Mixed Intentions Mythic Micros by @jackbedell @justin_karcher @lml1962 @moranpress @JoshuaScribner3 @ScottLaudati @MeanerHarker @CollingsMaccrae @OfferKuban @NathanBorn2010 Bruce Most & @KMWriter01 Curated by @NathanBorn2010 / Nathan Pettigrew #MythicPicnicTweetStory === === Whatever the Opposite of Bliss Is by Dr. Jack Bedell / @jackbedell . The private investigator can’t stand domestic cases. She usually refuses them outright unless they’re for family or business associates. For one thing, catching a cheating partner requires 24-hour surveillance, and that runs up a hell of a bill in a hurry. And two, no one, no matter how rich, wants to pay a big bill to hear their husband’s spending afternoons naked with their tennis partner. The worst part, though, is how quickly things turn violent when your position gets burned while you’re filming some fried chicken magnate’s wife dry humping a Saints player in the front seat of her Escalade in the team’s parking lot. That ALWAYS ends with a couple of huge footprints in the sidewall of her van and a punched out window. Nothing like that ever happens on insurance fraud cases. Even the fakers have enough decency to stay in their homes with the blinds closed when they spot her. But fried chicken magnates just keep having cheating wives, and they can’t stop themselves from throwing money the investigator’s way to prove it, so here we are. . Jack B. Bedell is Professor of English and Coordinator of Creative Writing at Southeastern Louisiana University where he also edits Louisiana Literature and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. Jack’s work has appeared in HAD, Heavy Feather, Hawkeye, The Shore, Stone Circle, Psaltery & Lyre, trampset, Some Words and other journals. His work has also been selected for inclusion in Best Microfiction and Best Spiritual Literature. His latest collection is Fight Nights (Blue Horse Press, 2025). He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019. === === Some Feelings Are Better Left Bottled up Like Moonshine by Justin Karcher / @justin_karcher . Some Feelings Are Better Left Bottled up Like Moonshine because one day we’ll find ourselves in an Appalachian grove behind some Rust Belt dive and there’ll be cats tiptoeing across Tarot card air. If we get close to them they'll purr right through us. . Justin Karcher (X: @justin_karcher, Bluesky: @justinkarcher . bsky . social) is a Best of the Net- and Pushcart-nominated poet and playwright from Buffalo. He is the author of several books, including Tailgating at the Gates of Hell (Ghost City Press, 2015). Recent playwriting credits include The Birth of Santa (American Repertory Theater of WNY) and “The Buffalo Bills Need Our Help” (Alleyway Theatre). www . justinkarcherauthor . com === === The 15th by Mike Lee / @lml1962 . Babble, babble on. Since the phone was dying—funny how every time a product is almost paid off, it starts to fall apart—I put my wife on speakerphone and turned down the volume to hear what she had to say. It was the usual: the settling of scores interspersed with unreasonable demands salted with personal insults. Before, this was painful to listen to. Less so now. Breaking into sweat, I would babble in response. This is how things end, usually. It could be worse. It was when I got home. In the meantime, care enough to pay attention. I am nice like that. When facing anger as an energy, one learns to speak calmly. Thus, understanding combined with self-protection while walking on eggshells. That is how I approached these conversations—and it was never easy. My wife spent some of it talking about herself. She constantly edited her life story. Her relationships. She presented complaints I often heard before — her cadence dissociative, disjointed, floating like feathers in an old-time pillow fight. Constantly changing with the retelling. Usually, under these conditions, it is best to say nothing. I regret the times I opened my mouth. I learned to time things by carefully picking my spots. That was a chore and a learning curve I had to surf. Sometimes I make mistakes when I speak. Her responses struck thunderously. Rapid speech in rising tones. Unmitigated rage, crashing yet pulling me in. I cannot get off the phone, though I know I should hang up. I would quietly put the phone on my desk while she went off. Then I would pick it up during a brief silence, respond politely with an acknowledgment, and lie. Liza, one cubicle over, would stare at me in my efforts to navigate the conversation—such as it was—into a conclusion. When I did, she would shake her head in sadness. “You’ve got to stop putting up with that shit.” Sometimes Liza sat silently, fuming. Other times, she would leave to chat with co-workers elsewhere in the office. Liza was right. Eventually, I did stop. I divorced her. No more babble, babble. Wanted to tell Liza, but she moved on to a new job. . Mike Lee is an editor, writer and photographer at a trade union in New York City. