The air has bite today in NW England, and that seems appropriate for our biohazard horror contributor reveal 🦝 14 amazing writers and stories coming on 31st October. Celebrate them 🖤 @SophiaA_writes Clare Cummings, Eli S. Evans @LoriFontanes Kathryn Kulpa @MrLovelyday 1/2

We end our amazing prose poetry issue highlights with a total banger from Gill O'Halloran @poetrypleases 🦝 We loved the hermit structure used to wonderful effect, the surreal and imaginative responses, and a last line that lingers Read and listen: trashcatlit.com/living-well-… 1/2

For today's prose poem spotlight, we have a twofer from Sushanth Shyamasundar 🦝 We loved the beautiful phrasing in both these pieces, the observational style, and of course, how one truly celebrates Jimothy 💜 Read both here: trashcatlit.com/two-prose-po…

Let's kick off October with @Madeleine_write great story Stacey Stormcloud #muckymondays muckymondays.neocities.org/S…

We're working our trashy butts off for award season 🦝 Congrats to our Trash Family nominees for @genrepunkmag awards. Links to their amazing stories are in the comments 💜 1/4

Excited to be part of this musically-inspired anthology! Click below to grab a free copy (or leave a tip for @MicromanceMag and @larotondereview, if you feel so inclined). In it you’ll find my story “Small Town, USA, Circa 1988,” along with a ToC full of great writers!

Today's spotlight from our stellar prose poetry issue is from Polly Conway 🦝 We loved the off-kilterness of the structure of this one, the story that is woven through, and the missing cat repeats. The last line punches hard. Read and listen: trashcatlit.com/its-such-a-g…

October starts a run of three weeks of odd and dark fiction, First up @Madeleine_write next week brings us the tale of Stacey Stormcloud. #muckymondays

Heart Beats Anthology now live! Link is in comments... Visit our Ko-Fi page and find the link pinned to the top of the page... @doctor_dolittle @JohannahWrites @larotondereview @TheDarkestStar_ @MuchAdoAboutNil @NinaMD1 @mrskatiefitz @Madeleine_write

Let's get to spotlighting pieces from our prose poetry issue, starting with this corker from Madeleine Armstrong @Madeleine_write 🦝 We loved the voice and style of writing here, and how perfectly and unexpectedly it hit the brief 💜 Read & listen: trashcatlit.com/hereditary/

