Nathan Pettigrew

MASTHEAD Mythic Micros by @KellieScottReed @KMWriter01 @rtigernyc @rgvaughan @HAWKEYE_mag @fshrum @ColinMGee @moranpress @TCWestminster @VictorDeAnda @RobSmith3 & @Fijo_Frenchie Curated by @NathanBorn2010 / Nathan Pettigrew #MythicPicnicTweetStory === === We wanted to do a MASTHEAD series to celebrate the magazines and small presses and the great people behind them helping to create literature with little or no hope of compensation beyond the love of words and magazines and books. Because of them we’ve found new writers. And new friends. In this first issue of MASTHEAD we have some of the people behind @press_roi @litgarage01 @Blood_Honey_Lit @BendingGenres @HAWKEYE_mag @SkywayJournal @GorkoThe @moranpress @BunkerSquirrels @RHP_Press & @punk_magazine — thank you all for what you do, and thank you to @NathanBorn2010 for pulling it all together. Mark === === The Tyranny of a Sunny Day . It’s a late fall day but it could be June. I get up from the desk To the door To outside Feeling a bit crazy, a little compulsive. So terrifying is the winter’s promise, I can’t waste a moment of This unseasonable warmth. The sunshine; the trees in their gold and red gowns cannot contain it. It bounces off and into prisms Accelerating this manic energy into A world buzzing and confused. Like that uptick in the demeanor someone who really just wants to end it all, But keeps it hidden because they mean it this time. It’s all dying now you know. But when the last living human staggers and then crawls their way to the dry river bed, I will be long dead, And this thought, yet another distraction. I open the front door for the third time today, I have nowhere to go. Alone with this hunger that won’t be satisfied because my day lacks form and structure- or is the structure the problem? Who fucking knows. Maybe I’ll go in and start dinner. But goddamn it, I can’t seem to stop staring at the sky. . by Kellie Scott-Reed of Roi Fainéant Press @KellieScottReed / @press_roi Kellie Scott-Reed is a writer, songwriter, AEIC of Roi Faineant Press, and the 1st AD on the TV Series “Deep End”. Her work can be found in Punk Noir Magazine, Mythic Picnic, Synchronized Chaos, Eratio Post Modern Poetry, Book/Chapbook Reviews in Roi Faineant Press, Moss Puppy where her piece “Venom” was nominated for the 2025 Pushcart Prize , Bullshit Lit, Houghley Review, Maintenant 17(photography) and her short fiction is featured in “The Place Where Everyone’s Name is Fear” an anthology from OutCast/Anxiety presses and Roi Faineant Press. Her songs can be found on iTunes and Spotify, under the band name FIVEHEAD. The press can be located at roifaineantpress . com and the YouTube channel can be found at https://youtube . com /@roifaineantpress4163?si=TaJpeLIxTWaUha_M where she conducts interviews with authors from all across the world. === === Last Exit . On a two-lane county road west of Macon, the sky finally split open in a blast of lightning and earth-shaking thunder. When the rain hit, it wasn’t gentle. It was a downpour, jagged and relentless, slicing at the asphalt in sheets. The wind howled, the road gleamed like black ice, and Archer found himself squinting into the gray, trying to keep the Harley between the lines. Archer pulled the bike into a small bar tucked near the highway exit and went inside to shake off the rain, killing time until it eased up. Inside, a handful of locals leaned into the bar, nursing beers and shots and half-finished conversations. A couple of guys rattled pool balls at the far end, playing a game of eight-ball. Nobody looked up when Archer dropped onto a stool and ordered a Jack Daniels. Kid Rock thumped from the corner jukebox, and a redhead at the bar tilted into the beat, shoulders loose, eyes half-closed. She traced a finger around her glass rim, pulling it to her lips with a slow, careful drag. Something about the way she sucked away the salt held Archer’s attention. Quietly sipping his whiskey, he chanced a smile when she finally glanced his way, but she casually flipped the hair from her face, turning from his stare. Outside, the rain eased as fast as it had begun. She finished her drink, gathered her purse, smiling to the bartender and the people around her. She checked the mirror behind the bar before standing, not the door. As she said her goodbyes, Archer could already feel the warmth of her skin, the faint trace of tequila on her breath, the way her voice would change when he pulled her close. He laid a twenty on the bar, slid his fingers into his coat pocket around the cold steel of his switchblade, and stepped back out into the shadows of the parking lot. . by Michael Downing of Literary Garage @KMWriter01 / @litgarage01 Michael Downing is the author of SAINTS of the ASPHALT and editor of Literary Garage’s upcoming Warren Zevon anthology, LAWYERS, GUNS, AND BAD INTENTIONS. === === The Spanakopita was Soggy . from two rounds of re-heating and all they’d do in the kitchen is spit on it, standard protocol for difficult customers and yes, I know it didn’t taste authentic but you came to Mr. Gyro’s in the French Quarter; I told you to go somewhere else, get a hamburger, but you whined that you’re a vegetarian as if that had anything to do with me and I was just trying to spare you, get you to leave before Stavros came in, saw the uneaten green lump and made you or me pay for it, and you asked me why I worked there as if I didn’t wonder this too, as if I wasn’t three shifts away from quitting because I was only ever assigned to lunch, serving greasy fries and overcooked lamb slathered in tzatziki to day drinkers stumbling three blocks up from Molly’s Irish Pub too drunk to tip and Stavros would ask me if I was gay, “You always wear pants like man,” though that was the uniform he told me to wear and when he would call me to fill in a night shift, serve ouzo to his coked-up friends until 3 am for a $20 tip, he’d say, “next time wear skirt,” but next time, I quit and when Stavros drove his white BMW up and down the narrow streets, Chartres and Dumaine, with his gun because someone told him I called the health department to report violations, I was out of town and by the time he realized it was his scorned lover, the day chef Malik, there was nothing any of us could do to stop him. The police didn’t care, another dead black kid from the Lower 9th ward, and when we had our makeshift memorial, beers on the spot along the Mississippi River where Malik smoked weed during his break, we cried with disbelief and perhaps awe at the mercurial world whose rules we were learning as we went along. . by Rebecca Tiger of Blood + Honey @rtigernyc / @Blood_Honey_Lit Rebecca Tiger teaches sociology at a college and in jails in Vermont and lives part-time in NYC. She writes stories on the long train ride between her two homes. Her work has appeared in Bending Genres, BULL, Hippocampus, Mom Egg Review, Peatsmoke, Roi Faineant, Tiny Molecules and elsewhere. twitter: @rtigernyc === === Scales and Reckless / Abandon . Scales I was captured by the Algonquins. My parents stole me right back. Then a different tribe stole me again. One minute I was in the teepee suckling the dark teat of my new mother, the next I sat at the mahogany dining table eating my oatmeal with a silver spoon. It was the first day of summer. One of my fathers was rosining his bow. The other one was practicing his scales, especially the minor ones. . Reckless/ Abandon Reckless: He shows a wreaking disregard for the safety of others. He has of late, he knows not how, lost his mirth. Wild and foolhardy he bungee-jumps from sharp objects, dallying, drives three sheets to the wind, drinks kamikaze shots while bowling for dollars he doesn’t have. To be or not to be, he is reckless like a necklace strung too tight without a clasp, a wasp with no asp Abandon: She ditches the car on a back road in an attempt to flee her past. She puts her hand over her mouth, the robin egg crushes underfoot. She can taste danger seeping through her pores, down her back, into the willow roots. Incapable of her own distress, she will fling herself, unrestrained, to the swamp, rue, from the brook. She springs free from encroachment, skimming like an amoeba across quicksand. . by Robert Vaughn of Bending Genres @rgvaughan / @BendingGenres Robert Vaughan is an award-winning author, playwright, and teacher. His books include Microtones (Cervena Barva, 2012), Diptychs + Triptychs + Lipsticks + Dipshits (Deadly Chaps, 2013), Addicts & Basements (CCM, 2014), RIFT (Unknown Press, 2015), Funhouse (Unknown Press, 2016), and