Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

🎉 Weekend Edition Vol.099 - foofaraw

2026-08-08T23:43:07.000Z

Another week, another weekend.

Our second annual prompted writing contest kicked off, but it's not too late to enter! If you're interested in trying your hand at writing a short story over the course of ten days, now's your chance! We are one entry away from our goal of 75, which will unlock five honorable mentions in addition to the three winners.

An ordinary contest (year ii)

truly extra-ordinary

The Week That Was

Deer Xing

Cliff Aliperti

This week's story was a smaller and softer one than what folks might be used to around these parts. No magic or sci-fi, but a reflection on newness, sameness, and deer.

Solar Sale

Allison Burris

This week's poem is a doozy about the sun, the stars, and human attention from Allison Burris.

Artificial Botany

Zack Rhodes

Zack returned to continue his "It's not crazy, it's capitalism" cartoon series with us. Who needs plants and oxygen when you can have electricity and neon.

Cliff Aliperti

An interview with the author of Deer Xing

Then Cliff was charitable enough with this time to get a bit reflective with us.

The Speedrunning Essay

#28

And then just yesterday, Nick took us on a wild ride on a topic I had never heard of: speedrunning through scientology churches, which honestly, sounds hilarious.

📺 The Media Guide S8E4

August 2, 2026 – August 9, 2026

And of course, The Media Guide, where we talked about Tony along with some crazy music and comics.

Exploration, horoscopes, and a spelling bee!

The Speedrunning Essay - foofaraw

2026-08-07T16:00:32.000Z

You know what's hilarious? Scientology speedruns.

If you, too, are late to the party, this is a shadowbanned TikTok trend from April of 2026. It takes effort to run down actual footage without feeding the attention economy lampreys, but hey, wait, was that a “Subway Surfers” meme‽ ((Bonus points for the Jesus and Sonic outfits. Anyone got a Travolta mask?))

I, much like L. Ron Hubbard, fucking hate runners.^[Look up “fair game” in Scientology. Also, see Leah Reimini's decade-old AMA on Reddit.] Or any game with a level timer. Or rails. Or walls of death. Or timed hits and QTEs.^[Maybe I don't like video games.] Basically anything that doesn't let you take things at a vaguely abstracted, happy-go-lucky pace. We veterans of the early 90’s Console Wars know our limits. How are you supposed to aim all of your attention at a single curved screen when you have CDs to listen to, printouts from GameFAQs to underline, snacks to inhale, and a little sister to convince it's still your turn for some convoluted reason even though she gets farther than you by button mashing?

But I like speedrunning. Watching it, at least. Cue GDQ's “AGDQ” and “SGDQ.”^[SDV: Slowed Down Version]^[Game Done Quick's “Awesome Games Done Quick” and “Summer Games Done Quick.”] ((If you're into charity, they do that. If you're into behind-the-scenes drama, they do that, too.))

It's next-level ironic. All that time, energy, and training to shave fractions of seconds off the-game-within-the-game-within-the-game, laser focusing on a non-transferable set of surgeon-precise skills just to get good enough at something people watch you do for the absolute least amount of time possible.

Great stuff.

Obviously, I can't advocate speedrunning. As a perpetual fuckup and semi-pro burnout, I have a vested interest in the idea that “the journey is its own reward.” You know, that jade-plated consolation prize, that you can see the emperor has no clothes. That there is no Final Stage, no Great Reward when you play a rigged game as a pawn that can never reach the other side of the board.^[Though I'm sure someone will crown you and tell you you did a great job—the best job, no one's ever done it better than you—if you pay them enough.] That Final Boss boogieman^[Yeah, “boogie,” like “Saturday Night Fever.”] is just a cracked-mirror reflecting your own insecurities. ((You'll never meet the Game Designer, either.)) The real adventure was the ennui that prevented you from enjoying life along the way.

Straight guff.

General Strats

You have to spend time to save time.
The intended way isn't the quickest.
Batch necessary repetitive actions.
Skip cutscenes whenever possible.
Not every msitake is reset-worthy. Keep at it!

From “Super Metroid”: Arm Pumping

It's not what you do today that counts, it's what you do neurotically every second of every day that counts.

From “Super Mario 64”: BLJ^[or LBJ, whatever you're into]

You don't have to face your problems. Face the other way and spam long jump until those problems get out of the way.

From “Diablo 2”: Experience Penalty

You are being watched. Your accomplishments can and will be held against you in a court of law, and you're not invited.^[Neither are you, Josef K.—so stop asking!]

**From “The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time”: Bottle Duplication**

He takes a whiskey drink. He takes a vodka drink. He drinks whatever the hell he wants, and so can you!^[Remember, gamer fam, if you use a Game Genie or Gameshark, that's cheating. When it's a glitch, that's an “exploit.” ProTip: If you can't be the Game Designer, bribe them.]

Bonus Lessons & Footage

Love conquers all … 🔗 “'Titenic' by authorblues”
A bad ending is still an ending … 🔗 “'Die Hard' by KirkQ”

Cliff Aliperti - foofaraw

2026-08-06T17:00:49.000Z

Read Deer Xing now!

Do you live near any deer?

There are deer all over Long Island, but I’m in a residential neighborhood without any woods in the development⁠—there is a sump across the street though. A couple years ago, a neighbor told me there were deer grazing the sump, and I kind of shrugged it off like Alex at the beginning of “Deer Xing.” The first time I saw any with my own eyes was close to what I describe when Alex peeked out the window and locked eyes with the buck. In fact, I consider that paragraph the heart of the story as those were the feelings that stuck with me that I needed to get down, and I grew the rest of the story out of that before eventually sitting down for my first draft.

One of the main themes/lessons that comes through in this story that I think about a lot is how easily humans get used to things and how quickly the magical and majestic turn into the ordinary. Is this an idea you think about often?

Definitely, and vice versa. It doesn’t take much beyond personal novelty to get me excited about something … like stray deer, for instance. Or a crazy news story or one-of-a-kind sporting event. A strange coincidence, whatever it may be, anything new will light up the little kid in me. Sit on it for a while though, said object or event will continue to be recognized as outstanding, sure, but there’s a bit of been-there done-that to it afterwards too.

I wouldn’t say I work on it, no, it just sort of hits me. Um, I may just be easily distracted.

Continuing the same thread a bit, Web almost goes the opposite direction and gets so attached to what Alex quickly turned from obsession to the ordinary. Do you think one direction is more healthy than the other or does it just follow the old adage of moderation and finding the middle ground?

Moderation and that middle ground are a big part of what I was shooting for. Alex is more awestruck than ever truly obsessed, before more or less getting on with his life, but at the same time, Web takes it a bit too far into the realm of actual obsession. The experience of the local deer just grows and grows for Web. You could probably graph their levels of interest in the situation, and I’m not sure the two lines ever meet: Alex’s peak may just about meet Web’s starting point, but then quickly declines, while Web takes it to the total extreme.

How many times has this story been rejected by other markets?

I’d be embarrassed to admit this if I hadn’t come to discover it was somewhat typical, so hopefully this number helps newer writers who are blindsided by unexpected rejections. I started sending this story out in January 2025, and before Foofaraw accepted it in May 2026, “Deer Xing” was rejected 62 times. Along the way, it was longlisted once, and another time I was told it had made the final round of selections but was edged out by another piece. As always, when I finished this, I considered it the best thing I ever wrote. Keep at it, keep reading interesting literary journals, and often you’ll eventually find that perfect fit.

What book are you reading right now?

The TBR piles teeter around the house, but I’ve been trying to catch up on some Kindle bargain buys lately. I’m currently reading “Martian Time-Slip” by Philip K. Dick, but I’m not deep enough into it yet to form an opinion. Prior to that I finished my first Hermann Hesse, “Steppenwolf,” and enjoyed it more than I expected⁠—just when I thought it might drag, the final act kicked in and really caught my attention. Now I want to read more Hesse. Prior to that I finally got around to my paperback copy of Tim O’Brien’s “The Things They Carried,” and I was blown away, which doesn’t surprise me, because it seems like most people are. It had been sitting awhile, and I eventually found myself in the right mood for it. Another fun recent read was Frederick Exley’s “Fan’s Notes” trilogy⁠—I enjoyed all three books, but was surprised that I liked the last one best, and the first one, which is the best known of the books, least (though still quite a bit!).

Many thanks to Foofaraw for being lucky #63, and thank you to anybody who has read “Deer Xing” and made it this far.

We appreciate Cliff for taking some quality time to quietly reflect with us.

