J. Edward Kruft

MICRO MAYHEM v2 Mythic Micros by @KennethMGRAY2 @KMWriter01 @JWenner_Author @carlottadale38 @mike_mchone @fshrum @msladybrute @melissacuisine @KellieScottReed @JohnTures2 @OfferKuban & @jadedwriter_ Curated by @NathanBorn2010 / Nathan Pettigrew #MythicPicnicTweetStory === More Mayhem! Thank you everyone for checking out our latest micro collection and welcome to the Picnic if you’re visiting us for the first time. For MMV2, we have it all: fiction, nonfiction, poetry, even straight comedy mixed with the sad and the serious. We’re also trying something new. Starting with this collection, we’re featuring Chapter One of Kenneth Gray’s story “Mister Crow,” which will be broken up into more chapters over future volumes. Chapter Two will be featured in MMV3, which I also have the honor of curating. Thank you, Mythic Picnic, for allowing me this opportunity, and special thank you to our 12 wonderful contributors. Enjoy! Nate === Mister Crow: Chapter One by Kenneth Gray / @KennethMGRAY2 . This heatwave was brutal; the kind of heat that people made mistakes in. I approached her on the pedestrian bridge. She stood just outside the light cast from the lamppost. “I don’t see why we couldn’t meet at my office, Miss Stanton.” She gave me one of her imitation smiles. “Your office smells like mold and … other things.” I couldn’t argue with that, but I had a sense there was more to it, like she didn’t want to be seen. Not seen with me or in general? Probably both. I glanced at the Mercedes parked with the engine running. I saw the large shape in the driver's seat. Dokker, sucking up the air conditioning, the asshole. “Did you bring me pastries, Miss Stanton?” “Pardon?” she said with no smile this time. I pointed and said, “The box.” “This was my sister’s.” “Was?” “I want you to find my sister and hurt the people who took her,” she said. This time, she flashed her dangerous smile, the one I couldn’t resist and always got me into trouble. “So what’s inside the box?” It took all my willpower not to do a Brad Pitt impersonation. She continued to ignore my questions and gestured at the Mercedes. Dokker got out and stomped over. Miss Stanton handed her driver a large envelope. “I see you still have your emotional support goon.” Dokker’s beady eyes got beadier, and her mouth formed a scar across her face as she shoved the envelope at me. “This showed up today.” I noticed fresh scrapes and bruises on her tattooed knuckles. She looked at me like she wouldn’t mind adding a few more. While I peeked inside the first envelope, Miss Stanton handed another smaller envelope to her personal Godzilla, who thrust it toward me. I reminded myself to get checked for cooties. “Will you accept the job?” “Finding your sister… sure. The usual rate, but the hurting… that’s extra.” “Deal, Mister Crow.” She smiled and walked away. Damn this heat. I picked up the box knowing I was going to regret this. Stay tuned for chapters 2 and 3 coming soon… . X- @KennethMGRAY2 Instagram- @graykennethm Bluesky-@kennethmgray.bsky.social === The Edge of Night By Michael Downing / @KMWriter01 . The night wraps its arms around us as we drive west, taking the highway past Medford towards Philly. The car’s headlights cut through the darkness, the shadows engulfing everything but the white lines on the road. The emptiness makes the world seem smaller, like it can swallow us whole at any minute. The kids are asleep in the backseat, their breathing soft and shallow, while we count the mile markers, staring out windows with quiet eyes. I glance at the rearview mirror, watching their faces, wondering if they realize how much is slipping away. I don’t need to ask. I know the answer. Kids always know. I listen to the drone of the Chevy’s engine and try figuring out if the rumbling I hear is thunder in the distance or something else I’ll have to deal with when we get home. She turns on the radio, twisting the knob, finding a song on the classic rock station we both remember. The lyrics come back easily but I keep them to myself, content to listen to her mangling the words as she tries singing along in a soft, broken voice. I think about the way we once danced to that song, just the two of us, slowly and carefully across the kitchen floor after the kids had gone to bed. The way we eased along the linoleum, locked in step, moving carefully in each other’s arms. Afraid we might lose something if we moved too fast. Moments like that are gone. The air between us has grown heavy, thick with sentiments we never voice, regrets hanging like smoke in the air. Still miles from home we share an uneasy silence. The kind of silence thick with words we don’t say. Words that leave us empty. Words we’re willing to forget but never forgive. All I can