Askew (Cowboy Jamboree, 2022). He was twice the runner-up for the Gertrude Stein Award for Fiction. His work has been widely anthologized, including the New Micro: Exceptionally Short Fiction (W.W. Norton, 2018) and Best Small Fictions 2016 and 2019 (Sonder Press), His plays have been produced in S.F., N.Y.C., and Milwaukee. He is the Editor-in-Chief of Bending Genres. www.robert-vaughan . com === === My Glass is Empty . Outside my tent, which we all call “The Swamp” for its general untidiness and slovenly charms, I trace the stars through New England fog, my sad sigh dispersing in this village north of Seoul. Remember Crabapple Cove? I ask myself, gin in hand. I swish the glass and, bottoms up, chew the olive, thinking of Maine lobster, the world’s finest, and Hardy Island, where I once canoed with my sweetheart, losing our innocence on its rocky shore. The stars are as numerous in Korea as they are in coastal Maine, yet somehow, for some reason, they do not twinkle as they did when I was young. The lights from The Swamp, The Officer’s Club beyond, play off my martini glass, a small white fire. I smile at its fierce tiny beacon, though my grin is more bitter than home-brew gin. Back inside, Mozart plays—sophistication to mask brutality. Laughter echoes behind a fan of cards, a poker game, where money is exchanged: military scrip. Meaningless. Everything, meaningless. Don Giovanni bellows amid the night, women wailing, screaming—Mozart is the music of war. And there it is, a sound to herald the aftermath of slaughter. Helicopters in the distance, approaching fast, carrying young boys far away from home. Chariots of fire—chariots on fire. And we all know what it means: a long shift ahead, meatball surgery and last rites. The music stops. The cards are laid down. Outside, I sigh Atlantic fog, veiling the stars that do not shine. I raise my glass, its rim on my lips. But there is nothing there. My glass is empty. . by HAWKEYE / @HAWKEYE_mag === === HELP US FIND HER . ESBEYDA ITZAMELY LUIS SANCHEZ last seen in the neighborhood Santa Lucia, City of Oaxaca by the shutdown Pemex gas station, in clothes: purple yoga tights, red blouse with #19 on the back, black fanny pack, favorite baseball cap also black with no words. Maybe wore her Crocs and backpack from night school too. Personal characteristics: toothy smile, thick lips, lazy eye, good eye being black, hair black, flat nose, five foot two, thin to look at, about 85 pounds, no makeup or jewelry to speak of. Heart-shaped birthmark on right thigh, brown, but not a flasher. Not a big talker. Dialects spoken: Zapotec, Castellano. Likes teddies and anime, all kinds of cute things, puppies. Warm personality, very loving once you get to know her, once cried when she was watching The Lion King. Esby does not swim or go near the pools. Afraid of heights too. Esby does not drink alcoholic beverages except on New Year’s with her own family. Catholic, single mother of Deny, please contact mother Rosario Sanchez Gutierrez or family at 555-123-1231. Of course we also do WhatsApp. May the LORD help us find her. Esby if you are reading this please send a WhatsApp immediately, you are not in trouble. . by Colin Gee of The Gorko Gazette @ColinMGee / @GorkoThe Colin Gee (@ColinMGee on X) is founder and editor of The Gorko Gazette. Latest book Robinson Crusoe Maybe with Urban Pigs Press. === === THE BODY . Knock. Knock. Knock. Three loud raps on the front door of my apartment. I shut off my phone and set it on the table. Knock. Knock. Knock. “It’s the police.” I hear a man’s voice through the door. I open the door to a handsome man in his thirties, blond crew cut hair and sky-blue eyes. No words from him yet, just stares and smiles and his boot kicking up dust on the wood floor of my porch. “Can I help you officer?” I break the silence. “That’s what we are hoping.” That’s all? “…with?” His partner coughs. The blond cop grits his teeth. The other cop must be his boss. “We found a body.” I let out a low whistle. My eyes find the name tag on his uniform. “Officer Smith, is that your name?" He nods. “I had nothing to do with it. I can’t help you.” The other cop removes his sunglasses. “We were told you have specific expertise for this case; we would like you to come downtown with us to discuss the investigation.” They’ve seen my file. “Not a chance.” Officer Smith throws up his hands and moves aside for his partner. “I’m Detective Warren. We really do need your help, or we wouldn’t be asking.” I take my cigarettes out of my back pocket and tap one out of the pack. Lighting it, I blow smoke rings into the space between us. “I don’t give a damn what you need.” Sirens piece the afternoon sky at the same moment the two-way radio clipped to Officer Smith’s shoulder beeps, and a voice relays information about a body found by the river. I guess this is not the body Officer Smith wished to ask me about. “Another body?” I ask. Detective Warren doesn’t answer and instead turns abruptly and marches off my porch. Still kicking at the dirt, Officer Smith remains for a few moments. Officer Smith starts to descend the steps but stops and looks at me over his shoulder. “It’s the third body.” . By Stephen Moran of Moran Press / @moranpress Stephen Moran is an author, publisher, and bookbinder. === === The Perfect House . It was the perfect house. Inside the walls, the perfect husband gambled away his life savings. Every loss spurred the man with the perfect gold watch and the perfectly styled hair to place a larger wager. Locked in a spiral, he could not break; he would stand silent in his perfect shoes, betting big until they changed the lock on the front door. It was the perfect house. The perfect wife, with her perfect hair and makeup, berated her husband until he dreaded coming home. He listened to her perfect shoes stomp after him as he cowered in the bathroom, seeking a moment of silence, unwilling to hear another list of unmet expectations. The evening's spent with the perfect wife, in her perfect dress, waiting at home with the perfect dinner getting cold because her perfect husband stayed late at work, feeling unworthy of all he had accumulated there. It was the perfect house. The perfect daughter had changed schools four times in three years because she was the best mean girl in the state. The only reason she wasn’t in juvie was that her perfect father golfed with a senator and funded his campaign. It was the perfect house. Every passerby wanted to be one of “The Joneses.” After all, it was a perfect house. . by T. C. Westminster of Bunker Squirrel Magazine @TCWestminster / @BunkerSquirrels Tori Westminster—Editor of Bunker Squirrel Magazine—is a wife and mother, author and editor, baker and gardening enthusiast, lover of nature, art, and the delights of life. She strives to find joy in an imperfect world. And peace in an imperfect body. === === Dishwasher . Silas watched through the binoculars at the policeman. The policeman scanned the street like he always did. Then the policeman walked into his garage and closed the door. Silas smiled. “I’m so tired of this MF,” Silas said to himself. “But he going to be tired of me soon,” He grinned and rubbed the 9mm in his pocket. The policeman would pay for all the times he arrested Silas. He would pay for putting Silas’s brother in jail yesterday. Not once did Silas consider obeying the law. Silas followed the policeman for a couple of weeks. He looked up the policeman’s address in the County property appraiser’s website. He learned the policeman’s routine. It was easy to do. A few times Silas thought he was spotted, but he wasn’t. On the big night, Silas got really high. He read in the prison library that the word assassin was derived from the word hashish. This was because the assassins would get really high before they killed someone. It helped lower their morals temporarily. Silas parked a couple streets over. When he saw the policeman’s car enter the subdivision, he moved his car slowly. Lights off. Music off. Silent running. He parked a couple streets over and walked. He tucked behind the side of the policeman’s house. He waited. He felt so high. He was ready. The policeman pulled into his driveway. Silas took a deep breath. He stepped out and leveled the gun. But he tripped on a cat that happened to be passing by. He stumbled and righted himself. He looked at the cat. It reminded him of the one he had as a kid. It was a gray tabby with a calico face. He suddenly heard his Mom’s voice in his head say “always be proud of what you do.” His face fell. “Why am I doing