Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

🎙️ Ben Daggers - foofaraw

2026-01-02T17:19:53.000Z

Read Ben’s story, Alette in lane six is a self-righteous bitch, on Foofaraw now!

How often do you go bowling?

My forty-something wrists, unfortunately, don’t enjoy hurling heavy stuff down the lane as much as they used to, so only once a year or so.

How often does it end in disappointment?

Every. Single. Time.

What’s the highest score you’ve ever gotten bowling?

I’ve barely scraped three digits. Probably 110ish.

Do you think our protagonist ever ends up winning, or are they doomed to perpetual losing?

I’d like to think that at some point their luck changes (though that would be bad news for the fairy orphans and flightless veterans.)

What would happen if a fairy was caught cheating and influencing a game as our fairy does here?

I imagine that cheating is a serious business in the world of lane fairies. Three match ban, minimum.

Do you think Alette plays fair? Or have they been breaking the rules to turn things in their favor the entire time?

That’s a very good question. I’d always imagined her to be irritatingly pious, but the more I think about it, the more I think she might have been secretly breaking the rules all this time.

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

The Girl Who Found Things by Henry Slesar is a wonderfully dark, classic story of the occult which I found in a short story collection edited by Isaac Asimov.

What book are you reading right now?

Tales of the Occult edited by Asimov (see above.)

My talented friend Jaime Gill has just had a great little story published in New Flash Fiction: https://newflashfiction.com/appeasement/

Thanks to Ben for helping us start the new year on the right foot!

🎳 Alette in lane six is a self-righteous bitch - foofaraw

2026-01-01T17:09:18.000Z

There are many mysteries that baffle you stupid humans, from the building of the pyramids to the meaning of life. But nothing bakes your noodles quite as much as wondering what goes on at the far end of a bowling lane. Where do the pins go? How do they know which ones to put back and which to leave down? If you’re imagining some complex series of motors and sensors, think again. The answer’s us: bowling fairies.

Every lane, in every bowling alley in the world, is run by a different bowling fairy. I’m stationed at San Jose Megabowl’s lane seventeen. Not the best-paying spot in the world, but not the worst, either. When I say ‘pay’ don’t think for one second I mean those filthy pieces of paper you all seem to care about so much. I’m talking about human disappointment. Human disappointment is our currency, our fuel, our reason for goddamn being.

Every gutterball, every missed spare, every thwarted perfect game; these put the spring in our step and the glitter on our wings. Here at the Megabowl, we have a league of our own: each month we measure who’s collected the most disappointment, and the winner gets to take home the lot—down to the last disappointing drop.

Tonight’s the night I finally knock Alette off her stupid perch. That lane six bitch wins every freaking month, but rather than keep the disappointment for herself, little miss holier-than-thou donates it to fairy orphans and flightless veterans. Not me. After I sweep this month’s title, I’ll bathe in that shit. And when my fellow fairies cry about me being mean and selfish, I’ll use their pathetic tears as bubble bath.

There’s no way I can lose. I’m only a point behind Alette, and the final game on my lane is between two official bowling teams. Team games bring out every ounce of stress, anger, and frustration. It all adds up to a bucketload of disappointment—more than enough to tip the championship in my favor.

Artwork by Tony Tran

Things are off to a bad start, though. Both teams are bowling strikes, and their energy is peaceful and collected. Not a single drop of disappointment so far. I might need to break a few rules…

During the next would-be strike, I flutter by, grabbing onto the ten-pin for dear life. The bowler doesn’t flinch. Even when I swerve his second throw wide of the spare, he’s a picture of calm. Fuck.

I up the ante on the next player, leaving him with a dreaded 7-10 split. He smiles, a beacon of tranquility. Double fuck.

I pull out every trick: stealing their favorite ball, misscoring, changing their names in the system to ‘StoolbreathMcFuckFace’, but none of it produces a fairy’s jockstrap of disappointment. These bastards are unflappable.

The game ends and smug-as-shit Alette celebrates another victory. As I sulk back empty-winged, I catch a glimpse of the players’ shirts.

One thing’s for sure: next time the San Jose Stoic Society plays the Bayside Buddhists, this bowling fairy’s going on strike.

Ben Daggers is a short fiction writer from London, but living in Osaka, Japan. He loves exploring the dark edges of fiction, then slowly backing away when things get a little too dark.

When not writing, procrastinating, or feeling guilty for procrastinating instead of writing, Ben designs award-winning escape rooms.

📮 January zines - foofaraw

2026-01-01T17:05:17.000Z

The January issues of Foofaraw Zine, Four-headed Foofaraw, and the new magazine Quotidian Bagatelle are here!

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.

Individual issues are available for purchase exclusively on Weightless books, where you can also subscribe.

Periodic Aggregation: Routed Carefully & Electronically Logged

This month...

Stories

Alette in lane six is a self-righteous bitch by Ben Daggers
Moon to Moon FM by E.J. LeRoy
Joena's Stone on Loan by Lyss Buchthal
Torrents by Erica W. Weems
The Last Free Apple Cider Donut by Jeff Goldberg

Poem

Post-Apocalyptic Procyonid Plague by Andrew Maust

Observations

The driving essay by Nicholas de Marino
Four-headed Foofaraw

Interviews

Ben Daggers
E.J. LeRoy
Lyss Buchthal
Erica W. Weems
Jeff Goldberg

Cover art

by Tony Tran

On to the zines...

🏘️ With friends like these - foofaraw

2025-12-25T17:00:08.000Z

I dreamt last night I was completely alone; for the first time, my so-called friends were nowhere to be seen. Just me and the aching, yawning silence I had forever been dreaming of. But as soon as I fell in love with the peace of mind, the echo of the void began to tug at my shivering naked body; where I was, I was nowhere to be found. I hate how nothing can just be simple and good, not even in my dreams. But at least if I disappeared, I wouldn't have to suffer my friendship anymore; if I couldn't be content in waking nightmares, asleep, or in dreams, at least I could find something resembling peace in death. Maybe then, at last, I could be free.

The blare of my alarm clock painfully woke me. I jolted up, frazzle-haired, crusty-eyed, and moaning. I kicked the parade of legs beside me and groaned as I realized all my stupid friends had decided to spend the night. As if they weren't satisfied taking up all my days; now they had to steal my nights too, and what little sleep I could squeeze in between the energy drinks, booze, and endless hedonistic excursions. How… functional and productive. I'm truly the image of 21st-century success.

Let’s see. I have five awful roommates to split the rent and split my skull, a low-level position at a dying rag, no boyfriend, no family except my self-righteous brother, and no future prospects. Always a cough or one incident with my friends away from being fired, or homeless, as my friend Rachel always likes to remind me when she's not going on about the world ending. All my other friends dropped them, but I'm stuck; I have no choice but to deal with them. They keep me down in the dirt, always a million words behind, unshowered, confused, awkward, stupid, re-traumatized, scared, paralyzed, reckless, and poor.

