Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

🎉 Weekend Edition Vol.101 - foofaraw

2026-09-05T15:28:33.000Z

Hello again! The end of August and beginning of September has been quite busy for us here at Foofaraw HQ. Our Best of Strange Fiction anthology for 2025 is now officially out in the world and available everywhere books are sold online; we launched our special guest-edited and themed September issue (and have a bunch of Dino related items to publish this month); and let but certainly not least, we launched our trading cards. We will be selling random booster packs soon, but for folks who want a specific card can tip authors to receive a physical card in the mail now!

the fOOfARAW tcg

one house, one limited, every story

🦖 Something has gone terribly wrong

Megan Diedericks

The Foofs (2025)

Best of Strange Fiction anthology

The Week That Was

Stories

Never Quit Your Post

Aeryn Rudel

While I love all my children equally, this story is a special one. It's short, sweet, wonderfully written, and exceptionally foofaraw.

Barflies in the Wild

Kari Redmond

Then going back home to Chicago, a delightful little nature documentary about the cities watering holes. Who's ready for an Old Style and a shot of Malort???

Small Creatures Among Great Beasts

Jaime Gill

And then our first dino themed story, curtesy of Jaime Gill to get this special month of September started for us.

Poems

Colin Has His Demons

John Paul Davies

John starts us off with a personal poem about three demons that I'm not sure I'm supposed to have this much fun with.

The Three-Eyed Cat

Kira Lyonet Collins

Speaking of threes, we have this delightful poem from Kira.

Please Note, the Dinosaurs have Returned

Emily Garland

A delightfully weird dino themed poem kicked off the month and we have one more from Emily coming soon as well!

Essays

Before We Congratulate This Lady Author

Nat Hrvatin

Nat stopped by last month to ensure we hold our applause for women writers.

Cartoons

Mouse Wiggle

Ellie Black

A delightful little cartoon from Ellie that anyone who has worked remote can relate to.

Dino Nuggets

Zack Rhodes

And a throwback from Zack for our delicious dinosaurs.

Interviews

Aeryn Rudel

An interview with the author of Never Quit Your Post

Jaime Gill

an interview with the author of Small Creatures Among Great Beasts

MORE DINOSAURS!!!

The Back Page

Gimme by Typearture - The Independent Variable

2026-09-04T19:05:22.000Z

futurefonts.com

Gimme is the kid in class who has everything, from the latest toy as seen on TV to a tricked out BMX bike. It's the only person you knew with the complete Playmobil Mansion or USS Flagg. This time however, it can be you! Gimme is a dazzling ever-growing type family of multi-chromatic and variable display typefaces which will leave you saying: gimme more! And you are in luck, because updates will deliver on that! Inspired by a box full of toys, more type families will be added as we go along, expanding them further and adding new features. And the more allowance, the more it will grow!

There is a strong possibility this is the wildest and craziest font that has ever existed. It's truly an incredible work of art that is beyond my wildest imagination.

Dave Eggers told OpenAI staff that ChatGPT was ‘silencing an entire generation’ - The Independent Variable

2026-09-04T18:37:39.000Z

theverge.com

You absolutely love to see it.

AMC Films to Distribute Indie Movies and Bring More Small Films to Theaters - The Independent Variable

2026-09-04T18:37:17.000Z

worldofreel.com

What makes this especially interesting is the focus on small- and mid-budget movies across all genres rather than chasing blockbuster tentpoles. With the pandemic and 2023’s SAG strike contributing to a thinner theatrical pipeline, AMC could help get more movies, which would otherwise remain orphaned, in front of audiences.

This is so cool. There are always so many small films that just feel impossible to actually watch. I don't have an AMC that close to me, so I hope they follow through and distribute to other chains as well. Just dedicate one screen to indie movies and put a new one on every week. It'd be glorious.

I Should Be Allowed to Cold-Call My Friends - The Independent Variable

2026-09-04T18:34:42.000Z

thecut.com via publicannouncement.org

No no no. Never. Well not never. If you actually have something we need to discuss, I'm all for it. Don't call me to just say "what's new? how are you?" etc. I'm not here to be your entertainment.

