Caroline Anna Bock

Read a hilarious story about the desert, a bad boyfriend(?), and a missing mother: “Krista Robinson, Age 21 3/4, Wants These Things to Be True” @lesliepwriter 1/5 Why’s the special thing he brought just for me so ugly? Say, I love it.

Take a look... pre-order the book! #BooksWorthReading #books #classicmovies TGIF, world! 😘

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 === === 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. === === 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 === === 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 ===