Like that time Rachel convinced me my ex-boyfriend gave me AIDs just because I had a bruise on my chest and was coughing up blood, which turned out to be from a beating at some mosh pit Cleo dragged me to. Or that time Conrad tried to remind me of my traumatic, fucked-up, don't ask, childhood by driving me to the scene of the crime. Or overly awkward Mable, who made me think someone wanted me to kiss them when they didn’t, who is always leaving me second-guessing the most basic social interactions and feeling and confused and embarrassed and just plain dumb all the fucking time. God, I hate her. Or that time Mimi made me miss all my deadlines at grad school with stupid, distracting bullshit like impulsive vacations, or what Ben Franklin said about casual sex, so I had to drop out, fucking bitch. So yeah, they say you can't choose your family, but you can choose your friends; whoever said that hasn't spent a week with mine. Not everyone has such awful friends, so not everyone can relate; they understand I stay living with them for rent, but can't understand why I'm such a doormat. To be honest, I do not know either. I've tried to tell them off. They always come right back. It's been so long now; I can't imagine a life without them, but I wish I could.

Mimi sat next to me on the bed, dressed in leg warmers, a crop top with a thousand necklaces, and a rainbow tutu, looking like she had just gotten back from preschool. She was smiling at me like the Cheshire cat, sending shivers down my spine. When I pulled out my computer to work, she grabbed my phone and started to scroll, shoving the phone in my face.

“Hey, Eddie, I just created a new Kahoot quiz: who is the best gay friend group. I added characters from East Siders, Queer as Folk, and a bunch of other shows… wanna play?”

I put my computer down and scrolled on my phone to see the quiz. She looked giddy. I looked back at the unwritten document Trevor would surely have my ass for. I had to finish this right now, not later; I didn't have later. But it was too late. I had already forgotten about my work. Two hours later we had gone through seven quizzes, created two, read several short stories I wrote in middle school to laugh, called several old friends and exes, watched four funny videos, and that's just what I can remember.

“Wow this is so funny,” I said, lost in the 10th funny music video we were watching.

“Yeah. Oh… you reminded me, we should go see that movie that came out today, Love Sick, about a hot rich guy who’s dying of cancer, and his boyfriend, girlfriend, and other boyfriend are all fighting but also trying to fulfill his dying wish of building a home for troubled teens.”

“Yeah, we should, but don't we have, like… something to do today?” I asked. Mimi shrugged in vain.

“WORK! WORK! WORK! YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE FOR WORK AND GET FIRED! AND THEN YOU'RE GOING TO BE HOMELESS AND DIE! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT, YOU STUPID, INCOMPETENT LOSER?” Rachel screamed, bursting in. I looked at the clock—fuck, we were late—looked back at the Google Doc, and realized this whole time I hadn't written a word.

“Oh my god, fuck you, Mimi! This is what you wanted, isn't it, to distract me again!”

“I just wanted to have fun with you, Eddie,” she whined, hardly apologetic. She did this daily.

“FUN? Who has time for that?”

Later at work I stumbled in looking sick and unkempt. Trevor gave me a private talk, saying I'm on thin ice.

“We said you can keep your job if you really knock it out of the park with this week's issue. You did finish it this time… didn't you?” I sighed, giving as guilty a look as ever I could muster. Trevor stroked his beard and snapped his fingers. He always was good at pretending to like me, so he must have convinced himself he’d feel real bad about what he was about to do.

“Listen, Eddie, I don’t want to have to do this.”

“Save it, I quit.”

I walked away and out the door, flipping off Trevor. The world felt fast. Things were happening before I could think them through or even process their crash-burn, rocking, shaking aftermath.

“God, you know what, Eds, I think this was for the best. Now that you don’t have to give your talents to these hacks, you can be your best self, and you won’t be tied down by such a demanding job,” Mimi said. “Now you can have more time for yourself, for your book.”

“For your neglected romantic resume,” Cleo swooned, practically catcalling an attractive gentleman walking by. Honks, screams, the trains under our feet, pigeons getting ready to shit overhead, and the blaring sun burned. It was rush hour, and I couldn't take much more of this. I held back some tears and rubbed my hands, trying to maintain composure in public. I was going home to get some rest. Of course, they chased after me. I could feel my heartbeat increasing, full of stress and regret.

“Now that we don't have a job, how are we going to make friends? You know how hard that is for us,” Mable said, removing her beanie as if to mourn.

“Wait, Eddie, does this mean we can see the movie now?” Mimi said, noticing I was at the crosswalk, waiting anxiously for the light to change before they caught up to me.

“Hey, where are you going!?” Mimi cried after me as I crossed the street. “HOME!”

“Wait, what do you mean HOME!??? Eddie, you don't have a job; we're all going to die sick, homeless, and fat!”

Rachel's catastrophizing followed me relentlessly, inducing nervous nausea, fear, jittery uncertainty, and an overwhelming, paranoia-fueled urge to react. How could I let someone as pathetic as Rachel affect me so deeply?

Back home, I raced up the five flights of stairs only to find an eviction notice on my door.

“See, I told you.” Rachel said, smugly.

I unlocked the door anyway, thankfully seeing all my stuff still inside, and flopped on the bed. In anguish and helpless frustration, I put on Apple TV. It started playing my sad playlist: plenty of Fiona Apple, Hole, Nirvana, Lana Del Rey, The Cure, The Smiths, and REM. Before I could even begin crying myself to sleep, Cleo stood arms crossed in the doorway, still clad in his party clothes.

“No, you aren’t going to be such a sad sack. Cheer up bitch, we're going to the club.” I sighed, wanting to be happy, to be high so bad, I rolled with his punches. He took me to three clubs, one banging neon adventure after another. We felt like we could do anything: more drugs, more men, more music. After a while we flew too close to the sun, leaving us a long fall. Cleo’s grief was infectious. I was so sad, I forgot how we were ever so happy. As our wallowing hit its peak at a local dive bar, Conrad came along, and Cleo went home in tears. Conrad, with his black trench coat, floppy black hair, and devious smile, took me under his devil's wing to wander around Bushwick, predicting my darkest thoughts. They made so much cold, perfect sense when they slipped through his silver lips. They slithered into my mind until the night went dark. I did things I can't remember, all blended together in one tired dance. If I have friends who want me dead, at least they’re honest about it. What does it matter? The world still goes round. What does it matter when you know you wouldn’t be missed, you’ve never been loved or meaningfully kissed, you’ve never had a happy day to call your own, you feel everything like it’s a line of code in a pre-programmed drone aware of its own artificiality. You can’t remember a childhood, a happy life, or a peaceful mind. You can’t see a future, or a present, or a past, and the world moves too fast.

You never even get your peace in sleep, or in your words. You write suicide notes and cries for help when you long to write memoirs without being too ashamed of your own life to follow through, to write something happy and sad, real and fake, a story that makes people's days better than it would have been, but you'll never publish something with your never-ending downward spin, you'll never have your moment, you'll never win, you'll never grow beyond this painful bottom-feeding routine, never get a day where life doesn't feel like a punishment for being alive, never get a real escape, and the world spins too fast, and you can never get a minute to think. A minute to rest, or think of something better to try, to break free. I think I might need to start over. Maybe the afterlife will have a better deal for a guy like me. Maybe they will have better subways with less construction and better friends who don't ensure your destruction.