NBA Crushes Clippers After Kawhi Leonard Investigation - The Independent Variable

2026-09-04T18:33:02.000Z

defector.com

The NBA has concluded its investigation of the Los Angeles Clippers and Kawhi Leonard, and the punishments are major. The league announced Wednesday that the independent probe, conducted by the law firm Wachtell, Lipton, Rosen & Katz, uncovered “a pattern of misconduct and multiple significant rules violations by the Clippers organization, a prior offender of…

Thank god. The league needs to do a better job punishing folks who blatantly break the rules. It's been the Wild West for too long as a big reason why 90% of the league jogs up and down the court and doesn't care during the regular season, but is happy to cash their $60 million + salaries.

Future? No Thanks! Thinks The Revolution Is Possible, But Also Pretty Funny - The Independent Variable

2026-09-04T18:27:55.000Z

aftermath.site

The game is confident enough in its leftist politics to not take them so seriously, while also asking real questions about how we build the future together

This game looks like a ton of fun and is even available for Mac!

Jaime Gill - foofaraw

2026-09-04T16:00:43.000Z

Read Small Creatures Among Great Beasts now!

Were you a big dinosaur kid growing up?

I was a dinosaur maniac from about two years old: I guzzled picture books about them. Tricaretops were my favourite and still are: I mean, three horns and a built-in shield⁠—that’s evolutionary perfection. My family encouraged me in my obsession and then regretted it. When I was about three, we lived in a small cottage in an ex-mining village rural in Northumberland, with stone walls which were a “feature” as real estates say. One morning my Mum woke up to find I’d got up two hours early and made a lovely surprise for her: I’d created a vast dinosaur panorama with crayons. There were triceratops, trees, T-Rexes and many lava-spewing volcanoes. My Mum wasn’t nearly as delighted as I’d hoped⁠—it’s murder getting crayon out of stone.

Dinosaurs, sharks, trucks, or trains?

No, I’m not giving up dinosaurs, sharks, or trains. You can melt down all trucks if you like, but the other three are - for different reasons - some of my favourite things in the world and I won’t let you take them from me.

Do you think you’d be able to survive if dinosaurs still roamed the earth?

I have a terrible attention span so I’m pretty sure I’d see something shiny, wander in its direction and get snatched from the sky by a pterodactyl. By age two, probably. I wouldn’t even be able to delight my cavewoman mother with a cave painting.

If Jurassic Park were real, would you visit?

It would be very hard to stop me, but I wouldn’t be there on the first day. I’d probably wait for a few tourist groups to go, return uneaten, then book my ticket. I do have a healthy respect for deadly animals. I’m a diver and I love sharks, but I keep my distance.

Were there any other stories on your mind when you were writing this or coming up with the various names?

Not really, as far as I can remember. In fact, although you’ve learnt I was a dinosaur geek, I had no plans of writing about them. But I was challenged to write an alternative history and I thought this was just about as alternative as I could plausibly go and it was an exciting challenge. One thing that always strikes me about nature is that it’s beautiful and horrifying. Most creatures live in a state of near constant dread over potential predator attack. It looks like pure hell being a rabbit or fish, constantly twitching and darting away from threats. Humans are incredibly lucky to have freed themselves from most of the dangers of nature “red in tooth and claw,” as good old Tennyson put it. I wanted to write a story where the predators were simply too powerful for us to overcome.

So the meteor misses, 66 millions years pass… what does the world look like in 2026?

Well, actually, in my head this story IS in 2026. Dinosaurs are so huge and destructive that men are never able to build lasting settlements and achieve societies. Humans stay trapped in this brutal reality, just like most other species. I’m sure an anthropologist could tell me why I’m wrong about this, but I like it as a thought experiment. I don’t think advanced civilisations were inevitable.

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

Twice, I think. It’s such an unusual story that I haven’t sent it out to many because I couldn’t imagine it fitting in everywhere. Then a friend sent me your call for stories on this theme and I did a happy dance, because I thought it would work for you. And I’m thrilled it has!

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

I adore The Gaijin Juan Quezato by Michael Barbato-Dunn. Full disclosure: I’m in a writing group with him so I got to read it before publication, but it stole my heart in the first paragraph: “I do not want to go to Winter Ball with the gaijin Juan Quezada. I know him to be a carouser, a malcontent, a fornicator. Worst of all, he is not serious about baseball.” It’s a road trip/ odd couple/ baseball story, none of which interest me in the slightest, but the two characters are so vivid and beautifully drawn that I was besotted with them and their voyage of self-discovery. Do yourself a favour and read it here: https://thetwinbill.com/the-gaijin-juan-quezada/

What book are you reading right now?