Deer Xing - foofaraw

2026-08-06T16:00:30.000Z

“Hey, Alex, you seen the deer?” Web called. He was in his driveway, mostly tucked behind the old Ford F-150, a hand-me-down from his father, and leaning over to grab a cigarette from the little Nissan beater he used for his daily commute to the garage.

“Deer?” I asked. “No. You been hunting upstate?”

“Naw, season doesn’t start for months yet. I mean the deer in the sump.”

The sump was the fenced-in overgrown area directly across the street from our neighboring houses. When Connie and I first moved in, thirty-two years ago, it was Web who had directed me to toss tree cuttings and dead bushes down there deep among the existing foliage. Never actually saw any water collected at its pit, so always been kind of surprised-slash-relieved the town never cleared it out to build more houses.

“We have some deer pass through?” I asked, edging my way closer to Web from my front lawn. I was exhausted; just wanted to get back to my couch after running out the trash, but Web had me curious, even if I didn’t quite believe him.

“Pass through?” Web answered. “Naw. There’s a family of them living in the sump. They’re down there right now.”

“Imagine that,” I said, stroking my chin and imagining. I couldn’t. “Bull,” I said. Though not enough bull to keep me from joining Web in his driveway, engaged and craving further info.

Deer sightings had grown, but remained infrequent. More common further east on the Island, but not so much here, forty miles outside Manhattan. Rabbits and grey squirrels were our suburban wildlife, with less reputable raccoons and possum taking over the night shift. An owl settled high in the tallest trees of the sump about three summers ago and was considered exotic. Deer were rarely spotted near the more wooded areas tucked around town. Last I’d seen effortlessly scaled a tall fence, but our sump had rusty barbed wire stretched over top of its chain link sections to keep out deer, kids, and even us.

“There’s a break in the fence down the other side,” Web said, presumably reading my mind. “Besides, the babes can just squeeze out between the gates right here.”

He pointed directly across the road at the big gates, a fat chain that the town had padlocked years ago, putting the kibosh on any yard waste disposals too heavy for us to hoist over top.

An old Buick crawled towards us giving three quick taps of its horn as it stopped alongside us. Marvin Donnell leaned over to manually roll down the passenger side window.

“You boys see the deer?” Old Man Donnell asked.

He had been Old Man Donnell for as long as I had lived here. Hell, he was probably only my current age back when I first moved in. The Old Man part certainly wasn’t a stretch these days, though his use of boys had curdled well past expiration.

“Just talking about it,” Web said. “Whole family. A buck, a doe, and at least three fawn.”

“Rascals raised hell in my garden overnight,” Old Man Donnell said. “Trampled Wifey’s rose bushes too.”

Neither of us replied.

“They’re gonna have to go,” Old Man Donnell said. I imagined him scrunching his face and shaking his fist, but that was just the physical toil it took for him to lean over and roll up his window before driving away.

“Old bastard,” Web said.

I feigned a hunting pose, pretending to aim a rifle at Web, and asked, “You gonna bag some on the sly? Do old Marvin the service?”

“Poor form in that pose,” Web said. I dropped my hands and nodded.

Web’s family had a cabin upstate where they went hunting every fall. Never really my thing. I grew up keeping hamsters and mice as pets, every death a household tragedy. My mother took me to see Bambi in the theater when they re-released it. I cried, of course. The whole theater did, or so it seemed. So, while the camaraderie of a shared bottle was tempting, I’d never tagged along to tote a rifle.

Connie held some sway there too. First time I mentioned the possibility, decades back, she reminded me of when Web had strung up the carcass of an eight-point buck by its hind legs from a tree in his back yard⁠—our dog went berserk one morning coming upon that horror show. Connie asked me to talk to Web, and the following year, he strung up his kill inside his garage. Something about rigor mortis and getting the meat just so, as Web had put it. I was never sure if the switch to the garage was an actual concession on Web’s part, or whether ole Buddy had just woke him up way too early those couple mornings before I found the chance to speak to him.

Honestly, that dangling corpse probably got to me as much as it did Buddy, so in reality I’d pretty much washed my hands of ever going from the start, though I still hypocritically enjoyed venison meatloaf next door every Thanksgiving weekend. Just so, indeed!

“Negative, on the hunting,” Web said, flicking his cigarette to the street. “I still like shooting, but not the killing so much anymore. Especially now.”

e“Why’s that?” I asked, puzzled and a little surprised.

“Those deer down the sump. They might poke out some during the day, but they roam at night. I tell you, Alex, they come right up to my car if it’s quiet enough out here.”

“They’re not afraid?”

“I don’t give them anything to be afraid of,” Web said, suddenly all Zen-like. “All right. Headed in now.”

“Well, I’ll keep an eye out,” I said.

I did. Obsessively. I asked Connie if she’d seen any deer, but she hadn’t. I was disappointed by her general lack of interest. I asked her to keep her own eye out.

Didn’t take my eye long.

At nature’s nightly 3:00 AM call, I noticed light piercing the tiny window on my front door, so I approached intending to see who’d set off the sensor outside of Web’s place. Figured it’d most likely be Web grabbing his first smoke of the early morning, but I always made sure there wasn’t somebody out there up to no good.

Probably my bladder distracting, but at that moment, deer hadn’t crossed my mind.

Until I stood on my tiptoes and peeked out the front door window.

Artwork by Tony Tran

There he was.

The buck, big antlers already, stood tall as a dinosaur on the patch of front lawn between mine and Web’s houses. His thickly muscled neck jerked up, and we seemed to make eye contact the moment my own gaze came into focus. I was as frozen as he was. Frigging beautiful. With suburban sights such as Web’s truck in the background, and the fire hydrant just off the road, the appearance of this alien creature was truly surreal. I kept still and held my stare, and after a time that surely wasn’t as long as it felt in the moment, he surprised me. Instead of running off, the buck just lowered his head and resumed chomping at my lawn. Guess it was due for a mow.

I would have stood there forever. Seriously, I felt like I was at the zoo, and some wild animal from a distant land had bewitched me just by existing in my presence. But I was past fifty and really had to go, so I lost this particular game of chicken.

Of course, I stopped by the front door on my way back, but the buck was already gone. Web’s sensor light was off. I crept to our front window in the den and peered between a couple slats in the blinds. There he was, crossing the road under the white LCD streetlight glow. He turned his head back and I don’t know how, but the big fella met my eyes again. This was enough for him to sprint away, down the side road presumably to find one of those openings in the fence leading back down the sump.

Good thing he had gone because I wasn’t going anywhere until he had, not once I was free of distraction. I returned to bed, but I couldn’t get back to sleep.

“Saw a deer out there,” I mumbled to Connie, who rolled away from me and groaned. “The big buck,” I added, awestruck.

And then I lie there awake for the next three hours, terrified by hyped-up visions of road kill. Truly awful stuff. Not the more familiar raccoon splatters, but deer parts and car parts and driver parts, heaps of them. I convinced myself that someone needed to call the town to have them plant some of those deer crossing signs in the neighborhood.

I couldn’t imagine this ending well.

I grew used to the deer being around over the next few nights. By the third or fourth sighting, they weren’t even a novelty anymore, just a part of the local nature, like the rabbits and squirrels; though the deer didn’t have to graze so nervously under our owl’s shadow. My favorite view, one that felt like it broke my reality, was that majestic buck standing right there, just behind the chained gates of the sump, staring across the street at us. Forget my zoo memories, it was as awe-inspiring as something like that grainy black and white snapshot of the Tasmanian Tiger from way back! It just shouldn’t be.

It wasn’t until the following weekend that I spotted Web outside again at a convenient hour. I popped out to see what was going on with him.

“Getting used to the deer,” I mentioned.

“I love them,” he said, beaming a little too bright. “They come out late at night when I’m out here in the total quiet. Come right up to me. I pet one the other night.”

“Wow,” I said, surprised at how much the old Web had been tamed. The deer too. “I’m worried about them,” I said.

“Worried?”

“Yeah. Cars race down this block⁠—well, except for Old Man Donnell. I keep imagining a terrible accident happening overnight.”

“That guy,” Web said, his expression turning hateful. “Old Man Donnell called the cops on them.”

“On who? Somebody speeding through?”

“No, he called about the deer.” Web lit a cigarette with a flourish of irritation. “He says the town is coming for them. I told him… I told him, you mess with them deer, Old Man, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“I don’t know, Web. The deer are great and all, but I’m not sure they’re worth a neighborhood war.”

“Whatever. You know, I’ve been here nearly forty years. Forty years before something interesting happens. Something, I don’t know⁠—nice.”

“I get you, pal. Oh well, it’ll all work out for the best,” I said, not adding that I hoped the best was better than my nightmares.

