Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

What Do Moms Know About Fashion? - foofaraw

2026-07-02T16:00:32.000Z

My mother clucked her tongue when I had my neck stretched on my twentieth birthday. If she could have forbidden it, she would have. Not under my roof. Well, good thing I have my own place and my own money.

When I came for Sunday dinner after having my skin sandpapered until it was soft and nearly translucent, she didn’t say a word. Her eyes traced the newly visible lines of the blue-black veins that webbed my collarbone and she choked down her protein substrate in silence. By the time the meal was over, there was a muscle twitching beneath her eye.

I tried not to be offended that she flinched when I leaned in to kiss her cheek goodbye. What do old women know of fashion?

The limb extensions—arms and legs—were expensive. I had to save all my hard-earned credits for ages before I could get it done. Mom came to visit me in recovery with a disapproving scowl on her face. I told her she didn’t have to come, but she muttered something under her breath that sounded like a mother’s duty.

My head felt swimmy; the drugs were the good kind that made everything soft around the edges. Before I drifted off to sleep, I wondered when Mom had gotten so small. I wasn’t even standing up on my new, willow legs and I still seemed so much taller than her. Had she always been so tiny? And her hair. Hair itself was so old-fashioned. Everyone I knew had theirs lasered off. Mom’s looked frizzy, floofy, puffy, like acorn-colored moss. Giggles erupted from my mouth like a flock of bubbles at the thought.

Mom shh’ed me as my eyes fluttered. I was too fuzzy to tell if she was embarrassed by the fuss. Probably. She coughed delicately into an embroidered handkerchief. Bless you, I said and closed my eyes.

The drug hangover lasted for days and left me grumpy. Once the doc said I was fine, though, Mom went home. She didn’t get to see me stand up, all tall and lithe at twelve-feet-five and do a few agile pirouettes around the room. I’d paid for grace upgrades to accompany the limb extensions.

Best that she’d gone home, after all. She was dumpy and bumbling. No need to rub it in her face.

When I started talking about eye implants—replacing almond-shaped white and brown with marble-round all violet—Mom begged me not to get them. There are all sorts of fancy contact lenses you could wear. Why do something permanent? Again. She didn’t actually say ‘again’, but I heard it in her voice. She’s fluent in judgmental subtext. I just laughed. Contacts are for posers.

After I had them done, she stopped meeting my eyes.

Webbed fingers came next. For once, she didn’t comment; she just pointedly ignored them. They were super cute and useful, but whenever I tried showing them off, she changed the subject. She did buy me a pair of extra-room-between-the-fingers gloves for the Secular Longnight Season gift-giving holiday. For a minute, I thought she was making an effort. It made me want to hug her around the middle like I used to as a child. Until I tried the gloves on and she muttered, “Lovely, your hands look almost normal.”

Why didn’t she realize that her antiquated, unmodified body was the weird thing?

A few weeks later, I met an agent at a dance club. Have you ever done any modeling? I tittered and shook my head. Would you like to? He handed me a card and made me promise to call. Before he left, he grazed his knuckles across my face. I know a guy who can do something about those angular cheekbones.

The face flattening cost me nothing but a before-and-after photo shoot for the surgeon. No joke—if you go downtown, you’ll see me, fifty feet high on one of those holo billboards. The day the campaign launched, Mom sent me a text. “asdfghjkl 🤐🙀🧟”

I hurried over, certain she was having a stroke.

Mom? The house was quiet. I found her sitting at the kitchen table, swiping through 2D photos on her old-school tablet. Images of a round-faced little girl with wild curls filled the screen. She laughed, mouth stretched in a wide, toothy smile.

Mom rarely smiled like that anymore, but I still recognized those crooked front teeth she’d never bothered to get fixed. Funny, in a world where anyone can buy a designer face, she still looked exactly the same.

“Feeling nostalgic?” I asked.

She didn’t look up, just touched the picture of her younger self on the cheek with trembling fingers. You were such an adorable little girl.

Me? No, it wasn’t me. That was clearly a picture of Mom. I leaned closer. Squinted my bespoke, ten-thousand-credit eyes. It couldn’t be. But I remembered those clunky, uncool sneakers and the baggy sweater.

“Holy shit.”

I expected her to chastise me for swearing. Instead, she turned and took in my latest upgrade, tears in her boring brown eyes. For the first time, I realized it wasn’t the mods Mom hated. Not really. It was that I’d erased every trace of her in me.

MM Schreier is a classically trained vocalist who took up writing as therapy for a mid-life crisis. She has authored two short story collections—Monstrosity, Humanity and Bruised, Resilient—and is published in a wide range of speculative and literary venues. A firm believer that people can be both left- and right-minded, in addition to creative pursuits she’s on Leadership for a robotics company and tutors maths and science to at-risk youth. Follow on the web at: www.mmschreier.com

Tap to pay - foofaraw

2026-07-02T02:11:51.000Z

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.

📮 July Zine - foofaraw

2026-07-01T23:35:48.000Z

The July 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, including the bonus Four-headed Foofaraw. And Patrons get stuff in print!

Or you can pick up a copy of this and more from our webstore!

This month...

Stories

What Do Moms Know About Fashion? by MM Schreier
Ostraka by Joanna Berry
Developing your mindfulness practice 😊! by David Stevens
The Tongues of Ghosts by Abigail Kemske
Too Many Mystics by Tom Howard

Poems

Warning Label by Marie Brennan
The Unified Theory of Salsa by Steve Wheat
The Library of Lives by William Shaw
Space is a haunted house, and we are its ghosts by H.V. Patterson

Observations

Editorial Meeting for the Freedom 250 Patriot Cookbook by Andrea Cavedo
The Purple Essay by Nicholas De Marino

Cartoons

Tap to pay by Zack Rhodes
Landline by Rusty Epstein

Cover art

by Brendan Loper

〄

On to the zines...

Stacey King, Bulls broadcaster and 3-time NBA champion, dies at 59 - The Independent Variable

2026-07-01T03:49:22.000Z

nytimes.com

He spent the past 19 seasons as a television analyst on the Bulls’ game broadcasts and hosted a popular podcast called “Gimme the Hot Sauce.”

Catching up on old links and this was an old one that hit me hard and didn't want to forget... Not only was Stacey King a 3-time champion on the Jordan Bulls and the absolute best color commentator, but he was my park district league basketball coach as I played with his two sons before eventually playing against their AAU Dream Team later on. And while it was a long time ago, I can tell you his jolly demeanor on TV was not an act—he was smart, passionate, and his joy was infectious.

E. Florian Gludovacz - foofaraw

2026-07-01T03:16:36.000Z

💡

Read Small Potatoes now!

What’s your favorite way to eat potatoes?

I think the better question would be “What’s your least favourite way of eating potatoes?”. Potatoes are amazing and there are so many ways of eating them! Fried, boiled, baked, deep-fried, mashed. The possibilities are endless! I’m particularly partial to scalloped potatoes with lots of cheese on top, and pan-fried potatoes with caramelised onions, garlic, and oregano.

I suppose, what makes potatoes so amazing is their versatility. There are endless options for condimenting. Sour cream, bacon, a pinch of salt, you name it. And, of course, I have to mention the deep fried options. Chips/crisps are one of those universal snacks very few people will forego. I especially enjoy plain salted varieties and ones with a paprika/barbecue seasoning. And last, but not least, we need to talk about the good old French fry/chip, of course. Eat them on their own, drizzled with vinegar paired with fried fish, perhaps enjoy some loaded carne asada fries, or stuff them into a California burrito.

And to answer my own question, my “least favourite way” is probably the mashed potato, because there are fewer condiment options that I personally find appealing. However, I do enjoy the occasional mash as well.

What would a potato’s least favorite way to be cooked be?

I think that would be the mashed potato, simply because it destroys the natural beauty of the potato and blends them all into one faceless mass. If my story teaches us anything, it is that potatoes are people, too. They have their own individuality and agency, good and bad character traits, and very different personalities. Blending them all together does not do them justice.

Do you think you’d be as brave as Spudwig if you were put in the same situation?