this? Mom would be so disappointed in me.” He holstered his gun and began to duck behind the house. That is when a .40 round hit him behind the ear. All went black. . by Fred Shrum III of Skyway Journal @fshrum / @SkywayJournal Fred Shrum, III is EIC of Skyway Journal. === === Broke Down South of Dallas . Me and Big Business are just north of Waco on I-35 when the old lady screeches and sputters. You know the sound. The ’74 Eldorado’s engine dies. Like my marriage did after forty-some years. I throw Bizzy into neutral, coax her onto the shoulder. Flip on the hazards. The rush hour traffic rages past. Ditto for the ex-wife once she checks her driveway. My cell buzzes. Her name and image light up the screen. Fuck me. I put her on speaker. “Where on God’s green Earth have you taken my baby?” I check Bizzy’s mirrors. “I’ve got every right to—” “No you don’t,” Lilah says. “The divorce settlement was final. She’s mine now.” A mosaic of tail lights fills my sideview. “I thought we agreed on joint custody of the car.” “Like hell we did!” My cellphone screen glows hotter with her stinging words. “I’m taking Bizzy back, numb nuts.” My thumb hovers above the “hang up” button. “Over my dead body, sweetie.” Lilah shushes me. “That’s the idea, darling.” Tires spitting gravel from behind. A V8 roars minus a muffler. In the rearview: A hopped-up camo’d 4x4 tears down the freeway shoulder, getting closer. “What the fuck?” Lilah’s static photo on my cell seems to smile. “I put a tracker on the car, dipshit. My guys will be taking her.” “Bitch,” I yell into the phone. End the call. Scramble for the .44 in my glovebox. Glass break. Something pierces the air and thumps the backside of the driver’s headrest like in the old Westerns. I fumble the gun to the floorboard. No time. Out of the car and running away fast. Another whizzing sound cuts the Texas humidity nearby. Backwards glance: two mountain-sized men clambering out of the 4x4. One’s hefting a serious crossbow. I sprint harder. More arrows hurtle past. A blink later, pfffttt. I take a tumble. The pain is blinding. Losing Bizzy hurts even worse. I break down and cry. . by Victor De Anda of Rock and a Hard Place Press @VictorDeAnda / @RHP_Press Victor De Anda’s stories have appeared in numerous publications and anthologies, including the Best American Mystery and Suspense 2025. === === Just a Little . Gary tossed the trash bag into the garbage can at the curb. One last bag he had forgotten to get from upstairs, which Gina yelled about. He looked toward the house and didn’t see her watching. His vape pen was at his lips, and he took a hit. A plume of vapor rose to meet the other clouds in the night sky. The crescent moon peeked out behind a fat cloud. “Is that what you gave Lucy?” Gary fumbled his vape pen. It clacked on the concrete driveway. Miranda, his next-door neighbor, stood with her hands in her hoodie pockets next to a bush. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.” He picked up his pen. “Did you give Lucy a toke off that weed vape?” He flinched, glancing over his shoulder. “Can you keep it down? Gina’s not cool about this.” Miranda stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Nine months sober. And you fucked that all up.” “I didn’t know, but your wife’s still sober. It’s just a little weed.” Her hands come out of her pockets at those words. She flicked open a small blade folding knife and pointed at him. “This is only three inches. If I stabbed you, it wouldn’t do much damage. I mean, it would hurt, but it wouldn’t kill you.” “Hey now.” “It’s just a little knife. But if I stabbed you in the eye, right into your brain, or drug the blade across the artery in your throat. Those would kill you.” She made a quick jab at Gary, but not very close. Gary tried to back away, but he banged into the garbage can. It fell loudly on the concrete, and he picked it up, placing it between him, Miranda, and her knife. A door creaked open, and Gina yelled, “Christ, what are you doing out there. Oh, hey Miranda. Everything all right?” “Yeah.” Miranda waved with her knife-free hand. “Just having a little conversation.” Gary stumbled toward the house, and Miranda spoke softly to him. “Won’t need it again, will we?” . by Rob D. Smith of Rock and a Hard Place Press @RobSmith3 / @RHP_Press Rob D. Smith is a common man attempting to write uncommon fiction in Louisville, KY. His Anthony Award-nominated pulp thriller Good-Looking Ugly is available from Shotgun Honey. An editor at Rock and a Hard Place Press, his work has appeared in Best American Mystery and Suspense, Vautrin, Thriller Magazine, Dark Yonder, Tough, and several other crime, horror, and speculative magazines, anthologies, and online publications. Find his work at https://robdsmith . carrd . co/ === === Curtain Close . It’s very hot in the theatre and his jacket is itchy, his shirt too tight. He struggles through the routine, butchers words in an off-key tone. He’s sweaty, tired, nauseated, so thirsty. His tongue feels too big in his mouth, his body too constricted and he fights the urge to unbutton his shirt, inhales large gulps of stale air that the room seems to be in low supplies off. The light engineer is hungover again and keeps on misplacing the projector, and without the blinding light on his face, he can intermittently spot audience members. The woman in the centre of the third row is pretty, and pretty bored by the looks of it. She’s checked her phone a few times already and joins in the audience’s laughter half-heartedly, and a few seconds late, the punchlines seeming to hit her later than everyone else. The spotlight travels back to him and the woman disappears. The light is so bright, what the fuck is wrong with the engineer? It makes him feel even hotter. He wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers, feels them gliding on the cheap polyester. He feels his heart thumping loudly, smashing against his thoracic cage. He’s sweaty, tired, nauseated. His heart is thumping and his shirt is constricting, he slides a finger underneath his collar, feels his clammy skin. The lights are blinding. His heart is thumping. He’s sweaty, tired, nauseated. Sweaty. Tired. Nauseated. Clammy. Sweaty. Thump Thump Thump. Thump. He collapses to the sound of the audience gasping and the pretty, bored woman from the third row rushes to the stage. And the pretty woman in the third row is the last thing he sees. . by B.F. Jones of Punk Noir @Fijo_Frenchie / @punk_magazine B F Jones is French and lives in the UK. She writes flash fiction and poetry. She has two flash fiction collections published by Anxiety Press, one poetry collection with Outcast press. She also writes music-inspired chapbooks for The Alien Buddha. Five Years was published in 2021, The Song Remains will be out in January and (Kind of) Magic in the spring. === end ===

Tiny Shiny Things Mythic Micros by @PrismosPickle @ioannaonline @amygcb @merlinflower @MandiraPattnaik @victoriaceann @ragtaggiggagon @melissacuisine @melostrom @DIHPocketsART @Lydiasta @CassAlogoskoufi Curated by Mileva Anastasiadou / @happymil_ #MythicPicnicTweetStory === “Like life, like love, Christmas is noise coming out of nowhere, a wave between flat lines, a feast in the midst of darkness,” I wrote in a poem published in @trampset a few years ago, and I still believe that’s what the winter holiday is all about, a celebration of hope and kindness in the most harsh times, joy when we most need it, when darkness wins, and we come together to remind ourselves that we have each other to rely on through these dark hours and that despair is not an option, even when hope seems hopeless, we come together to celebrate the light that will prevail again and again and again. Thank you for coming together to brighten up these days with your words. Mileva === Hippodrome A trio of fake horses appear in the Difficult town square two weeks before Christmas. Real police horses sniff them. Children pat the horses’ noses expecting wet velvet but only find plastic. No one knows where the horses came from. Their hooves are cemented into the ground with tall grass around their ankles. The townspeople accept the horses. They pose in front of them for pictures. Tourists arrive with cameras, plastic carrots and apples. “Listen, Mama,” Susan Cooper says, tapping Horse #1. Boing. Thud. Boing. Thud. The horse’s empty belly echoes like the town church bell, without a wedding or funeral. “The Christmas festival tree goes here,” Susan’s dad announces. He points at the area around the horses. He’s a temporary cowboy in a red and