I can hardly remember what I did, just that it was the farthest I’ve ever fallen, and Conrad was pleased, telling me over and over I deserved worse than death, and I deserved to bleed, he really liked saying that to me. I saw a rat. It smiled at me. Somehow that made me cry.

Men on the street knew something was wrong because men aren't supposed to cry.

Then I left, and I wish I had said goodbye to who I couldn't tell you. Well, I wish I said goodbye to that rat, he looked like he was going to miss me. I guess he’s the only one, so I didn't feel any conflicted doubts or remorse. I don't think I felt anything at all.

***

As if nothing at all had happened, I woke up. It was my brother, Ralph. He raced over, throwing his arms around me. “Eddie… I’m so glad you’re alive,” he whispered into my shoulder as I put my right arm on his back for a confused pat.

“Why did you do this to yourself, Eddie?” “Do what?” I said, genuinely confused.

“The pills, were you trying to kill yourself?” Always so to the point. I give myself a headache trying to think.

“I… I can’t remember.” I said with total honesty, but I’m sure that would soon change. “Do you… know why you’re here Eds? You overdosed on... Ketamine,” he struggled to say the drug’s name. Later my brother talked to the doctor and decided I should stay in a psych ward for a few days. I had nowhere else to go.

I met with the first doctor after a week of boredom, forced medication, painful self-reflection, and a billion different tests. He sat me down in his office on my last day in the hospital, after my brother had agreed to have me stay with him for a while upon my release. Until I was back on my feet, whenever that happened.

“So, Eddie, do you know why you had to come here?”

“Psych wards are scams. The only reason anyone should be forced into this boring jail is if they try to kill someone else or themselves and might do it again.”

“And you do… fit the latter description.”

“I guess so.”

“But that's not quite what I meant and you knew that, didn't you? Why overall do you think your life choices up until this point have been so unstable? Unstable enough to end up here?”

“Yeah, isn't it clear? It’s my fucking friends; they ruin everything. This time they’ve taken it too far.”

“You don't have any friends. Your brother said you never have.”

“What do you mean? Of course I do! You know, my freaking life-ruining, roommates. Mimi, Conrad, Celo, Rachel, and Mabel, he didn't tell you about them? Well, they’re more like frenemies. Enemies if we're being honest.”

“Your landlord said there was no one else in the apartment, Eddie, you lived alone.”

“No, I-”

“Eddie, do you have any history of mental illness?” Suddenly I couldn't speak; my mind had gone blank.

“No…I don't think so, I'm just a failure. There's no extra reason for that.”

“Eddie, let's take a look at your diagnosis together, shall we? Which one do you want to see first?” I took the papers. Before reading it, I looked around, and for the first time my friends weren't there.

Once again, I was completely alone.

But maybe this time, I wouldn't have to be.

Buddy Devine is the pen name of cartoonist and writer Elijah Singer Brahmi, whose work blends humor, counter-culture sensibility, and heartfelt storytelling. A former staff cartoonist for The Oracle (SUNY New Paltz), Devine has created a wide-ranging portfolio including commissions for album covers, book covers, posters, character design, and YouTube thumbnails — all infused with a unique “Art Crumb–influenced” aesthetic. His debut short story collection, ODDBALLS, explores themes of queer identity, mental health, and finding joy in outsider-ness.

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🎧 Streaming music is the lie we tell each other - The Independent Variable

2025-12-22T22:05:35.000Z

Birchtree

I’ve come to the conclusion that streaming music platforms are a shared lie we all agree to that suggests we’re paying for music when we’re actually may as well be pirating it, we just pay $10 a month to keep the cops away.

It’s been fun to see Matt’s evolution of thought here, going from not thinking Spotify’s rates are an issue, To realizing all music streaming is a bit of a sham… I think the one point that keeps getting glossed over is it’s Spotify’s choice to do free ad-supported tier, which is the worst part of it all and why rates are cheap per listen. Should artists want to give that up and lose potential revenue? That’s not a question for me to answer, but I do think it’s something to reckon with. But yes, buy music. Bandcamp is great.

🤖 Anthropic Exec Forces AI Chatbot on Gay Discord Community, Members Flee - The Independent Variable

2025-12-21T16:54:13.000Z

404 Media

Users voted to restrict Anthropic’s Claude to its own channel, but Jason Clinton, Anthropic’s Deputy Chief Information Security Officer (CISO) and a moderator in the Discord, overrode them.

The word of the year might be Slop, but the theme of the year is companies forcing things on their users that they didn’t ask for and do not want.

🌐 Hypertext theme - The Independent Variable

2025-12-21T16:52:30.000Z

Blot

New theme fo the Blot CMS I use learned about via their newsletter. It’s styled after Obsidian Publish and looks terrific. Making me think I should give a digital garden another go…

🔭 The white bear essay - foofaraw

2025-12-19T17:00:04.000Z

This week’s ad slot was purchased by friend of Foofaraw, Evan Passero, in support of DIFFA Dallas—providing critical financial support to North Texas AIDS service organizations that offer direct care to adults, families, and children living with or impacted by HIV/AIDS.

Foofaraw will match up to $300 in donations to DIFFA Dallas, Elevated Access, and Denton Community Food Center through the remainder of 2025.

Donate now

Don’t read this essay. Or do. I don’t care. Except I do. In the Long, Long Ago, before this column, I plagued search engines with other content farm grasshoppers to make sure you’d consume my Bt-Ht-corn-fed name. (Don’t think of the video for The Locust’s “Live From the Russian Compound.”) Those bills weren’t gonna pay themselves. And I was honing skills. Building to something bigger.

I’ve privilege-checked a parallel between writers and camgirls here. (Don’t think of the “Camwhores” RPG by Elizabeth Sampat.) I promise I’ll read something from Working Girls Press—probably whatever results from their speculative fiction call that ends in January. On a not-inharmonious note, I picked up Paolo Bacigalupi’s “The Windup Girl,” and set it right down again. (Don’t think of the on-the-body exploitation horror in Katherine Dunn’s “Geek Love.” Or the techno hyper ennui in Dan Simmons’s “The Fall of Hyperion.”) The third chapter was too much for lil’-ol’-vanilla-traumatized me.

D’ja hear that? Another record scratch. The vanilla plant doesn’t deserve that plain-old, off-handed basket. It’s the only orchid that grows edible fruit! (Don’t think of Susan Orlean’s florid prose in “The Orchid Thief: A True Story of Beauty and Obsession.” Or Nicolas Cage’s florid face in “Adaptation.”) Vanilla is the second-most expensive spice by weight. And you’ve gotta hand-pollinate the flowers in the absence of specialized bees. (Okay, given the double negative, do think of Ridiculous Cage’s “not the bees” soliloquy.) Think that’s weird? I know a gal who does basically the same thing with horses for a living. Do you want more Bamboo Harvesters and Potatoooooooos or not? (Don’t think of that handsy doc, “Zoo.”)