Hell, no! I think that we all like to imagine ourselves as the hero in our personal story and, of course, we are. But that is very different from being an actual hero performing heroic deeds. When reading a story, watching a film, or playing a video game, we identify with the hero and imagine what we would do, but in real life that is not how people are. Mostly, we are small, petty, lazy, scared, and generally silly. And this is why stories are so attractive to us. We get to live vicariously through the heroes’ feats and imagine what it would be like without having to take the actual risks.

Very few people have the ability to be as brave as this particular potato.

Is there a new potato religion about to be formed?

I think that is almost certain. Tattyana is a true believer and she will do everything in her power to spread the message and convert the other potatoes. Now, will it be a good religion? That is something I cannot answer with confidence. Will this religion gain popularity outside the root cellar with other potatoes in the country, or even the world? Who knows? Will there be consequences for humanity? I’ll leave that up to the readers’ imaginations. I believe that good stories pose as many questions as they answer, so draw your own conclusions, if you are so inclined.

What would their symbol be?

It would most definitely be a golden oblong to symbolise the sliced chip/crisp. However, I’m certain that down the line there would be a schism. The new sect would adopt the symbol of the golden circle to represent the pot of frying oil. After all, the pot is the true pathway to enlightenment and the chip is merely the transitory embodiment on the road to potato heaven.

Then there would be the oblong within the circle, which represents the unified and reformed congregation of enlightened potatohood. Perhaps they would have a “popetato” to lead the faithful?

I think symbolism and abstraction is an important facet of religious life. It is one of the earliest and most elemental forms of “product branding” and a good design will go a long way in promoting what you have to “sell”.

Do these potatoes have mouths or do they communicate another way?

They are potatoes, so they do not have mouths, of course. At least I have never seen a potato with a mouth before. They do, however, have multiple eyes (which is what those little indents/sprouts are called), so they perceive the world differently from us. They probably have an almost 360° globular view of their surroundings, but I cannot tell what part of the spectrum they would see in, or how they perceive colour. Since they live underground in the root cellar or are buried, I’d imagine that they have primarily black and white vision, with a bit of colour mixed in.

Their communication is a mix of telepathy, vibrations at different frequencies, and body language. In terms of sophistication and abstraction, I believe their communicative skills vary significantly. They have no trouble being petty and mean to Spudwig, but I doubt that the average potato is very eloquent. This is why Spudwig – beyond his physical appearance – is an outcast in the root cellar. He dreams and has an imagination, which requires a certain level of linguistic skill.

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

It took nine tries to place “Small Potatoes”, but rejections aren’t a particularly significant metric by any standard. I have placed some stories on the first try, while one story took 22 attempts. Rejections are part of the writerly process and I think every serious author needs to embrace rejections to some extent, perhaps even celebrate the occasional one. If anything, a high rejection count for a particular story means that I especially like the story and have gone out of my way to find a market for it. It’s about sending it to those “dream magazines” we want to be published in, to try to connect with new readers, and new editors. It’s about leaving your comfort zone and chasing your dreams and aspirations. You have to see the potential in your own work. It might also mean that the story is extremely different and brilliantly unique and racks up rejections, because it does not fit an easy mould or expectation. After all, editors are human beings, who might not comprehend your story’s unique brilliance through no fault of their own. Just keep trying.

With all of that said, I had a gut feeling that “Small Potatoes” would find a home here at Foofaraw.

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

There are so many great stories out there and never enough time to read them all. Usually, at this point in the interview, I’ll pick a story that struck a chord with me out of an anthology or a website I have contributed to and give a fellow writer a shout-out. This time I’ll simply recommend that everyone should subscribe to/follow “Quotidian Bagatelle” right here on Foofaraw. I love reading a daily short story by so many different authors and in very different styles. And they are short, so you can read them every day.

(Full disclosure: I have contributed stories to QB, but I recommend the site because I like the daily schedule, the variety, and the brevity).

What book are you reading right now?

“Under Heaven” by Guy Gavriel Kay. He writes historical fantasy, which means that he bases his stories on historical research, which he then applies to his fictitious worlds. There is usually a soft magic component to his books, which is a nice touch that always throws me off (in a good way), because of the largely historical context and background. Additionally, many of his books are stand-alone, which is worth mentioning in the world of fantasy, where multi-trilogy overarching series tend to be the norm these days. Sometimes it’s nice to get the complete story in one book.

Enjoy your life as you enjoy your potatoes, prepared in many different ways with all the seasonings, condiments, and complementary dishes out there.

A giant bow of gratitude to Florian for enlightening us about the glorious spud!

glint /// terminal app - The Independent Variable

2026-06-30T17:07:05.000Z

codex.humdrum.me

One more terminal app for good measure! Been working on this one for awhile now and it's already my main driver for writing anything. It's designed to be a standalone text editor, but you can also set a vault, daily note convention, and inbox to quickly view and create files from specific locations (i.e. Obsidian vault) with simple commands and keybindings plus light syntax highlighting for those who need to interact with code. It's also beautiful, so iA Writer users should feel at home and bonus features like spellcheck, a printable PDF output, and other markdown features you've come to expect like pasting a link over selected text to turn it into a markdown link or wrapping selected text with markup, checking off and reordering lists, and more. It's open source and available to download via brew.

sportsball /// terminal app - The Independent Variable

2026-06-30T16:03:40.000Z

codex.humdrum.me

A terminal dashboard for live sports — Plain Text Sports meets Golazo, as a Bubble Tea TUI.

Been working on this one for a bit, but it's basically ready for primetime now. I took inspiration from Plain Text Sports and the Golazo TUI and built out my own terminal TUI for all sports. You can follow scores live, see past scores, upcoming games, favorite teams, and see standings - all from the terminal. Installable via brew.

A Face That Knows - foofaraw

2026-06-28T22:29:13.000Z

Our third novelette is available directly form us now and available anywhere books are sold starting July 1.

A reluctant seer, gifted with only a "certain sense," opens his door to a desperate man babbling about a face—a face that haunts him. The trail leads to a deserted chateau; the obsessive work of a vanished artist.Drawing in a physician and a gallerist, the narrator climbs to the ruin to learn what the chateau holds. A tale of dread, art, and obsession in the Gothic-weird and Lovecraftian tradition: atmospheric, mannered, and quietly unsettling.

Foofaraw[+] subscribers receive a free ebook copy, and upgraded Patrons of Foofaraw should have a paperback edition arriving in the mailbox shortly. Upgrade in the next month to be eligible.

It will be available everywhere books are sold online including Weightless, Bookshop, and all the big guys if that's your choice of poison, on July 1st.

Foofaraw Press Store

Books, ebooks, and limited editions from Foofaraw Press.

Digital copy for paid subscribers

🥔 Small Potatoes - foofaraw

2026-06-25T16:00:00.000Z

Spudwig Wright was a potato, and not a particularly attractive one at that. Rumour had it that there was more than a bit of rutabaga on his father’s side of the family. And even if that wasn’t actually true, he certainly had the looks, which were anything but pretty.

As a consequence, he had been bullied throughout his young life in the root cellar. The others regularly made fun of him and called him turnip-head, yam-face, and much worse things.

“Spuddy, my old buddy, you’re too ugly even for mashed potatoes!” Potatrick, his only friend – if you could call him that – opined at every opportunity. And the sad thing was that Spudwick had to agree. He didn’t look like the other potatoes in the cellar. He was a misshapen and deformed spud without any prospects. In a world of russets, he was a root.

As a consequence, he spent much of his time alone, sitting quietly in an out of the way corner of the root cellar, hiding in the shadows to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to himself. He liked to sit in the dark, all curled up and cosy on the hard dirt floor and imagine a different life for himself. This was another thing that set him apart from his peers; he had an imagination. Whatever he lacked in looks, he made up for in vision. He imagined a life for himself that was so far beyond what a potato could dream of. He did not want to end up in a salad, or as a baked potato, smothered in sour cream, butter, and chives. He dreaded the idea of being mashed despite what Potatrick had to say on the subject. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted to achieve yet, but he was certain that the usual and mundane options were not for him.

Some potatoes sprouted and were replanted to secure the future of potato-kind into the next generation. Yet, again, this was not what he envisioned for himself. His dreams were fuzzy, but so much larger.