FORTUNE COOKIE Mythic Micros by @johnweagly @writerjcurtis @cterlson @johnTures2 @Christina_haiku @pdfentonwrites @Hart_Horrors Ron Shagmatt @glassofbrycet @ioannaonline @Aliteraryshadow & @VictorDeAnda Cover and curation by @KennethMGRAY2 #MythicPicnicTweetStory === === It was incredibly hard to choose from all the amazing submissions I received. I did my best to assemble a diverse assortment. Enjoy. Kenneth M. Gray === === Chance Encounter at Neon Wok by John Weagly / @JohnWeagly . I cracked open my fortune cookie to find a dead wasp inside. No piece of paper. No fortune. No hope for the future. Just a dead wasp. And it stung me. My thumb hit its stinger when I broke open my almond confection. I’m allergic to wasps. I was at Neon Wok. 1:30 in the morning. I’d just eaten Nirvana Noodles and Funky Dumplings. “Hello, Hooray” by Alice Cooper played through ceiling speakers. Earlier, I’d been bar-hopping trying to meet women. With no luck. Now, my throat was closing, I couldn’t catch my breath and my muscles felt like Chicken Lo Mein. There was a woman in the restaurant with me. Two tables away. Just the two of us in the wee hours. She saw me strain in my chair, clawing at my throat. Her eyes went wide. She took an EpiPen out of her purse, scrambled over to my table and jabbed me in the thigh. When I could breathe, I said, “Thanks.” “You’ve got hives.” I looked at her. She pointed at the crumbled cookie on my plate. “From the sting. They’ll go away.” She tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear. “I’m allergic, too – bees, wasps, fire ants.” “Fire ants?” “I’ll never set foot in Arizona.” “Tucson,” I said, at a loss for words. She smiled, patted my hand. “Exactly.” Then she went back to her table. I took a couple of deep breaths. Once I had my wits about me, I got up and walked over to where she was sitting with her Moo Shoo Pork. “What’s your name?” “Eileen.” “I’m Henry. Can I pay for your food,” I asked. “As a thank you?” She tilted her head. “Let’s say we’re together. We’ll show the manager the wasp cookie, and I’ll bet we can get both of our meals for free.” That’s what we did. Then I walked her home. Three days later, for our first date, we ordered Chinese food, sat on my couch and watched the movie The Sting. . John Weagly writes stuff. === === Fortunes by James Curtis / @writerjcurtis . “You guys are actually going to open those fortune cookies?” Drea asked her friends. “After what happened to that girl in Portsmouth last year?” “What girl?” Olivia asked. “Where the fuck is Portsmouth?” added Andrew. “Wow, neither of you heard about this? There was this girl in Portsmouth, around our age. I think her name was Perry. Might have been Terry.” “Or Mary.” “Shut up, Andrew. The name doesn’t matter. It was a girl our age. She was dining at a hole-in-the-wall Chinese place like this one—” “The best kind.” “Given. Except everything in Portsmouth is a hole-in-the-wall, so who knows. Anyway, she was dining there alone, and it was late. Near closing. She finished her meal, then cracked open her fortune cookie, just like you losers are about to do, but it wasn’t a normal fortune inside.” “What do you mean?” Olivia asked. “I mean it was fucking weird. A LOCKED DOOR ISN’T ENOUGH, or some shit like that.” “A locked door isn’t enough?” “Or some shit like that. She asked the owner what the hell was up with her weird-ass fortune, but he said he had nothing to do with it. He buys them in bulk, it’s not like he’s in the back scribbling the messages himself, etc. etc.” “How could you possibly know that?” “Because it was on the fucking news, Andrew. They interviewed the guy after it happened.” “After what happened?” “After someone broke into her house that night, gutted her parents and cut off her head.” “Jesus.” “I don’t think it was him. The weirdest part about all of it—they never did find it.” “Find what?” “Her head. The killer took it. The only clue police had about any of this shit was the fortune they found in her pocket.” “Was it the restaurant owner?” “Nope, he left the shop and went straight home. Stopped for gas on the way, so his alibi checked out.” “Who was it then?” “Nobody knows,” Drea said, pushing her cookie aside. “Read your fortune. Maybe you’ll find out.” === === Lucky Numbers by Craig Terlson / @cterlson . The place reeked of fried things in oyster sauce. Pots and pans banged together like a Cuban orchestra had overtaken the kitchen. “Seems complicated,” Lester said in the booth. “Easier than you think. A guy in the back packages the to-gos. You order, he slips the slip in the cookie.” Ralph’s hair was greased back into a dark helmet. “Why?” “The