Yikes. Hold your Gork-scraped MLP:FIM FFs while this unbridled flurry of free associations rides off into the looks-like-acid-rain sunset like some shirtless dictator reinvigorated by clone organ harvests who invades a sovereign nation in the name of chaos-crossed евразийство and then everyone gets miffed for a few months, but then we all shrug because eggs cost more or the Internet crashes and we can’t peep Justin Bieber’s disgraced Bored Ape (Don’t think of that verse he chirped over The Kid LAROI’s “STAY.”) while we desperately apply skin-lightening cream to aid A.I. facial recognition and avoid unwanted attention from masked police who are “just doing their job,” even though their job is rounding up undesirables like actual Nazis, while we shuffle forward in the queue to board a football stadium-sized, post-Disclosure corporate healthcare spaceship transporter/thetan vaporizer to colonize a fallow corner of not-Amish Heaven. (Don’t think of that Alex Jones gay frog song.)

Okay, take a breath. Sip through your nose. Exhale more. Even more. Five and a half in. Five and a half out. Yup, I read James Nestor’s “Breath: The New Science of a Lost Art.” This was the message I’ve been waiting for! There is something wrong with me and it’s because of my behavior. That customer service chatbot that refused my rubber sheets return was right! Ahhhh… I haven’t felt so tranquil and nauseous since afternoon tea with Merricat. “Triple sugar, please. And, Ms. Blackwood, let me just say—before the rug screams through its blackberry-stained, worn-pile lips—Wednesday Addams has nothing on you.”

Uggh. Fetishizing teen goths is creepy AF if you’re not a teen, too. (Don’t think of “The Craft.” Don’t think of “The Island of Dr. Moreau.” Don’t remember Fairuza Balk not remembering threatening to commit seppuku in “Lost Soul: The Doomed Journey of Richard Stanley’s Island of Dr. Moreau.”) Anyway, the decidedly adult charms of Morticia Addams are exponentially more captivating than off-the-rack goths. I’ll spare you the Gorey details. As you can see, I’m swatting away more brickbats than usual. You should see the stuff I cut about the world of top-dollar horse semen. (Don’t think of that Mary Roach book about the world of top-dollar horse semen. Wait, she didn’t write that? You sure?)

So, once again, don’t read this essay. That’s the only admonishment you’re getting. The science is in and, whoops, trigger warnings trigger reactions themselves and can stimulate a forbidden orchid fruit impulse. As such, I’m willing to expose your dopamine-addled, marble cake neurons to—shit-shit-shit.

Errgghhh! I just lost The Game AGAIN. Seventh time this year. And after a decade and a half of winning.

Everyone knows Randall Munroe ended “The Game” in an “xkcd” strip in 2008. But, until someone shallowfakes a Blair-or-later U.K. P.M. announcing the official conclusion, imma keep playing. (Don’t think of Wiz Khalifa’s “Imma Keep.”)

It’s clear the Brits have bizarre notions about what constitutes a game, anyway. (Don’t think of the “Go Johnny Go Go Go Go” skit from “The League of Gentlemen.”) Who else plays two different games where the the goal is to be polite enough not to win immediately by naming the titular train station?

Then again, my own perception of entertainment is wonky. I came a bounced grocery check away from getting a tattoo of Ron Spencer’s Magic: The Gathering card art for “Terror.” Quick check… wow, MTG tats are legion. Mana symbol ink is hilarious, but the “Black Lotus” beauties take the Mission Accomplished cake. One of the OG pieces of not-cardboard sold for $3 million USD in 2024. And that card—quite literally—gives something for nothing! (Don’t think about Eric Berne’s “Games People Play” or the acrostic nonsense you’ve internalized by reading this.)

—Nicholas De Marino

🎙️ Jim Best - foofaraw

2025-12-19T02:00:12.000Z

Foofaraw will match up to $300 in donations to DIFFA Dallas, Elevated Access, and Denton Community Food Center through the remainder of 2025.

Donate now

Read Jim’s story, Until I'm well, on Foofaraw now!

Do you view this story as one about mental illness or ghosts?

I view it as a story about ghosts told through the prism of mental illness. The whole genesis of this came from wanting to do a ghost story from the point of view of a ghost. I started to think about what the experience of that would be like if hauntings were actually like we often hear them described. It occurred to me that it would be very confusing and disorienting. I realize it would be similar to the experience of somebody undergoing a severe psychosis. So I sort of backed into what turned out to be the entire hook of the story.

Do you have any experience with either?

No experience with ghosts, but I have a very robust experience with mental health. Personally, I am neurodivergent and have general anxiety disorder. Additionally, I have numerous people in my family and close to me who deal with similar issues, from borderline personality disorder to bipolar disorder to major depressive disorder.

Do you believe in ghosts?

I wish I could give a really clever answer to this with a simple and truthful one is no. I personally have seen no evidence of them in my life. I think they are really interesting and I love ghost stories, both fictional and “true”, but do I believe that there are the literal spirits of the dead walking around the earth manifesting as drafts or creeks or bumps or throwing things across the room? No.

Does our protagonist ever realize what’s actually happening or do you think it’s a perpetual cycle for them?

I think that, on a certain level, he does knows something is up. I think he has realized it in the past and forgets or blocks it and that’s why he gets so afraid when he thinks that the strangers actually won’t see him. I hope that he can break the cycle someday. He has the seeds planted so it might take years more but he can get there if he wants to let himself see it.

What drew our ghost hunters here in the first place?

I kind of imagined this asbeing one of those local spots that people flock to in small towns. One of those abandoned old institutional buildings that everyone talks about is being haunted. Old schools, old prisons, old hospitals or mental wards. It’s the sort of place that I could easily have seen myself and my friends sn into one night to do “investigations” in my teens.

If you were casting the movie for this story, who would play our main character?

I’ve been watching a ton of Downton Abbey lately, so I picture Dan Steven’s

What’s one of your recent favorite short stories?

“The unfortunate convalescence of the Super lawyer” from the anthology Book the end of the world as we know, it was the stand out peace for me in that was basically just a love letter to the fans of Stephen King.

What book are you reading right now?

Between books at the moment, but the last one I read was actually Dracula. I did the audiobook version from Audible with a full cast. I’ve listened to it before, but I really enjoyed it and I wanted Revisit.

Sure! My story “Something Borrowed, Something Blew” is in the newest volume “Eggplant Emoji” available on Amazon, but be warned it to extremely NC-17 story. Only read if you’d like very raunchy humor. For something, a little tamer and more family friendly, you can check out my short story “Haint Seen Nothin’”. On the alphanumeric podcast from zoetic press. And there’s the awesome horror archive horrificscribbling.com where you can find My short story “ Dead or Alive.”

Thanks to Jim for taking some time to chat during this holiday season!

🏥 Until I'm well - foofaraw

2025-12-18T17:00:46.000Z

The voices are back.

They whisper in the distance. Tinny-sounding words he can’t yet make out, like a record played on the wrong speed in another room. He decides he’s not hearing them. The doctors have told him that one day, when he is well enough, he can leave this place. Well people don’t hear voices, so he isn’t hearing them either. He decides to close his eyes and go back to sleep; they will be gone when he wakes up again.