As the season went on, potatoes were taken out of the cellar, never to be seen again. Legend had it that higher beings, perhaps even gods, took them away to a different and higher level of existence, but Spudwig doubted that. Most likely, they were to be eaten. No one ever returned to tell the tale, but everyone knew about the kitchen. It was something of a foundational memory that pervaded the very fibre of potato-kind, so being made to leave the root cellar was an ambiguous event that was greeted with a mix of euphoria, dread, and resignation.

One day, he heard quiet sobbing and although he usually tried to stay out of things, curiosity got the better of him. He rolled along the wall, following the sounds until he saw an old, wrinkled potato that was crying.

“Hello,” he said politely.

“Oh, it’s you, Spudwig,” she said dismissively. “I’d know your ugly mug anywhere. Can’t you leave an old potato alone to grieve in peace?”

“I’m sorry. I heard your crying and couldn’t help but wonder why you are sad.”

“Well, if you have to know, I’ll tell you. My daughter Tattyana is missing! I think they picked her up earlier today! And I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to her.”

Spudwig nodded seriously. He could understand the old potato’s plight. Losing a loved one was never easy, or so he imagined, if he’d had any loved ones. Out of an inexplicable impulse he drew himself up to his full height and said, “I’ll go and find out what happened to your daughter, so don’t worry!”

She gaped at him for a long moment before speaking.

“Yea, right. Ugly old Spuddy will save the day!” she scoffed.

“I will, too!” he said hotly and stormed off in his odd rolling motion.

As he rolled towards the cellar stairs, he had to wonder at his own actions. He knew Tattyana, of course. She was one of the mean girls that always taunted and insulted him, so why did he want to find her? He had no ready answer, but felt that it was the right thing to do. Perhaps he wanted to be the hero for once, to be admired and praised? Did he have special feelings for Tattyana that he had not been aware of? He didn’t know, but he would find out one way or the other.

Spudwig had a difficult time ascending the stairs. He had to bounce up and down, take a running start and hope that he could jump high enough to reach the next step. More than once he missed his mark, rolled backward and had to begin his ascent anew. But finally, after hours of exertion, uncounted failed attempts, and numerous bruises all over his body, he reached the top stair. Luckily for him, the door was slightly ajar. Otherwise he would have been stuck with no way forward. He was much too short to reach the door knob, after all. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t know what a door knob was or how to operate one.

The floor in the hallway was smooth and clean; very different from the dirt floor in the root cellar he was used to. Rolling forward was much easier, but on the whole, he thought that he preferred the dirt floor to the tiles.

The kitchen was down the hallway and Spud had no trouble finding it. Once inside, he had to get used to the bright light that entered the room through a hole in the wall. It was very strange and not at all comforting to his senses. He had to blink his many eyes until he became used to the illumination. Once his vision was clear, he immediately spotted the abducted potatoes. They were huddled inside a woven basket that sat on a low stool.

“Pssst! Tattyana! Are you in there?” he hissed.

“Who’s this?” came the frightened question from the middle of the pile.

“It’s me! Spudwig! Spudwig Wright!”

“What? Old Rutabaga-head?”

“Yes, it’s me!” He didn’t know whether to be insulated by the name calling or pleased that she remembered him at all. “Your mum told me that you had disappeared and I promised to find you, so here I am!”

“Wow! You’d do that for me?”

“Yes, of course I would. Now, come on and jump down and I’ll get you out of here!”

“I’m afraid!”

“Don’t worry, just jump down and I’ll catch you.”

“I don’t know…”

“Go on. There might not be much time! Hurry!”

The basket began to rock gently and a moment later, Tattyana jumped down and landed squarely on top of Spudwig.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, looking at the fresh bruise on his side. “All right! Let’s go!”

“But, it will be noticed that I’m missing. We can’t just run off like that.”

That much was true. Spudwig considered the problem for a long minute before reaching a decision.

“All right. I’ll take your place. I’ll jump into the basket and you hurry back down to the root cellar. Simply roll through the door and turn right. You can’t miss it.”

“All right. I’ll get going. So long.” She studied him for a moment. “Thanks, Spuddy.” She turned and rolled out of the kitchen.

Spudwig began bouncing in place until he had reached sufficient momentum to jump into the basket. He landed on the other potatoes with a soft thud.

“Hi guys. Sorry for the commotion, I hope I didn’t tread on anybody’s… um… potato.” (Potatoes have no word for feet).

There were no replies. These were hibernating potatoes that had left sentience long behind. Small loss there, Spud mused. The important thing was that Tattyana was back home and safe.

As time passed, the light that came in through the hole in the wall travelled across the floor. It was interesting to have a measure of time passing. In the root cellar days and nights were all the same.

Suddenly there were footsteps. One of the large creatures approached and placed the basket on the counter. Spudwig and his mute compatriots were briefly doused in cold water and dried off. Then a silver implement descended from above and he felt himself being cut into strips. It was a strange sensation, not exactly painful, but not pleasant, either. He could see parts of himself through his eyes and he had to wonder at the changed perspective. Now that he was sliced, he didn’t look any uglier – or even different – from the other potatoes. In this moment he felt overwhelmingly happy, almost ecstatic to be here. He was glad to have made the journey. Moments later he felt himself being picked up and held above a round metal container. Heat rose in sizzling wafts and golden liquid bubbled below. Then he was falling, released from gravity to dive into the golden beyond. In a sizzling flash he saw his life replay before his eyes and then he discarded it in favour of the golden future that lay ahead.

Heat rose in sizzling wafts and golden liquid bubbled below.

“Mother! Mother! You won’t believe what happened,” Tattyana exclaimed as she rolled close to her wizened old parent. “Spudwig came and rescued me from the above.”

“He said that he would do that. Who knew that he really had it in him,” her mother shrugged. “Well, I’m glad that you are back, my dear. Next time be more careful.”

“But you don’t know the half of it,” Tattyana said. “He came to rescue me and took my place. He stayed and gave me the chance to escape. But I didn’t roll home straight away. I hid and watched. He was cut up into slices and thrown into hot liquid. The sizzling sound was deafening.” She shuddered. “That would have been my fate, if not for him. His selfless act saved my life.”

“Well, so old Spuddy was good for something after all,” her mother said.

“It’s so much more than that, Mother!” she admonished and turned to the large pile of potatoes in the root cellar’s centre. “Listen up, everybody! Poor Spudwig is gone! He died so that I might live, but more importantly, he died for all of our sins!”

E. Florian Gludovacz has been a writer, musician, and artist since his teens. He was born in Austria and grew up living in different parts of Europe (Germany, France, the UK, and Austria). He currently resides in rural Southern California with his wife and their mixed Great Pyrenean Mountain Dog. He has been known to enjoy the occasional glass of wine. His stories have appeared online and in print in numerous publications including “Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores”, “foofaraw”, Fission #5 (BSFA), “To the Dogs” anthology (Altitude Press), “Midnight Menagerie” anthology (WolfSinger Publications), as well as the “Consumed” anthology (Arbutus Films). He is a finalist for the 2025 WSFA Small Press Award.

The Void - foofaraw

2026-06-24T18:57:45.000Z

—Rusty Epstein

👑 Emperor Trampatine Addresses the Board of Galactic Peace - foofaraw

2026-06-24T18:52:54.000Z

Dept: Office of Plausible Deniability
Truthiness: 746%
Title: Roving Space Correspondent
Fineprint: For entertainment purposes only; void where prohibited (we don't want to go to jail).

||Wipe them out.|| All of them. Oh... Uhhh, wrong meeting…

Well, hello! It is a big day and the galaxy is watching. Humans are watching. Chalaktans are watching. Hapans are watching. Umbarans are watching. Well… Everybody is watching. We also have a large group of leaders from other planets. I am the Senate.

Gosh, wrong meeting, again…

What we’re doing is very simple. Piss. No! Piece. Blimey! Peace. It’s called the ^^Board of Galactic Peace^^. It’s an easy word to say, but a difficult task to deliver, but we’re going to do it. We’ve already been doing a really good job across the galaxy. Think of Order 66 or was it 14151…

Last year was like no other in our galaxy. I’ve started the greatest galaxy-wide war. What? Started? Who said ‘started’? I never said it! Who are you? What planet are you representing? Endor? What a filthy planet! You’re not even a humanoid. Who let an Ewak in here? I’ve ENDED the greatest galaxy-wide war—the Galactic Civil War! You should all thank me for securing peace.

