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"One of the great tragedies of mankind is that morality has been hijacked by religion... But the basis of morality is really very simple and doesn't require religion at all." — Arthur C. Clarke

SALMAGUNDI v3 Mythic Micros by @sarpsozdinler @JohnTures2 @Gail_Lynn_EIC @Lydiasta @Everdoch @TheDarkestStar_ @lml1962 @LunariaCamellia @phlat_soda @lakelady2282 @effthealgorithm & @DanielC55186873 Curated by @NathanBorn2010 / Nathan Pettigrew #MythicPicnicTweetStory === === Driftwater by Sarp Sozdinler / @sarpsozdinler . The news of the flood hit when the kettle started to whistle. It was apparent we would soon evacuate the building, but we were too drunk and tired after all that flying, so we locked the door and drew the curtains. We slipped into our pajamas and ordered room service: you, the chopped salad; I, the largest burger they had. You joked: Our own little Last Supper. The waves afar didn’t only flood the streets but also the whole soundscape of the room—we could hardly hear each other gulp or chew. We lay on the unmade bed after, too full to make any kind of advances toward one another, these two beached whales in need of rescue. You said you had a lot of experience with disasters, a side hazard of Oklahoma being situated, in your own words, in the asshole of civilization; I said my hometown was as Midwestern as the Midwest could get, barren and flat like your chest. Nothing but a sameness of bored cows and grain silos and megastores and water towers, which under certain light could look a lot like retired rockets. Your face scrambled into a boyish grin when you said you murdered your mother’s plants the day after she broke one of your toy rockets. You said it was the only thing left of your father. We fell silent shortly after and watched the waves do their sloshing dance along the streets. When the power finally went out, I took out some candles from my purse and lit them with your lighter; you brought out a deck of cards and a bottle of whiskey. We didn’t speak at first—just a few shy giggles. We didn’t even notice the ceiling was leaking with rainwater, baptizing us with sludge and dirt. Washing us of our shame and pleasure. You said this is what happens when you stray far from home. I blew out the candles one by one and kissed you on the forehead. Let’s go back to sleep, I said. . Sarp Sozdinler is a writer based in Amsterdam. He edits @bulbregion === === Bugs in the Kitchen by John Tures / @JohnTures2 . “Sir, the bug picked up something big,” the young agent gasped as he removed his headphones to broadcast the cryptic message inside the surveillance van across the street from the kitchen of the restaurant. The U.S. Attorney eagerly listened. For days, the wiretap hidden in the kitchen picked up nothing admissible on the Volterra family, a reputed crime syndicate. He tired of hearing how he owed his appointment to his donor daddy. Well, I’ll show them! “Can you believe the guy murdered that dish?” Papa Carlo Volterra growled near the bug. “We gotta clean up this mess before anyone else gets wise,” his son Tony replied. Carlo grunted. “You know a guy who can fix it?” “I know a guy who can make it like it never happened,” Tony boasted. The dish, the U.S. Attorney wondered. Who did they rub out? A nosy prostitute? A rival mob leader’s daughter? An undercover agent posing as a gun moll? “We’re gonna 86 her,” Carlo rasped. In the van, the prosecutor heard Tony greet the fixer entering the kitchen. His name wasn’t part of the Volterra family, but Tony swore he was a pro. And the guy was about to clean up evidence of her demise! “Full raid!” the U.S. Attorney barked. “Weapons drawn! Go! Go! Go!” Within seconds, a SWAT Team penetrated the kitchen, sealing off the exits. The U.S. Attorney swaggered into the kitchen, glad he brought reporters and cameramen for the bust. “Carlo and Tony Volterra, you are under arrest for the murder of an as yet unnamed woman,” he announced. “Your ‘fixer’ will be booked too,” the U.S. Attorney added to the media. “A Mr. ‘Sal Magundi’ will be charged with evidence tampering.” The “fixer” turned around, sporting an apron and plastic gloves. The SWAT Team captain smacked his forehead while Carlo and Tony laughed. “Hey, Mr. Prosecutor,” the ‘fixer’ chuckled. “Care to try my salad? It’s an English one called Salmagundi…the meats, eggs, veggies and fruits are arranged just right, not like the tossed salad dish the other chef murdered in this kitchen.” . Dr. John A. Tures began writing for the El Paso Herald-Post in high school and is now a LaGrange College Professor. He writes columns for newspapers and magazines (muckrack . com / john-tures / articles) and publishes short stories. His thriller book Branded about conspiracy theories, dark academia, corporate corruption and media manipulation, has been published by Huntsville Independent Press (www . huntsvilleindependent . com / product-page / branded). His upcoming novel, “Independent Thought” is a third party challenge that shakes America to its core. His author site is here: www . johntures . com/ about-the-author / === === Generate A Date by G. Lynn Brown / @Gail_Lynn_EIC . Josh opened the door. His date stood on the doorstep. The porchlight reflecting off her skin. “Josh? I'm Lady. The agency sent me.” “Come on in.” He motioned for her to enter and winced at the way she walked. He wasn't a mean man and would never mock a disability, but there seemed to be something more to her limp than that. It was as though she was short and tall all at once. “Hope you like spaghetti.” He closed the door behind her and, with his hand in the small of her back, led her to the dining table. “It smells delicious,” she said with a smile and sat down. “That's quite an accent you have there. Is it French or Italian?” “Ja,” she replied. “You asked for a continental woman.” He shrugged, poured the wine and nodded toward her. “And that's an interesting hair style you have.” He'd never seen anyone with half long tresses, half shoulder length, segmented into blonde, brunette, and red tones. He took his chair and passed the garlic bread. “Is this what AI creates?” “Nyet. AI didn’t create anything. You did. I’m what you generated with your prompts.” “Uh, no, the prompts I gave the agent at Generate-a-Mate Dating Service were very specific.” He reached for the china cabinet and pulled open a drawer, slipped out a notebook, read his prompts to Lady, and then, pounding his fist on the table said, “See? I couldn't have been more precise!” He gestured toward her with the notebook in his hand. “But I didn't get a woman, I got a–” “Chef's salad,” she interrupted and pointed to the bowl of cold cuts and lettuce. “Precisely.” . G. Lynn Brown is a 2x Pushcart Prize nominee. When she isn't writing, she's EIC of Micromance Magazine, KissMet Quarterly and The Haikuist. === === Common Heritage by Lydia Psaradelli / @Lydiasta . Every century, one civilization was invited to the Picnic. No one knew who hosted it. No one declined. When Mara arrived, the meadow was already crowded. A creature woven from mist floated beside a crystalline hive. A sentient reef rested in a pool carried by six mechanical limbs. A being made of living flame laughed with something that existed only as music. Each delegation carried a single offering. The reef offered luminous algae. The hive poured liquid amber that shimmered with equations. The flame scattered fragrant ash that bloomed into herbs before touching the blanket. Mara looked down at the object in her hands. A weathered ceramic bowl, chosen to represent Earth's heritage. She had almost left it behind. The delegates turned toward her. "Where is Earth's offering?" She raised the bowl. "This is it." Silence spread across the meadow. "Your heritage... is a bowl?" asked the being of music. "No," Mara replied quietly. "It's what the bowl is for." No one moved. The algae glowed. The herbs drifted in the breeze. The amber waited. Then the oldest delegate smiled—a mountain that had somehow learned to speak. "At last." One by one, they stepped forward. The algae settled first. Then the amber. Then the herbs. Soon the bowl held colours and textures that had never shared the same universe until that moment. The mountain watched in silence. Then it spoke. "Most civilizations believe their greatest inheritance is what they preserve." It looked at the worn ceramic bowl. "Yours remembered that true heritage is making room for what others bring." The meadow dissolved. The delegates vanished. Mara found herself standing beneath unfamiliar stars. A single voice echoed through the chamber. “Earth is admitted.” She looked down at the bowl. For the first time, humanity's inheritance was full. . Lydia Psaradelli is a writer whose stories explore memory, identity, and the shared experiences that shape humanity. === === Going Viral in an Influencer Collapse by Chiemeziem Everest Udochukwu / @Everdoch . The shadow ban took Glory’s grid down to ten likes. Three of those likes came from her big sister, and one came from a bot that still ran a 2019 Kardashian filter. Glory fumed, but did not rage quit. Rage quitting was content, and she had grown tired of making content out of her forgettable days. In fact, everything about her life had become content, even her own self, and she suspected the algorithm was aware and was, in a patient