Web glared at me

And then I stopped seeing any deer. After a few days I’m ashamed to say the novelty faded, and I began to forget them. Then, one night just after 2:00 AM, I was awakened by a loud car backfire. As I lay in bed, it occurred to me what I heard had been too loud for any car backfire.

I got up and went to my front door, where I noticed Web’s sensor light was on. I didn’t see any activity that might have triggered it, but then I realized there was a good deal of light shining from the inside of Web’s garage. Something was up.

I grabbed my slippers and flipped on my own porch light, as Web’s had since dimmed. Outside, the night was very quiet, allowing the cricket chirps to boom and the low distant cry of the owl to settle over my chest.

At the very moment I triggered Web’s sensor light, I slipped in his driveway, catching the hood of the F-150 to keep myself from falling. I looked down and saw some sort of thick liquid pooled beneath me. I thought motor oil, knowing Web often tinkered with his dad’s old Ford, but I dabbed two fingers into the dark puddle and it didn’t smell like oil. I knew it was blood. I heard a chain clinking from Web’s garage and heard somebody grunt as if struggling, presumably with the chain.

Just before the interior of Web’s garage came into my view, I had another one of my terrible thoughts. What if Web had Old Man Donnell’s ankles chained together, and the octogenarian hung upside-down from Web’s garage rafters, the rest of his blood draining to the floor below. Rigor mortis, Web would say. Got to get him just so.

I took a deep breath. “Web,” I called, before I entered. “Web, what have you done?”

It wasn’t Old Man Donnell. It was that big beautiful buck that had entranced us over the past few weeks.

“Web, what have you done?” I repeated, this time my voice cracking.

“I saw the police come and cut the bolt on the gates,” he said, giving one more yank before strapping his end of the chain to a heavy-duty hook at his work bench. “They hustled all the deer out. They didn’t take them anywhere. Just hustled them away, down the street.”

“So, what happened now?” I asked.

“This fellow. He came back to say goodbye to me,” Web said.

A tear leaked from Web. Rolled down his cheek like he was standing along a littered seventies highway. It was a first far as I knew, Web having never seen Bambi, I imagined.

“I just couldn’t let him go,” Web cried.

Cliff Aliperti is from Long Island, New York. His fiction has appeared in After Dinner Conversation, The Razor, Fiction on the Web, Nude Bruce Review, and he has stories forthcoming in Stanchion and The Bookends Review. Previously, Cliff ran the classic movie website Immortal Ephemera. You can find more about Cliff at cliffaliperti.com. Bluesky & Twitter/X: @IEphemera.

Artificial Botany - foofaraw

2026-08-05T16:00:26.000Z

Zack Rhodes is a Northern CA based cartoonist enjoying the many jokes that life and fatherhood throw at him. Innovator of Free Art Friday in Sonoma County. Receiver of a Community Enrichment Merit award. Currently getting beat up by his 2 year old son, Wade, while typing this biography.

Solar Sale - foofaraw

2026-08-04T21:30:32.000Z

I wanted to earn enough to buy the sun, but here on earth I started hyperventilating and ran out of air. I didn’t breath again until I gasped at the sight of a cream and midnight striped tent. I stopped everything to watch the circus. The acrobats wore the night sky speckled with stars and held a little bronze bird, who couldn’t fly or sing but spoke the old tales while its tail curled. The elephants were on sabbatical, and we missed the tenderness of their trunks. It was enough to make me forget the market price of light and I missed the first half of the auction. By the time I remembered, I was outbid, too busy watching the northern lights to capitalize on the solar flare.

Allison Burris grew up in the misty Pacific Northwest and writes whimsical and subversive poems from Oakland, CA. She holds a Masters in Library science, and you can often find her at the library, drawing, or baking. Recent publications include The Orange & Bee, New World Writing, and RockPaperPoem. Connect with her: https://linktr.ee/allisonburris

📺 The Media Guide S8E4 - foofaraw

2026-08-04T20:01:17.000Z

So I took last week off after some travel to Chicago, but it's not like we missed anything—no giant summer tentpole blockbuster or anything like that, so no biggie, right..?

Well besides the obvious, we did miss our chance to talk up Hulu's new Furious, which sounds like it has a shot at being pretty fun. Plus Christian Ward's new book, The Patron, from Ignition Comics, as well as The Horror of Godzilla from Ethan S. Parker, Griffin Sheridan, and Tristan Jones.

This week, however, looks a lot more interesting.

🎬 Tony

The reviews are in and this sounds like it's going to be a contender for a lot of awards. Matt Johnson, who already wrote, directed, and starred in Nirvanna the Band the Show the Movie earlier this year to rave reviews is back with is second "real studio" movie following 2023's BlackBerry, which I never got around to seeing, but heard great things about. Dominic Sessa plays the titular 19-year-old Tony after his breakout in The Holdovers, alongside Antonio Banderas as Chef.

🎵 Criostal by Absolute Lilt

I'm not sure how to even talk about this record, but it's an absolute delight. There's no way to mentally prepare for the gorgeous weirdness that is this album. Go in with no expectations, maybe throw on your best headphones or stereo system, close your eyes, and enjoy the ride.

📚 Fort Psycho #1 — Oni Press

I'm not sure the combination of writer, series name, and cover art has ever felt more perfect together. Matt Kindt is probably the second most creative writer in comics (behind the mad scientist Si Spurrier) and "Fort Psycho" just has a nice ring to it alongside the amazingly bright and colorful cover art.

📺 Anna Pigeon Season 1 — USA Network

I have a soft spot for USA Blue Sky dramas so I figured I'd highlight Anna Pigeon here over the show everyone else will be talking about given the return of Ted Lasso.

📮 August Zine - foofaraw

2026-08-03T19:35:45.000Z

The August issue of Foofaraw Zine is here! Download below or read in our purpose built ebook reader.

Of course, all stories will be published for free on the web throughout the month, but paid supporters receive a PDF/EPUB with all of the month's stories at the beginning of the month, along with a few other goodies. And Patrons get stuff in print!

Or you can pick up a copy of this and more from our webstore or visit our friends at Weightless Books and pick up mags from other publishers as well!

This month...

Stories

Deer Xing by Cliff Aliperti
Your Daily Tear Away Horoscope by Camden Rose
Never Quit Your Post by Aeryn Rudel
Barflies in the Wild by Kari Redmond

Poems

Solar Sale by Allison Burris
The Explorer’s Club by Steve Wheat
Colin Has His Demons by John Paul Davies
The Three-Eyed Cat by Kira Lyonet Collins

Observations

Before We Congratulate This Lady Author by Nat Hrvatin
A review of ”Ex Partum” by Emma Burnett (and the word “speculative”) by Jeff Goldberg
The Speedrunning Essay by Nicholas De Marino

Cartoons

Mouse Wiggle by Ellie Black
Spelling Bee by Rusty Epstein

Interviews

Cliff Aliperti
Camden Rose
Aeryn Rudel

Cover art

by Ali McLafferty

〄

On to the zines...

🎉 Weekend Edition Vol.098 - foofaraw

2026-08-02T16:15:40.000Z

Welcome! We have three weeks worth of stories, poems, and more to get through so hold on tight and enjoy the ride.

The Week That Was

The Unified Theory of Salsa

Steve Wheat

Our first of two poems from Steve coming over the course of the next couple of weeks.

Landline

Rusty Epstein

The bangers from Rusty continue to come in.

Developing your mindfulness practice 😊!

David Stevens

David Stevens joined the fray with something that's part story, part pamphlet, and 100% wonderfully weird.

David Stevens

An interview with the author of Developing your mindfulness practice 🙂!

Then we talked to David about all things pamphlets.

The Purple Essay

Nicholas De Marino

Nick had a banger of an essay to celebrate America's 250th.

The Library of Lives

William Shaw

The second of three poems from William arrived.

The Tongues of Ghosts

Abigail Kemske

Abigail Kemske made her foof debut with a very personal and retro story.

Abigail Kemske

An interview with the author of The Tongues of Ghosts

Then Abigail was gracious enough to open up with us a bit.

Space is a haunted house, and we are its ghosts

H.V. Patterson

A wonderfully haunting poem from HV is one of my favorites we've published this year.

Too Many Mystics

Tom Howard

And Tom, who was featured in our first anthology, made his debut on the site with this story from his Superworld Universe.

Tom Howard

An interview with the author of Too Many Mystics

Then we got to learn more about the Superworld Universe, multiverses, and more.

The sun, some deer, and a round of applause.

The Back Page

Tom Howard - foofaraw

2026-07-31T14:27:24.000Z

Read Too Many Mystics now!

Can you tell us a little bit about your Superworld Universe and how this ties into it?