owner changes the combination daily. At the end of shift. The cook sees it over his shoulder. Then he writes it down—just like your lucky numbers.” “Shouldn’t it be typed?” “You wanna do this?” “Why not you?” “I told ya, the owner knows me. He knows I never do takeout.” Ralph finger-pistoled Lester. “I thought you needed money?” “Midnight?” “Ten to. You’ll be the last order. But wait a bit, they gotta clean.” Lester looked down into his pho, hoping the murky broth might supply an answer. Back in his apartment, he waited until 11:50 and phoned it in. Forty minutes later the driver arrived. Lester went right for the cookie. He snapped it like a bone breaking. The slip floated to the floor. The food smelled good. Lester jammed a spring roll in his mouth, and chomped while he sprinted to the car. He didn’t check the time. He squealed up to the darkened restaurant. The door was easy to jimmy. He walked fast to the back office. The safe sat behind an oil painting of a Chinese temple. He held the slip up to his flashlight. Some grease from the spring roll had smeared the last two numbers. “Dammit.” Lester spun the dials. Got it wrong four times when he heard a moan. He aimed the light at a dark corner where a guy in an apron had a huge welt on his forehead. He was tied to a chair. In another corner lay a body the shape of Ralph. “Lucky number my ass.” The owner swung a bat at Lester’s head. Before it all went black, he thought he smelled something good. “Shrimp?” . Go read Luke Fischer === === Mooncake Rebellion by John Tures / @johnTures2 . “That was such a cool world history lesson by Professor Van Lind,” Ba gushed at the Roman Ramen shop, their post-class hangout. “I never knew about the Mooncake Rebellion!” Kwan nodded. “I can’t believe our people defeated the most powerful empire in history. I barely know any history. My folks only made me take STEM classes growing up.” Ba laughed. “In my world history in high school, we didn’t even talk about Chinese history.” Sun swished her up and down. “My family escaped to come here after the Tiananmen Square massacre. The only history we were allowed to learn was about Chairman Mao. But is interesting to discover how we out-thought our opponent.” Lee smirked. “It’s a nice story for class, but what good is it to know how the Chinese beat the Mongols?” Sun looked at her classmates. “I know how we can use that story today.” “Oh really, Miss Class President,” Lee scoffed. “Tell us how hiding messages in Mooncakes to kill Mongols on a prearranged date can help us.” Sun stood her ground. “Remember that the Mongols hated Mooncakes, so they never found the messages.” “So?” Lee snapped. Sun continued. “So, we face something just as powerful as Mongols today…data centers.” Kwan groaned. “They’re gonna put a wrecking ball to this downtown area, to this Ramen place, the coffeeshop, the bookstore…” Ba clapped her hands excitedly. “We could send messages to our supporters to vote against the data center proposal in fortune cookies…like our people did with Mooncakes.” Lee rolled his eyes. “That’s stupid. Why not just send emails?” Sun shook her finger at her three friends. “They watch those emails like hawks. And they’ll just shut us down. But those tech bros don’t eat our fortune cookies. I know because they laugh when they smash them in their packages when I serve them at Cheng’s Garden. But our people will see and read our messages. And in November, we’ll vote to preserve our downtown hangout.” All nodded, even Lee. Kwan smiled. “Like the Mongols, they’ll never see it coming until it’s too late.” === === Love Letters by Christina Chin / @Christina_haiku . grabbing takeout hidden lottery number in a slip of paper homemade— thin batter of rice flour and coconut milk a drizzled coating of clamp bakes over charcoal fire paper thin— soft and piping hot a quick flip-fold who gets what no one knows until the crisp wafer cracks young lovers exchange love letters with a wink . Christina Chin is an international short-form poet who loves finding the comedic absurdities in everyday life. Their work has recently been submitted to Presence Haiku Journal. When not dodging missed dental appointments or chasing rogue syllables, they can be found sketching ideas for future comic verses. Internet Archive: archive . org/ details/ @christina_chin_haiku_art / uploads Grokipedia profile: grokipedia . com/ page/ Christina_Chin YouTube: youtube . com/ @christinachinhaikuart972?si=HYByM--YvBgUkifK WordPress: christinachin99blog . wordpress . com/ Blogspot: haikuzyg . blogspot . com/ === === Down to the Water to Pay by P.D. Fenton / @pdfentonwrites . A bell