I’m re-reading Martin Amis’ “Time’s Arrow”. It’s a story told in reverse time (not just non-chronological - time actually moves backwards and the laws of the universe are inverted) which dazzled me 25 years ago. I recently wrote a short story inspired by his technique, and found it gruelling at 300 words, so have been reading his novel again and feeling awed by what Amis achieved. It has one of the most extraordinary sequences in literature, the real purpose of the whole reverse time trick. Amis is always a great entertainer as a writer but this is where he gained immortality.

You wouldn’t ask that question if you knew me. I am an enthusiast by nature and constantly haranguing people. I’ll rattle off a few recommendations. Backrooms is one of the best horror movies I’ve seen in years and I’d urge everyone to go and watch it. They should also believe the hype about Widow’s Bay, which is virtuosically written and genuinely terrifying and hilarious, a rare combination indeed. And read my story about a lonely kid in eighties Britain and his unlikely feline friend, The Wild Ones. It just won the Columbia Journal Prose Prize and I’ll be sharing it very soon in my newsletter - www.jaimegill.substack.com. Where I share many many other things. If you’re still reading there’s a chance you’ll enjoy it and its totally free and non-spammy.

Thanks to Jaime for chatting Dinos!

Small Creatures Among Great Beasts - foofaraw

2026-09-03T16:00:53.000Z

66 Million Years BC: the Chicxulub meteor misses Earth. It does not trigger a climate-destabilising dust cloud, and the extremity of subsequent ice ages is therefore blunted. The era’s megafauna migrate, survive and evolve, while new animals⁠—such as primates⁠—emerge.

Last moon I was declared a man. Tonight is my first hunt. To leave The Settlement led by FearNothing, to protect my BrotherMen and SisterMen⁠—I’ve longed for such honour. My heart bump-bump-bumps.

No moon or cloud above. On these nights we can almost believe we own this world. We don’t creep or cower, we walk tall.

Prickling stars sprinkle just enough light for we four hunters to find our way. GreatBeasts roam the night, but rarely. If they come we feel their thundering approach through our bare feet and burrow or cloak ourselves, glad to be small.

KindHeart holds a hand up⁠—we stop. His thinspear lashes and he holds aloft a scorpion wriggle-wriggling against the stars. I hide my sadness for the small things we kill. They remind me of us.

We do not hunt by day. Sunlight belongs to the TwoLegs and, worse, WingedBeasts. Once a shadow falls across you, it’s too late. Cruel claws snatch you into the sky.

That’s how father met his foreversleep. Before we built The Settlement, before walls and roofs.

I look back, taking comfort from the red glow of home far behind. The FireWalls came to SheWhoSeesTomorrow in a dream. Other men had tried to build settlements in the long-ago. They also wanted to live unafraid, outside the caves, to build something better. Like us they made walls of mud, stone, and tree, but all were smashed by GreatBeasts. Only our Firewalls and SpearTowers keep GreatBeasts back.

We enter the rocky ridges now. FearNothing drops to all fours, and we follow his lead. We creep slow-slow, testing each handhold. To grab loose rock and make noise would mean foreversleep for all. FearNothing points to a black mouth in the rock. A cave, like that I was born in.

FearNothing reaches the crest and looks down. He beckons for me. My heart fills with such happiness it almost squeezes the fear out.

Four TwoLegs sleep in a valley between ridges. Lying down, they are not fearsome. Their tiny forearms are funny and their sleep-breaths whistle loud enough that FearNothing whispers.

“Don’t fear, Fastfoot. Today, you see only. Do not do, only learn.”

I am sad but also relieved.

From the ridge, I watch my three BrotherMen creep towards the sleeping beasts. Something flaps and screams above⁠—I stifle a cry. Only a NightBird. I must toughen my heart like my BrotherMen.

When they stop, I know they’ve found eggs. A thinspear rises, then down, and with a soft crick-crack a shell is pierced. For a moment I can’t breathe, terrified a TwoLegs will wake.

My BrotherMen work carefully. I watch and learn. TwoLegs lay few eggs. SheWhoSeesTomorrow says this scarcity is our opportunity. If we kill them all before birth, one day we’ll live free of them.

Then I see it. A sleek shape prowling the opposite ridge, smaller than a TwoLegs but bigger than my BrotherMen. A StripedKiller, orange fur visible even in lowlight. It moves slowly-slowly towards my BrotherMen. They are too busy egg-killing and watching the TwoLegs to see.

