty.

“You don’t understand what I’ve done,” he said.

“You cheated on me.”

“That’s not important. I created a crossbreed plant with canine characteristics. Think Venus flytraps that hunt. They eat meat, not insects. It’s monumental. Bigger than a few meaningless affairs.”

“A few?”

He had shrugged nonchalantly.

That was when Marilyn shot him.

She was going to shoot him anyway, but after fifteen years of marriage, she wanted apologies. Remorse. Not indifference.

Marilyn rolled both bodies into the hole with David’s plants. The long veined vines with barbed tendrils were already moving, curling around their cold flesh. She shoveled dirt as fast as she could.

No tears. Those had dried up years ago. All she felt now was emptiness. And anger.

Halfway to the house she heard a faint grinding beneath her feet. Teeth gnashing. A low, eager growl.

A chill ran down her spine.

The ground split with a wet tearing sound. Marilyn stumbled back as a tangle of roots and swollen vines burst through the dirt. The mass rose higher, forming a grotesque mouth lined with jagged teeth and a slick, canvas-thick pink tongue.

Vines lashed out, coiling around her thighs. White-hot pain flared as she was dragged to the ground, clawing at grass, while jaws like garden shears tore through bone and scissor-like teeth tore apart flesh. She tried to scream. The plant swallowed the sound.

Then the earth consumed her.

By morning the garden looked richer.

But beneath the soil, something continued chewing.
.

Michael Downing is the author of SAINTS of the ASPHALT

===
end
===

[Mythic Picnic @MythicPicnic]

We’ve got a brand new twitterer at the picnic! Welcome to @LuthierIvan and thank you to @NathanBorn2010 for expanding the twitterary picnic!

[IvanLuthier @LuthierIvan]

@NathanBorn2010 @MythicPicnic just incredible collection

[IvanLuthier @LuthierIvan]

@NathanBorn2010 @MythicPicnic thank you so much! I'm looking forward to reading the other writers in the upcoming edition

[IvanLuthier @LuthierIvan]

@NathanBorn2010 hello! and thank you