green argyle vest. “I like the white one.” A voice rises from the crowd. “Be quiet, Dorothy,” Susan’s dad says. “You can’t take her down. Her name is Acorn.” Dorothy climbs onto Acorn. The crowd gasps. “You can’t take Rudolph.” “Or Foxy.” “It’s a sign. Like the three wise men.” By the time church bells announce it’s noon, people are taking turns pretend-riding the fake horses. “Christmas is canceled,” Susan’s dad says. There’s anger in his voice when no one listens to him. He finally relents and puts the Christmas tree in his dollar store parking lot and sells miniature horse ornaments wearing red and green argyle vests. When people buy the ornaments and create horse holiday trees in their living rooms, he smiles. Each miniature fake horse nets him a dollar. In early January, the horses disappear as quickly as they arrived. It’s a mass exodus of all fake horses - the carousel horses and the penny one in front of the Dollarama. Replacement statue horses are erected with a memorial plaque. There are whispers Susan’s dad planned the entire thing to keep from going bankrupt. On snowy December nights, tourists still come to search for ghost-horse footprints and buy a dollar store t-shirt that says “Merry Christmas from the Difficult horses.” (originally at Dwelling Lit in a slightly longer version) . (A recent empty-nester), Amy Barnes writes and edits for a long list of places. === My Feat of Strength Last January, on our first date, he wore a Seinfeld t-shirt beneath his jean jacket and a Yankees ball cap as if flaunting his New York-ness, his badge of honor, to impress me, a Southern girl from below the Mason-Dixon line who enjoys saying, bless your heart, to kindly shame the unkind. Despite our regional differences, we seemed compatible in every way—never quarreled, never raised our voices, never a cross word between us. I dared to hope he might just be the one. Two days before Christmas, I asked if he had plans to celebrate the holiday, to which he giggled but never answered. Instead, he invited me for dinner at his two-story condo outside Raleigh. My hopes for a ring soared at this unusual request from a man who never cooked. On Christmas Eve, the absence of holiday décor surprised me, finding only an aluminum pole erected in his living room. I tried hiding my disappointment. “What’s this?” “Happy Festivus,” he said, holding a foot-long strip of paper while explaining the concept of the Night of Airing of Grievances. For over an hour, I listened to every slight, every inattention, every piddling complaint since our first date. When he finished, I smiled gently as any polite Baptist woman would, though I felt hotter than a firecracker lit at both ends. “Why, bless your heart,” I said before walking out into the cold night. . Anne Anthony is published in Bull, Flash Boulevard, Flash Fiction Magazine and elsewhere. Cleaver Magazine nominated her micro-fiction, It’s a Mother Thing, for Best Microfiction 2024. She is the art director for Does It Have Pockets. === All I Want For Christmas I’ve never had a white Christmas, and it’s all I’ve ever asked Santa for in candy-cane letters signed and sealed and delivered to the North Pole. I mean—besides that iPod I wanted in middle school, or the polaroid camera my freshman year, or the laptop to take to college the following fall. All I ever wanted was to wake up with snow enough to build five hundred snowmen, sled down a hill that would appear in the center of our cul-de-sac, make snow angels that would fly me to the moon. Not a mistletoe kiss, or the perfect gingerbread house, or a plethora of stocking stuffers. I thought, maybe, I would get it in Munich or in New York, but Santa must have me on his Naughty List or some shit. After all the milk and cookies I put out. No, not homemade—Nestle Toll House or Pillsbury or Betty Crocker—but arranged with love on a plate with a reindeer printed napkin with a glass of 2%. Sure, I live in Oklahoma now, but, um, hello? Global warming? Climate change? I’m not saying the ice caps should melt, or that the heat waves in the summer in Europe that kill people are anything to laugh about, but I thought it meant I’d get my white Christmas. And I’ve seen snow before, don’t think I’m some snow-ignorant-idiot. Lake Placid in February, Prague in the new year, snowboarding in Wyoming, winter in the Big Apple. I’ve seen all sorts of snow, big fluffy flakes, golf-ball-sized hail, sleet like a bullet, ice that makes a bitch slip and fall out on her driveway. But I want it on December 25th, like in the movies, when it’s special and saves the day. I want to be the female lead in Hallmark’s newest Christmas chick flick. If being married is a problem, I’ll divorce my husband, head home for the holidays, help a local small business. No need for a big check, no Venmo, no Zelle. Just waking up on Christmas morning to pure, white, wonderful snow. . Tori Walters is an educator and writer based in Hendrix, OK. === Draw a Name Lilly fiddled with the scrap of paper she’d left next to her keyboard. She’d drawn it the afternoon before from a bowl with the names for the Secret Santa gift exchange. The first one in the office, she found the bowl in the reception’s cubicle. Lilly lifted one paper and unfolded it carefully, then refolded it. She did this for six names until she found the name she wanted. Instead of one gift, Lilly snuck into Charles’ office every day to leave something. A Starbucks gift card one morning. A fancy chocolate bar the next. A small wooden Christmas tree to decorate his conference table. A beanie to wear on his bike rides. A bag of homemade cookies. She varied the time of day, and even enlisted a colleague to leave an item on a day she worked from home. To keep him guessing. On the day before break, the office staff gathered in the lobby and one by one opened their gifts, guessing at who had drawn their names. When Charles opened his last gift, a bottle of wine and a book, he said he had no idea who had drawn his name. Lilly was surprised at the disappointment she felt that he hadn’t realized it was her. Even though she had been careful. She downplayed the effort. “It was me,” she said. “We used to do the multiple small gifts for a week at my old job.” “Thank you,” Charles said. “It’s so much.” That night, Charles texted her. Thank you again for all the gifts. I asked a friend if I was doing Secret Santa wrong when things kept showing up on my desk. I’m good at being sneaky, Lilly texted back. Super stealth skills, Charles replied. She was sneaky enough that he hadn’t realized she’d had a crush on him for months. . Melissa Flores Anderson is a Latinx writer from California who lives with her husband and young son. Her full-length short story collection “All and Then None of You” is due out September 2025 from Cowboy Jamboree Press. === Kendall and Lee There’s something about standing at the attic window, boxes, dust, webs around me, and watching the snow fall. It unsettles me in an exciting way. Wind stymies the flakes. Branches clatter. Windowpanes quake. And I’m alone, the first to stir this Christmas morning, the first to rise. Kendall and Lee’s house, a short distance from mine, collects white. It draws me. I have it good. I know I do and should like the predictability of my homelife. I should. It’s safe. But I can make out the window to Lee’s dance studio from here and can’t help but eye that window and dwell on her and Kendall and everything I remember, like what happened to Kendall’s cousin that day by the lake, or the summer Kendall and Lee opened their house to the singer, or the bashes, outings, and rows. Tumult and excess. I wonder where Kendall and Lee traveled last winter. They locked up their house, left. Mostly I think about Lee, the stories her dancing could tell. Sometimes, when Lee’s brass lamp shines in the studio, I glimpse a flash of movement and play it over in my head, clutch it, like a poem ripped from a book. I don’t dance anymore. And Kendall, Lee, and I…we don’t talk. I try not to care. The life they live, the happy squalls of birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, the miserable gales of heartbreak, betrayal, death, isn’t so different from anybody else’s, not even mine. Still, I long to pry off that roof and climb inside. Honestly, if I thought I’d meet with the smallest success, I’d race through the snow, pound on their door, and cry, I’m sorry, I regret everything, please take me back. . Melissa Ostrom is the author of The Beloved Wild, a Junior Library Guild book and an Amelia Bloomer Award selection, and