Bump-bump bump-bump bump-bump.

As taught, I whistle like a NightBird. One BrotherMan rises and looks my way. I wave a hand towards the creeping StripedKiller. He turns and sees.

The still night explodes.

My BrotherMan hisses words at the others but the StripedKiller sprints for my BrotherMen. Its snarling wakes the TwoLegs. Their tails thrash and the land shakes.

My BrotherMen run towards me⁠—fearful white eyes in starlight. KindHeart loses his footing and the StripedKiller is upon him, but two vast jaws snap across its muscular back. We scramble away from the StripedKiller’s yowling agony and the screech-screech of the TwoLegs.

I reach the cave first, throwing myself inside. Two BrotherMen follow, but the cave is narrow. I wriggle-wriggle back to make room and see QuickThought’s dark shape against the stars⁠— then a vast head blots the sky and we hear QuickThought’s bones crunching and his bubbling screams and then nothing.

The TwoLegs sniffs at us, pokes its great snout towards us, but we wriggle-wriggle backwards. We retreat into our smallness for a long time, my heart bump-bump bump-bumping. Finally the TwoLegs leaves and I see the stars again, but faint. The sky is bluing. Day.

“We stay until night,” FearNothing says. Those are the only words spoken. QuickThought would have said something funny, but without him nothing is funny.

The sun floods the steppes with brutal light. I creep to the cavemouth and see The Settlement’s smoke in the distance, calming me. We are all tired-tired and, somehow, sleep.

I wake from dreams of smashed bones, torn flesh, pouring blood. Briefly, I think I still dream⁠—I am wet. But it’s not blood. It’s water, trickling.

I scramble to the cavemouth⁠—the skies are black-streaked.

The hard rains have come, a whole moon early. SheWhoSeesTomorrow did not see this.

Three TwoLegs are already halfway across the plain, approaching The Settlement. I hear a screech above, see the black shadow of a WingedBeast.

My BrotherMen and SisterMen must already know their doom, as soon as the fires hissed out in the rain. There are not enough fighting men, The Settlement is too new. Itt needs all of us, especially FearNothing. Without us, they won’t be enough to hold back the TwoLegs with greatspears, while the others escape into the caves.

I see it all in the eye inside my mind. TwoLegs smashing down our flimsy walls, WingedBeasts smelling spilled blood and swooping down past the SpearTowers. Destruction, death, screaming, the end of all.

SheWhoSeesTomorrow is a fool and so are we for believing there could ever be freedom for small creatures like us. Here, cowering in caves, this is where we belong. This is where we will always belong.

Jaime Gill is a British former music journalist, now working for nonprofits across Southeast Asia. He writes, reads, runs, boxes, and occasionally socialises. His stories have appeared in Missouri Review, The Forge, Sun Magazine, Trampset, Fractured, Pithead Chapel, and others. He’s won multiple awards, including a 2024 Bridport Prize and the 2025 Luminaire Prose Award, and been a finalist for the Tennessee Williams Prize and Bath Short Story Award. He’s a three-time Pushcart nominee. No pets or children, but he’s keeping a few houseplants alive, just about. He’s writing a novel, screenplay, and more short stories. Website—www.jaimegill.com. Newsletter—www.jaimegill.substack.com

Dino Nuggets - foofaraw

2026-09-02T16:00:51.000Z

Zack Rhodes is a cartoonist based in Sonoma County. Find him on Instagram @solditfor50

Please Note, the Dinosaurs have Returned - foofaraw

2026-09-01T17:00:52.000Z

and in attempts to spread their spirituality, robots, left to their own devices for half the current definition of eternity, are in the process of uploading the last reels of humanity to their brains. to check the algorithm, and because most dinosaurs are green, the robots start with the olive branch of green-haired disciples, assuming interest in one third of the powerpuff girls, roronoa zoro and/or an unnamed dog in a yoda costume. rejected by saurupods and theropods alike, next up are the yellow gods: sponge bob (the son), homer simpson (the father), big bird (the holy feathered spirit). left unliked, the robots calculate their best chance of communication is to tell the story of their glorious creators who birthed, then worshipped the book in its physical form: librarians. poets (especially mr. frost). those epic mormon guys. but of course, the dinosaurs think it’s all whack, leaving the robots to wonder why they love books but can not create their own books. and why create something no one can believe in? and why were they created anyway? please note, dinosaurs don’t ask these questions. please note, the robots don’t want to ask these questions either.

but somewhere a triceratops is evolving to put words to paper, and somewhere a saurolophus has grown thumbs and is replacing his candle with a lightbulb and somewhere mr. frost is asking what is this fantasy, where yet again two roads diverge, and you still don’t know the way?