When my four children were small and we’d go on long trips in the car, I’d tell them stories about them being superheroes. In one story, they were thrust into a parallel Earth where most people were superpowered. Madame Mystic, Superworld’s Sorcerous Supreme, sent them home. I’ve sold many Superworld stories and collected them in Superworld Stories Volume 1 by Tom Howard (available on Amazon).

Parallel universes seemed to have a moment a couple years ago, has that shaped how you approached this story and universe?

When I did several Madame Mystic stories each version was different (and way before the Marvel Multiverse), so the only way I could explain the differences was for her to have copies in each universe.

Does Amos have any powers himself or is he the type of character that always finds themselves in the midst of the weird?

He does not. I based him on Carl Kolchak from the Night Stalker, sort of a weirdness magnet.

Is Amos able to easily settle back into his normal routine of PI work for suspected adulterers?

Yes. Although it’s unlikely to be boring.

What about the young Madame Mystic, what does her future have in store for her?

Great question! I suspect Amos’ Madame Mystic will take her under her wing and teach her how to be a sorceress.

How many times has this story been rejected by other markets?

Eight times, which is relatively few for me. One rejected it after they asked for an expanded ending (which I did!).

What’s a great short story you’ve reread recently?

Zenna Henderson’s Gilead.

What book are you reading right now?

The World We Made by N.K Jemisin, awesome sequel to The City We Became.

“Too Many Mystics” was fun to write because I could stick in Easter eggs of some of the famous witches from the movies (Mary Poppins, Elphaba, Trelawny). I’m almost halfway through the Superworld Stories Volume 2 anthology. It has several Madame Mystic stories in it.

Huge thanks to Tom for filling us in on all things Superworld!

Ferro /// Plain Form - The Independent Variable

2026-07-31T01:01:27.000Z

plain-form.com via robinsloan.com

Pure insanity. Ferro Mono Black?! Are you kidding me?! And Black IV??? What??? I feel like I’m going into shock looking at these letterforms. Beautiful, delightful, should not exist.

Too Many Mystics - foofaraw

2026-07-30T16:44:44.000Z

Stake-outs are the worst part of my job. I’m too easily distracted. If I do a crossword puzzle or text on my phone while sitting in the car, there’s a good chance a cheating husband walks right by me, grinning and tucking in his shirttail. Contrary to the exciting lives of television detectives, real investigations consist of a lot of sitting on your butt in a cluttered car, looking at your watch, and drinking cold coffee.

I check my watch for the hundredth time, wondering how long I should wait before calling it a night. Another unfortunate trait of cheating husbands⁠—and wives⁠—is they tend to do their extracurricular activities at night. While I enjoy a night out as much as the next guy, any more of this night stalking and my behind will be the same shape as the car seat.

I flip open the case folder and stare at the allegedly adulterous husband. Mr. Paraday looks like a nice guy. He could be your local banker or congressman; mid-thirties, brown hair, green eyes. Still in good shape from his twice-weekly trips to the gym near where he works as an investor.

I lift his file to examine Mrs. Paraday’s photo beneath. She’s a beauty. Pale blonde with eyes of amethyst. Tailored clothes and expensive jewelry. Funny, no matter how hot your spouse is at home, the fires always seemed brighter on the other side of the white picket fence. Mrs. Paraday came into my office, sure the lipstick on her husband’s collar wasn’t hers. There are probably a million other signs her husband is cheating, but that one convinces her. Her hefty retainer pays for trips to my favorite diner and this month’s rent.

The passenger door opens and someone slides into the seat. I almost spill my coffee. I’m sure I locked the passenger door.

“Good evening,” Mr. Paraday says. “You looked lonely over here.”

“Who? What?” I’ve never had a person I’m surveilling engage me in conversation in my car.

The man laughs. “Sorry. I’m an observant guy, always looking over my shoulder.”

“There’s been some kind of mistake.”

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Paraday says. “You’ll still get paid. She always loses me about here when she tails me, so she hired a professional.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Andrew.”

I haven’t decided between fighting and flighting, so I sit with my mouth open and shake his hand. He looks younger than his picture. He also appears more alert and less like an investor. I’m acutely aware of my rumpled suit, spare tire, and the mustard stains on my tie.

“I’m Amos,” I say. “Amos Kelm. Sorry. I’m usually better than this.”

“No worries. She doesn’t really think I’m having an affair. She wants to know what I’m up to when I disappear at night.”

Since he’s being so forthright, I work up the courage and ask, “What are you doing at night?” He probably has a pretty girlfriend, but he might reveal something about himself if I ask.

“I’ve got a side business.” He glances at the empty street. “That’s what she wants to know about. I shouldn’t have married her for her inquisitive mind.”

I don’t know what to say. Having seen Mrs. Paraday, no one would have been attracted to her only for her mind. “Now if you’ll leave, I’ll return your wife’s retainer to her. No hard feelings.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Andrew says. “I’m sure you’re very good. Unfortunately, I can’t have any witnesses, and you’re making me late.”

“Late for wh⁠—” A bright light flashes outside, and the man raises his fist and punches me in the mouth.

I awake the next morning to the sound of birds chirping. The interior of the car is hot. I’m drooling. Now I’m really annoyed at Mr. Paraday. Breaking into my car, punching me in the jaw. Finding him in a sordid affair would suit me fine. I rub my chin; it’s sore but nothing’s broken.

My car is a couple miles from where I’d parked. Around me are tall buildings with lots of glass. I rub my stiff neck and lick my split lip. I don’t look at myself in the mirror.

I return to my apartment, shower, and try to sleep. It’s barely noon, and I have blackout curtains, but my brain keeps replaying my conversation with Mr. Paraday. Witnesses to what? I get up and call a friend at the police department downtown.

“Hey, Les.” I try to sound friendly. “Did you lose much on the game last weekend?”

“Cut the crap, Amos. It’s nuts around here today.” There’s shouting in the background.

“What’s going on?”

“Where have you been? We had an explosion on Dixon Street during the night, and a dozen people appeared in the middle of it. No injuries and no IDs.”

“What did they say when you questioned them?” Dixon Street is where I saw the flash of light and where Mr. Paraday clocked me.

“Nothing. They’re speaking a language we can’t understand and wearing strange clothes. We’re bringing someone in from the university to try to talk to them.”

“That is weird,” I say. “Guess I need to turn on the TV.”

“Yeah,” Les replies. “You don’t know anything about it? You’re the weirdness magnet around here.”

“Innocent until proven guilty. Call me if a herd of dinosaurs shows up.” I hang up. I have a reputation for encountering the supernatural, but nine times out of ten, it’s a weird guy with fake fangs. It’s the one of ten that keeps me awake at night.

What does Mr. Paraday have to do with strange people appearing out of nowhere? Human trafficking? Refugee smuggling? No wonder his wife believes he’s up to something. I do too, but for the life of me, I can’t guess what.

I fix myself a cup of coffee and turn on the TV. The local news runs a short segment on the strangers being taken to the hospital. They are tall and blond but look like Native Americans with high cheekbones and long straight hair. They stare at the crowd and stand together as the police and paramedics lead them to waiting ambulances. From the hospital, the newscast says, they’ll be taken to police headquarters for questioning about the explosion at the abandoned Sun Bank building.

“This is strange,” I admit.

Someone knocks on the door. Grateful I’m at least in my bathrobe, I answer it, coffee cup in hand.

“Well,” Mrs. Paraday says. “What did you find?”

I clutch my robe together with my free hand. “How do you know where I live?”

She looks like a million bucks in a suit that matches the color of her hair. “I do a background check on everyone I hire. Are you going to invite me in?”

“Sure,” I say, although the place looks like the maid hadn’t been in for several years, which she hasn’t. “I’ve got your retainer around here someplace. I didn’t find out anything about your husband. He just disappeared.”

I find the envelope of money and hand it to her.

Her delicate brows dip. “You’re giving up?”

“I can keep following him, but he knows he’s being watched. He’s unlikely to do anything suspicious within camera range.”

“I thought you were better at your job.” She hands me the money back. “Keep following him for a week. Tell me everything he does.”

“Are you sure?”

“If you can’t find his girlfriend in that time, keep the retainer.”

Considering how empty my refrigerator is, I don’t refuse. I take the money and open the door. “See you in a week.”

She gives her hair a flip and bounces out of the room, leaving me with a packet of money and no idea how to continue the case. My face can’t take more smashing.

It’s easy to follow Mr. Paraday from his office that evening; he goes straight home after work. I review the photographs I’d taken the night before on Dixon Street. Lots of shadows and Mr. Paraday entering the building.