tinkled as I opened the door. I entered to mirrored walls, fake bamboo, and real Christmas lights twinkling above the shallow koi pond. Thursday night at the Lucky Dragon. A half-dozen fish drifted in their cloister. I tossed a coin, scattering all but one brindled old koi. The hostess showed me my table. It was in the back, away from the windows and wide-open sky. The food was mediocre. The ambiance was superb. I started to unclench. My server brought the bill, along with a single cookie. I split the cellophane with my fork. Smelled stale sugar. I bit one end and pulled the paper ribbon from my lips. COME TO THE WATER AND BE SET FREE I rose. The old koi was waiting. He rested his whiskers on the surface, his open mouth revealing a tunnel beneath the water. Colored bulbs reflected in his midnight eyes. I bent and touched the surface with my fingertips. Memories bubbled through my mind. The crush of a crowded school. Doors closing a minute too soon. The fear of open spaces. A yearning to be free. Murkiness, and regret. A coin, tasting of magic and death. I gasped, my gills flaring. The water was calm. Above me stood a man. He stared down unblinkingly. His nostrils flared, tasting the air for the first time. The man turned and walked toward the door. The bell tinkled as he left into the wide and open world. I blundered away, my whiskers brushing against the pond wall. Cloistered. I could learn to love it. I hoped he knew what he was in for. . P.D. Fenton (@PDFentonwrites) tells strange stories about the American Midwest and other surreal locations. His work has appeared on Amazon in the anthologies Mistcreek Tales and Hypersleep Nightmares, and he's a multiple-time Writers of the Future honorable mention. He studied fortune cookie lore many years ago at the feet of a judge in upstate New York. === === Eulogy by Jan Miklaszewicz/ @Hart_Horrors . Can’t stand the things myself. They’re stupid. Horrible little cookie, dry as Gandhi’s flip-flop. Like munching on the stuff at the bottom of a budgie cage. As for the fortune, seriously, don’t get me started. Generic, low-effort crap, the feeblest of all projection holders. Even tarot cards or the I Ching or a mess of leaves at the bottom of a teacup are better than what you find in a fucking fortune cookie. Mind you, Grandma loved them, which I suppose is more to the point. Friday night, Chinese takeaway, crispy chilli beef, chicken chow mein, special fried rice. And any minute now, yours truly is going to be delivering her eulogy, or one of them. Proper popular she was, no shortage of friends and family lining up to sing her praises. Brian Fitzgibbons, her chiropodist of all people, is at the dais now, saying how she had the worst feet he’s ever seen in his life but the very best of hearts. Not sure whether he’s breaking patient confidentiality there, but he isn’t wrong. They looked like they belonged to some sort of prehistoric bird. As for her heart, she really was one of a kind, a veritable saint of a woman. And yep, there it is, he’s wrapping up now and it’s my turn. Seemed a good idea at the time, bring a fortune cookie and use it as inspiration for something off the cuff. But now, well, it seems a little reckless. Borderline disrespectful, even. Not that she’d have minded, I suppose. Always in my corner was Grandma, guaranteed to laugh at every joke I told her, no matter how off-colour or absurd. Still, walking up the steps and looking out from the dais at the gathered mourners, I can certainly feel a few butterflies. And as I unwrap the cookie and crack the bastard open, there’s a definite tremor in my fingers. Let’s just hope the fortune isn’t too ridiculous, eh? Oh, for the love of God… . Hailing from Plymouth, England, Jan Miklaszewicz is a former poet who now writes short fiction, primarily horror novellas. === === Fortune Cookie by Ron Shagmatt . They flew him into Nantes so he could kill a man for money. The target was a wine baron from an ancient walled city on the banks of the Loire ninety minutes away. A hire car was waiting. He had the where/when­­. He never knows the why. Here’s what he does know—Kessler wants him dead after this job. He’s seen too much. That makes him dangerous. Kessler is famously risk averse. He checked into a hotel and quickly got his bearings. He walked the streets. He studied the traffic and located different exit routes. It’s a picturesque town of half-timbered buildings in the Anjou architectural style, with a castle of white tuffeau limestone standing guard on a hill to the east. Dark wood houseboats line the edge of the river. As always, he fantasized about a new life here, one