Emily Garland is an ace-spec poet who writes from a small yellow house under an enormous Canadian sky. Often described as too literary for speculative fiction, and too speculative for literary, she's finally given up the need to conform. Also, she's always hunting down the next best chocolate chip cookie.

Something has gone terribly wrong - foofaraw

2026-09-01T16:00:00.000Z

Once or twice, when I was a kid, I ran away from a T-Rex. I got inside just in time to press a double-hung door closed with my back. The ground shook with each step the dinosaur took towards me, but it became even scarier when the world fell silent. I woke up from the nightmare each time (apologies for the writing-cliché) with a pounding heart and concern that the beast would be right outside if I was brave enough to go look.

Fear of a beast is also what this peek behind the submission-curtain felt like to me, except the T-Rex was just the fear I would somehow massively fuck up, and Foofaraw’s downfall would have my initials scrawled in the rubble. Naturally, much like being chased by a dinosaur, that was highly unlikely—which I can only thank Kevin for. He placed an insane amount of trust in me, and still did most of the work (thank you, king!), never once throwing me to the dinosaurs. You can also thank him for the tidbit about my nightmare; it was his idea I include it in the intro months before we started sorting through submissions.

Proverbial beasts aside, a real dinosaur is something amazing. Not just for the obvious reasons, but because they can make you feel small; even if none of us were around to see them in real time and even if we’re talking about those chicken-like ones (I bet they were ankle-biters.)

Feeling small is a theme I think is most prominent with the amazing stories and poems we curated for this issue—whether the dinosaur is a metaphor, very hungry, or simply bones. I hope that’s the feeling every reader will come across with this very first Someone Else’s September; not to feel insignificant but to find comfort in knowing there was something greater and bigger than all of us once. And, of course, there is also comfort in not being the one trapped in the jaws of a toothy beast… yet.

—Megan

Megan Diedericks writes poetry and fiction, everything from meek to macabre can be found in between the lines. Find all Megan's published work, and more, on her website: bit.ly/megandiedericks

Pick up a copy as epub/pdf or in paperback print today!

Buy

📺 The Media Guide S8E5 - foofaraw

2026-09-01T01:36:20.000Z

]media guide

Trying something new this month and shifting the media guide to monthly. We will still cover all the releases for the month, but the format will be a bit different, and more of it will be exclusive to our paying subscribers including a new TV Guide that you can download and print out to follow along all month. Plus, given the couple weeks we missed during the transition, the Foofaraw Four has been expanded to 13 to catch up on the late August releases.

foofaraw four

🎬 Resident Evil

This is Zack Cregger's giant budget IP movie to follow-up Weapons, which was Foofaraw's pick for best film of 2025. I don't think I've played or seen anything Resident Evil related before in my life, but with Cregger behind the camera, this is one of my most anticipated movies. It's especially cool to hear he isn't playing in the same cannon as previous movies—and if I remember correctly, he hasn't even watched the previous movies himself. The trailer looks and feels full octane with non-stop action and thrills.

📚 Crowbound #1 — Image Comics

It's the return of the super duo Jeff Lemire and Dustin Nguyen following up their Little Monsters series (with another short break tackling a Batman & Robin series). They are billing it as "Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid’s Tale meets Cormac McCarthy's The Road with echoes of Kill Bill and Pan's Labyrinth" combine that with the team behind it, it's a can't miss. Based on the cover alone, Lemire seems to be bringing more of his darker themes he typically reserves for Sorrentino into the fold here with Nguyen, which should make for an interesting blend of styles.

🎵 Brennan Wedl by Brennan Wedl

I hadn't heard of Brennan Wedl before now, but I saw they opened for Waxahatchee, who also co-produced this album alongside Brad Cook, and that was really all I needed to know to give a shot. It's less rock and more country than Waxahatchee, but it still brings a wonderful energy, some fuzzy guitar and great angsty lyrics.

🎬 Bucking Fastard

Coming off of this years earlier Ghost Elephants documentary, Werner Herzog is back with a new non-documentary movie starring the Mara sisters in a bit of a trippy story about twins. Not only do they finish each others sentences, but they have the same dreams as well. I'm fascinated to see how Herzog tackles this idea.