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming at Blood+Honey, The Brussels Review, BULL, Literary Garage, Literally Stories, Bristol Noir, The Argonaut and elsewhere. His story collection, The Northern Line, is available in many online booksellers. === === Dreaming of You by Stephen Moran / @moranpress . I’m running along the edge of the ocean, but I keep slipping in the sand and losing my balance when the waves wash under my feet. “Never forget that I love you.” I hear Ray’s voice. You must be close, but I can’t see you. The moon’s light can’t penetrate the darkness. I stop and listen, but I can’t hear anything over the waves and birds. A loud boom and flash of light break the night sky, and I see a swarm of cops in the parking lot overlooking the ocean. I start running again though I don’t know where I am going. The sirens and dogs and searchlights unnerve my senses. The faster I run, the more cops appear, marching down the grassy hill towards me. Ahead, I see one cop standing in my path. Can I get around him? Fear nips at my veins as I recognize the face waiting for me. It’s Officer Smith. “Stop, Ella. There’s nowhere to run. Put your hands in the air.” But I didn’t do anything I want to scream, but no sound comes out of my mouth. I stop running and put my palms in the air. Officer Smith walks slowly towards me, the light of the moon glinting off his sidearm and belt buckle. “What do you want from me?” “Why didn’t you tell me about your past? Very convenient you leave out the part about killing your…” I scream, “Don’t say it. Never speak of that. It will curse you for the rest of your days, I swear it.” He laughs and removes his cap. To my surprise, he smiles at me and offers me a cigarette. “I just have one question.” I nod for him to continue. “Who will you call for help you after I take you in?” “What?” “You’re under arrest. For so many things, for all of it. You have the right to remain silent and go directly to jail. A trial won’t be necessary,” he says approaching me with handcuffs. “No!” I scream. . Stephen Moran is an author, publisher, and bookbinder. === === Star Player by Joshua Scribner / @JoshuaScribner3 . “Hey. Want to play again?” “No. It got too ugly last time.” “Don’t be a sore sport. And it’s about time we played.” “Last time, you put your player down, and sixty million died.” “He was a good player.” “Yeah, but you lost. I’m not really a sore loser. I’m a regretful winner.” “But you had a good time.” “Yeah. I guess I did. And I put the player down who brought the bomb. That really ended the game.” “Yeah. That got them to slow it down a lot. I mean, many were still dying, but not at that rate.” “I know. It’s so boring.” “Let’s play again.” “No. Not with the big bombs. It’s too dangerous.” “True. So, let’s play in a different way. It’s way too crowded down there.” “I’m listening.” “A bug.” “A bug?” “Yes. My next player is a bug.” “Like that virus they made.” “Yes. But stronger.” “I don’t know.” “Are you afraid?” “I am not. I can bring a player too. A player smart enough to make a vaccine.” “Yeah. But the ones that follow you so dogmatically are the ones most likely to die. So, many of them will refuse the vaccine.” “What if I make another player, one who loves me but also trusts science.” “They’ll ignore him. Hell, the politicians will crucify him.” “It will be a her.” “That’s even better.” “Okay. I guess I’ll play.” “Good, I’ve laid down the bug. Your move.” “Okay. It’s done.” “I don’t see what you did.” “I just moved your bug.” “Okay. Where?” “Its first host will be the orange man.” “What? I was counting on him.” “I know.” “He’ll be dead in a week. They’ll not even know what it is yet. Might as not play now. I can’t win without him.” “I know.” . If you enjoyed this story, check out Scribner Short Reads: www . amazon . com/dp/B0DKQ6V84C