stripped of all his memories. Foster care, prison, wet work in the tropics. That night he ate a Chinese meal alone in his room—the fortune cookie was blank. What could that mean? He watched a charming film set in a French village about some mysterious and sensual chocolatier and her young daughter. She falls in love with a river-faring gypsy played by Johnny Depp. It inexplicably moved him to tears. Early is on time in this line of work. They told him where to set up, so he knew where they were. Two men watching where they expected him to be. They never saw him coming. He has to run now. He doesn’t know where. There’s plenty of money. Accounts in Liechtenstein and Belize. Enough to start over. Maybe they will come for him. Maybe not. The fortune cookie was blank—but now he knows what it means. . Ron Shagmatt is an author from Yellowknife, Canada. He collects old Herbie Hancock records and grows his own vegetables. He may not be a lady, but he’s all woman. None of this may be true. === === Life, and Light by Bryce Thompson / @glassofbrycet . Hoban tapped the table, awaiting his order. A country music station at low volume twanged off the pale yellow tiles of the Chinese restaurant, accompanied by clattering pans and hissing steam from the kitchen. Its legacy of peanut oil and fresh egg noodle lo mein wafted through the small, six-booth dining area. “Here you go, Mr. Hoban,” called Lucy, setting his order on the table. “Thank you, dear.” “Mr Hoban,” she gasped, bending down suddenly. Lucy plucked a small rectangular paper off the floor and laid it in his hand. Fragile and lightly crumpled, its ink was barely legible: “Let it be you.” “Oh. How did that get there? Thank you, Lucy.” “Ms. Zoya was a good woman.” “This is where I proposed to her, you know. Right here in this booth. With this fortune.” “I know. My father still tells the story of how you had him put that fortune in her cookie.” “Thirty years ago.” “It’s one of his favorite stories.” “Mine, too.” Hoban closed his eyes as tears welled up behind them. Lucy held his hand and slid her arm around his shoulders. “Thank you, dear.” Taking some of his weight, she helped him stand. As he shuffled from the booth, the radio station host stopped him. “Up next is a real classic– Ricky Skaggs with ‘Let It Be You.’” Hoban faced Lucy, bowed his head, and held up his hand in invitation. Lucy grinned and took it. The two swayed in the middle of the only floor space– the aisle between the door and the counter. Moments later, Lucy’s father and mother began dancing next to them. At the song’s end, the three hugged Hoban, and he thanked them as the bell chimed on his way out the door. Hoban paused, reaching into his pocket. He sniffled, sighed, and walked toward the abbey, where he would dine with his wife and watch the sun set. . Bryce mills logs into lumber and writes things sometimes. A hopeless romantic in the Quiet Corner, his love for the sky keeps him grounded. === === The Fortune Cookie Wanted to Be an Astronaut by Ioanna Mavrou / @ioannaonline . The fortune cookie wanted to be a seashell and live in the water and be someone’s entire world. It wanted to be carried by the waves and rest on the soft sand of the seafloor, and feel the water everywhere around it, instead of lying on a plate at a Chinese restaurant waiting to be pried open after a meal. The fortune cookie wanted to be an astronaut. It wanted to be perched on the window of the International Space Station looking at the whole world below. It wanted to see the Milky Way and all the stars, an ocean of lights and possibilities—it wanted to hear notes of music coming from unknown places that all felt like home. It wanted— Can you just crack it open and read the fortune already, so we can go home? he said. She had been staring at that fortune cookie on her plate for what seemed like a very long time and it was getting late and he was bored. The fortune cookie was not afraid of death, it wasn’t afraid of being broken and eaten, or even opened and cast aside after being plundered for its fortune. All its ancestors had been through the same life cycle from the beginning of creation, many thousands of generations ago in their ancestral home of San Francisco. The fortune cookie had waited for this day and was ready. It was a fortune cookie after all, it belonged to fate more than any other kind of confection— Okay, I’m leaving, he said, and got up and walked out. After what seemed a very long time to everyone around in the restaurant, she split the fortune cookie in two and read the fortune. . Ioanna Mavrou is a writer from Nicosia, Cyprus. Her stories have appeared