Unleaving. Her stories have appeared in many journals and anthologies. She lives with her husband, children, and dog Mocha in western New York. Learn more at melissaostrom.com. === Apple for X’mas The cat king loved apples. Only apples. So much that all fruits and scents were banished. The car freshener? Only apples. Salad? Apple and greens, of course. All the cats were worried. After all, their reputation was in tatters. They had a cat meeting over tea, cookies and coffee. For X’mas, the cat king received a mysterious gift. A box of passion fruit. He was enraged but the cat queen convinced him to taste one. He did. His eyes opened! He banished apple forever. As tales go, everyone lived happily ever after – thus. . Merlin Flower is an independent artist and writer. === Christmas Limericks When Santa comes down through the flue: Put Rohypnol in his Christmas stew, Then you nick all his gear, commandeer his reindeer, and go traipsing across the sky blue. In the olden days, Santa was thinner. Fewer children meant less Christmas dinner, But now root beer, French fries, choc chip cookies, mince pies, Means that Santa is the Biggest Winner. A spiritual sense of the season, is for Christian or Hindu or heathen. No matter what your belief, you can find some relief, eating turkey – unless you’re a vegan. . Richard Gibney is a writer and editor based in Dublin, Ireland. === An Apology For Honne-Tatemae Bunnai Shinozahi turns in his grave because the young Yoshi screams because Miyaki cries, because the village near Wakamiya he was the headman of, shudders, the ceramic pottery kintsugi he produced, rattle and break, the coalmine his neighbors once worked at, collapses, raises a dust cloud, and the Inunaki Gawa that hurtles down the mountainside, weeps in torrents; Bunnai can hear Yoshi plead for help to fix his car, the young couple on a Christmas holiday trip, it has broken down on the hairpin bend; hear Yoshi’s pregnant wife Miyaki’s call for help, but Inu dogs howl in the abandoned Inunaki tunnel, chase the couple, none can be seen though, only naki-barks, devilish and blood-curdling; Miyaki’s been to the closed onigiri shops seeking help that didn’t come -Bunnai enjoys her desperation. Bunnai laughs so hard Yoshi and Miyaki are startled, the laugh quietens the dogs; laugh so ugly the couple turn and run, until it’s the tunnels dead-end, a wall of cemented boulders. We love visitors here, Bunnai says, we just don’t like them leaving us. If months pass and the snow traps everyone, stiffens bodies --- it’s not Bunnai’s doing, it’s Yoshi and Miyaki’s fate; it’s their fault that they came this way. Bunnai will not bother that Yoshi-Miyaki will never get to meet family at Bajikoen, and will never again pose with the Christmas lights at Roppongi. But when it’s summer again, passing motorists will notice a parked car, handprints on the dust-covered windshield, brightly-wrapped gifts on the backseat that Yoshi and Miyaki lovingly purchased for parents and friends. Whether anyone will supply evidence is purely speculative — like a date in December, nearer Christmas Day; like some matter someone knows about the car or why it was found where it was, or about a crimson-stained sickle that once belonged to Bunnai lying in the abandoned Inunaki tunnel. People will forget soon because people disappear. They'll remember the odd Christmas though. . Mandira Pattnaik can be found at mandirapattnaik.com === Home For the Holidays On Christmas Eve late afternoon at the stores all bets are off. Things go missing from your shopping bags in one store, in another you are overcharged for a pair of earring hoops but don’t even notice either transgression until later at home. By then it’s already Christmas and all the food’s been cooked and eaten, the gifts opened, the guests have gone home. You can’t be too mad at the shop clerks. If you had to work late afternoon on Christmas Eve you might steal from you too. . Ioanna Mavrou is a writer from Nicosia, Cyprus. Her stories have appeared in Epoch, Electric Literature, Wigleaf, HAD, The Bureau Dispatch, and elsewhere. She can be found at ioannamavrou.com === Broken Santa Claus He was locked out of their house dressed in white-snow pajamas and a fluffy beanie with hard Turkish tassel. He climbed the wall using the fingers of the soul, walking sideways in front of the heavily curtained windows. The tiles were breaking under his gait. The moon noted down hasty absences. In a weird way, he was caught stuck in the chimney. He tried to escape pushing forth and backwards, but unfortunately, he sank into the void with a slippery break of his neck. He emerged out of the fireplace reddish as bathed in sparkling glögg. Gray ashes like silver flakes were deposited on his beard. He had been badly crushed at black midnight. An impatient child greeted its welcome hugs rather impulsively. It was his first Christmas as Santa Claus. In the fireplace, they baked chestnuts. The burning nutshells were booming asynchronously in the Holy-Night echoes of the street songs. His well-folded Christmas costume would whistle forever in the attic. . Cassandra Alogoskoufi. Plastic writer and acrylic painter. She lives on Salamis island with her family and a pet parrot, called Tito. She spins around (photons) in magical realism. Better watch out: cassandrasbox.wordpress.com === The World That You Need If it wasn’t for the stinging in Rowan’s eyes and the clawing at his heart, the spirals of snow dancing all around would have been a beautiful sight. But Rowan moved much too hastily to take notice of natural wonders. Though the forest quickly thickened around him, Rowan did not slow in his flight. Intent on placing as much distance between himself and the past as possible, it wasn’t until the sun was choked out by a canopy of ancient trees that he stopped. Rowan drew in a few sharp breaths. As he pawed away at frozen tears, a stream of blood let loose from his nose and spilled into his bluing lips. He felt sick. Rowan had had enough of life’s fickle give and take. He spat the blood onto the base of the nearest fir. The fir, stoic and understanding, accepted his offer. In one swell motion, like a balloon sucking oxygen from a tank, a silver box garnished with an intricate golden bow appeared on a branch, hanging fruitlike in front of Rowan. A voice then rattled his body. He didn’t hear it so much as feel it: The Winter King must always die. It rang through him over and over until he heard himself repeating: “The Winter King must always die.” With each repetition, Rowan felt the cold claws around his heart loosen. A subtle warmth seeped through the gaps; roots feeling for his soil. Opening his eyes, Rowan first noticed all which remained unchanged: the whipping winds, the towering trees, the desolation... And then he noticed the snowflakes dancing like fairies against dim slivers of light as all kinds of forest inhabitants began to gather round, eyes large with curiosity. The dangling silver box called to him: An offering for the sacrifices of the new Winter King. Again, not exactly heard but felt from within. Rowan plucked the box easy as a crabapple. It was warm to the touch, and quite heavy. He untied its delicate bow and lifted the lid to reveal a thorny golden crown. . Alannah Guevara is usually a poet. === The Christmas Song For Dad Jack parked his car outside the house he once called home. Snow blanketed the garden where his father used to hang Christmas lights, though none twinkled this year. It was Christmas Eve, but the warmth of the season seemed gone. Inside, the scent of cinnamon and pine lingered faintly. His mother sat at the dining table, holding a framed photo of his father in front of a dimly lit tree. “He always loved Christmas,” she said softly. “And he loved you too, Jack. Even if he didn’t know how to show it.” Jack nodded. His father had always wanted stability: medical school, a solid career. But Jack dreamed of music. Their clashing desires drove him to leave for the city right after graduation. In his old bedroom, the years seemed to rewind. His first guitar sat untouched in the corner, strings dulled with time. On the shelf above it, a dusty Christmas card caught his eye. Inside was his father’s unmistakable handwriting: "To my son, who brings music into our lives, even if I don’t always understand it." Jack picked up the guitar, fingers brushing the strings. They were out of tune, but as he strummed, a melody began to form. He hadn’t played in months, yet now it felt right. The next day, at the small Christmas service for his father, Jack stood before the gathering, guitar in hand. Snow fell gently outside as the soft glow of candlelight illuminated the room. “I wrote this when I was seventeen,” Jack said, his voice unsteady. “I never played it for him, but this feels like the right time.” The song, simple and raw, blended with the warmth of the season. As Jack sang, he imagined his father smiling, perhaps for the first time truly hearing him. When the last note faded, the silence was filled with something unspoken yet understood. That night, after the service, Jack hung lights on the old garden tree. Snow fell around him, but for the first time in years, Christmas felt whole again. . Lydia Psaradelli teaches creative writing and her work has been published in print and online. === 💫