Now, we have great leaders here. They are incredible people. They’ve become incredible friends of mine. They know how I’ve rebuilt our galaxy. I’ve saved us all by putting an end to the decaying democracy of the Republic and introducing the only efficient political system—the ^^Galactic Trampatine Empire^^ named after me…

We broke 50,000 on the Galactic Credit Standard. Oh, wait, 70,000. No, 353,000. Well, it doesn’t matter. They said it would take us four years, but we did it in a year. We broke 7,000… 11,000… 21,000…! We broke huuuge on the Corporate Sector Authority index. They said it was impossible. But I did it!

I’ve been actively involved in a lot with the planet leaders here. We worked together on ending millions of wars on their planets. I’ve ended the war between Cores… Coras… Corus…sss…—ent and Als…cakan that lasted thousands of years. I ended it in one day. I made Alderaa… Alderbaijaaan and Chandrila make peace with just one call. They claimed to be forever allies, even insisted on it, but I always know what I’m doing, and I’m never wrong! I created peace between the two of them! But we have some other work to do and we’re getting it done. Gozhorman is very complex, but we’ll fix it too.

I want to thank Stevus Wetking and Jathan for an amazing job. Marcage is fantastic, and AJ—what a job they’re all doing as a team. It’s the best team ever assembled in the galaxy, and you see that by the results.

So, power, unlimited power! Urrr, let’s skip it for now. It is a tremendous honor for me to welcome you all to the ^^Galactic Trampatine Empire^^ for the inaugural meeting of the ^^Board of Galactic Peace^^.

It’s the most consequential board in terms of power and prestige. There’s never been anything close because these are the greatest planet leaders, almost everybody is accepted… Now, why is that Ewak still here? Take it away, put it somewhere, cover it with a blanket! I don’t want any fur around!

What was I saying? There is no mercy. Some are playing a little cute. You can’t play cute with me. But they’re playing a little bit. Everyone wants to be here, most of them immediately. A few that we really don’t want because they’re trouble—take care of that Ewak at last! This is the most prestigious board ever put together. And everything that has transpired has done so according to my design!

Thank you all. Thank you very much. ||Wipe them out.|| All of them.

Olena Zheldak is the author of an autobiographical wartime narrative, “From Irpin with L̶o̶v̶e̶ Pain,” self-published on Amazon. She is the author of the lead story for Paul White's "Life in the War Zone," the essay, "Life Interrupted. Resumed. Ended." for the 195 Essays Project by 2084, a short story for the Crow Town Anthology, Volume 2, and a contributor to the Consequence Forum.

Marketing strategy: Dumpsterfire - The Independent Variable

2026-06-23T02:09:11.000Z

emmaburnett.uk via bookshop.org

It’s been two weeks since my novella was released, and the actions of my publisher, and the online response this has generated, have made it impossible for me to market my book. From what I can tell, the whole project has tanked.

Emma is a friend of Foofaraw and is an absolutely wonderful writer. This is Emma’s first book and you should run to the Bookshop.org link and buy a copy in print or digital (or both like me). It sucks that she ends up in the middle of this turmoil during her debut due to the actions of the publisher. So go buy it and maybe even subscribe to her Patreon to continue to support wonderful writers.

Bobby Rollins - foofaraw

2026-06-20T23:36:03.000Z

💡

Read The Nonsense Machine now!

Have you spent any time in a small business or tech repair shop like Benny’s?

I remember going to them as a kid with my parents, and each one was chaotically stuffed like a moving van, or closet when a new partner is coming over. The counters and workbenches were always full of tools, pieces of machines, and parts, and yet, the shopkeeper always seemed to know exactly where everything was. This story started as my tribute to those people and places, in an era where consumer choice has made most of them obsolete.

Do you know anyone who has named their business after made-up person like Alfred did with Benny’s?

Nope.

How long do you think Bradford lasts in the shop with his fax machine?

Exactly one punch.

Do you think Bradford ever figures out how his watch works?

Not a chance, he’s far too busy for that!

Would you like working for someone like Albert?

Smiling eyes go a long way with me, so yes, without a doubt. They are one of those precious things that still can't be faked. I’d love to see that sort of genuine happiness wherever I go.

How long would you last trying to explain to Bradford how his watch works?

Not very. Some clients are better off without me!

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

17 by my math, a new lucky number! It was shortlisted twice, so third (or 18th) time the charm.

What book are you reading right now?

Death of a Nobody by Jules Romains. It’s one of those aged beauties that still feel contemporary. I end up having to remind myself it was written 100 years ago.

Thanks to Bobby for setting us (and our watches) straight!

⏱️ The Nonsense Machine - foofaraw

2026-06-20T06:25:03.000Z

Even the dullest of people—like myself—are bound to learn a thing or two if they spend the whole summer working for Albert in the backroom of Benny’s Vacuum and Fax Machine Repairs, which is a small and typically empty business, smack in the middle of Widgeons Crossing.

The learning never really stops when one works with Albert. As the hours melt to weeks and the weeks fade to months, his summer apprentices become familiar with not only the mechanics of dust sucking and dirt collection, but also the lesser-known science of discovering what makes him tick.

We learn, for example, while some people refer to Albert by the store’s namesake of Benny, he refuses to respond to it; and even though the words “fax machine” are in the store’s name, he doesn’t accept them for repair anymore, and will hold a fierce grudge in the rarest of times a customer brings one in. Another lesson of the trade is that at some point in history—likely at least five or six decades ago—the phrase “it’s a little Mickey Mouse” was used to describe something that was not done particularly well, and moreover, the amateur boxing coach who introduced Albert to the term clearly made a big impression on him when doing so.

But there are also things we don’t learn,—even if it’s our second summer working for him—like why he named his business Benny’s when his name is Albert, or why he insists his employees answer the phone by reciting the full store name. One thing does become clear to everyone though: Albert is a wizard when it comes to repairing things. He can work his charm on almost anything electrical or mechanical that people bring him. In fact, it’s pretty much just as the sign outside the store says:“Benny can fix ANYTHING that sucks!” - providing of course, one overlooks the small detail there is no one named Benny involved.

REPAIRS Benny can fix ANYTHING that sucks!

“T.W. on one,” Albert said as he handed me the phone, “and what’s worse, you can’t really hear him properly. The connection’s a little Mickey Mouse.”

Employees must learn Albert’s backroom jargon, which includes recognizing “T.W.” does not refer to an individual, but rather, represents a category of the public he calls Time Wasters. Rarely have I seen such a clear demonstration of how human eyes can smile as when Albert declares “T.W. on one.” and hands over the phone. The sparkle around his pupils convey more glee than any partnership his lips and teeth can muster.

“Benny’s Vacuum and Fax Machine Repairs.” I said into the phone, as Albert nodded approvingly.

“Listen. I’m calling from the office of the mayor. I need to speak to Benny pronto!” the voice said.

“I’m sorry there’s nobody here by that name,” I replied with a sigh, “but I’m happy to assist you. What can we help you fix today?”

“Listen. Don’t get cute with me. This is the mayor’s office calling and I want to speak to Benny, the very same Benny that owns Benny’s Vacuum and Fax Machine Repairs! He’s about five-ten, solid as a brick outhouse, with thick, black-rimmed glasses, and greying hair always parted to the side.” the voice continued, describing Albert perfectly.

“I’m sorry, the store owner, Albert, is not available right now, but again, I’m happy to see what we can do for you.” I half-groaned, looking into Albert’s cheer-filled eyes.

“Listen,” the voice said, as my mind began to recognize a pattern of annoyance. “I need a new watch battery, and I need it lickety-split.”

“Sure. It’ll cost you around $15 and we can install it for you while you wait.” I replied.

“Listen,” he ordered me, “I was already late for a meeting with the Chamber of Commerce today. I need this done now, and I need it done at City Hall!”