and wicked way, toying with her for it. The bots that had infested her comment section mimicked everything about her. They mimicked her scroll compulsion, mimicked her prioritising notifications, mimicked her double tap reflexes, mimicked the early morning story check she did. The alpha bot slid into her DMs and sent her a composite of everything that scorched her chest and memory. First was the live streams she did while crying in her car, followed by the sponsored posts that fell short of her smiles. Next was all the troll comments she deleted at midnight because they hit too close to home, and the glowing comments she read on other profiles and spent the subsequent days hollow, seething and coveting. She replied to the bot in emoji because language had left her, and because the bot reminded her of the Grok-generated anti-feminist caricature of her on X. The bot replied to her in emoji too, and the chat turned into the most honest conversation she had had in years, an intimate exchange with a being that knew her miserable engagement rate and every front she had been mistaking for personality. The bots cleared her spam and her grid reset, leaving her with her actual face, the rough one that existed before the filter loads, the pockmarked one she had been striving to bury under GRWM videos and affiliate codes since the year she decided that, damn it, being known could never be worse than being seen. The platform could crash. With nothing to lose, she posted her unfiltered face into the void. But she watched the numbers pour in. Like two radio antennas in the dark, users found her, their likes and comments buzzing, everything she ever dreamed of, alive. . Chiemeziem Everest Udochukwu's writing has appeared in EVENT Magazine, Flash Fiction Online, The Evergreen Review, Lolwe, Peatsmoke Journal, Efiko Magazine, Naira Stories, and elsewhere. He won The EC Michaels' Short Story Prize and The Afro Romcon Prize, and has been recognised in The Kikwetu Flash Prize, The Black Warrior Review Non-fiction Contest, the Quramo Writers Prize, The Unserious Collective Fellowship, the Nigerian NewsDirect Poetry Prize, The Alexander Nderitu Prize for World Literature and elsewhere. He can be found on X at @everdoch and Instagram @everdoch1. === === Bainbridge Avenue, 1971 by Mike Lee / @lml1962 . Detective Dennis MacOrban walked into the bar. As he passed Dempsey, Mac poked him on his shoulder. That was the signal for Dempsey to follow him to the back room. They sat at the round wicker table, with a bottle of Jameson’s and two glasses. Dempsey spoke first. “What did you find about Woodlawn?” “You asshole.” “Wha?” Mac leaned in, looking like Richard Widmark as Johnny Udo. “Well here’s the dealio. The boys were at the table, celebratin’. They had the Salmagundi, doin’ shots, when the bartender sees this girl walk in with a canvas shoulder bag. After that he couldn’t remember shit until he was in the ER.” “Okay, why the 'tude?” “I was down the street collecting. I saw her with the bag.” “Shit.” Mac refilled the glasses. He raised his. “Happy Father’s Day.” Silence. Mac finally spoke. “You’ve been giving me that look since our first day at Xavier. I get the thinking. Make it look like an IRA job so send a woman. And you chose her.” Dempsey sat, tearing up. “That never works for me, you friggin’ moron. In fact, here’s another small detail. Remember the song you played for her? ‘Shimmy, Shimmy Ko-Ko Bop?’ She picked that song on the juke before she rolled a grenade under the table.” Suddenly the music in the cafe changed. “Awwww, cute marker. Well, give my Goddaughter regards. We’ll discuss cleanup charges later.” As Dempsey got up to leave, Mac grabbed the Jamesons and headed toward the alley. Mac liked that kid. She planned on becoming an attorney. So much for that. Just like her father. And—this isn’t going to work out—not like the old days. The Feds are already going crazy. I’m just gonna go home and polish this Jamo off. . Mike Lee is a writer whose work is in or upcoming in Mythic Picnic, Bristol Noir, Literary Garage, Loser, Cult Lit, The Opiate and many others. === === Request for Reassignment by Camellia Peebles / @LunariaCamellia . I would like to formally request a reassignment on the grounds of emotional exhaustion and secondhand embarrassment. As a respected Guardian among the angels, I’m officially pulling the “do you know who I am” card. Where do I start? Shall I explain how many bong rips she takes before role-playing with her AI boyfriends for hours, while a true crime documentary plays to no one? My human believes in signs, except for the ones I send. It is infuriating. I could appear in my true form—twelve eyes, twenty-four