MASTHEAD v3 is coming soon! Until then, read these stories from some of the people behind @scaffoldlitmag @TrashCatLit @flashfroglitmag @SmokeLong @moranpress @obaer @rawlitmag @FracturedLit @uncharted_mag_ @fffict @CowboyJamboree & @frazzledlitmag — curated by @NathanBorn2010 ⬇️

HERE'S TO SOMETHING Mythic Micros by @MEProctor3 @carlottadale38 @keithroysdon @NoirScreenlight @NathanBorn2010 @LauriesLitLines @ScottMacLe59594 @JohnWeagly @me0wmixlaura @deserthorror @writerjcurtis & Clint Noslret Curated by @KennethMGRAY2 / Kenneth M. Gray #MythicPicnicTweetStory === I hoped to give these writers a fun and challenging flash prompt. Everyone rose to the occasion with their own unique take on the prompt 'High School Prom Interrupted by Men in Black'. I wish to thank all the writers who participated. I had a blast reading all of your wonderful stories. I hope you have as much fun reading these stories as I did. Enjoy. Kenneth M. Gray === Buckets! By: M.E. Proctor / @MEProctor3 . This hotshot barely-out-of-his-teens pseudo director was doing yet another remake of Carrie. I mean, come on, how many times can you drop gallons of fake blood on scantily clad females and surprise the audience? The crew wasn’t looking forward to the slaughter. Or the cleanup afterwards, on repeat. Because this guy insisted on multiple takes. He thought he was Fritz Lang shooting Metropolis. I doubt there was a lot of goo on that set. I’m sure Herr Lang wouldn’t have tolerated it. I bet he was a very neat SOB. Magnus (who names their kid Magnus?) Kessler, from Pitstop, Ohio, posed as a perfectionist and used it as an excuse to treat everybody like shit. Geniuses get a pass in this business. Magnus was no genius. How he got his silly script greenlit was a mystery. Carrie 5 Years & Counting had a fundamental flaw. Or flow, rather. The menstrual blood thing repurposed for a five-years-later high school prom redo. Magnus must have skipped sex ed to play video games in his basement. I was DP on this trainwreck and wished I was anywhere else. An ex-wife and a kid in third grade were responsible. The things we do for dough … I was setting up the kill shot, aka the ‘red wave’, when a squad of black-suited stern-faced dudes strode in. An assistant stepped forward to direct them to stage B where they were shooting a John Wick knock-off, and they pushed her aside. Gently, no smiles. These guys were on a mission. They were here for Magnus. Turned out I was wrong. Our director knew about females. And buckets of blood. His Beverly Hills penthouse dripped with it. I hope they checked his basement. . M.E. Proctor writes the Declan Shaw PI series, Love You Till Tuesday and Catch Me on a Blue Day. She’s the author of a short story collection, Family and Other Ailments, and the co-author of a retro-noir novella, Bop City Swing. She’s a Derringer and Shamus award short story nominee. === Vincent and Sissy Dance the Rhumba By: Carlotta Dale / @carlottadale38 . I tried sitting up. My vision was blurred and my head felt like I’d been skewered with an icepick. My head bumped into … something. “Vincent, Vincent, are you okay?” I blinked, struggling to focus. “Sissy, is that you? What the hell is going on?” “Dunno. If it’s a prank, it’s a strange one.” “How’d we get here? And where the hell are we?” “Besides underneath a table? We’re at the Biltmore. In one of the ballrooms … it’s a prom.” “A prom? I guess that’s appropriate for you, but why the fuck am I here?” “No clue.” I peeked out from under the tablecloth, spying Will and Tommy Lee striding through the doors, looking weird in tuxedos. Sissy peeked, too. “Crap,” she said. “Yeah, they’re looking for me. You game?” “For a rumble? Sure. What’s the plan?” Dino’s version of “Sway” came over the PA system. The kids howled at such an oldie, but damn, it’s a good tune. “Can you rhumba? ’Cause that’s first up.” “I’ll fake it. Lead on, MacDuff.” We stepped onto the dance floor. I was conspicuous in the Bug’s waiter costume, but we kept to the middle of the crowd. Sissy’s dress was perfect, at least. “Once the song ends, go onstage and get Tommy and Will to come up,” I said. “How do I do that?” “They’re actors, Sissy. Flattery.” “Oh, of course.” “Tell ’em to make a speech, get ’em under the spotlight, and skedaddle. I’ll take care of the rest.” She nodded and I took off, heading backstage. I untied the rope and waited till they were in place. They’d teased me mercilessly during filming. Watching the bucket of blood pour over them was the highlight of my career. . Carlotta Dale lives in Los Angeles, in a house that’s essentially an oversized cabinet of curiosities. Her novelette, The Parrots Come Again, is available on Amazon. She’s had short stories published in Punk Noir, Pistol Jim, Literary Garage, Alien Buddha, Bristol Noir, and Mythic Picnic. She can be found on Twitter @carlottadale38 and on BlueSky @carlottadale.bsky.social. === How I Met Your Other By: Keith Roysdon / @keithroysdon . When the saucers came, the nation panicked. The Russians already had everyone nervous. We were all watching the skies, like they’d said in “The Thing From Another World.” The night of the school dance, Principal Hawks stepped out on the stage at one end of the gym and stopped the band. “Unidentified objects are in the sky over New York and Washington, D.C.” The Civil Defense sirens started howling and we froze among the streamers hanging limply from the rafters. “In New York, Russian aircraft are destroying buildings with … death rays!” Hawks announced. “You’re a liar!” shouted someone who didn’t want to die in a Russki attack, didn’t want to be a radiated teenage mutant. Mr. Hawks turned to me and I realized I was the one who had shouted. Hawks went on. “I’m going to ask you to calmly but quickly exit the school and hurry to the fallout shelter in the basement of the courthouse.” We were outside before he finished the sentence. We knew the drill. When we ran outside, we found that a flying saucer had landed on the courthouse lawn and Martians, not Russians, had stepped out of the craft. Their shiny suits made them look like baked potatoes. A metallic voice reverberated from the saucer. “Healthy young Earthling boys will come with us back to our home planet, where you will repopulate our world.” Just then, Ben the school janitor stepped out from among us. “I’m a federal Civil Defense marshal and I’m telling you to get back on your ship and …” A Martian melted him with a death ray. The Martians studied us as we filed into the saucer. One Martian held a hand over Stuart Kelston’s head. Another singled out David MacLean. One of them, who had a distinctly female shape, looked me over then held her hand over my head. I was claimed. And that, Glotz and Tk-atel, is how I met your mother. === Jimmy & Moe By: James Maxwell / @NoirScreenlight . When the suits showed up, the party was officially over. Somebody had spiked the punch bowl. The first victim was Big Jimmy. He puked all over his date, and then Little Jimmy stomped around the Woodswaite High School gymnasium shouting at everyone, looking for whoever did it. Nobody took credit, but the Jimmies went ahead and fingered that D-bag, Moe Purdy. I didn’t like Pretty Moe, but he never struck me as the poisoning type. Little Jimmy took off his tux coat, dragged Moe outside, and started whaling on him. Despite his helluva throwing arm, Moe didn’t put up a fight—it was just a beatdown. Someone called the cops, and those guys in suits showed up thirty seconds later. Pretty Moe was bloodied, his head wavering and his eyes rolling. Little Jimmy pulled back for another blow. That’s when the man in black grabbed his arm. “What the hell?” Jimmy said. He turned to face the interloper. “Oh shit. Are you FBI?” The men wore black suits and sunglasses, even though it was nighttime—that