“No problem, sir.” I replied, “I’d be happy to dispatch a technician to take care of that. The call out rate’s a flat $35 more.”

“The name is Bradford.” he confirmed. “I’m the senior advisor in the office of the mayor. Have your tech here at 2:00 on the dot.”

“Sure thing Bradford, we’ll see you then.” I replied, hanging up the phone and turning to face Albert’s broad smile.

“Well, get the battery case and your tech hat on, and off you go to see T.W..” Albert said to me with unrelenting mirth. “And make sure he knows that even though he’s paying a few dollars more, he’s getting a premium battery with a five-year warranty, and not one of those Mickey Mouse jobs.”

Even the deadest of souls like mine feel a quiver in our stomach as we walk up the five concrete steps to enter City Hall, the grandest building in Widgeons Crossing. It’s hard not to be intimidated by the historic bell tower and the grandeur the peeling beige paint and faded white trim bring to the three-story building, not to mention the added difficulty of keeping those tummy butterflies behaved knowing a visit to the mayor’s office is only a few footsteps away.

“Good day, I’m here from Benny’s to help Bradford with the battery replacement in his watch.” I said as I approached a thoroughly forlorn looking lady behind the welcome desk.

“In there.” she replied, gesturing to an open door with a movement of her chin.

“It’s a good thing you’re here.” Bradford greeted me, emerging from the office with his watch in hand. “I need this fixed toute-de-suite. I have a priority-one roundtable with her worship’s economic advisory committee this afternoon.”

“I’ll be about ten minutes.” I told him. “I’ve brought a few batteries with me and it’s a straightforward job.”

He stopped me. “Before you begin, the Office of the Mayor has a policy of pre-paying. We pride ourselves on our ethics and our service to the community. I was quoted fifty dollars, and Rose,” he said, half-addressing the bored clerk with a flick of his chin, “will take care of it. Just grab it out of petty cash, Rose.”

“Thank you very much.” I replied, putting the folded fifty into my pocket. “Now, if you don’t mind me using the chair and table over there,” I indicated with a nudge of my own chin, “I’ll take your watch and put that new battery in for you.”

“The troubling thing is it only loses time during the workday.” Bradford said, handing it over to me. “It’s fine in the evenings and on weekends, but when I need it most, it lets me down.”

“Well sir,” I said with a straight face, looking down at the expensive time piece in my hand, “actually, this type of watch isn’t battery powered, it recharges itself automatically from the wearer’s pulse and activity.”

“Listen. I don’t have time for tech-talk, I just need a new battery put in.” Bradford countered in a monotone that betrayed his frustration.

“I understand completely sir, but the thing is, there’s no battery in your watch to replace.” I tried a second time. “These types of watches run off human energy. As long as you do something while you wear it, the watch will keep working for months on end.”

“Listen,” he surprised nobody by repeating again, “I’ll have a word with Benny about your customer service skills later, but right now I need to prepare for my 2:30. Leave the battery with Rose on your way out and I’ll change it myself.”

“Here you go, Rose.” I said, handing over a shiny battery still in its package. “It comes with a five-year warranty, so though it’s a few dollars more,” I couldn’t stop myself, “I’d like you to know, it’s not one of those Mickey Mouse jobs.

“He just doesn’t get it!” Rose whispered to me, showing interest or more likely sympathy towards me for the first time. “For the life of me, I can’t tell you how he fills the hours in the day, but having to interact with him is exhausting. All he does is run that nonsense machine of a mouth! Committee this! Senior advisor that! Priority one here! Gamechanger there! I just wish he would actually do something! I don’t care what it is, he can answer an e-mail, wash a coffee cup, or water a plant! But just once, I want to see him do something useful!”

“I sincerely doubt you’re alone in that, Rose.” I whispered to her before returning to a normal voice. “That’s right, the battery is guaranteed to last a whole five years.”

“Well, how did it go with T.W.?” Albert greeted me upon my return with a chuckle.

“Here’s your fifty.” I replied, handing over the note. “His watch is motion charged, but he wasn’t interested in hearing anything about that; and it turns out he’s just as charming in person as he is on the phone. In the end, there was nothing I could do for him but take the money and leave him a battery he doesn’t need and can’t use.”

“I heard,” Albert replied, with his eyes in full-on grin mode, “an old friend of mine in the mayor’s office called and gave me the details on life with T.W.! She was pleading for our help! The whole of City Hall has had it with him, and they’re all willing to chip in handsomely if we can fix that insufferable nonsense machine of a mouth! It doesn’t seem to have an off switch and it’s driving the whole place completely mad! She said they were going to send it over here for repair.”

“And what did you tell them, Albert?” I asked.

RULES No fax machines

“Nothing but the truth, my boy,” he answered in a tone full of wisdom, “I said we’d do our best, but there are things in this world more complicated than a vacuum cleaner. As much pain and sorrow as it may bring us, the truth of it is, not everything can be fixed.”

“You got that right, boss. The best we can hope for is to endure them. Say,” I continued, with a gesture of my chin towards an approaching figure that looked very much like Bradford, carrying a pillow-sized machine with a dangling cord towards the store, “It looks like that guy is coming in here with a fax machine!”, knowing, as I saw Albert crack his knuckles and roll-up his sleeves, it was my eyes that were bursting into one of those pure smiles this time.

Bobby Rollins is (gratefully) prone to daydreams, some of which he puts into words. He hopes his stories make people laugh and think, both of which he’d like more of in the world.

Medical Debt - foofaraw

2026-06-20T04:58:24.000Z

—Jonathan Borthwick

Mirage - foofaraw

2026-06-20T04:56:26.000Z

Some days, cracks in the earth become faults,
your fault or mine, and you don’t know
whether to expect earthquakes or lava,
but it’s both, rumbling and hissing inside you.

Some days, space twists and warps and not
in the way you had hoped because the stars
are no closer but your front door feels distant.

Some days, music decomposes
into noise, sunlight rots and darkens,
sleep is just getting swallowed by a swamp.

Other days, you breathe like it’s your first time,
your feet learning to tread on quicksand,
your eyes seeing sparkles in the desert, afraid
it’s a mirage, and it is, but one where a burning sun
is a friend’s arm on your back, where a cactus’s spines
feel softer than a kitten’s fur—
it’s no beach, but you don’t miss the water
because it would only remind you
this is one long watery breath
before you’re pulled under again.

Ian Li (he/him) is a Chinese-Canadian economist, developer, writer, and poet, who started writing in late 2023 after a lifetime of believing he could never be creative. Find his work published in Nightmare Magazine, Strange Horizons, Year's Best Canadian Fantasy & Science Fiction, and the Toronto subway system, among other venues. Learn more at https://ian-li.com.

Soccer is truly spectacular, in spite of itself - The Independent Variable

2026-06-16T15:39:28.000Z

fivepoints.mattglassman.net via publicannouncement.org

This is also why youth and amateur soccer, as a game, can be more fun to watch than pro soccer. The comparative lack of skill and relative inability to control the ball create a situation where it’s strategically less rewarding to be passive, and the continual turnovers create opportunities for profitable aggressive actions. You lose the world-class athletes doing world-class athlete things. But the trade-off is it’s just more continuously exciting.

A truly insane take.

🎉 Weekend Edition Vol.096 - foofaraw

2026-06-14T22:35:51.000Z

It's already Sunday so let's get right into it!

The Week That Was

🚘 The Devil Went Down to Georgia Auto Mechanics

Sarina Dorie

foofarawfoofaraw

Another new entry into Sarina Dorie's Devil's Delight series, with more on the way later this year!

Sarina Dorie

An interview with the author of The Devil Went Down to Georgia Auto Mechanics

foofarawfoofaraw

Sarina graciously took some time to talk automobiles and the art of buying and selling souls.

🔭 The Work Essay

#26

foofarawfoofaraw

Nick is back with another wonderful column.

Negative Space

Rusty Epstein

foofarawfoofaraw

And I couldn't be more excited to debut ur first (of many) cartoons from the wonderful Rusty Epstein.

💡

A Mirage, Medical Debt, and a Machine of Nonsense

The Back Page

Sarina Dorie - foofaraw

2026-06-12T16:00:13.000Z

💡

Read The Devil Went Down to Georgia Auto Mechanics now!