do now is hold on to the memory of how much I once loved her as the night falls apart around us. . Michael Downing is the author of the book SAINTS of the ASPHALT. === The Final Beat by Jody Wenner / @JWenner_Author . Jimmy was the only remaining original member of the Jazztronauts—the house band at the Black Cat Club. What had started off as a dream now felt like a chore, a thankless job he found himself at every Saturday night. His sparkling gold drum kit had been shoved so far back on the stage, his elbows hit the wall while he did his sweeping fills. The lights were adjusted so low, he could no longer be seen by the crowd—a much larger one recently since Bonnie had been replaced by a sweet, young singer with an amazing range. Jimmy missed Bonnie, but he couldn’t deny that the crowd size had grown since Scarlett took over the microphone, renewing his faith that Jazz wasn’t completely dead yet. How her silky voice soothed his old, pessimistic soul. That Saturday night, somewhere near the end of The Girl from Ipanema, Jimmy spotted Bonnie standing in the back of the crowd with a deep scowl plastered on her face. Scarlett stood middle stage, sounding as velvety as ever. From behind the veil, Jimmy kept time with some mild trepidation. When he spotted a thin wisp of smoke puff from the barrel, he knew he’d made a horrible mistake. As the bullet pulsed toward the young beauty with the voice of an angel, Scarlett swished her hips to the left at just the right moment. A guilty sensation ripped through Jimmy’s chest as his sticks loosened from his grips and crashed down onto the snare for one last measure. The audience roared. At least jazz was alive and well, he thought before collapsing to the ground, but maybe he shouldn’t have fired Bonnie after all. . Jody Wenner is a Midwestern author with several mystery novels under her belt. Shorter stories appear in Mystery Magazine Weekly, Punk Noir, Urban Pigs Press, and Pistol Jim Press. When not writing, reading, or editing, she can be found walking her adorable dog or knitting obsessively. Please visit her at www . jodywenner . com === The Sin We Do Not Name by Carlotta Dale / @carlottadale38 . “She’s been off her feed, Doc,” I said, depositing Araminta—a Bradypus variegatus, if you wanna get technical—on the zoo hospital’s examination table. “No appetite, huh? For how long?” “Coupla days.” “How’s the new mate working out?” “Won’t give him the time of day.” “That’s a shame. Does she display aggression towards him?” “No, just wants nuthin’ to do with him.” “She much of a bean counter? Get jealous if he gets extra treats?” “Nope, quiet as a lamb.” “Hmm …” He examined her cautiously, avoiding the long, curved claws. “Anything else you can tell me? Does she horde her toys?” “No, she’ll take a shine to one, and hang onto it until it falls apart. If I give her more, she just flings ’em out of the enclosure.” “As far as I can tell, she’s in perfect health. Modest, unassuming little thing, isn’t she? Any other problems, changes?” I shook my head. “Un-uh. She’s lazy as sin, but—” “That’s to be expected.” He took off his gloves. “Okay then. You have to expect some deviation in her hunger; I mean, they only poop once a week. Try some cecropia leaves. After all, she’s a—” “Shh.” . Carlotta Dale lives in Los Angeles, a city she adores from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, in a house that’s essentially an oversized cabinet of curiosities. She still uses adverbs—sparingly—and her novelette, The Parrots Come Again, is available on Amazon (Alien Buddha Press). Dale has also had short stories published in Punk Noir Magazine, Pistol Jim Press, Literary Garage, Alien Buddha Press, and Bristol Noir. She can be found on Twitter @carlottadale38 and on BlueSky @carlottadale.bsky.social === Some Unseen Thing by Mike McHone / @mike_mchone . As you lie here bleeding through your shirt in this rain-slicked alley, as she gets in and starts the car with the punctuated echo of her stilettos on the pavement pinging in your ears, you think back to the first time you kissed, the first time you held hands, the first time you fucked, the first time you fought, the first time you made up, the first time you made her cry, the first time you apologized, the first time you said you loved her and would love her forever, and then, yes, even then, even in those midnight moments, those hushed moments, those moments that settle cool mist on your heart, you should’ve known that someday, one day, she’d betray you and all those plans you made (a life together, a home, a family, all those heists, all that money, and this break-in job, this late-night job, the job that would secure you forever with its haul) would slice through your heart exactly like the tip