always struck me weird as hell. Their lips were pursed into broad frowns. “My name is Agent Calvaresi,” said the man holding Jimmy’s arm. “This is my partner, Special Agent Dragomirenko.” “What’s so special about him?” Jimmy said. “I’m afraid the party’s over,” said Calvaresi. Dragomirenko went inside to switch on the lights and turn off the music. He took the mic and announced that they were hunting a serial killer. Armed and extremely dangerous. Everybody had to be checked. I was outside, holding Pretty Moe’s head so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood. He leaned into my ear and whispered. “You gotta get me out of here.” I didn’t think twice. He didn’t want to go to a hospital, so I took him home. It wasn’t until the next day when I learned he’d skipped town. The FBI suspected him of wringing all those people’s necks last summer. I’ll never spike the punch again. . James Maxwell is a technical writer from San Jose, California. === First Time, Interrupted By: Nathan Pettigrew / @NathanBorn2010 . Prom was supposed to be the biggest night of my life, but I didn’t care about getting laid. My band Men in Black was set to perform in front of the entire senior class. We rented tuxes and had our instruments ready to go. I’d never been laid, but I’d made what felt like love to my guitar plenty during practice, and no amount of alcohol, pot or acid could top that feeling. I dreamt of becoming a rock star, while in real life, I was a geek and jocks got the girls. Our band was told before prom that the school decided to go in a different direction for entertainment. I felt crushed, but the one girl I was friends with from math class, Heather, promised better things ahead. She’d come to some of the practices, and when our first official gig was cancelled, she asked me to take her to the dance. “Entertainment” came courtesy of a DJ. Heather was all over me and asked me to take her back to the car. She had a condom, but I couldn’t get the damn thing on. I couldn’t get hard. Heather’s efforts made no difference, and panic set in. I couldn’t relax. Heather told me to, but Kenneth, our drummer, came banging on the window. I got out wanting to pound his face. “We’re on,” he said. “What are you talking about, Kenneth?” “The DJ took a break and went AWOL,” he said. “You still got the axe in the trunk?” I did, and Men in Black played the rest of the dance, but I was too focused on my failed performance. I was supposed to show the world that night, yet there I was, in front of the entire senior class, the smallest guy alive. . Nathan Pettigrew is the author of Tales from Terrebonne, forthcoming in 2026 from Rock and a Hard Place Press. He is an editor at Mythic Picnic, and his story “Yemma” was recently awarded 2nd Place in the 22nd Annual Writer’s Digest Short Short Story Competition. === Wrong Time, Wrong prom By: Laurie Nave / @LauriesLitLines . Aliens never planned to crash prom season 1985. Mission control had programmed coordinates for 2025, but the wormhole had other plans—leg warmers and shoulder pads. Zira, their head scientist and accidental trendsetter, stood in a high school gym that reeked of Aqua Net, her sequined gown catching every colored light. “Gag me with a spoon!” Zira exclaimed involuntarily before covering her mouth. Her prototype body was six feet of sequins and confusion, while her date maxed out at five feet six in thick-soled loafers. Zira’s corsage-communicator fizzled and beeped unevenly, blaring snatches of galactic static every time the DJ spun Phil Collins’ “Sussudio” (again), instead of the scheduled prom anthem “One More Night.” She spotted her cosmic nemesis and rival scientist disguised as an exchange student who’d somehow scored both a date and an impressive six-foot, two-inch stature. Had Zira’s communicator worked, she’d report every wink and moonwalk to headquarters. Instead, she got static, confetti in her shoes and Polo fumes clogging her brain. Two chaperones in black suits and sunglasses at night appeared. One cornered Zira and her rival in the boys' locker room, which sported sweaty socks and mystery stains. In the gym, the other flashed a device and declared, “Time for a little memory reboot.” Poof—instant confusion and a tidal wave of taffeta. Balloons tumbled from the rafters as if summoned by magic, launching prom guests into a frenzied game of dodge-the-latex. When Mr. Flash joined them, Zira, quick on her feet despite the gown, snatched the chaperone’s glasses and shouted, “I know you! You’re supposed to be in West Philadelphia!” The man just shrugged and zapped the pen as Zira’s rival scientist spun gleefully yelling, “Cowabunga!” And so, prom 1985 ended with a roomful of confused teenagers, a disco ball spinning above, and the universe’s greatest minds stuck one slow dance away from saving the world—if only they could remember why they came. . Laurie Nave is a writer and educator from Alabama. She writes picture books and suspense novels while spoiling her dachshund, Ava. === Forget Me Not By: Scott MacLeod / @ScottMacLe59594 . I am aware my demographic has lagged. I’m denting the couch while Mindy’s at work. Supporting us. I’m peeking at my phone. As usual. Online betting? Nope. OnlyFans? Please. I’m looking at prom pictures. From ten years ago. And I’m not sure why. Mindy’s caught me doing this before and was not happy. There was something about that night. Don’t get me wrong. We are happily married. I just can’t let it go. I was excited that night. Couldn’t believe finally I had a date with Joan Dubinsky. But that’s all I can remember. Instead of memories I have hazy recurring dreams. Somehow real. But too crazy to believe. There’s an old dude in a black suit. Looks like Nick Cave if I’m honest. My big bro turned me on to his stuff. Anyway, I vape quite a bit of weed. Then Mr. Peters, the chaperone who was sliding cafeteria trays between kids who were slow dancing too close, turns into a yellow squid. There’s no other way to say it. Then Johnny Cash chases him out of the cafeteria. I follow, thinking, “How high am I?” Then just as OctoPeters is about to shoot Matrix guy with a laser gun, I bury my vape pen between his tentacles. The man in black turns to me and thanks me for my service to the planet, before waving this giant silver nose-hair clipper in front of my face. Then a flash. Then nothing. Now there’s yelling. It’s Mindy, home early. I must have nodded off. She grabs my phone. “Again, with that slut.” She stands over me and deletes, with great ceremony, every last prom pic. But even without them it’s still there. Deep down somewhere. I feel it. I take back my phone. Only this time I fire up the job-search app. Dust off my C.V., gaps and all. It’s been a while. I don’t know how to put it. I know it sounds kind of cheesy. But right now, suddenly I feel like I could save the world. . Scott MacLeod @ScottMacLe59594 writes in Central Florida. === Black Hole Hoedown By: John Weagly / @JohnWeagly . The goddamn Men In Black came around again. Because of Gary, as usual. It’s not Gary’s fault he was born with tentacles for arms. And having tentacles for arms doesn’t make him some kind of outer-space monster. Those dark-suit-wearing thugs are simply anti-octoid! It was the Nebula High Prom. The theme was “Black Hole Hoedown,” so the gym was painted with stars and moons and, in the middle of the dance floor, a vast abyss spiraling down to a gravitational void. We were wearing denim and boots and straw hats and a few of the girls had on sexy farmgirl dresses. Gary was dancing up a storm with Suzy Tremble to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’,” his tentacles flipping and flopping to the music. That’s when the Asshats in Buttblack stormed in, one big and one little. “Everybody stop what you’re doing!” the one built like a pro-wrestler announced. Everybody stopped what they were doing. “Has anyone seen anything… irregular?” said the one that looked like a Keebler elf. This was the sixth time these supposedly non-existent government pencil-pushers came to Nebula, Nebraska so we all knew the drill. “Is Gary… irregular?” someone asked. “You know Gary’s not an alien,” someone else said. Principle Ray stepped forward. “Every time you show up we go through this,” he said. “When Gary’s mom was pregnant, she drank turpentine thinking it was corn liquor. Gary was born different. We’ve filled out your paperwork about this several times. Doesn’t your office communicate with its employees?” The little agent took a BlackBerry out of his pocket. The big agent leaned down and