Back to sleep? Had I been sleeping?

He isn’t sure. He’s in his room and in his bed, but he can’t remember going to sleep. That’s no surprise, though. The medicine and shocks make remembering hard. He knows he used to see memories all in a line, front to back, like a movie. Now they are more like pictures all mixed up in a box, with gaps in between. He hopes that someday he’ll get them in the correct order again. In the meantime, he needs the medicine and the shocks to make him well so he can leave when he is ready.

What can I remember? Looking around his room’s bare, blue-green walls and trying to hold off a rising sense of panic. The voices are a little louder now and coming in a little clearer. In the chatter, he can make out a few of the words.

Criminally insane… hopeless… poor things…

His eyes fixate on a spot beside the door and he sees a face in a pattern of grime. He knows that face. He has seen it before—many times. It anchors him. I am here and here is a hospital. How long have I been here?

That is a hard one. I just woke up, so at least one night. But it must be longer than that because he knows he’s had lots of shocks and seen that face on the wall many times before. So, what then? Too hard, come back to it. Try another. Why am I here?

That was easy. It’s a hospital and sick people stay in hospitals, so he must be sick. Only, he knew this wasn’t a sanatorium like Uncle Regis went to, or a hospital for people in pain, like they took Loraine to after the accident. This was a hospital for people who had sick heads. Like people who hear voices.

Yes, but he doesn’t hear them anymore. He used to. It got bad after the things he saw and did in war. Then Loraine had her accident and things got all fuzzy. Her head had twisted all the way around; her eyes open, but unseeing, stared up at him from the bottom of the stairs. And he had heard a voice then. It was screaming. And the screams sounded like laughter. But that was before coming here. They were fixing him here.

Anyone in here..? Can you hear us?

“They aren’t there,” he whispers to himself and flinches at the sound of his voice in the sterile silence. They are, though. Getting louder and closer with every passing moment. They chattered and chattered their nonsense—laughing, crying, gasping.

He waits for something to happen. He isn’t hungry, but wouldn’t mind the orderly coming in with food, just to see someone, to talk to someone. The voices talk to each other, but not to him. Not really. They sometimes ask things, and he thinks they might be asking him, but he never answers. Crazy people talk to the voices in their heads and he is getting better. Instead, he stares at the face in the wall, feeling its dirty eyes on him, feeling seen by them. It comforts him.

When he can no longer stand the stillness, he springs up, and darts to the door. Pressing his face to the mesh-filled observation slit. He slides his eyes along the hallway. Where there should be wandering hordes of other sick men like himself, there is nothing except linoleum walls and cement floors caked with dirt and dust, bathed in shadow. Moonlight glows through the barred window. Instead of the thunderous roll of creaky gurneys and shrieks of the insane, there is silence. Silence, and:

Head upstairs to the rooms… stay close together… most active patients…

“Who is that?” He shouts before he knows he is going to do it. He claps a hand to his mouth, cringing in terror. Shouting is against the rules. Worse, he is talking to the figments of his imagination. He can’t do that if he wants to get well.

He closes his eyes. Braced against the door. Waiting for the rush of footfalls and men carrying the coat, sticks, and a needle.

There is shuffling of feet on stairs that groan under the oppression of time and weight. Hear that? Maybe... let’s see… stay together…

Tears trickle down his cheeks, making him think of Loraine. The hot tears on his face and the red—

“Please? Can someone please help me? I need…” What did he need? “I need to see the Doctor!”

They say he killed his… incurable psychotic…

“Are you real? Damnit, if you are, answer me!”

He pounds a fist against the sturdy, always locked, metal door, sending a familiar pain through his arm. It swings open in a slow and smooth arc, sighing on its hinges as it does. He thinks someone is gonna get fired for this. You couldn’t just leave doors unlocked in this place. Then the crazy people could all just leave whenever they wanted, and they were not supposed to leave until they were well.

He knows this so he does not move at first. He stares in confusion at the open door that leads to the empty hallway. Centuries pass as he stares, his heart rattling against his rib cage. I can’t leave. I am not supposed to wander the halls by myself. I know that. Everyone knows that.

From somewhere in the distance, …close together now… lots of activity…

“Hello? Can anyone hear me? Please, I need to talk to the doctor! I’m not well, not well at all!”

Silence follows, and the silence is worse than the voices. Someone should be here. Someone should come for him. Hospitals are never this quiet with hallways this dark. Where are his keepers?

They left me. Ice pours into his blood. They all just left me. He gets a flash of one of those jumbled pictures. He is standing in a playground, staring at an empty park bench. Grandpa was supposed to be there, watching him. Later, when he is found in a blind panic, and the old man is stroking his back soothingly, he will learn that Grandpa just went to get a drink of water, but he doesn’t know that now. He just knows he is a little boy looking up from the sandbox, expecting to see his grown-up’s face, and now there is nothing there. He heard them, right? The voices. For the first time, he heard them whispering to him, and what they said terrified him. He’s been forgotten.

Back in the hallway, fear overrides obedience, and he starts at a half jog, fighting the urge to gallop. They’ll be here. Someone. Anyone. A nurse, a doctor, a janitor. They’ll see me and ask why I am out of my room, and I’ll tell them the truth, that someone left my door open and I got scared. I think I’m hearing things.

All this passes through his brain before he is even over the threshold. These thoughts are dashed as he looks down the long, bare, concrete hall and sees only absence. Dust bunnies clutter the corners. A rusted wheelchair sits riderless in garish moonlight by the window, like a ghost contemplating the night sky. Gone is the sterile hospital smell, replaced with rot and mildew. On the wall, paint that is old and faint and coated in a layer of grime, some wit has scribbled, I’M NOT CRAZY! LET ME OUT!

A thought creeps into his mind, one that can not be exorcized: when was the last time he saw anyone? Can he remember?

Of course I can, yesterday. Everything was right yesterday. I had my breakfast and my lunch and took my pills and had my session with the doctor, had my dinner, and went to bed. And this place was alright then. I was getting well. I was getting ready to leave one day. I remember that.

Right, but when was yesterday exactly?

Now he runs. He starts down the hall, crazed with panic as he begins to scream. “Help! Please! For God’s sake, somebody! Please help me!”

The hallway stretches long, narrow, straight (has it always been this long?), and in it, there is nothing. Until again there are the voices, and now, shapes. Shapes moving in the dark. He stops running and stares, held still by the same terror that makes deer stare down oncoming cars.

Human-shaped shadows walking in the darkness work their way towards him. Devoid of features, shuffling slowly, unhurried, and talking their nonsense in voices that sound like echoes. I swear it’s colder up here… Whoa, that’s a big spike… see anything..?

Opening his mouth to try to call out, he finds the words choke off in his throat. He is shaking hard enough to be unsteady on his feet and tries again. “Hello? Please… I’m alone… can you help me?”

Hear something..? Turn on the lights… anyone here?

Lights pour out of the murk and slice through the shadows; now he feels more fear than ever. Inexplicably, his first thought is Oh my god, they’ll see me! Followed by, they won’t! They won’t!