of her knife, and should’ve known that, for her, leaving you would be easier than lying, and even easier than you lying down in this puddle and watching as all the neon in this shit world above fades into a pinkish black, while the soft mouth of some unseen thing places its lips around yours and breathes you in and holds you forever. . Mike McHone is a Derringer Award-winning, Anthony Award-nominated writer whose work has appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Dark Yonder, Playboy, the AV Club, and numerous other outlets. He was cited on the Distinguished List in 2024’s Best American Mystery and Suspense and twice on Ellery Queen’s annual Readers List. He currently lives in Detroit. Visit him online at mikemchone . com. === 6 Poems by Fred Shrum / @fshrum . “Crosstown Traffic” Rush hour Engines are running Through the jagged storefronts The sun starts to go down I push the pedal and feel the breeze My music-filled climate-controlled steel universe It turns on a dime Something about the historic district giving way to urban blight On the curb lies a disheveled man Clearly homeless He is not moving Is he sleeping? Is he breathing? The cars go by and by Nobody stops to check on him I wait for the light to turn green And continue on my way . “False Saints of Lincoln Park” Love and bullets were in the air On that February winter morning The police officers were kind Until they pulled out their guns Eyes blinded by muzzle flash Of two shotguns and two Chicago Typewriters Fake cops smiled Pulverizing everything in their wake . “Dry As A Bone” I need a drink Not just one I want to meld with the unmentionables Swing with the gargoyles Make the straight paths crooked . “Rules for Radicals” I accuse you of the thing I do Then temper it with a baseball bat Feed the flames with righteous anger I burn half the world to save the other half . “Summer Steam” Have you felt the rain Cold upon your shoulders On a Florida summer afternoon The blacktop is so hot The rain causes steam Tendrils rising until it’s hard to see Sometimes I dream I think maybe it’s the souls That left us behind Saying hello . “Fire In The Sky” The next world has to be better. I carve the moniker into my arm. Raise my hands to the beam. And forget about you. . Fred Shrum, III is author of “Psalms of the Street Sweeper”, “Tourist Trap”, and is the Publisher of Skyway Journal. He loves the beach and tacos. === 24 Hours in Reverse by Tiffany M. Storrs / @msladybrute . I seize a rear-view mirror for the first time in nearly 40 years of sometimes-stagnant always-hopeful staring straight ahead. Through unforgiving seasons, blood-burnt summers followed by spilling secrets to a ground flash frozen, brightly bitter, immune to more or less, relentless, I stared straight ahead. Shook the walls of darkened rooms where I believed I traded grief for understanding, met the miserable miracle of solitude, felt along its fault lines for puzzle pieces, for something seismic I couldn’t analyze, I just stared straight ahead. From watching my wanting flow over his tight lips; the lower left of his denim zipper raising itself in strained praise, (a holy, stifled hallelujah); to riding close behind trucks in traffic, sudden driving backward, clichéd slow-motion with one hand pressed to the dashboard, I stared straight ahead. Like a fixed-point obsession, a destination;. home as a concept, home as a person. Built up, burnt out, laid bare, or broken, crushed, quietly wounded, regardless, always staring straight ahead. More yes than no, more flow, more what happens next? than shit, wait. So, when I told you it’s just like me to fall in love at the end of the world, you grinned and said what is it that you know? But I couldn’t be your blackened window, couldn’t crawl into your confessional without turning your tides, the flow of chaos, the grit-teeth grab of brutality. You wouldn’t believe it; or, you’d believe you didn’t believe it, shake the words off as if from the speech of a shit shaman, but I leave a stain, so. I said no, no, nothing. I meant i’ll protect you. I meant you can keep staring straight ahead. . Tiffany M. Storrs is a working-class brat, a Rust Belt baby, and a little rapscallion. She is the editor-in-chief of Roi Fainéant Press, a writer for a living, and a writer not for a living. Her words have been found in Red Fez, Punk Noir, Raw Lit, and others. She is currently attempting to put a poetry collection together. You can find her on Twitter (yep, gross) and Instagram. === Try One More by Melissa Flores Anderson / @melissacuisine . Dennis asks Mick to grab a beer at the new microbrewery down the block from the shop. “It’s cool because you pour yourself, and pay by the ounce,” Dennis says. “They’ve got about 40 things