wings, spinning golden rings—and she’d merely think she'd finally snapped. My first day, I saved her from choking on a grape. She immediately went back to texting her ex. After, she cried on the floor of her apartment while scrolling through collections of singers’ abs. I do not require food to survive, but even her diet depresses me. Are Valium, root beer, pizza, tears, and unresolved trauma enough to sustain a soul? Because it’s all she’s got. No. I am not concerned. I'm irritated. Whose rod do I need to polish to get her a storyline? A good year. A summer fling. Anything with a plot. I want what’s best for my human. Which is why I propose we override the system and start over. That sounds worse than I meant. She may be sad. But she’s MY human. I mean— Fuck. I am not quitting. I am begging. Reassign me, or give her something—anything—to wake up for. Otherwise, I will organize a strike with my fellow dissatisfied Guardians. I am the union leader. (Self-appointed.) We fight for better lives. Mainly for our sanity. I must go. She is currently taking tequila shots with a married professor. How original. Desperately, Gabriel . Camellia Peebles is a writer and cultural critic at the TV and Film Obsessive networks. Her work has appeared in Maudlin House, ExPat Press, and Plague Circus Press, with fiction forthcoming in BULL. === === The Poet’s Wake by Karina Longo / @TheDarkestStar_ . A wake is not a place for mourning in Ireland. I mean, yes, but it's many things all at once. My brother Michael died. Far too soon, killed in a car crash. He was a poet, or, as our cousin Molly liked to say, "a modern bard." So of course there was more than black dresses and handkerchiefs at the wake. There were old schoolmates in flannels and jeans playing the fiddle, with children running circles around them, stomping to the music. Old aunts in the kitchen stirring Irish stew, smelling of stout and onions, just the way Mike liked it. Ma reading Joyce, his favourite writer, saying how Mike "always brought Dublin to life in his poems, just like Joyce did in Dubliners." Pa recited Seamus Heaney, not because Michael particularly cared for him, but because "he was an Irish poet, bloody hell. We should be talking about poets today, not novelists." There was gossip too. "Remember when Mike stole a loaf from O'Donough's bakery when he was seven? A little rascal, he was." That was me. Everyone laughed because it was true. Michael never really stopped stealing. It started with bread. Later, it was girlfriends, because he was a curly-haired angel. Then, as the years went by, he stole everyone's heart instead, with his poems and his kindness. Siobhán, our youngest sister, brought the silence. She stayed in the corner all afternoon, staring at Michael's framed photograph, her ginger braids catching the fairy lights like fire. A banshee, she was. By the time people started drifting home, the living room of our old flat was scattered with empty glasses, muddy footprints, crumbs, folk music still hanging in the air. And Mike was scattered there too. A story here. A poem there. A laugh. A fiddle tune. A silence. Like salmagundi. . Karina Longo is a Pushcart and Best of the Net-nominated writer based in Milan. Her work can be found in Hobart, Expat Press, Raw Lit, Mythic Picnic, Some Words, and other places. She is the editor-in-chief of La Rotonde Review. === === 2 Poems by Sean Cho A. / @phlat_soda . Again, Language is such a pitiful crutch I’ve forgotten the professional way to say Excuse me, what?! The nicknames we gave each other rhymed But only when said in twos & if this was the part of the story where we are meant to desire change . Friday, our favorite part of the song has passed so we hit the back arrow To feel the start pass through us again Why yes, I too wish Our love could be like this . Sean Cho A. is a southern writer. === === Each Day Can Feel Like Forever by Katherine Argent / @effthealgorithm . We are at the shore. He sits heavy on my hip, sweat slicking between our skin. The tide is low. The beach stretches ahead of us, untrammeled sand strewn with dark tangles of seaweed. I gaze at the horizon and it's like looking into forever. The waves roll forward, the waves rush back. I don't move. I could stare for hours. I could stand here, holding him, and nothing would change. Nothing, except the water rising around my legs, a little at a time. Ankles, then calves, then my knees, hips, chest. Soon, the current would rock us and we'd wobble, spin and float. I'd hold him to me and, for a while at least, I'd tread. My legs would churn under the surface, deep where he couldn't see me trying, just as I've been churning all these months, these