Screaming, he turns and runs. Despite this being impossible, the door to his room is just a few feet ahead. His vision is narrow. He is running to keep from fainting now, and as he throws himself back inside, it takes every reserve of strength left in him to slam his door closed. Collapsing against it, he sits, shaking, clutching his knees. His eyes scan the wall in desperation until at last, they find the face, and he is seen. It will all be alright, he thinks, just have to wait for someone to come. They’ll help me get well. Then I can leave. He rests his face against the tops of his legs and closes his eyes.

“I swear it’s colder up here,” Rick says, looking down the long concrete and linoleum hallways lined with patients’ rooms. Decades of neglect and abandonment are evident everywhere. Graffitied walls, rusted equipment, dirt, and dust-crusted floors. Suddenly, next to him, Pete’s equipment crackles and whines.

“Whoa!” Pete exclaims, “That’s a big spike!” He looks up, “you see anything down there?”

“What was that?” Greg says, lowering his camera.

“What?”

“I dunno… sounded like a voice. Did you hear something?”

Rick shakes his head. “Are you screwing with me?”

“I heard it too,” says Pete.

“Turn your flashlights on, there might be a vagrant or something here,” Rick instructs, shining the light down the hallway. “Is there anyone here? We don’t want to bother you, just doing a little late-night ghost hunting.”

Nothing moves. Then—

“There,” Greg says, “you hear it? Sounds kinda like, I dunno, a whistle or—”

“A scream?” Rick finishes.

The beams of light cut through the dark in long, slow arcs, searching. Then a new sound interrupts them—a long, slow screech. Ancient hinges on a door that has sat open for untold years cry out in distress. The three watch as the door, moved by an unseen hand, clicks closed.

Jim Best is a lifelong reader and writer whose work ranges from highbrow literary fiction to internet fan fiction. An autistic anarchist, he writes stories that explore the strange and the transgressive, play with genre tropes, and aim to entertain. He lives in rural Kentucky with his family and has called many places home. When he’s not writing, he’s listening to podcasts, devouring audiobooks, or trying to impersonate a high-functioning adult. Some of the places you can find his work are Saros Speculative Fiction, Inknest Poetry, and the forthcoming volume of Eggplant Emoji. Recently His story “Haint Seen Nothin’” came in Third in the “Echoes of Appalachia Creative Writing Contest”.

Foofaraw will match up to $300 in donations to DIFFA Dallas, Elevated Access, and Denton Community Food Center through the remainder of 2025.

Donate now

😡 Megyn Kelly Fumes Over Charlie Kirk Not Being Named Time’s Person of the Year: ‘A Thumb in the Eye’ - The Independent Variable

2025-12-16T03:29:01.000Z

TheWrap

This might come across as insensitive… but what on earth did Charlie Kirk do in 2025 to deserve Person of the Year? Besides getting shot… If getting assasinated is the requirement, I’d like to nominate Melissa Hortman and John Hoffman, and their spouses, Mark and Yvette.

🕹️ Awards and fantasies - foofaraw

2025-12-12T17:00:40.000Z

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🏆 Game of the Year awards nominees

It’s that time of year again, and I’ve outlined the six nominees below. Of note is that there is only one game that is not a sequel (or close to one). What I mean by that is Death Stranding, Hades, and Kingdom Come: Deliverance are all clearly sequels (based on their numbering), but Silksong is also a follow-up to the hugely successful Hollow Knight. Finally, Bananza is made by the same team that made Mario Odyssey, and it shows. Of course, it is not a sequel, but it is built heavily on the back of Odyssey.

I would put my money on Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 as the most original and most likely to win the award this year, and so would the majority of the other gamblers out there.

Clair Obscur: Expedition 33

Developer: Sandfall Interactive

Publisher: Kepler Interactive

Lead the members of Expedition 33 on their quest to destroy the Paintress so that she can never paint death again. Explore a world of wonders inspired by Belle Époque France and battle unique enemies in this turn-based RPG with real-time mechanics.

Deep turn-based combat enhanced with real-time mechanics such as dodge, parry, and timed actions. Rich, atmospheric world inspired by Belle Époque France, filled with haunting environments and surreal adversaries. Strong narrative and voice acting, praised for emotional weight and immersive storytelling.

Death Stranding 2: On the Beach

Kojima Productions

Embark on an inspiring mission of human connection beyond the UCA. Sam—with companions by his side—sets out on a new journey to save humanity from extinction. Join them as they traverse a world beset by otherworldly enemies, obstacles and a haunting question: should we have connected? Step by step, legendary game creator Hideo Kojima changes the world once again.

Open-world exploration across diverse environments with dynamic day/night cycles, natural disasters, and changing terrain. Evolved gameplay combining stealth, climbing, driving, and combat — giving players freedom to choose how to approach missions. Deep, emotional narrative that explores connection, survival, and the human condition — hallmarks of the series’ identity.

Donkey Kong Bananza

Nintendo

Join DK and his companion, Pauline, as they delve deep underground—and discover that this subterranean world is a lot more than it seems on the surface.

A standout title among family games, bringing the classic Donkey Kong spirit to modern platforms. Created by the same team that worked on Mario Odyssey, so it features many of the same mechanics and exploration systems.

Hades II

Supergiant Games

Battle beyond the Underworld using dark sorcery to take on the Titan of Time in this bewitching sequel to the award-winning rogue-like dungeon crawler.

Sequel to a celebrated indie title (which I put MANY hours into). Known for robust art direction and independent-game sensibilities. Among the few indie games in GOTY slate, representing diversity in scale and style.

Hollow Knight: Silksong

Team Cherry

Discover a vast, haunted kingdom in Hollow Knight: Silksong! Explore, fight and survive as you ascend to the peak of a land ruled by silk and song.

Successor to a beloved indie classic. Tight, polished 2D action/adventure gameplay with atmospheric design. Artistic and musical direction, as well as independent-game roots, make it stand out among large AAA titles. Combines exploration, challenge, and deep world-building, potentially resonating with both hardcore and casual players (but mostly hardcore).

Kingdom Come: Deliverance II

Developer: Warhorse Studios

Publisher: Deep Silver

A thrilling story-driven action RPG, with a rich open world, set in 15th century Medieval Europe. Experience the ultimate medieval adventure - through the eyes of young Henry - as you embark on a journey of epic proportions.

A large-scale RPG with emphasis on realism, historical setting, and immersive world simulation. Among the few major-studio, high-budget games nominated.

🆕 New releases

🔮 The Seance of Blake Manor

Developer: Spooky Doorway

Publisher: Raw Fury

The Séance of Blake Manor is a supernatural detective mystery, set in 1897 Ireland, where you investigate the disappearance of Evelyn Deane in a remote hotel full of secrets and other-worldly occurrences.

Set in Ireland. Deep lore. Occult. Time limit. A library that must be used to figure out what is going on—doesn’t eat into your time.