If you were to sell your soul for a car, what kind would it be?

I am probably superstitious, because I will not say the words, “I would sell my soul for…”

And would you do it if it never meant having to fix it or get an oil change ever again?

It is tempting.

When’s the last time you had bad car trouble?

All my life. I am sure this car is inspired by every car I had in the past. I finally have a tolerable one–and I didn’t even have to trade my soul for it.

What’s your dream car, if you have one?

I’m not much of a car person, but I am fond of Back to the Future’s DeLorean DMC-12, followed by the Batmobile.

What would your personal hell look like?

I used to be a public school teacher. That was hell. I still like teaching but I do not enjoy the politics, a classroom with 40 kids and not enough desks or supplies, administrators

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

Most stories are rejected dozens of times. Sometimes even forty times. This one I sold to the first market I sent it to. I am aware that is very unusual, but it was also part of a series. The first story in the series was rejected at least two dozen times.

What book are you reading right now?

I am reading the Princess Academy. It’s a YA book. It’s good, but I would probably only recommend it to 13 year old girls who like historical with made up countries but isn’t really fantasy because it doesn’t have magic. It is kind of a weird, in-between genre.

Before that, I was reading the Bone Witch trilogy. I loved it and highly recommend it. It is a secondary fantasy world with women who have a profession like geisha but with magic–and necromancy.

I am about to release Web of Lies and Supernatural Blonde, from the series The Hex Files with Felix Thatch. The main character is a magical detective who solves paranormal mysteries. It is a spin-off from my bestselling series Womby’s School for Wayward Witches. You think you know the world of magical boarding schools? Not from a teacher’s perspective at a school for at-risk youth.

For now, these series and other spin-off series are only available on Amazon. Some of my other books are offered elsewhere.

Our kindest generosity to Sarina for the chat on cars and souls!

🚘 The Devil Went Down to Georgia Auto Mechanics - foofaraw

2026-06-11T21:13:43.000Z

Joyce Ferguson considered it a coincidence that a man in a baby-blue suit happened to walk up to her stalled Toyota Camry seconds after she muttered the words, “I would sell my soul to the devil if this car never broke down again.”

“Do you mean that?” the stranger asked in a voice as silky as soymilk in a vegan latte on a hot Georgia day.

Which it was. Only Joyce didn’t have anything to quench her thirst. She thought she’d be home from work thirty minutes ago. Sweat soaked through her work blouse, and she’d thrown her blazer in the car.

She didn’t see where the man had come from. There weren’t any other cars pulled over onto the side of the road beside hers.

“Be careful what you wish for.” His smile was charming, disarming.

Joyce laughed and waved him off dismissively. She didn’t believe in souls, or the devil, or any of that nonsense.

This was the third time Joyce’s car engine had died this month, each time a different problem—which meant she’d needed to fork over $200 or more each time. Despite what the last overpriced mechanic said, she knew it wasn’t the battery.

It was hard to save up for something better when she had to keep investing in her current money pit. Still, it was better than the last Honda with the moldy truck, lack of functional air conditioning, and oil leak that had run it into the ground.

Sometimes she felt like Job being tested in the Bible—before she reminded herself that she didn’t believe in that story. She was a born-again Buddhist.

“Why don’t you pop your hood?” The man removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “I know a thing or two about this kind of problem.” His smile was calming, reassuring, like the father she’d never had.

“Are you a mechanic?” She eyed the pristine baby-blue suit, doubtful.

Three cars passed by, one of them kicking up a rock that the man effortlessly dodged. He waited until the rumble of vehicles faded before speaking. “Not exactly. But I am good at fixing things.” He winked at her. “It’s my specialty.”

Joyce had a suspicion he was flirting. She pretended she didn’t notice. The last thing she wanted was for this guy to think she found him attractive. Just because his white shirt hugged a muscular chest and he had a chiseled jaw, did not make him god’s gift to women. But if she didn’t play the part of the thankful damsel in distress, and firmly told him she wasn’t interested, he probably wouldn’t look at her car.

Joyce popped the hood. She drew up beside him to watch him inspect the engine. He wiggled a few cords, checked her oil and radiator fluid, and eyed her battery. Already it had been corroded with blue powder around the metal, even though it had only been a week since she’d called AAA and purchased a new one. Unfortunately, she’d already used her two towing benefits she was allotted this year.

She should have paid for the more expensive plan. But if she had, she wouldn’t have been able to afford her rent.

The stranger grunted as he examined the engine. Joyce suspected that was a bad sign.

“How long have these connections been corroded like this?” he asked.

“The tow truck from AAA just replaced it a week ago. It didn’t look like that when it was installed.”

“AAA,” he muttered in disgust. “Such a waste.”

Joyce wiped the sweat from her upper lip, smearing lipstick on her arm accidentally. “Do you think the guy with AAA sold me an old one?”

He picked up a stick from the side of the road and scraped the blue corrosion off the bolts holding the battery. “It’s possible. Or it might be your problem was never the battery.”

“Before that, it was the serpentine belt.”

“And before that?” His eyes were inky and black, like a void.

She felt like she could fall into the dark depths of his eyes and lose herself there. She found herself leaning closer. The heat of the day faded for the briefest moment, and she swayed on her feet.

Was this what love at first sight felt like?

A truck drove past too quickly, startling Joyce out of her stupor.

It took her a moment to regain herself before she answered. “How’d you know there was a time before that?” She found herself twirling her hair around her finger like when she flirted with an attractive woman at the salsa club.

She forced her hand to be still. She didn’t even like men.

At least, not most men.

“Call it intuition.” He lowered the hood of her car and slammed it shut. “Try it now.”

Joyce hopped into her car, turned the ignition, and it started up. Cold air blasted in her face.

“How’d you do that?” she asked.

Wiggling a few wires and scraping the corrosion off the battery shouldn’t have worked.

“It isn’t going to last long.” He shrugged back into his jacket. “What you need is a good mechanic that provides quality services to diagnose the problem.” He removed a business card from his pocket.

It was powder-blue, like his suit. The cardstock was embossed with raised patterns around an indistinct business name. Before her eyes, the words shifted from a blur to a readable font. It had to be the heat playing tricks on her eyes.

The name on the card was Georgia Auto Mechanic. The font was fancy and elegant, something at odds with every mechanic she’d been to so far.

“Yeah, thanks.” She stared at the card. “It’s just so expensive to go to a mechanic, and I already paid to fix this twice this month already.” At this rate, she wasn’t going to be able to pay rent.

Her aunt might let her borrow money again, but she hated to ask.

Joyce’s eyes burned. She didn’t want to cry in front of this stranger, but her frustration threatened to overflow. After all the research she’d done on the best used cars within her budget, how could she have gotten stuck with another lemon of a car? It was so unfair.

“I understand.” He nodded with empathy. “Tell them Cain sent you, and tell them he insists on letting you use his discount. If that still isn’t within your budget, they can work out a payment plan with you.”

“What kind of discount?” She was still trying to figure out why a man would wear a business suit out in this heat. “Are you the owner or something?” Cain might have known his way around a car, but he didn’t look like he had worked a day in his life with his polished shoes and a manicure nicer than hers.

He shrugged. “I work as a consultant. I send them referrals.”

“Okay, thanks.” She stared at the business car, uncertain. He probably was going to get a referral commission, which was fine, if it was a good mechanic.

It was just that none of them had solved her car problems.

“Go over there today before your car dies again. They have someone who can drive you home.” He patted the car door as if to send her on her way.

Joyce skimmed the address on the card. It was just down the road from her house. She could walk home if she needed to.

When she looked up from the card, the man was gone. The long stretch of road was empty. She hadn’t seen where he’d arrived from either. She hadn’t noticed any cars pulling up behind her. The only place he could have gone to was across the road to the ditch and through the switchgrass. But it was unlikely a man dressed as nicely as the stranger would walk into a field of weeds.

She reasoned she must have been too hot to notice him depart.

At Georgia Auto Mechanic, the sign over the building was the typical bold, blocky letters she associated with testosterone, football, and mechanics. It didn’t resemble the swirling script on the card. But fonts weren’t important to anyone outside an advertising agency. Only the quality of service mattered.