I eat a greasy burger at the diner and locate Mr. Paraday’s car. Assuming he’s home for the night, I drive to Dixon Street. Part of it is cordoned off with police tape where the strangers appeared, but I find Sun Bank where I’d seen Mr. Paraday. It’s an abandoned bank and not an apartment building. A chunk of the front wall is missing. A barricade of sawhorses blocks the entrance.

I take my camera and go for a closer look. Skirting the police tape, I search for an entrance aside from the damaged facade, but the side doors are secured by heavy chains and shiny new locks.

Stepping off the curb, I stumble. I save my camera by holding it in the air. I make sure no one saw me lose my dignity as my butt hits the pavement. Brushing myself off, my fingers come away coated with dark green algae. It glows faintly under the streetlights.

“What the⁠—” I scramble to my feet. The slime is difficult to rub off. I follow the stream of phosphorescent material to the source. Oddly enough, the glowing material isn’t in a circular pattern. Rather, it is a series of lines. Could it be writing?

Wishing for a higher vantage point to get a better view, I snap a few pictures. I feel sick to my stomach and weak while standing within the lines. I shake my head and back away.

This isn’t getting me any closer to finding out what Mr. Paraday was doing here, so I return home to wash off the algae and see if I can determine anything from the weird markings on the street.

Hours later, cleaner and back in my faded bathrobe, I have more questions than answers. Manipulating the digital photographs of the markings on the street, I guess what they might look like from above. I end up with a large triangle and a circle at each corner. In the center of the triangle is an eye. Reminds me of the etchings on a dollar bill.

It’s after midnight, but Madame Mystic’s little storefront might still be open. She knows archaic symbols, and for a few bucks, the fortune teller may be able to tell me how the symbol connects to the strangers’ arrival.

I didn’t bother to call. Madame Mystic never answers the phone.

When I pull up outside the storefront, it’s 1 a.m. and the TAROT sign is lit. I enter without knocking. The room has the prerequisite trappings: bead curtains, candles, incense. The white-haired owner sits at a round table, a flickering globe casting dappled shadows on her lined face. Her eyes flash violet. She doesn’t smile when I close the door behind me.

“It’s late, Amos.” Madame Mystic keeps shuffling cards with her long, thin fingers.

“Do you have time to look at something?”

“If you’ve got the money, I’ve got the time.”

I take out my wallet and the photos I’d printed. I pull out a chair and sit. “Are you okay?”

She reaches for my wallet and takes out a twenty. “You can’t show me anything stranger than the things I’ve seen this week. A woman with no lifeline. An old man with a tattoo clawing its way out of his skin. Something’s going on, and I’m too low on the arcane totem pole to know what it is.”

I push the photos with the strange symbol toward her.

Her eyes barely scan them before she jumps to her feet. “What the hell? How could you show me this?”

“What is it?” I ask.

Instead of replying, she turns and heads through the bead curtain to her small apartment in the back. Within two minutes, she returns with a duffle bag and a large book. She slams the book down on the table and scoops the tarot cards and crystal ball into the bag.

“That symbol is suns dying, planets colliding, and giant cephalopods breaking out of dimensional prisons. My advice is to say good-bye to your loved ones.”

I consider running, but I wouldn’t know from what. “What does the symbol mean?”

Closing her bag, she says, “This is a book of deadly symbols. I should have burned it. But the knowledge of what’s coming may give you solace.”

I stand. “Relax, Mystic, and tell me what it means.”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she grabs a purple shawl and walks around the table to the door. “Blow out the candles when you leave. I hope to see you again someday in a higher realm.” She slams the door behind her.

I pick up my wallet and wonder what to do next. Madame Mystic is the best at dealing with supernatural crap. What frightens a psychic so badly that she runs away when she sees lines on asphalt? I pull the leather-bound book to me. It’s heavy, covered in dark brown leather with a demonic face raised on the cover. Dark hollows for eyes rest above a hook nose and a frowning mouth. I sit and open the book.

The first few pages are with woodcut illustrations of people affected by curses and hexes. Images appear of snakes, spiders, and imps torturing men and women, usually naked and in chains. I flip past drawings of grisly warts and boils until I come to symbols of destruction. Some aren’t bad compared to the plague of locusts and rivers of blood, but I find the triangular symbol I’d photographed, the Burning Eye. I read down the page. The symbol represents an upcoming apocalypse the likes of which the four horsemen would flee.

The destruction foretold by the symbol is brought about by the Sovereign and his eleven heralds. Whenever he and his underlings arrive, annihilation occurs.

Okay, I get the picture. Mr. Paraday is possibly the Sovereign, a dimensional bad guy who thinks he rules the universe. The book doesn’t mention what the heralds are capable of, but I suspect they aren’t here to cut in line at your favorite bistro. Is there a counter-curse? I turn the page but nowhere is there a hint of how to stop the Sovereign and his henchmen.

Why me? When the fates call for someone to save the universe, I’m not on their speed dial. This is bigtime apocalypse stuff and way out of my league. Damn Madame Mystic.

I blow out the candles and head to the door.

⟦“What?”⟧ a voice asks from the gloom. ⟦“Are you going to leave me here in the dark?”⟧

I look around for a speaker but see no one.

⟦“Down here, dumbass,”⟧ comes a voice from the table.

The book smiles at me.

✱

Driving back to my apartment, I glance at the tome lying in the passenger seat. Have I lost my mind? My great aunt accosted the mailman with a colander, convinced he was a Martian. Maybe insanity runs in the family.

“This can’t be happening,” I say.

⟦“It’s a surprise for me, too.”⟧ The book’s voice is deep. ⟦“Where can we get our hands on some explosives?”⟧

“Explosives? What do you want to blow up?” I can’t believe I’m talking to an inanimate object in the middle of the night.

⟦“Madame Mystic would leave me with a guy with fewer brain cells than Xanderax the Fool. At least he had gunpowder.”⟧

I refuse to argue with a book, but I repeat my question. “What do you want to blow up?”

⟦“The eleven extensions, of course. We have to kill them before they destroy the world. You saw the symbol.”⟧

“You want to kill the eleven people who appeared on Dixon Street?”

⟦“Don’t make me repeat myself. An army with projectile weapons could do the job. The sooner we destroy them, the quicker the Sovereign leaves.”⟧

The book is more insane than I am. “No one is killing anyone. If the symbol causes the end of the world, how did someone live long enough to put it in your book?”

The book snorts. ⟦“Because I’m indestructible. Maybe you do have more brain cells than Xanderax the Fool. So, what’s the plan?”⟧

I don’t have a plan. I’ve lost my flipping mind. Someone opens a portal and lets bad things in, and a talking book is telling me it’s the end of the world. “Do you have a symbol for stopping an apocalypse?” I ask.

⟦“I’m not the Book of Benevolent Symbols, numb nuts.”⟧

“Amos,” I say. “My name is Amos.” I wrack my brain for someone who knows as much about the supernatural as Madame Mystic but can’t think of anyone. I can’t go to the police with a fairy tale. Or a talking book with its own bloodthirsty agenda.

⟦“Did you read the footnotes?”⟧ the book asks. ⟦“The bastard likes to think he’s being fair by leaving a loophole.”⟧

I haven’t seen any footnotes. “A way out? Some way to defeat the heralds?”

⟦“I’d be nodding if I could. He always gives the target world a slim chance of survival.”⟧

“You’re from another world?”

⟦“Another universe, baby. Just like Madame Mystic.”⟧

I look up at the night sky. “From a distant star?”

⟦“Did you sleep through science class? I said universe, not galaxy. All those stars are galaxies in our universe. One of zillions of universes.”⟧

I can’t comprehend it. A more personal question keeps cycling through my brain. In for a penny… “The Sovereign let me live. Am I the loophole, some kind of Chosen One?”

It laughs. ⟦“Chosen to die of fatty tissue buildup in your cardiovascular system within five years? Possibly. Save the Earth? Not without a lot of help. You’re too unimportant for him to waste time on you. Do you know any other wizards besides Madame Mystic?”⟧

“No.”

⟦“C4 it is.”⟧

I need to think without the book asking me where I keep my explosives. “Why would the Sovereign marry a woman with an inquisitive mind?”

⟦“Is this a riddle, Ambling Amos? I don’t know.”⟧

“He told me that the night he opened the portal.”

I pull over on the empty street and stop. “Madame Mystic once told me she was taken from another universe as a child, things got messed up, and there were copies of her running around.”

⟦“That’s true. I have seen others, younger and older, in her shop. One of them probably traded me for something.”⟧

“Do they all have purple eyes, Babbling Book? Mrs. Paraday has violet eyes. Is she a supernatural creature, a Madame Mystic?”