in Wigleaf, HAD, Electric Literature, Wasafiri, The Letters Page, and many other literary magazines and anthologies. She can be found at www . ioannamavrou . com === === In Bed by Martin Wallace / @Aliteraryshadow . She was definitely my type. Chubby, pretty, more than a little nearsighted. And just the right type of nerd, the same type I was. And therein laid the problem. My friend thought that two nerds would get along, but the fact was putting two socially awkward people together just multiplied the awkwardness. She sat down, pleasantries were exchanged, small talk made, food ordered and eaten, and then…and then we sat with nothing to say, staring at each other awkwardly over the remains of sweet and sour balls and chicken fried rice. After several silent minutes the waiter came over with a large plastic bag. “Hey guys, this is unusual I know, but we have all these extra fortune cookies that we have to get rid of. Would you like to take them?” We glanced at each other and then I nodded. “Sure.” We needed something to break the silence. The bag lay at the center of the table for a minute. She took a cookie, cracked it open and took out the fortune. As she read it silently, an odd look came over her face. “Do you know? I’ve heard that the best way to read these fortunes is to add “in bed.”” She smiled and said: “All the effort you are making will ultimately pay off—in bed.” I grinned back at her and opened another cookie. “A beautiful, smart, and loving person will be coming into your life—in bed.” We were both smiling now. Her turn: “A pleasant surprise is waiting for you.” “In bed?” I laughed “In bed!” There were other cookies, other fortunes, and the evening became golden. Later, we laid naked and exhausted. She opened another cookie. “A lifetime of happiness lies ahead of you.” “In bed?” I whispered. “In bed,” she said, and I smiled and buried my head in her thighs. . Martin Wallace lives and writes in Halifax, Nova Scotia. === === Fortuna by Victor De Anda / @VictorDeAnda . No matter what you do today, absolutely kill it. Don’t do what I’ve done. That’s right, this could be the world’s longest fortune from the cookie that you’re reading right now. I only made one of these, so consider yourself lucky. This is a confession. My job was to enter the messages into the Compugraphic typesetter, then print them out onto big sheets like stamps. I used the die cutter to perforate fifty at a time. Those went into a bin, and they got carried to the cookie line for assembly. She worked the factory line, stuffing the warm cookies with all of the fortune phrases. Her name was Esmerelda. Beautiful name. Even lovelier face. Long, dark hair which she kept in a hair net at work. Sometimes in the lunch room, I’d try to catch her eye between bites of my brown bag meal. But she wasn’t paying attention to me. Instead, her gaze was drawn towards Manny, a young, handsome guy who looked like he stepped out of a Mexican soap opera. Typical, I suppose. Why would she even be interested in a paunchy, middle-aged woman like me? I’ve always liked the untouchable ones. Don’t we all? One day I overheard Esmerelda talking about Manny’s hands. How strong they were, how gentle. His long fingers. My blood boiled. My heart grew harder. A few days later, I asked Manny if he could take a look at my printer. Something wasn’t working with it. Unlike Esmerelda, he respected his elders and walked over to my station. While he was patting down the paper stack of fortunes, I brought the die cutter down on his pretty hands. You can imagine what happened next. The factory was shut down for a day. OSHA ruled it was an accident and Esmerelda never looked at me again. Now there’s a new girl working the line. Maybe she’ll be friendlier. Let go and let the universe do its thing. That’s what I tell myself. . Victor De Anda’s stories have appeared in numerous publications and anthologies, including the Best American Mystery and Suspense 2025. === end ===

Looking forward to digging into the bin

An Open Letter to God. Up today at @GorkoThe Read it. Michael from Compliance is watching. thegorkogazette.com/2026/09/…

Our first prose poetry issue is NOW LIVE 🦝 Twenty absolute stunners for you to savour. Huge thanks to Jude Potts @judepickledplum for her reading assistance. We'll start highlighting these beauts soon. For now, grab a brew and lose yourself 💜 trashcatlit.com/prose-poetry… 1/2

"My father says a man should know how to hold a knife but what he means is not the knife, not really, it’s the holding, the way your wrist doesn’t shake even when everything else does." - Kumar Sen mrbullbull.com/newbull/flash…