Joyce parked her car in one of the empty spots, spying men through the doors of the open garage bay. Most of them were working on cars, but one man in jeans leaned against a red convertible, tipping back a bottle of water, a stream of liquid running down his chin and his naked chest.

His ripped, naked chest. Once again, Joyce felt that strange sense of ethereal attraction, like she’d felt with Cain, even though she didn’t typically find herself attracted to men. It was unnerving how she’d felt the same uncanny sense of carnal desire twice in the same day—and neither for women.

Now that Cain was gone, she couldn’t even remember what about him had been attractive. She could remember no distinguishing feature except his blue suit. “Devil in a Blue Dress” played in her head.

She didn’t know what had come over her today. Maybe it was the heat. Or hormones? Stress?

The front lobby and reception smelled like buttery movie popcorn. The room was empty, save for a receptionist with a nametag that said “Bub,” but Joyce guessed that wasn’t the receptionist’s real name.

“Cain sent me,” she said to the woman behind the counter. “He told me to ask for his discount.”

The receptionist wore her platinum hair in a high ponytail, showing off high ebony cheekbones. From the grease on her overalls, she looked like she might also have doubled as a mechanic. Though, most mechanics didn’t show off this much cleavage.

Joyce did her best to keep eye contact. Bub was ruggedly feminine in an endearing way that Joyce typically found herself drawn to.

Bub looked Joyce up and down. “Bless your heart, darlin’, I’m guessing you’re going to need a payment plan?”

Joyce bit her lip. Was it that obvious? Or did she just have a sweaty, downtrodden look to her after being stuck alongside the road for thirty minutes? “How did you know?”

The woman leaned across the counter, whispering confidentially. “I bet you would do anything to have a working car again, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, I mean, I would pay whatever I need to. But I’ve already paid for it to be fixed multiple times, and it’s always so expensive. I don’t know if I’ll be able to afford the price. Cain mentioned payment plans?” Joyce hoped if she said she needed a payment plan upfront they wouldn’t refuse her.

The receptionist nodded with understanding. “Honey, Cain only sends us the most desperate customers, people with cars that should probably be in a trash compactor.”

“Oh. Maybe I should go. ” Joyce suspected she was wasting her time. Maybe she needed to start taking the bus to work, which would take close to two hours instead of seven minutes. It would be miserable. But she would be able to start saving for a new vehicle.

Bub grabbed her hand before Joyce withdrew. “Sit tight. The mechanics haven’t even looked at your car. Let them run a diagnostic first.”

“How much does the diagnostic cost?” Sometimes the diagnostic was so expensive, she couldn’t afford to fix whatever they found.

“Don’t you worry about that. It’s free. Do you want to wait in the lobby, or do you want someone to drive you home and wait for a phone call to hear how much our services cost?”

Bub explained it would only take about thirty minutes to run a diagnostic, so Joyce decided to wait. She ate the free popcorn from the machine and drank a cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup. She indulged in the luxury of extra creamer, which she always skimped on at home because she’d been trying to save money—usually to pay for repairs to her car.

Thirty minutes later, Joyce printed out a list of repairs needed. There were twenty different problems with the vehicle. The only thing that wasn’t a problem was the battery. Replacing the alternator was the most expensive item on the list at $730, but all the other parts and labor added up to a whopping $2,666.00. A cold lump of dread settled in Joyce’s gut. At this rate, it would just be cheaper to buy a new car.

She was probably going to be taking the bus to work for an entire year so she could afford to buy a more dependable vehicle.

“Also, your tires are worn so low, you’re lucky one of them hasn’t blown out.” Bub skimmed the list. “The brakes are close to shot, and you need to get the oil changed, but you can wait and have those done later down the road.”

“Yeah,” Joyce said, feeling a mountain of despair threatening to bury her alive. “Is that with the discount?”

“I’m so glad you reminded me!” Bub said with a wink. “You were sent in by Cain, so that means you get our special pricing plan.”

Bub printed out an additional paper. “Just sign at the bottom of the last page, and we can get started working on your car today.”

Joyce read over the contract. The print was so small, it rivaled the size of print in the Bible. She had to get out her aunt’s magnifying glasses from the glovebox, something Aunt Saga had accidentally left during last month’s visit. The two of them had needed to push the car back to her house when it had died down the street.

Joyce underlined important phrases with her pencil, trying to focus despite the sounds of drills buzzing and motors chugging in the garage. There were a lot of tiny words, but the important ones practically bounced off the page.

Zero percent down.

Zero interest.

No upfront fees.

It sounded too good to be true. Joyce was waiting for the catch. Then she found it.

Services are completely paid for.

You will never have to get your car repaired again.

Pay with your immortal soul later….

“Um, excuse me, but I think I must be misunderstanding something,” Joyce said. “Who exactly is paying for the services here?”

“You are. But don’t worry, not right now.”

“I’m paying later with . . . my immortal soul?” Joyce wasn’t sure she believed in souls. She had left her Christian upbringing behind. All this seemed like a prank.

“That’s right. If you aren’t able to pay with cash, check, or Visa, the company also takes souls.”

“No way.”

“Way.” Bub leaned forward, smooshing her cleavage enticingly against the counter. If she was flirting, Joyce didn’t mind. “Unlike our regular services that charge an arm and a leg, the Cain special means you’ll get your car repaired, and you’ll never have to get it fixed again.”

Joyce frowned. “Define ‘fix.’ I’ll still have to get oil changes, and replace the tires, and . . . other car stuff.”

“Nope. Never again. You won’t even have to fill up windshield wiper fluid. Everything will function for as long as you continue to drive this car.”

Joyce had read stories like this on the internet, deals with the devil that people claimed were true, but she’d always assumed they were urban legends. Her mother and aunt used to tell her how the devil would come to collect people’s souls who bargained with him—and he loved to collect his payment early. She wondered now if “Bub” was short for “Beelzebub.”

Bub was, in fact, the kind of sexy temptation the devil would send her way—not that she really believed in God and Satan. And yet, here she was. . . .

Joyce tried to focus on what Bub was saying—and reading between the lines. “You said ‘as long as I continue to drive this car.’ That means if I die early in a car accident, I won’t continue to drive this car, so the deal is void.”

Bub placed her hand on a curvy hip. “That would be true, but you can’t die in a car accident. This car will never be totaled or even scratched. I’m pretty sure that’s on page two.”

“Well, I might die from food poisoning or get shot by a burglar.” Joyce could imagine how a devil would manipulate her life to claim her soul early. “Then I won’t be driving the car either.”

“That is such a cliché stereotype,” Bub said. “Cain really works for the best deals for his clients. Read all the clauses on page four and five.”

What? Joyce was Cain’s client? She hadn’t agreed to that!

And yet, she had taken his card and done as he’d instructed to get the discount. She kept reading. There was a long list of methods the devil was not allowed to use to collect one’s soul. He wasn’t allowed to terminate life early to collect payment of a soul. No one else was allowed to terminate life early so he could collect it.

There were a number of natural causes listed which could potentially cause the termination of one’s life: heart attack, stroke, seizure, cancer, diabetes, cirrhosis, respiratory disease, pneumonia, and Covid to name a few. The contract guaranteed at least fifty years of life on earth before dying of natural causes.

Again, it was too good to be true. Joyce kept trying to find another catch, but other than owing her immortal soul, there wasn’t one.

“Why would Cain let me live another fifty years?” Joyce asked. “Why wouldn’t he want to collect early?”

“Immortals are patient.” Bub shrugged. “In any case, Cain really does try to get good deals for his clients. I’ve seen him help more people get out of dead end jobs, toxic relationships, and cure their health problems than I’ve seen god do.”

Her testimonial reminded Joyce of Yelp reviews that had been bought. She couldn’t trust Bub. And yet … Joyce wanted to believe her. Especially as Bub batted her thick eyelashes at her.

Maybe more than the seduction of Bub’s words, Joyce wanted a functional car.

She read the contract again. Bub didn’t rush her. If the car was ever damaged or destroyed in any way, the contract was null.