For collections of these stories, consider Scribner Short Story Collections: www . amazon . com/dp/B0CH58JHX4 Up to date information on his work can be found at: www . amazon . com/stores/author/B0056C82SO === === Because of Patti Smith by Scott Laudati / @ScottLaudati . I was going to jail and I didn’t care because I had to kill my best friend and if you’re an American with any honor at all you know that if someone steals from you, no matter how much or how little, the code demands blood. I’d started a t-shirt company with Amharic, my boss at The Ludlow, and the week before I’d gotten Joe Jonas to wear our shirt while the paparazzi filmed him telling the world Gigi Hadid was his new gf. The pictures were on the front page of E! NEWS and VOGUE and within two minutes we sold out of shirts. The inventory that hadn’t been doing anything disappeared in an instant and the number in our bank account started multiplying zeros while we screamed and high-fived and jumped around like happy puppies. Then the girls came. Then Amharic stopped answering my calls. Then the girl related to David Bowie started posting pictures with wads of money, and my friend Amharic’s arm around her, and then I checked the bank account and all the money was gone. I blacked out and grabbed my Spyderco knife and marched down Thompson Street to The Ludlow Hotel where I knew Amharic would be. But first I stopped to check our PO Box. In my haste I almost knocked over Patti Smith with the force of the Post Office door. I apologized ten times, told her she was my God, and that I never acted like such a spazzed-out maniac but I was on my way to kill someone. She didn’t seem surprised by this and asked why. I told her what had happened and she said, “Are t-shirts the thing you love?” I said no and she said killing is fine but you should only do it for something you love, because it’s art if you do it for that. Then she hugged me and told me to go home and I did. And that’s why you get to hear this story today. Because of fate. Because of Patti Smith. Whoa. . Scott Laudati lives in NY with his dog, Josie. He is the author of Rainbow Road and Play The Devil. Visit him anywhere @ScottLaudati. === === The Tailor by Zoë Davis / @MeanerHarker . Stretched fabric taut across the cutting table. Placed feathers on each corner. Expectant fingers twitched until I slid a pair of silver Os across his palm. Digits tightened through the shears’ dead eyes. He used no measuring tape, only crafty intuition, gliding toothless jaws through fresh-woven shadow. By the spinning wheel lay bodies entwined, fresh from the city’s gaol. Slack-jawed and felt-tongued, their darkness removed, they could only gawp as he worked with ceremonial grace. “Here, girl,” he coaxed, bringing my apprentice hands to trace sin repurposed. How soft they felt. How innocent. Rogue heartbeats snagged within the weft. . Zoë Davis is a writer from Sheffield, England. She's a stubborn FND sufferer and fights what her body says she can't do by playing wheelchair rugby league. She writes poetry and prose, and especially enjoys exploring the interaction between the fantastical and the mundane, with a deeply personal edge to her work. You can find her words in publications such as: Ink Sweat & Tears, Strix, Roi Fainéant and Red Ogre Review. You can also follow her on X where she's always happy to have a virtual coffee and a chat. === === The Middle Distance by Collings MacCrae / @CollingsMaccrae . Midway through the journey of life, I came to myself within a dark wood. Dante’s first line. The photograph arrived without postage. Deputy Maren Nachez found it in her door that morning, between her run and her first shift. She was an artist before she was a cop, so she noticed the composition before she noticed the body: bisected female, placed with geometric precision at the midpoint of the horizontal and the midpoint of the vertical. The Middle Distance. The zone the eye seeks, to absorb maximum data. She got a pencil. Drew the lines. Read the message, spewed in red ink across the back: Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita. *** Fox Argall got the text: “We’ve got a problem in Okeechobee...” before he found the photograph sealed in a white envelope sitting on his kitchen counter the same morning. He drew it halfway out and slid it back. He looked at the breakfast his wife made him, and left it sitting there. He