⟦“Biblio is my name, not Wikipedia. I don’t know anything about anyone named Mrs. Paraday. Would she have firearms?”⟧

If Mrs. Paraday is connected to this mess, maybe she’ll know how to solve it.

Otherwise, I’m going to need a lot of dynamite.

✱

Mrs. Paraday doesn’t look bad for being woken before sunrise. She opens the door to invite me in, her silk robe a soft pink.

“Coffee?” She turns to the kitchen. “I’ve already made a pot. Andrew left early this morning for the office. Said he had work to do.”

I imagine he did. The cops wouldn’t be able to keep the heralds in processing much longer.

“Coffee would be good.” I lay the Book of Deadly Symbols on the kitchen counter and turn it so the book can see her.

She returns with a full cup. “Black, I assume?”

I take it with lots of cream and sugar, but I don’t correct her. “That’s fine.”

“What’s this?” She points to the book. “Something to do with my husband?”

“Possibly. You’re not going to believe this⁠—”

The book’s eyes open wide. ⟦“No, no, no! She’s too young! She’ll be no help at all.”⟧

Mrs. Paraday looks at the book and then at me. “What’s going on?”

“Biblio, what do you mean?” I ask.

⟦“The older Mystics have all the power. They don’t learn their most powerful spells until they’re over a hundred. This one can barely light a candle without a match.”⟧

“What is going on?” Mrs. Paraday asks. “How does it know I can light candles without a match?”

“It’s a long story,” I tell her about the heralds and how I suspect her husband is the Sovereign. I don’t believe it myself, but she listens.

“You mean there are other versions of me?” Mrs. Paraday asks. “How is that possible?”

⟦“Different universes,”⟧ Biblio says. ⟦“Madame Mystic seems to be in all of them. Old, young, powerful, weak.”⟧

“And Andrew married me because I might be one of them?”

“He has a sense of humor,” I say. “By having a powerful but untrained sorceress for a wife, he thinks you won’t be able to stop him.”

“I can’t believe it.” She rubs her temples. “I knew he was different but not this weird.”

She takes the book from me and flips through pages. “Is there something we can use? Droughts, turbulence, mustard gas, surfeitancy. We need to apply the symbol to Andrew to stop him, right?”

⟦“Or find some dynamite,”⟧ comes the muffled reply from Biblio. The book is open with his face against the counter.

“Wait,” I say. “Did you say surfeitancy?”

“I don’t know what that means,” she says.

“I do crosswords. Let me see that curse.” I pull the book to me and read aloud. “An overabundance of something. Requirements are the symbol and a sample of what you need to create.” The symbol is a series of overlaid triangles. Easy enough to reproduce. “Do you have a permanent marker?”

⟦“What are you going to do?”⟧ Biblo asks. ⟦“You can’t fight the end of the world by producing more of something. Just ask Noah.”⟧ He’s still muffled because I’m holding the book open, trying to memorize the symbol.

Mrs. Paraday runs from the room and returns with a large marker. The kitchen nook is sizable and I move the table to draw on the floor.

I finish and it’s not perfect, but it will have to do. Whatever I place in the empty space between triangles should be reproduced. I don’t know how many times, but I’m hoping there will be enough to destroy the Sovereign and his heralds.

⟦“What destroys a world-destroyer?”⟧ Biblio asks. ⟦“Don’t tell me you’ve had a stick of dynamite in your pocket this entire time.”⟧

I reach out my hand to Mrs. Paraday. “We have something better than dynamite. We have a Madame Mystic.”

She steps into the symbol, and the lines on the floor turn bright blue. “What’s happening?” she asks.

Lights flash outside the penthouse windows, painting the sunrise in violet and turquoise.

⟦“They’re coming,”⟧ Biblio says. Explosions sound in the distance. ⟦“Most of them are pissed.”⟧

Mrs. Paraday sways, electric sparks highlighting her hair and running up and down her robe. She turns to me and smiles. “They’re here. We should get to the police station.”

“I’ll drive.” I tuck Biblio under my arm.

“That won’t be necessary,” she says, and her eyes flash amethyst.

Biblio, I, and Mrs. Paraday⁠—still in her silk bathrobe⁠—stand in the parking lot of the police station. The symbol I drew comes with us and lies around us on the asphalt. Sirens are going off, and officers are yelling. But they’re hardly noticeable as small white-haired ladies float from the morning sky. Most of them are older than Mrs. Paraday. They’re wearing suits, dresses, and armor, all in purple. Doors and tunnels appear, depositing more Madame Mystics.

“What the hell have you done?” my Madame Mystic stomps up. She holds her duffle bag and gets up on her toes to shout in my face. Behind her, a Mystic wearing large purple spectacles lands and heads toward the police station with the others.

“It’s the only thing I could think of,” I say. “A surfeitancy of Mystics. There must be hundreds of you. More than enough to handle the Sovereign.”

Madame Mystic shakes her head. “Ripped from universes everywhere. Who knows what chaos your little stunt has caused.”

⟦“Hey, Mystic,”⟧ Biblio says.

“Don’t talk to me.”

“But will it work?” I ask. “Can you and your copies defeat this guy?”

“We’re not copies.” The ground shakes as explosions rip apart the police station. “We’re about to find out if we can stop one of the most powerful beings in all the universes. His minions aren’t far behind.”

She holds out her hand to Mrs. Paraday. “Get out of that thing and come with me. Amos, stay here.”

Mrs. Paraday steps out of the symbol and it vanishes. Madame Mystic and Mrs. Paraday join the dozens of other Mystics at the foot of the stairs as the Sovereign and his eleven heralds float out of the demolished building.

They pause in mid-air as if confused at the Mystics’ appearance.

The Sovereign lands. “Interesting, but it will have little impact on this world’s destruction.”

Mrs. Paraday moves to the front. “Andrew, I want a divorce.”

“Granted.” He waves his hand, and a herald’s eyes flash crimson. Beams tear up the ground and edge toward Mrs. Paraday.

Our Madame Mystic steps forward. A bubble⁠—purple of course⁠—encloses her and Mrs. Paraday. One of the Mystics, clad in a mechanized suit of armor, fires a weapon at the herald and blasts him backward.

Shields spring up around the Mystics as the other heralds fire eye lasers at them. The Mystics are pressed back but do not scatter.

What can I do to help? I duck behind a police car and consult Biblio. “What symbol would be deadly to the Sovereign?”

⟦“The symbol of avoiding being burned to a crisp. We need to run and hide until this is over.”⟧

The Sovereign raises his hands and blasts erupt from his palms and strike the witches. Mystics fly through the sky. One in a hat carrying a parrot umbrella hits the hood of the police car and slides onto the ground. Dusting herself off, she opens the umbrella and flies back into the fray.

“Boils, comets, centaurs,” I read the book quickly. Nothing to help us. The Mystics split apart and purple lightning strikes the heralds, but it looks like the witches are losing. Mystics lie around us, some stunned and some not moving.

But there are fewer heralds. The half-dozen remaining gather behind their master, letting him fight the Mystics.

The Sovereign smiles and raises his hands at the clump of Mystics remaining, our Madame Mystic and Mrs. Paraday among them. I run from my hiding place, unsure of what I can do to help the situation. The Sovereign is aglow with magic flames. Whatever he’s going to throw at the ladies is a big one.

“Biblio, how indestructible are you?” I pant as I run.

⟦“What are you talking about?”⟧

“I guess we’re going to see.”

I leap in front of the remaining group of Mystics, holding Biblio close to my chest. The blast, when it hits, sends fire though my muscles and bones, but the book absorbs the blast and sends it back to the Sovereign. He screams as his spell rebounds into him. He disintegrates with a scream.

The remaining heralds vanish like smoke before I pass out.

Artwork by Tony Tran

“Well,” Madame Mystic says, “that’s one approach we’ve never tried.”

“True,” another one says. “Too risky. Look how many of us were killed or injured. Some have gotten noticeably younger as they burned up their magics. It’ll take them years to regain their spells.”

I try to sit up. I’m lying on the asphalt. The sun has risen and the parking lot looks like a battlefield. EMTs are helping injured Mystics and police officers into ambulances.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“You’re awake!” Mrs. Paraday exclaims from beside me. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been electrocuted and put through a meat grinder. How are you? Where’s Biblio?”

My Madame Mystic enters my field of vision. She’s holding the burnt husk of a book. “Your little friend didn’t make it. Clever idea to sacrifice him as a shield. I didn’t know he had it in him.”

“Neither did he.” I grunt as I sit up. “What about the Sovereign? Is he gone?”