on tap.” Mick goes without texting Lilly to say he’ll be late. He doesn’t even like IPAs, which is most of what they have on tap. He likes a good, old fashioned Bud or Miller light, the kind of stuff he can drink by the half dozen and barely feel a buzz. He should go home soon or he should text Lilly that he’s out with the guys. He deserves a night out because for the last three weeks she’s been late at least one night a week for some work event. She dresses extra nice on those days, puts on jewelry and the dark eyeliner. She doesn’t dress up for him. And she comes home talking about that guy she works with who wears the fancy suits. Fucking Charles. Even his name is fancy. Dennis adds a lambic to his pint and tells Mick, “Try one more.” Mick glances at his phone. Lilly hasn’t texted him yet, maybe hasn’t noticed he isn’t home. He adds a chocolate stout to his glass, drinks down the bitter liquid. Dennis tries a hard root beer, and Mick gets something with fruit in the name. The ounces add up to full beers and the minutes tick by into hours. Dennis is single and doesn’t have anyone waiting at home, but Mick knows he’s missed Jack’s bedtime and he’ll have Lilly’s disappointed look waiting for him. He gets another pour. . Melissa Flores Anderson is the author of the short story collection “All and then None of You” from Cowboy Jamboree. See her writing at melissafloresanderson . com === Turbines by Kellie Scott-Reed / @KellieScottReed . “They scare you?” Rob questioned me with a slight grin, my fear not taken too seriously by him. “Yes! It’s not funny!” We drove down that hot road in July. Those mirages of water pooling in the road, vanish as we move towards my daughter’s home to move her out. The thing that caused my panicked reaction were the enormous white windmills that dot the tops of the hills down the Route 81 corridor in central New York. “They look like they shouldn’t be there and it creeps me out.” We sat quietly for a while. My eyes watched the pillars violently jutting from their carpet of green, standing stock-still. I thought of a million post-apocalyptic scenarios. I thought of them coming to life and walking down the hillside, destroying homes and villagers. I thought of how you never know why bad things happen to good people, why your child marries her best friend since childhood and they fall apart, why he falls apart, why it all falls apart. “They are good for the environment,” he says and he pats my hand that clutches a phone displaying a long line of panicked messages from my daughter to come get her immediately. “Agreed,” I close my eyes and a tear I have been holding back breaks the gate, “but Jesus honey, anything can happen.” . Kellie Scott-Reed is a writer, songwriter, AEIC of Roi Faineant Press, and the 1st AD on the TV Series “Deep End”. She is a full time yoga instructor. 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”. The press can be located at roifaineantpress . com and on YouTube where she conducts interviews with authors from all across the world. === Anybody Could Be That Guy by John Tures / @JohnTures2 . He parked the car in the deserted place, an old baseball field by the county line, once a source of happiness, now overgrown by weeds, replaced by the fancier park downtown where the kids now congregated. But it was no stranger to his presence, where he drove his Buick Skylark over the barely noticeable basepaths. He had come here several times before, but each time, he lost his nerve. He looked at the bag, wondering if he should finally do the deed. Nobody understood him. They didn’t get that it was eating him up inside, that if he didn’t just do this one thing, just this one time… He sighed, pulling the forbidden object from the burlap sack. He held it up in the fading light of the long summer day, surprised he even got this far. Point of no return now, Sammy, he thought. He pushed everything into place, loading the device. Nobody would even hear the sound this far. He clicked a button, tensing his body, seemingly waiting his whole life for this event. Man, machine, moment. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. Too late to go back. Nothing happened for a second. He froze. Then an ear-splitting explosion rocked the car. He jerked, his body pulsing… …As the sweet disco sounds of Abba from his juiced-up sound system roared throughout the valley. He wedged the Buick’s door open and began prancing across the field to the beat and makin’ a scene. Not a spring chicken, but still kickin’. More like 63 than a teen. He was…the dancing queen. . John A. Tures began writing for the El Paso Herald-Post in high school. He wrote for his college paper at Trinity University in San Antonio and at Marquette University. He earned his doctorate at Florida State University, analyzed data in Washington DC, and is now a Professor at LaGrange College. He writes a weekly column for newspapers and magazines. He has published a number of short story mysteries and thrillers. His book Branded will come out later this year with Huntsville Independent Press. He thanks family and friends for listening to his stories. His author site is here: www . johntures . com === Babel-Mouth by Offer Kuban / @OfferKuban . Baz heard them enter, kick off shoes, and trudge down the dimly lit hallway. Liliane said, “Don’t worry, Gerry, we’ll figure this out.” Gerry flicked on the lights. “Hello, you two,” Baz, sitting in the shadows, said. Liliane shrieked and dropped the grocery bags. “Damn it, Baz!” He shrugged, then looked at Gerry stuttering through a string of gibberish. “What the hell’s wrong with him?” “Look, I can explain—” “Do you remember the dream, Liliane?” asked Baz, gesturing at Gerry’s confused expression. “We’d make the ‘next great mousetrap’, build a neural translator app everybody had to have. Hear any language, speak it instantly. What the fuck are we doing here?” Between his fingers, Baz twirled a tumbler of scotch. Liliane gripped Gerry’s hand, exchanging glances, nodding him encouragement. Gerry, now clearer, said, “What did you two just—wait, you drinking my Glenfiddich?” “You stole my translator,” said Baz. “No, not ‘stole.’ Tested, for the investors. A human test!” “It wasn’t ready, Gerry. My design, my code. Not your decision, buddy.” “But, it works. I'm a friggin’ polyglot now! Aren’t I?” “Well…small hitch.” Liliane grimaced. “Another hitch,” Baz said. “Happy with this, Lil? First there was Sam—” “Who got us to miniaturization!” “Then came Jerome.” “He solved our nanobot problem, Baz.” “And now Gerry, who was supposed to convince the investors, not lose them. So, why’d they drop funding? And why didn’t you wait for me?” Liliane released their raised hands. “Skin contact,” she said. Gerry started spouting nonsense again. “Without it, the nanobots short-circuit language processing in Wernicke’s area.” Baz blew out a breath, flipped over the placemat, revealing the gun. He jerked his chin, and Liliane took Gerry’s hand. “Move over there,” Baz motioned with the barrel. “Shit, Liliane, we gotta start this over.” She glanced at Gerry, closed her eyes, nodded, then stepped aside, saying, “Yeah, okay. Sorry, baby.” Baz fired, and Gerry, still babbling nonsense, hit the floor. . Offer is a Canadian author with flash fiction in various publications. He also hosts “The Speakeasy: Conversations with the Writing Community” podcast. === Mer-Man by Wilson Koewing / @jadedwriter_ . Mer-man fucked and Mer-man didn’t care; he’d say, shit, I don’t even care if they’re pregnant. Mer-man retired at 46 because he could. Mer-man had a George Hamilton tan, an extensive wardrobe, a convertible Porsche, and a sprawling house in the hills. Mer-man had produced over 50 shitty films during his career—Alien War Hero, Alien War Hero 2, Baby Guerillas, Cocaine Eyelashes, Dog Heart, Dog Heart 2: Second Helping, Dog Heart 3: Gates Open, Evil Eviction House, Evil Eviction House 2: Rent’s Late, Family of Cobras, Garden State, Girl with a Periwinkle Throwing Star, God Did That, God Did That, Too, Heart Eater, Heart Eater 2: Coronary, I Know What you did Last Solstice, Jeter: The Captain, Johnny Metropolis, Kid with a Man’s Life, King Maker, Leeches, Leeches 2: The Sucking, Love and Lies in Laguna Beach, Long Reach Larry, Maybe Tomorrow Will Bring the Light You Thought it Would Not, Mommy Zombies, Never a Dry Day, Never a Dry Week, Never a Dry Year, Off to the Hills the Clouds, Painkiller, Quiz Show (remake), Rebel With a Cause, Running for the Border, Running for the Border 2: The Wall, Seagram’s 7 and a Fine Suit, Savage Garden Gnomes, The Expecting, The Neglecting, The Reflecting, Upper Peninsula, Under a Bright but Dying Star, Verging on Being Human, Water Wars, Water Wars 2: The Drought, Yucatan, Zombie Zebras of the Apocalypse—and every single shitty one had made money. Mer-man kept women across town in different neighborhoods: Arlington Heights, Brentwood Glen, Century City, Downtown, Echo Park, Franklin Hills, Green Meadows, Hollywood, Industrial District, Jefferson Park, Kinney Heights, Lake Balboa, Miracle Mile, Naud Junction, Oakwood, Pico-Robertson, Reseda, South Robertson, Tarzana, University Park, Van Nuys, Watts, Yucca Corridor. They called Mer-man Mer-man because he was from Utah, but he never had been even remotely religious. Though if he got caught in bed with other women, believe he was quick to produce religious excuses. . Wilson Koewing lives and writes in Marin County, California. See more at www . wilsonkoewing . com === End ===