🎮 In Rotation

🤓 Final Fantasy VII Rebirth

Square Enix

The Unknown Journey Continues... After escaping the city of Midgar, Cloud and his friends set out on a journey across the planet. New adventures await in a vibrant, expansive world in this standalone entry of the FFVII remake trilogy.

After playing the Remake recently and being a big fan of the original, I knew I would pick this one up at some point. Well, that time finally came when a student of mine told me it was fantastic. I went all out and bought a PS5 to play it on (not wanting to settle for low-res on my Steam Deck). It was about time I got a PS5 anyway... right?! I got it for you guys! So I can keep bringing you game news from the front line!

Anyway, as for my thoughts on the game:

Battle system complexity

There were so many fighting mechanics and systems in the previous game (Remake). Compared to the original, which was "active" but still fairly turn-based, the jump to FFVII Remake was massive. You could run around and attack for a start, which was a big difference. But not only that, you had to block attacks, change characters, watch the gauges in the bottom-right corner, watch your health, etc. Similar to the original, we also need to consider the distribution of materia among players and the assignment of materia for optimal boss beatdowns. Finally, there was a weapon/character strengthening system where you could assign points to make a character hit harder or block more efficiently. There was a lot. But by the end of the game, I had my play style and the systems mostly figured out.

Now with Rebirth, there are EVEN MORE things to think about.

Synergies between characters to do attacks or blocks together (which reminds me heavily of the way combo attacks worked in The Simpsons acade game). Books that you pick up which allow for the casting of spells WITHOUT needing materia, or new synergies that can be unlocked.

There's perhaps too much now to be honest. I'm tempted to turn the complexity down and choose the Classic mode instead (which allows me to focus on issuing commands instead of doing all the running around)

Visuals

My god, it's gorgeous. There is a photo mode now as well, which means you can pause the game and take photos of the current scene from various angles.

World traversal

So, SPOILER, the first game ends as the characters leave Midgar. We are now in the big, wide world, and in the first game, this meant that the angle of vision and camera distance from the characters changed quite distinctly. (See pic)

I was curious how this game would handle the shift, but at my current point in the game (only 3 hours in), there is no shift in camera angle or distance, which is quite disappointing. It makes the world seem much smaller than the original because the sense of scale is not there at all... (again, I should add the disclaimer that this is so far. Things may change as I go through the game)

New notable stuff

SO MANY MINI GAMES

Queen's Blood!: There is now a card game embedded in FFVII, which is actually a LOT of fun to play. It should totally be a mobile app from Square. I think they would make a killing. It seems others agree, too. There is a website where you can play in your browser.

Piano playing rhythm game!: Again, pretty good. Push your thumbstick to the correct place, and hit the notes. Uses both sides of the controller, so the right side is for chords and the left is melody. My kids and I played the same song around 10 times last night to try and get an A-Rank.

SO MUCH (filler) CONTENT

There really is a LOT to do in this game, which pulls you away from the main quest. I can see this taking 100+ hours, honestly.

Panzer Dragoon

I was curious about this ancient Saturn game, so I booted it up in an emulator 🤫. It’s essentially a 3D, on-rails shmup. The dragon itself is well animated, and the shooting system is fine, but nothing special tbh.

—James

2026 Microfiction & Small Fictions nominations - foofaraw

2025-12-12T01:00:09.000Z

As the year starts to come to a close, we are pleased to announce more of our award nominations for stories published this year. For Best Microfiction and Best Small Fictions, we have submitted the following stories for nomination.

All available to read for free:

Microfiction:

🚗 Eroticauto (AKA: A Carlequin Romance AKA: 50 Shades of Grease) by Erin Brandt Filliter

an engine gets a bit too steamy

foofarawfoofaraw

🍝 Blessed be the bolognese

Small Fictions:

⚠️ Cautionary by Laurence Raphael Brothers

a prescient path forward

foofarawfoofaraw

🪾 Decision Tree by Karama Neal

a prescient path forward

foofarawfoofaraw

🌀 The Big Blue Silence by Jon Hansen

A deafening distraction

foofarawfoofaraw

🎨 An Artist’s Journey by Jon Clendaniel

a true genius inspires

foofarawfoofaraw

🍝 Marinara, Marinara by Stuart Docherty

a messy mix-up

foofarawfoofaraw

🦎 King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard Respond to Spotify Impersonator: “We Are Truly Doomed” - The Independent Variable

2025-12-11T23:12:10.000Z

Pitchfork

King Gizzard frontperson Stu Mackenzie said in a statement to the Music that he was “trying to see the irony in this situation.” He added, “But seriously wtf we are truly doomed.”

Continuing the conversation about “ethical streaming services…” I’m not going to say this wouldn’t ever happen on Apple Music (just look at their spotty App Store track record), but these types of stories of AI music making it to Spotify—and being promoted on the platform—seem to happen quite a bit. Again, the music loving ethos that brought Apple back from the dead with the iPod and iTunes no longer exists, but Spotify seems like they are pushing a lot harder for “responsible AI” in music today.

🎙️ Christy Hartman - foofaraw

2025-12-11T23:00:47.000Z

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Read Christy’s story, Blessed be the bolognese, on Foofaraw now!

Given the opportunity, would you trade a pasta dish for some ancient wisdom?

How could I pass up that opportunity? I think I would offer a Penne Arrabbiata in the hope the sauce would result in some advice to spice up my life.

How long do you think it will take our protagonist and Chad to clean up the mess in their apartment?

I'm sure they called their moms to take care of that for them - Chad has definitely never touched a sponge or mop in his life.

Was there any particular reason you decided Chad should be from Wisconsin?

As a vegan-hippie from the West Coast of Canada, I am fascinated by the American Midwest culture I grew up seeing in media - happy drunks with glorious accents excessively devoted to their sports teams - this seems like a perfect place to start a cult!

How many days in a row do you think you could eat pasta before you got sick of it?

Which piece of wisdom that Chad doles out in the story is your favorite? And why?

“Brother, the noodle chooses the bowl” - Chad understands that ultimately we have no control over anything, so best to just let life happen and roll like a ravioli!

So… “parmigiana panties…” How does one come up with something so brilliant?

Farcical stories beg for alliteration—other options were tagliatelle thong and spaghettini skivvies.

Have you read any good short stories lately?

“The Drinking Game” by Jaime Gill is unlike anything I’ve read before—innovative, gut-wrenching, and poignant. I could not recommend it more!

What book are you reading right now?

“Yearbook” by Seth Rogan - funny short non-fiction stories.

My recent publications are all linked at my website: www.christyhartmanwriter.com

My talented friend Galen Gower wrote a book of short stories, “A Machine For Hugs” that are wonderfully weird and quirky and deserve to be read by everyone.

Thanks to Christy for taking the time to provide her ancient pasta wisdom with us today!

🍝 Blessed be the bolognese - foofaraw

2025-12-11T20:22:14.000Z

~Sacred are the al dente for they shall never break~

My roommate Chad—wearing nothing but soggy lasagna sheets and red sauce—thrust a ladle at two dozen glassy-eyed strangers sprawled on the floor of our two-bedroom apartment.