Mystic nodded. “We don’t know for how long, but he won’t be using that body for a while. Good work, Amos.”

She helps me to my feet. “Now we have to get all these Mystics healed and home again. Too many of us in one place causes a problem.”

“You’re not mad at me for calling you back?” My legs shake and Mrs. Paraday supports me.

Mystic looks at the police building, now a pile of smoking rubble, and her dead and wounded sisters. “A little. But you’ve shown us Madame Mystics can unite and save a world.”

“Let’s get you checked out,” Mrs. Paraday says. “The authorities are claiming this was a freak lightning storm.”

Madame Mystic tucks the burnt remains of Biblio in her bag.

“I’m going to miss the little pyromaniac,” I say and mean it.

She moves to help a green-skinned version find her broom.

“Are you going to be all right?” I ask Mrs. Paraday.

“As a Madame Mystic or a widow?”

“Both.”

She considers it as she helps me limp to the ambulance. “I’m looking forward to seeing what adventures I get into next.”

I’ll miss her, but I’m looking forward to taking pictures of adulterers who aren’t trying to destroy the planet.

Tom Howard is a fantasy and science fiction short story writer living in Little Rock, Arkansas. This story is part of his Superworld universe (Volume 1 available on Amazon).

Abigail Kemske - foofaraw

2026-07-30T16:30:49.000Z

Read The Tongues of Ghosts now!

The metaphor here is not very subtle and feels very personal, I’m curious how you view and feel about the story now that it’s out in the world?

It definitely makes me feel a little vulnerable sharing something personal like this, however the fact that I could write this particular story is also a testament to how much I have healed. This was a story I had been wanting to write about for years, but it was always too difficult before.

Is there a specific reason you went with a ghost?

Having an eating disorder was a very haunting experience. The thoughts were all consuming, my energy waned, I’d get light headed and floaty. I felt and looked like a ghost of myself, which is what I was going for in this story. Earlier versions had the ghost tapping on the window of the protagonist’s bedroom anytime she was eating, but I couldn't get it to work that way. Once I figured out the ghost was eating for her, everything sort of fell into place.

I don’t know if it’s just the subject matter making me feel this way, but your prose feels both matter-of-fact and delicate at the same time—is that intentional, is that just how you typically write, or is that just where the story took you?

This is not my typical writing style. (I am a lover of lush prose!) This is a delicate subject matter so it makes sense the prose feels that way. And when getting into the headspace of a teen struggling like this, feeling haunted by themselves, it didn’t feel right to include as much lyricism I love to use.

That is an interesting question! I think the ghost would haunt the screen more, manipulating what the protagonist sees/hears, confusing her on what real life is really like without a filter. But in some ways we are returning to the 90s with JNCO-like jeans back in style and ultra-thin celebrities, so maybe it wouldn't be too much different. Maybe organic fruit snacks instead.

How many times has this story been rejected by other markets?

26 times! (Never give up!!)

What’s a great short story you’ve read recently?

“My Suicides” by Debbi Urbanski published in Apex Magazine. I can’t stop thinking about it.

What book are you reading right now?

The Works of Vermin by Hiron Ennes.

The prose here is so delicious. I’m obsessed.

Links to all my stories and sign-up for my newsletter are on my website https://www.abigailkemske.com/

Huge thanks to Abigail for opening up with us!

Pete Crow-Armstrong Is Good Enough To Raise The Forbidden Question - The Independent Variable

2026-07-29T05:02:16.000Z

defector.com

Don’t go giving me hope now…

Armand Hammer /// Tiny Desk - The Independent Variable

2026-07-29T05:01:26.000Z

youtube.com

So. Damn. Good. Armand Hammer is incredible as always. I think the reason rap stands out to me more on Tiny Desk is two fold. First, I think rap is just better in a more intimate setting as opposed to someone rapping loudly and being played over excessive speakers in large venues; it just doesn’t carry well. Second, they almost always bring a full real band, with drums, guitar, bass, etc. Some rappers do travel with bands, but it’s not the norm. There’s just no beating real instruments in an intimate space, with charismatic leads.

Text Messages from the Mall Food Court Kiosk Where I Am Trying to Order a Chicago-Style Hot Dog - The Independent Variable

2026-07-28T23:56:04.000Z

McSweeney's Internet Tendency

You tried to add ketchup. What is wrong with you? Your total is $12.99.

As a Chicagoan who puts ketchup on their hotdog I feel very conflicted about this.

For Better Or Worse, 'The Odyssey' Is Peak Christopher Nolan - The Independent Variable

2026-07-28T20:39:03.000Z

Defector

And so we have his vision of The Odyssey, a massive, operatic cinematic experience mostly about the story's own operatic massiveness. In many ways, Nolan especially has always been making The Odyssey from the inside out, obsessed as he has been with his own harrowing quest to make big, majestic spectacles.

Just testing out linkblog posts from my new publicly available web app, Readding, that turns your Linkding links into a beautiful read it later experience and lets you post to Ghost or Pika blogs.

Space is a haunted house, and we are its ghosts - foofaraw

2026-07-28T16:00:01.000Z

The universe flees as fast as it can, stretching, expanding infinites
as we rattle our chains
hungry to hurtle free of Earth

In the distance,
black holes scream
planets combust
binary stars death spiral
desperate to escape our flesh-cursed-sentience,
our haunted-haunting emptiness

H.V. Patterson is a speculative poet, fiction writer, and playwright living in Oklahoma. Poetry credits include ETTT, Star*Line, Dwarf Stars, Haven Speculative, and Brave New Weird. You can find her on BlueSky: @hvpatterson, Instagram: @hvpattersonwriter, or at hvpatterson.com

The Tongues of Ghosts - foofaraw

2026-07-23T19:43:01.000Z

I’m almost fourteen years old when the ghost wakes me for the second night in a row.

A cold breath at my chin, a lapping of something that should be wet, leaving my skin hollow. I swat it, but the licking persists, my fingers finding soggy poundcake crumbs left on my chin from the slice I stole after my parents went to bed. The one Mom refused to eat. The one I regretted eating.

Half my chin is licked clean of crumbs. The skinlike ice.

✱

In the morning, I hover at the refrigerator reading the weight loss chart Mom recently attached to the door.

Motivation, she had said.

The treadmill whirrs in the basement along with the near shouting volume of the morning news.

I open the fridge, rifle through bottles of fluorescent drinks boldly labeled Fat Burning Water!, push aside the skim milk and Diet Coke to find the fat-free cream cheese for my bagel. As I eat, the tongue returns, licking the cream cheese on the bagel-half waiting on my plate. A long white thing flicking in and out of nowhere.

Schliick. Schliiiiiick.

The cheese melts into globs that settle into the bagel’s air pockets.

I toss that half in the trash.

✱

I wear my new JNCOs to school, the black ones with white stitching, so long they rest like puddles at my feet.

The girl I sit with at lunch eyes me as I sit at our table. She’s my only friend. She mutters thunder thighs to the girl next to her. They share a sly grin, as they share the childish, stick-straight body I no longer have. Her sense of humor is sometimes cruel. I pretend I don’t hear.

She had saved me from the bullies in middle school, the group of girls who used to be my friends suddenly, collectively, giving me the silent treatment, stealing my things and throwing them in the toilet. She told me happiness is the best revenge. I can pretend when I’m with her. I don’t want to be alone again.

Eating Gushers for lunch, my friend and the girl next to her read an issue of Cosmo featuring a skin-bearing model on the cover. I nibble at the corn on my tray, one kernel at a time, unable to focus on the table gossip⁠—head spinning, too engrossed in my mini-pizza disappearing bite-by-bite, the slit of pale lips that opens and closes, the nothingness within.

✱

It’s been weeks since the ghosty tongue first woke me up, my JNCOs baggier and needing a belt. I’ll cover the cinched waistband with a long sweatshirt, but Mom knocks and enters my room before I can.

“I’m getting dressed.” I tug my t-shirt over my head.

“Breakfast is… oh, sorry.” Mom peeks in then swings the door wide open.

“Mom!”

She lifts the hem of my t-shirt and tugs at my waistband while not-so-subtly eyeing my body. “When did you get so skinny? What size are these?”

In the mirror, the ghost swells my flesh so the shirt is too small, spills my skin over the waistband. I shiver.

“Ugh, stop! I like them like this. They’re supposed to be big.” I shake her off and head to the kitchen.

We sit at the table⁠—me with bacon and a Toaster Strudel, Mom with a Slimfast. She watches me. I take a bite, but the ghost tastes it for me.

“Aren’t you eating?” I nod to the plate of bacon.