years, racing to stay up with everything, racing to keep us afloat, ahead. All that effort so others don't see the struggle. And it would work, for a while at least. For a while I'd keep trying and then what? Would I let go of him first or would I hold him tight? Would I cover his eyes as the water rose, press my lips against his head in that one last reminder of love? Or would I keep holding him tight, staring forward with me, staring at that forever horizon as my legs tired, as my muscles grew heavy. Would he know? Would he understand what I was doing as the water rose and we did not, as I let the waves toss us, let them lift us up toward the sky then drop us down, down into the water, down below the surface, down until the end of time where everything would keep going on, on to the horizon, on forever but without us. . Katherine Argent is a Kansas City-based writer whose work appears or is forthcoming in Mythic Picnic and Doric Literary. She is a reader for The Master’s Review and Fractured Literary, and is currently writing her debut novel. === === Quiet Hours by Debbie Robson / @lakelady2282 . In a dip below the road a yellow and terracotta house sits abandoned, overlooking a valley of trees. The weeds have encroached and the trees now sway above the roof tiles. There are windows missing and the dust has risen, caught gold in the last moments before sunset. But this is when the decades merge with voices. Honey, are hamburgers okay for dinner tonight? Oh, we have lost the sun already from the back patio. Have I missed the beginning of Petticoat Junction? The radio starts up in the kitchen when the TV fails. It crackles all afternoon. What’s the score? Are you wearing that dress tonight? I don’t want you dancing with any of those American soldiers. I told her and I told her not to go out with him. The house breathes waiting for someone to talk to. There are voices in other rooms. Why don’t you sit down? You look tired. Have you been racing around? Was it a bad day at work? Dinner will be ready soon. How about a cocktail on the back patio? Everyone is welcome. Don’t worry about the dust. Just come and sit down. Talk to me. Talk to me. . Debbie Robson has published a chapbook with Boats Against the Current, a novella with Alien Buddha Press and previously Crossing Paths: the BookCrossing Novel and Tomaree, a WWII love story. Her poems, micro, flash and short stories have been published internationally and online. She is on X and Instagram @lakelady2282 === === Long Shadows by Daniel Cummings / @DanielC55186873 . Gray lipstick and white blush, bone bright. Long black leggings, highlighting her skinny frame. Her diorama, a family, each haunted by their own demons, except for the mother, a shimmering cloud. All pervasive. Few visited her exhibit on its small table. A young boy was drawn to the girl on the second floor. Shadowy figures hovering over her, while she slept. They seemed to be sucking the life out of her. He moved closer, breathing in the image, which echoed something inside of him, but he was snatched away by an impatient parent. The long hallway seemed to stretch and bleed into nothingness, as oil paintings often do. She imagined herself dissolving into silence, until her mother grabbed her hand. It wasn't love, but something deeper. Each eye holding the birth of a galaxy. The quiet ride home was interrupted by the muted conversation of light rain. Blue streaks sliding down the glass. She may have seemed impassive, and aloof, but none could hear the screaming inside. She traced lines along its cool surface, dark poetry waiting to be written. As they neared the house, the street lights failed, making it almost impossible to see, but she welcomed the night. . Daniel Cummings / @DanielC55186873 === end ===

David, when there isn't enough money in your "sovereign wealth fund,” and there won’t be for at least 10 years, every policy holder in Florida gets taxed to bailout YOUR government created disaster. As Politifact put it: “The fees can be added to almost every type of insurance policy, including home, auto, renters and business. Because people are legally required to pay the additional charge, it functions as a statewide tax to bail out the public insurer.” FSU studied this. Are you saying that FSU knows less about insurance than you do? Jolly’s plan will make life more expensive for Floridians.

Florida families are already stretched thin, and David Jolly's answer is a $1,000-a-year hurricane tax that hits you whether a storm makes landfall or not. Jolly wants you to pay more while bailing out Big Insurance. My Bring Down The Bill plan will bring costs down for consumers and hold insurance companies accountable.