~He who stirs the sauce controls the soul~

I pulled him aside. “Dude, this has gone too far.”

“Look at all the food! We’re gonna eat like kings for the rest of the semester.” Chad laughed maniacally.

Artwork by Tony Tran

His plan had started innocently enough. Armed with Psych 101, a dog-eared copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and a craving for home cooking, he’d posted flyers inviting people to exchange pasta dishes for ancient wisdom.

~Boil your sins and strain your doubts~

“I’m tired of pasta. Sometimes a guy wants a burrito.” I stepped over a lavender-haired man clutching a bowl of manicotti. “Get them out of here before I tell them you microwave spaghetti.”

~Brother, the noodle chooses the bowl~

“What does that even mean?” I snatched the ladle from Chad, marinara spattering his congregation. “You’re from Wisconsin, bro. You’re not even Italian!”

~We live many lives, as pasta has many shapes~

“Out! Get out!” I grabbed the pepper mill from Chad’s makeshift altar, yelling and grinding until the last gluten-drunk disciple left the apartment.

We collapsed onto the pesto-coated couch.

“What should we do for dinner?” Chad extracted a meatball from his belly button.

“Let’s go out.” I replied, exhausted.

Chad slid a gift card from his parmigiana panties. “Olive Garden!”

Christy Hartman pens short fiction from her home between the ocean and mountains of Vancouver Island, Canada. She writes about the chasm between love and loss and picking out the morsels of magic in life’s quiet moments. Christy has been shortlisted for Bath and Bridport Flash Fiction prizes and is a New York City Midnight winner. She has been published by Elegant Literature, Sci-Fi Shorts, Fairfield Scribes, and others.

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🎞️ What Can Fashion Learn From A24? - The Independent Variable

2025-12-11T06:37:49.000Z

Vogue

But this strangeness is always a stylish statement, unlike, say, Supreme’s infamous brick. “A24 chooses objects and ideas that are too strange or too narrow for a normal marketing department, and turns them into talismans,” says Martin Mangez-Casey, previously global director of digital communications at Louis Vuitton and an admirer of A24’s approach. “A24 dances to the off-rhythm beat of its own drum and it’s been consistent since it first gained popularity,” echoes Luz Corona, editor of Campaign US.

The way A24 world-builds around their movies and does fun logo iterations has been an enormous inspiration for how I’ve tried to approach building Foofaraw.

📧 December 10, 2025 - The Independent Variable

2025-12-11T06:36:08.000Z

Letters from an American

The final document began with a preamble explaining that a UDHR was necessary because “recognition of the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family is the foundation of freedom, justice and peace in the world,” and because “disregard and contempt for human rights have resulted in barbarous acts which have outraged the conscience of mankind.” Because “the advent of a world in which human beings shall enjoy freedom of speech and belief and freedom from fear and want has been proclaimed as the highest aspiration of the common people,” the preamble said, “human rights should be protected by the rule of law.”

Richardson goes on to list all the rights that are included under the United Nations human rights and it sure feels like America doesn’t give a fuck about 70% of those rights now.

I enjoyed this bit:

The U.S. government did not recognize Human Rights Day this year.

Instead, Humeyra Pamuk of Reuters reported, administration officials are threatening to place sanctions on the International Criminal Court to guarantee it will not investigate Trump and his top officials.

Who needs human rights when you have bigger bombs, I guess? We are devolving back to a world where might means right, and unfortunately, we are the bad guys this time.

📼 SAYA DEMO MIXTAPE by Saya Gray - The Independent Variable

2025-12-11T05:01:39.000Z

Bandcamp

H/t to Crucial Tracks for this incredible find. So much fun listening through the demos that led to the creation of the best album of the year.

📮 What's in my NOW? - The Independent Variable

2025-12-10T23:32:09.000Z

I'm not really supposed to do self-promotion here... but I was featured on What's in my NOW? if you care to give it a gander.

Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

🎙️ Ben Daggers - foofaraw

How often do you go bowling?

How often does it end in disappointment?

What’s the highest score you’ve ever gotten bowling?

Do you think our protagonist ever ends up winning, or are they doomed to perpetual losing?

What would happen if a fairy was caught cheating and influencing a game as our fairy does here?

Do you think Alette plays fair? Or have they been breaking the rules to turn things in their favor the entire time?

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?

Thanks to Ben for helping us start the new year on the right foot!

🎳 Alette in lane six is a self-righteous bitch - foofaraw

📮 January zines - foofaraw

This month...

Stories

Poem

Observations

Interviews

Cover art

🏘️ With friends like these - foofaraw

🎧 Streaming music is the lie we tell each other - The Independent Variable

🤖 Anthropic Exec Forces AI Chatbot on Gay Discord Community, Members Flee - The Independent Variable

🌐 Hypertext theme - The Independent Variable

🔭 The white bear essay - foofaraw

🎙️ Jim Best - foofaraw

Do you view this story as one about mental illness or ghosts?

Do you have any experience with either?

Do you believe in ghosts?

Does our protagonist ever realize what’s actually happening or do you think it’s a perpetual cycle for them?

What drew our ghost hunters here in the first place?

If you were casting the movie for this story, who would play our main character?

What’s one of your recent favorite short stories?

What book are you reading right now?

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

Thanks to Jim for taking some time to chat during this holiday season!

🏥 Until I'm well - foofaraw

😡 Megyn Kelly Fumes Over Charlie Kirk Not Being Named Time’s Person of the Year: ‘A Thumb in the Eye’ - The Independent Variable

🕹️ Awards and fantasies - foofaraw

🏆 Game of the Year awards nominees

Developer: Sandfall Interactive

Publisher: Kepler Interactive

Developer: Warhorse Studios

Publisher: Deep Silver

🆕 New releases

🔮 The Seance of Blake Manor

Developer: Spooky Doorway

Publisher: Raw Fury

🎮 In Rotation

🤓 Final Fantasy VII Rebirth

Square Enix

Battle system complexity

Visuals

World traversal

New notable stuff

Panzer Dragoon

2026 Microfiction & Small Fictions nominations - foofaraw

Microfiction:

Small Fictions:

🦎 King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard Respond to Spotify Impersonator: “We Are Truly Doomed” - The Independent Variable

🎙️ Christy Hartman - foofaraw

Given the opportunity, would you trade a pasta dish for some ancient wisdom?

How long do you think it will take our protagonist and Chad to clean up the mess in their apartment?

Was there any particular reason you decided Chad should be from Wisconsin?

How many days in a row do you think you could eat pasta before you got sick of it?

Which piece of wisdom that Chad doles out in the story is your favorite? And why?

So… “parmigiana panties…” How does one come up with something so brilliant?

Have you read any good short stories lately?

What book are you reading right now?

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

Thanks to Christy for taking the time to provide her ancient pasta wisdom with us today!

🍝 Blessed be the bolognese - foofaraw

🎞️ What Can Fashion Learn From A24? - The Independent Variable

📧 December 10, 2025 - The Independent Variable

📼 SAYA DEMO MIXTAPE by Saya Gray - The Independent Variable

📮 What's in my NOW? - The Independent Variable