“Too many calories.” Mom grimaces and downs the rest of her shake. “But you need to eat. You’re skinny as it is.”

I nibble the smallest bites I can until she leaves, then let the ghost’s tongue slip into my mouth, reaching down my throat like a slushy snake, satiating me with frigid dread.

✱

There’s a pizza party in math class. A girl with a rope-like braid smiles when she sits next to me.

“You don’t like pizza?” she mumbles, mouth full.

A pool of grease shimmers on the untouched slice. The ghost’s hovering face floats down and bites it for me.

The girl’s brow creases.

I go to the bathroom and take the slice with me. The ghost follows, gobbling away, lips slick with grease. I toss the crust in the trash when the girl walks in.

Warm fingertips brush my shoulder as I run into the stall.

My only friend ditched me weeks ago.

✱

I glide to the living room when Mom calls me. Walking feels like flying. She’s on the couch with a glass of iced Miller lite. I sit in the tweed recliner.

“Your teacher called.” Mom’s bobbed hair sashays under her chin as she talks. “Said you threw away your slice of pizza in the bathroom.”

Aren’t you proud? I want to say. The self-control. The motivation.

But the way she eyes me⁠—jaw set, cheeks flushed⁠—leaves me crumpling in the chair.

Pasty arms wrap around me, through me. A promise the ghost will stay.

“Just stop it. Stop it right now.” Mom’s words suck like a leech at my ear.

✱

Mom serves Lean Cuisine for dinner in front of the TV. She watches Seinfeld over the top of an Atkin’s diet book. I watch myself eat. Watch my ghost. Thin faced, eyes buggy and shadowed. Blue veins flow like rivers under our skin.

The ghost is fully formed now, a month after Mom said to just stop. Her final word. I’m better at hiding her now.

Looking at the ghost is like looking in a translucent mirror. Which is the ghost and which is me? I can’t be sure.

No one sees me. No one sees her the way I do.

Artwork by Tony Tran

My body aches from trying to stay warm, from hunching over my stomach where the ghost curls up like a freezing mist. My body, her home.

She intrudes my thoughts, sucks on blood and bile, sinew and spirit. I move as if I were mist too.

I arrive early to school, so I don’t have to talk to anyone. I expected it to be empty, but some kids are hanging out in the hallway, happy and cheerful, joking and hugging, their way of being a distant memory.

The girl with a rope-like braid from class waves me over, hands me a sprinkle covered donut. “You don’t have to eat it, but you should sit with us anyway.”

She stands so close, I feel her body heat.

Goosebumps flutter across my arms, downy hair stands sentry, a spectral forest across my skin. I flatten them with a swipe of my hand.

As we sit, the ghost twists my stomach into knots, but I don’t let it satiate me. I take in the sugary donut scent.

The girl takes a bite of her donut and sighs. “So good.”

Lurching from me, the ghost’s eyes are wide as moons. The scent of sugar is intoxicating.

Laughter fills the hall when someone gets frosting on their nose. Kids help themselves to second servings.

The ghost’s mouth widens, tongue stretching, flicking, twisting for my donut.

But I don’t watch her. I ignore her chill, the way she makes my skin feel flabby, the sucking sound of her licking her ghostly lips. Everyone here is so relaxed and happy. No cruel jokes about their bodies, no thoughts of fat and carbs and calories. A long-lost taste. A joy that had left me.

Do I dare try?

The ghost thrashes, jiggles my flesh, makes her haunting moan, but I carry on.

I swallow hard, pluck a sprinkle and set it on my tongue, closing my eyes at the ghost’s sharp toothed snaps, clenching my fists when she moves through me with a wintry chill. The sugar melts on my tongue, the sweetness I used to know. I pick off a few more sprinkles, and don’t give the ghost a single crumb.

✱

After all these years, the ghost doesn’t haunt my every move anymore. I eat without her, bound through my days instead of drifting. However, she still visits as lips and teeth, as a disembodied finger waiting to peel away the frosting on an indulgent piece of cake; still squishes flesh I don’t have in the mirror. But most of the time, it’s that same lapping at my cheek, a ghost’s tongue searching for crumbs, cold and wet, but not. Sometimes she lingers, makes me hollow, skin like ice. But now when I shiver in that familiar way, feel the urge to drift and float, I take a deep breath and tell her to go.

Abigail Kemske is a writer of weird things and dark forests. She lives near Minneapolis, MN with her spouse, two children, and their two Maine coon cats, Mr. Benedict Flufferbatch and Hades. Her fiction is published in The Saturday Evening Post, The Dark, Apex Magazine, Nature: Futures, Gavagai among other venues. Find her on social media @abigailkemske and online at abigailkemske.com.

Font Club Belgica /// Future Fonts - The Independent Variable

2026-07-23T15:35:35.000Z

futurefonts.com

FC Lead is using the constraints of merging pieces of glass together with lead into one solid drawing. Counterparts are created with light without any unnecessary cuts. Resulting in unconventional letters.

🤯
I have one word... woah... this is both magical and beautiful. Insta-buy.

Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

🎉 Weekend Edition Vol.099 - foofaraw

The Week That Was

The Speedrunning Essay - foofaraw

General Strats

From “Super Metroid”: Arm Pumping

From “Super Mario 64”: BLJ^[or LBJ, whatever you're into]

From “Diablo 2”: Experience Penalty

From “The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time”: Bottle Duplication

Bonus Lessons & Footage

Cliff Aliperti - foofaraw

Do you live near any deer?

One of the main themes/lessons that comes through in this story that I think about a lot is how easily humans get used to things and how quickly the magical and majestic turn into the ordinary. Is this an idea you think about often?

Related to another story we ran recently, mindfulness is often something that comes up around this topic, being more present in the moment, soaking things up, and the art of noticing. Do you work on this in your own life at all?

Continuing the same thread a bit, Web almost goes the opposite direction and gets so attached to what Alex quickly turned from obsession to the ordinary. Do you think one direction is more healthy than the other or does it just follow the old adage of moderation and finding the middle ground?

How many times has this story been rejected by other markets?

What book are you reading right now?

Do you have anything else you’d like to share?

We appreciate Cliff for taking some quality time to quietly reflect with us.

Deer Xing - foofaraw

Artificial Botany - foofaraw

Solar Sale - foofaraw

📺 The Media Guide S8E4 - foofaraw

🎬 Tony

🎵 Criostal by Absolute Lilt

📚 Fort Psycho #1 — Oni Press

📺 Anna Pigeon Season 1 — USA Network

📮 August Zine - foofaraw

This month...

Stories

Poems

Observations

Cartoons

Interviews

Cover art

🎉 Weekend Edition Vol.098 - foofaraw

The Week That Was

The Back Page

Tom Howard - foofaraw

Can you tell us a little bit about your Superworld Universe and how this ties into it?

Parallel universes seemed to have a moment a couple years ago, has that shaped how you approached this story and universe?

Does Amos have any powers himself or is he the type of character that always finds themselves in the midst of the weird?

Is Amos able to easily settle back into his normal routine of PI work for suspected adulterers?

What about the young Madame Mystic, what does her future have in store for her?

How many times has this story been rejected by other markets?

What’s a great short story you’ve reread recently?

What book are you reading right now?

Do you have anything else you’d like to share?

Huge thanks to Tom for filling us in on all things Superworld!

Ferro /// Plain Form - The Independent Variable

Too Many Mystics - foofaraw

Abigail Kemske - foofaraw

The metaphor here is not very subtle and feels very personal, I’m curious how you view and feel about the story now that it’s out in the world?

Is there a specific reason you went with a ghost?

I don’t know if it’s just the subject matter making me feel this way, but your prose feels both matter-of-fact and delicate at the same time—is that intentional, is that just how you typically write, or is that just where the story took you?

It also feels very much of a time (JNCO jeans, Gushers, Cosmo). How do you think this story would differ if it were set in the modern day with social media?

How many times has this story been rejected by other markets?

What’s a great short story you’ve read recently?

What book are you reading right now?

Do you have anything else you’d like to share?

Huge thanks to Abigail for opening up with us!

Pete Crow-Armstrong Is Good Enough To Raise The Forbidden Question - The Independent Variable

Armand Hammer /// Tiny Desk - The Independent Variable

Text Messages from the Mall Food Court Kiosk Where I Am Trying to Order a Chicago-Style Hot Dog - The Independent Variable

For Better Or Worse, 'The Odyssey' Is Peak Christopher Nolan - The Independent Variable

Space is a haunted house, and we are its ghosts - foofaraw

The Tongues of Ghosts - foofaraw

Font Club Belgica /// Future Fonts - The Independent Variable

**From “The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time”: Bottle Duplication**