already knew. Two photographs. Different messages. Fox knows things before he can explain them. He sees patterns. The killer is waiting. He wants more. Deall fi: Understand me. Maren Nachez, the artist, also sees more, and she can explain it. Is she my guide? Fox asked. That’s overdrive, buddy, they said. The paradox of being ridiculed for seeing by those trained to seek. Everyone needs a guide through the dark layers. *** The body was discovered in the park. Fox laid out the chess board as it formed. He watched Maren watch him. Sometimes, a guide doesn’t lead you through the dark. She teaches you how to remain. Was she his Virgil through the layers — or was she leading him deeper inside? She rents the house he used to live in. The killer knows that too. . Collings MacCrae is the author of the Fox Argall Mysteries, a psychologically rich, relationship-forward crime series featuring autistic criminologist Dr. Fox Argall, known for its complex plot threads and focus on found family and moral complexity. === === Ricochet: Gone to Ground by Offer Kuban / @OfferKuban . Stephen Morse and Richard Shae were on stakeout, parked between a chippie takeaway shop and a nail bar. Darkness grew as rain began. A damp Officer Morse slid behind the wheel. “What bloody took you?” Shae snagged the paper bag Morse held, wafting warm fish and chips. Morse clicked his tongue. “Why does MI5 want this bugger, anyway?” “Why d’you think?,” Shae muttered around a mouthful of food, eyes narrowed. He leant back, grimaced, loosed a fart, then retrieved his Dunhills. He tapped out a cigarette, lit it, inhaled, then blew smoke. Doubly assaulted, Morse recoiled, scrunching his nose. He cracked open the window, dinner’s tasty smells withering. “You youngsters forget how to read briefing notes?,” Shae said. “Wilson’s a shitty asset gone to ground. Five wants him on the leash.” Almost on cue, a stout bald man poked his head out the nail bar’s green door. He scanned the street, spotted them, then dashed into the rainy gloom. “There!” Morse pointed, started out the door. He hadn’t noticed the gun. Shae had. “Easy, boyo,” Shae called after him. “Don’t underestimate—” Two shots rang out, and Morse ducked as a wing mirror and headlight exploded. Wilson turned to run. “Fuck’s sake,” Shae sighed. He pulled his gun, wiping a greasy hand on his trouser leg, and joined Morse to chase their man into a blind alley. “Stop pissing about, Wilson!” Shae yelled. Wilson cursed, fired. Pavement exploded, Morse taking cover again. Shae’s tremor had him discharge three wild rounds in Wilson’s direction. Running footfalls sounded, bins clattered, followed by pained moaning. “You’re like a stormtrooper, yeah?” Morris grinned at Shae. “A Nazi storm—?” “No, like Star Wars. Pew-pew, miss the target.” Shae pointed at a prostrate, bloodied Wilson, “That’s a hit, innit?” “Lucky rebound—” Then, recognition dawned. “Oh, crikey. Rick Shae…bloody Ricochet! Heard stories. Mate, you’re a damn hero.” Shae chuckled, tapped out another cig. “Yeah, you’ll be alright, lad.” . Offer, a Canadian author, has flash fiction in various publications, and a podcast. offerkuban . substack . com === === Love and Let Die by Nathan Pettigrew / @NathanBorn2010 . On my fiftieth birthday, I truly believed my father might be a vampire. At seventy, his health put mine to shame. I had hypertension, severe eczema, all kinds of shit while the old man lived his best days on a pot of coffee and two packs of Winstons. He used to sentence killers to death for a living, but even after retirement, the old man didn’t slow down. He accelerated, smoking three packs before hitting the hay. I never worried about getting sick because of him. I had his genes, after all, and followed in his footsteps, inhaling two packs between waking up and crashing. Though I preferred Marlboros. On my fifty-first birthday, my PCP sent me to a specialist who diagnosed me with Stage 4 lung cancer. I didn’t tell the old man, thinking he might be ashamed. We got along best whenever we smoked together, and in those moments, he taught me everything I knew. Who and who not to rob without getting caught, and where to launder my fortune. Turned out, local crime boss Victor Searcy ended up in the same assisted living facility as my father and somehow recognized him despite going senile. Cops told me that Victor shot my father in the neck while he was taking his last