they pushed some buttons, conversed, then separated. “Sorry!” the big one said. “Clerical error.” “Enjoy your night,” the little one added. Then they were gone like they’d never been there. We started partying again, laughing and shaking our heads at the idiots in onyx. They never notice that Suzy Tremble has grey skin and webbed feet and they sure as hell never find her spaceship buried under the Nebula High football field. . John Weagly writes stuff. === Shower Crying Fodder By: Laura Winterbottom / @me0wmixlaura . I was in my purple dress, all decked out, ready to dance my pretty little heart out. We walked into the strangest flurry of activity as we entered the gymnasium of the school we attended, my date and me. Senior year was almost over. As we waltzed into the building, students were running all over the place. Instead of dancing, they were running! To where, I could not tell. But I was going to follow their lead, and that I did because, as we would find out later, a student had pulled out an AK-47 and started claiming victims. Later that night, at home, I would be approached by 2 men, all dressed in black, asking me to wipe my memories of that evening as the school superintendent did not want “bad press”. Little did they know, I was immune to wiping my memory. I “suffered” from an illness called hyperthymesia (look it up, it’s real) which caused extreme memory recollection in my brain. So, I in fact do remember. And I remember them and their silly little memory wiping guns. They flashed and made bright lights… some people were easily susceptible to these things I think of as “toys” … meanwhile, I am not. So, I remember, but the thing is, I am not taking my story to press. I am not telling anyone. Instead, I am sitting at home with the memory of the running, and the screaming and the crying. And I am crying to myself now. Stunned into a funk, a depression if you will. What a time to be alive. . Laura is a former journalist who now writes in her free time. She is currently finishing her memoir based on her struggles with mental health and growing up in a fast-changing society that didn’t welcome everybody. She works for an animal rescue based out of Philadelphia, PA and she loves snuggling with her 2 favorite feline friends. She can also be found by her piano practicing her rendition of Fur Elise. She hopes to release her memoir in 2026. Instagram: @Me0wmixalot === Dana Scully Rolls Her Eyes in the Glow of the Street Light By: Andrew Boylan / @deserthorror . It was the prom when we drank peach schnapps in the back of Sharron’s Buick LeSabre. We each had our own reasons for drinking. For me, it was the day I found out Antoinette was pregnant with another guy’s child. Why did I think that was worse than if it had been mine? My whole life was spread out before me. Antoinette and I never had sex which makes it even stranger when I heard about the baby. Cinderella’s Nobody’s Fool played on the Buick’s stereo. Neither of us really wanted to go inside the high school gym. Shannon kept pouring peach schnapps on my lap so she could lick it up. Each time she stopped licking she looked up at me and screamed: “Stop thinking about her!” That’s when I saw them. A couple in suits so blue they looked black. They were the spitting image of Dana Scully and Fox Mulder. Fox wandered the parking lot with a geiger counter. Under the street light, I could see Scully’s eyes roll. It should have been weirder except it was all anyone could talk about in the cafeteria during lunch. Which infuriated Shannon no end. Nobody would have been entirely surprised that Mulder and Scully showed up to investigate. A framed photograph of Fox permanently hung outside the auditorium with the other notable drama club graduates. Suffice it to say, few drama kids reached the level of F.B.I. Still it makes sense Agents Scully and Mulder would look into Antoinette’s disappearance. Everybody knows the aliens like to study fetuses in utero. That’s how I found out Antoinette was pregnant in the first place, in the cafeteria, while the other kids debated the manner of her vanishing. . Andrew Boylan still watches the X Files on VHS while writing screenplays. Find him @deserthorror on all socials. === Codespeak: An MIB Mystery By: James Curtis / @writerjcurtis . Agent F. Will Jones High School gymnasium. Twenty hundred hours. Hard to tell who’s a kid and who’s an extraterrestrial. There’s a DJ sitting in the bleachers, scrolling TikTok while he controls the music with an app on his phone. Some variation of hip-hop but the words don’t make sense. Maybe if the rapper would stop mumbling. The teens—if they are indeed teenagers—seem to be communicating with codespeak rather than a proper language. They keep saying things like “six seven,” “skibidi,” and “rizz.” Also a lot of talk about shaking your gyatt, whatever that means. And it sounds like something is going on in Ohio. Might want to have Agent N check up on that. Gender doesn’t appear to have any rhyme or reason here. Boys are dressed like girls. Girls are dressed like boys. Someone pointed me in the direction of a “they/them,” but they weren’t alien at all—just nonbinary. They explained it to me; I think I understand it now. Hasn’t aided me in this investigation, though. I questioned a group of friends who were talking about buying new skin, but they were just talking about some game called Fortnite. I’ve never heard of it, but it seems to have inspired a popular dance this evening, as well. I also spoke with a kid named Becca who said they couldn’t wait for prom to end so they could go Goblin Mode. Sounded promising, but the kid just wanted to change into some sweatpants. I know the feeling. Truthfully, I’m in over my head here. Things have changed too much for an old guy like me to know who’s normal and who’s not. Perhaps I’m the weird one. Hell, maybe we all are. Anyway. If there are any aliens here, they seem peaceful. I say we leave these kids alone. This is Agent F, signing off. . James Curtis died hundreds of years ago but the spirit possessing his body won’t let him stop writing. Help free him by checking out Visitors on Kindle Unlimited and reading his other stories. === Williston By: Clint Nosleret . Flynn Heather had less than a micron width of desire to attend the Williston High School prom. Bad enough he got trapped in a barren land of dirt, oil derricks, and stores where guys named Mel were always trying to give you a hand. Flynn already had two, which was more than he needed. But then there was the whole fitting in thing—did other places care about this shit to the degree they did in Williston? They’d always made fun of his hair, his one eye that always wandered, his way of dressing where the clothes resisted his shape like oil mixed with water. And now look at what happened. He couldn’t deny that he went there to show them all a lesson. Yeah, yeah, make fun of his first name and his last, or both together, with silly fucking rhyming schemes that clanged like metal pipes on his uncomfortable ears. Flynn planned to blow that burg, anyway, so he decided to show up for one last kick at the can, whatever that meant. When the pair of angular figures with ebony suits and the stupid sunglasses showed up during the third dance of the night (a waltz, ¾ time no less), Flynn had no choice but to change his plans. So, he ate one of them. Flynn finally understood the phrase losing your shit when he caught the expression of the Prom Queen next to the King who had expelled about a litre of cranberry punch onto the dance floor. Impressive emesis. His initial plan was to eat them first, but hey, shit happens. There was a lot of fecal talk on this planet. The remaining angular human seemed a bit rattled. His sunglasses fell off and lessened the whole effect of bad-assery. Hell with it. Flynn ate him, too. He started to bust out of his skin cage when three over-muscled water bags came at him hard. It was going to be a long night. He doubted they would play the waltz. . Clint Nosleret is writing in a shack in the north. === === ===

KEEP IT SHORT: And don't be like Daryl the Dickhead. Like what you've read? Check out the full story: bit.ly/402RjJs Big thanks to @melissacuisine for pubbing! #flashfiction #humor

Vivian’s back at the Garage and she’s building something new: a quiet service for very loud problems. Because some problems don’t go away. They get handled. Some pests don’t squeak. Some wear suits. Read the latest from @RussellThayer10 : literarygarage.com/tabula-futura

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