“What if I leave my car on the railroad tracks and a train hits it?” Joyce asked.

“After your fifty guaranteed years? Bless your heart, your car will be dead and so will you.” Bub adjusted her blond ponytail. “But before that, your car will miraculously fix itself. You won’t need to come back into the shop for something little like that.”

Little, like getting demolished by a train?

Bub grinned. “Believe me, people have tried everything to destroy their cars after they make this deal, but the cars always come out on top!”

The devil had thought of everything. Or almost everything.

Joyce was no lawyer, but she could see the loophole. She could guarantee that she died of some other cause, like a skydiving accident in forty-nine years. That would ensure she died of a different cause than a natural cause related to old age, which would deny her of the one last year she had been promised by the devil, which would break the contract and make it void. She wouldn’t owe her soul—and she would get fifty good years out of a car.

She would never need to go to a mechanic again.

“It’s a pretty good deal if you ask me,” Bub said.

Joyce eyed Bub’s platinum hair, her roots looking natural despite her dark skin tone. Bub was too beautiful to be real.

Joyce lowered her voice. “Are you immortal?”

“Are you asking if I’m one of those devils? No way!” Bub laughed. “I’m just one of the devil’s many servants. Not everyone gets sent to fiery damnation. Some of us get front desk work.” She made a face at that.

Joyce didn’t think working at a front desk was that bad.

Joyce glanced out the door, but none of the mechanics were within earshot. “What bargain did you strike with the devil to get yourself here?”

“Beauty and youth,” Bub grimaced. “I got what I wanted. Too late, I realized I didn’t want everything that came with it.” She bit her lip. “That’s the biggest drawback. Think about the contract carefully. It seems like a good deal, but really, do you really want what it promises? Do you really want a car that never needs to be fixed?”

Joyce did. Nor could she see why asking for beauty and youth was so bad—except that she already got hit on by enough annoying men she didn’t like. People probably didn’t take Bub seriously and thought she was a bimbo for looking so gorgeous.

Joyce supposed anything could be a curse.

This contract with the supposed devil promised Joyce would never have to see another mechanic again. She wouldn’t have that stress in her life. She could save money, time, and energy, and put it toward something else.

Joyce signed the contract with a ballpoint pen.

“I don’t have to sign in blood?” she asked.

Bub waved her off. “Black ink is acceptable.”

She didn’t even believe in souls anyway. And a front desk job wasn’t that bad, she repeated like a mantra to make herself feel better.

“My shift is almost over.” Bub batted her eyelashes at Joyce. “Do you want me to drive you home? I can tell you more about the mechanics on staff on the way. Some sold their soul to the devil, so they work for him too. But they’re really good mechanics. I mean, the devil wants quality souls, ya know?”

Joyce took Bub up on the ride home. Bub drove the company car, a Volvo with the mechanic shop logo on the doors. Joyce turned up the air conditioner full blast—which instantly cooled the car and made her sink into the seat in satisfaction. Her Camry usually took a couple minutes before it felt cool.

Joyce directed Bub down the road before asking, “So the mechanics in the garage, those are souls condemned to eternal torment and damnation?” She thought of the shirtless guy who had an aura of devilish charm about him. She had a feeling he’d been a demon, not a condemned mortal.

“Some are sold souls. The rest have no idea what’s going on. But if you consider minimum wage to be torment and damnation, yes. They’re stuck in a living hell until they advance to better circumstances.” Bub’s warm, brown eyes twinkled before growing somber. “It sort of depends on each individual’s version of hell. And their religion, I guess.”

Joyce was lucky she was Buddhist. She didn’t believe in hell like Christians did. But she still had retained some Catholic guilt that no amount of chanting the Lotus Sutra was ever going to remove.

“Selling your soul to the devil is like recruiting the desperate into a pyramid scheme,” Bub said.

Joyce nodded, sneaking a peek at Joyce’s flawless skin, free of wrinkles. “I think I understand. Owning a soul means free labor to recruit more souls.” Someday Joyce would be destined to a life of servitude—if she didn’t use her clever plan to get herself out first.

Although, even if Joyce didn’t find a way out of the contract, it still wouldn’t be as bad as Christian hell. But it would be a setback to her karma if she regressed to a lower plane of existence after making it thus far.

In Buddhism, there wasn’t one realm of eternal torment, but a bunch of lives that cycled through miserable planes of existence. Joyce could relate to the idea of her current life being suffering, especially with all her car trouble. If Joyce was already in hell, maybe getting a good car was good karma that would lift her upward as she strove for Nirvana.

Joyce went on a date with Bub that weekend. She was certain her karma had improved. Bub picked her up while her car was being worked on.

Bub drove that fancy, red convertible Joyce had spotted in the garage earlier. The car was such a beauty, Joyce couldn’t help being jealous. The seats were genuine leather. The paint job looked so shiny and new. The hubcaps had rhinestones. The sound system was incredible.

Joyce realized the catch in her contract then.

She had sold her soul for a 2005 Toyota Camry. Not for a Lamborghini. Not for a Ferrari. Not for a car with heated seats, blue tooth, navigation, or anything luxury like Bub’s. Joyce would never be able to upgrade her car even if she worked her way up the corporate ladder in the advertising agency.

She should have purchased her dream car, a 1966 yellow Mustang Fastback, prior to signing the contract. But no, she would be stuck with this one for the rest of her days.

Already, she could feel her karma spiraling her downward. Forget the fifty years until she died—she was already in hell.

It was karma. Or, in this case, car-ma.

Sarina Dorie has sold over 280 short stories to markets like Analog, Daily Science Fiction, Fantasy Magazine, and F & SF. She has over one hundred books up on Amazon, including her bestselling series, Womby’s School for Wayward Witches. When she isn’t writing, she teaches and performs belly dance, though she has no intention of competing or selling her soul to any devils.

You can find info about her short stories and novels on her website.

The best way to stay in contact with Sarina Dorie, hear about what she is writing, know when she has a new release, or books offered for free on Amazon is by signing up for her newsletter.

Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

What Do Moms Know About Fashion? - foofaraw

Tap to pay - foofaraw

📮 July Zine - foofaraw

This month...

Stories

Poems

Observations

Cartoons

Cover art

Stacey King, Bulls broadcaster and 3-time NBA champion, dies at 59 - The Independent Variable

E. Florian Gludovacz - foofaraw

What’s your favorite way to eat potatoes?

What would a potato’s least favorite way to be cooked be?

Do you think you’d be as brave as Spudwig if you were put in the same situation?

Is there a new potato religion about to be formed?

What would their symbol be?

Do these potatoes have mouths or do they communicate another way?

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?

A giant bow of gratitude to Florian for enlightening us about the glorious spud!

glint /// terminal app - The Independent Variable

sportsball /// terminal app - The Independent Variable

A Face That Knows - foofaraw

Digital copy for paid subscribers

🥔 Small Potatoes - foofaraw

The Void - foofaraw

👑 Emperor Trampatine Addresses the Board of Galactic Peace - foofaraw

Marketing strategy: Dumpsterfire - The Independent Variable

Bobby Rollins - foofaraw

Have you spent any time in a small business or tech repair shop like Benny’s?

Do you know anyone who has named their business after made-up person like Alfred did with Benny’s?

How long do you think Bradford lasts in the shop with his fax machine?

Do you think Bradford ever figures out how his watch works?

Would you like working for someone like Albert?

How long would you last trying to explain to Bradford how his watch works?

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

What book are you reading right now?

Thanks to Bobby for setting us (and our watches) straight!

⏱️ The Nonsense Machine - foofaraw

Medical Debt - foofaraw

Mirage - foofaraw

Soccer is truly spectacular, in spite of itself - The Independent Variable

🎉 Weekend Edition Vol.096 - foofaraw

The Week That Was

The Back Page

Sarina Dorie - foofaraw

If you were to sell your soul for a car, what kind would it be?

And would you do it if it never meant having to fix it or get an oil change ever again?

When’s the last time you had bad car trouble?

What’s your dream car, if you have one?

What would your personal hell look like?

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?

Our kindest generosity to Sarina for the chat on cars and souls!

🚘 The Devil Went Down to Georgia Auto Mechanics - foofaraw