drag of a Winston. Doing what he loved most until his final breath. Guaranteed to join him within the calendar year, I saw no reason to not die from what I loved doing most. I upped my game to three packs of Marlboros daily, even from dusk ‘till dawn. Like father, like son, as they say, but we definitely weren’t vampires. . Nathan Pettigrew is the author of Tales from Terrebonne, forthcoming from Rock and a Hard Place Press. === === Where Do Story Ideas Come From? by Bruce W. Most . Readers frequently ask fiction writers where they get their story ideas. Do we stumble over them lying in the street? Do the muses hand them down from above? Steal them from other writers (Shakespeare did a lot of that)? Most of us writers would say ideas come from everywhere: things we read, ideas that pop out of nowhere, dreams, people we observe, life experiences. You name it. I don’t recall a dream sparking any of my stories, but my inspirations have been varied. Take my story End of the Line, my contribution to Bad Intentions. One day I stumbled across a black-and-white 1967 thriller movie about passengers accosted on a New York City subway. Having ridden NYC subways many times, the movie resonated with me. Before I finished watching it, my story idea, a riff on the plot, had emerged fully formed. Which raises a commonly connected question: how long does it take you to write your stories? That depends, if you take into account the time between emergence of an idea and writing THE END. End of the Line was unusually quick for me. But the gap can be long. I once got the idea for a novella about an obscenely wealthy man hiring a PI to prove he’d once murdered someone. It took me years to figure out the rest of the story. Or the time I was driving along a dusty country road when an image popped into my brain of a drunk driving a similar country road in the dead of night when a horse dashes right in front of him, an empty saddle on its back. The muse, I guess. Took me several years to figure out what that story was really about. Both stories eventually saw publication (many ideas never even get written). Regardless of where we get our ideas and how long it takes us to finish them, all that counts in the end is whether they are satisfying stories for readers. . Bruce W. Most writes crime short stories and whodunit novels. His most recent novel is No Time for Murder. === === HARD SONG by Michael Downing / @KMWriter01 . It’s a cold March afternoon. A driving rain whips in off the ocean as Eddie goes into the liquor store near Resorts for a pack of Camels. The casinos glow a block away on the boardwalk, their lights sharp against the gray. There’s nobody else in there but him and the clerk – a short guy with pock-marked skin, scraggly beard, and a wandering eye that trails Eddie up and down each aisle. Hard to tell if he’s watching Eddie or something over his shoulder. He’s just a minimum wage guy. He’s got no reason to give a shit about anything Eddie wants. Eddie walks up to the counter. Bottles of cheap vodka. Potato chips. Packages of beef jerky. A display of lottery tickets. “Pack of Camels,” he says. The clerk slides them across the counter. Eddie drops a ten, grabbing his change without counting. The clerk bangs the drawer shut as Eddie starts for the door, then turns back. “Need a couple extra packs of matches.” The clerk leans below the register. Eddie’s knee length thrift store raincoat hangs open, making it easy to stick a hand inside. By the time the clerk lifts his head Eddie has the sawed-off double barrel leveled at his chin while he’s reaching for the open register. The clerk straightens. Eddie levels the barrels at his chin and motions towards the register. "Open the drawer." The clerk doesn't look scared. That surprises Eddie. Same way he’s surprised by the forty-five the clerk’s holding in his hand. Even more surprised when the clerk pulls the trigger. The bullets hit him center mass in the chest, creating a spray of pink mist and bone before he can even wrap a finger around the trigger. The force knocks him backwards against a pyramid of off-brand bourbon bottles. Eddie never fires a shot. Never reaches inside the register drawer. Never expects anything like that from a minimum wage clerk. . Michael Downing is the author of SAINTS of the ASPHALT and editor of the anthology “Bad Intentions” from Literary Garage / @litgarage01 === end ===