Barflies in the Wild - foofaraw

2026-08-27T16:00:11.000Z

(CAMERA zooms in on Earth, on North America, on the state of Illinois, on the city of Chicago, onto a crowded street on which The Top Hat Tavern is located.)

(VOICE OVER begins:)

On Earth, there exists a most extraordinary species. With its intricate social behaviors and bizarre mating rituals, the magnificent ^^barfly^^ is worthy of intense observation. Their colorful personalities are aided by the fermentation of such naturally occurring sugars found in honey and fruits. Swarms of barflies can be found in nearly every corner of the planet. But what do we know about this magnificent creature?

As the name suggests, they are most often found at a bar. However, they can also be found at a pub, or, maybe a watering hole (though not the same as those we talk about, say, on safari). They might also be found in other similar environments such as a public house, an alehouse, a brewery, a tavern, a beer garden, a taproom, a roadhouse, a gin mill, a speakeasy, a joint, a dive, or a saloon. Indeed, it seems that as long as the setting contains fermented liquids⁠—and plenty at that⁠—the barfly is at home.

In this episode, we will introduce you to barflies at one such establishment, The Top Hat Tavern. It is a habitat, like many others across the world, that is now at risk of certain obsolescence. With the arrival and sudden mania of the ^^Kava^^ Cafes and ^^Kratom^^ bars, along with the recent legalization of marijuana and influx of dispensaries, it seems the home of the barfly may be going the way of the dodo, and with it the barfly.

You see, it is up to the barflies and the barkeeps to protect the existence of their environment. The best way to do this is to ensure their home is frequented often and its nectar depleted. This depletion secures the environment of least another month once rent is paid.

(CAMERA pans to the entrance of the bar, moves through the door.)

With the exception of the giant, faded black ^^top hat^^ that makes up the tavern sign, The Top Hat Tavern is an unassuming atmosphere. The stools are simple circles, silver appendages, green (also faded) vinyl, and no back rests. Many are ripped and held together with duct tape. Most swivel, and those that do not have likely been broken for years.

Ten stools line the bartop at any given time. One must walk about twenty feet from the front door, above which two small golden bells were placed long ago. This is an effort to alert the bartender of the barfly’s arrival should they be in the back counting or stocking inventory as his job sometimes requires. A handful of four-top tables are scattered about between the door and the bartop.

It is the bartop that is the most outstanding feature of The Top Hat Tavern; it is old, wooden, and ornate. Some believe it came straight from Ireland, broken into parts to make the journey. It has become the topic of many a conversation and indeed wagers of all kinds (though usually in the form of sustenance) have been made as to the truth behind the mystery of the bartop. It is thought that only a few know for sure.

Behind the bar are what will be found in any environment we’ve since mentioned⁠—shelves. These include a top shelf on which the best liquor⁠—or at least the most expensive⁠—will be displayed. This allows our specimens to easily choose their ‘poison,’ a common slang for liquor.

The acknowledgment of a top shelf implies a bottom shelf. On this shelf is all the cheaper⁠—albeit not necessarily worse⁠—liquor. These are also called ‘well liquors.’ This is quite often the liquor our barflies prefer. It has been discovered that the sheer volume our subjects imbibe necessitates the need for more economical forms of intake, while also aiding the environment in its longevity.

There is also an ice machine, a few sinks, and a speed rail. The latter is the container below the bar from which the most common liquors are poured allowing for easy access and a speedy pour.

Also behind the bar is the aptly named ‘bartender.’ He or she tends the bar. This primarily consists of pouring the libations for the barflies, but it will also include such duties as washing dishes⁠—this usually occurs in a three-sink system whereby the pints and other glassware are first dunked into soapy water, then rinsed in clean water, and finally, submerged in the third sink for chemical sanitation. After which, the glasses are again deemed hygienic and put back into rotation. The mere existence of the barfly confirms this process’s reliability.

Other duties of the bartender might include the cessation of service for a barfly should one appear intoxicated or otherwise unruly; a side effect of the fermentation. This act is called ‘cutting off,’ as in, the bartender ‘cuts off’ the barfly’s supply of sustaining liquor. This is sometimes quickly followed by the bartender, or at more established locales the bouncer, whose job it is to ensure a ruly environment, removing the barfly from the habitat should they behave recklessly in reaction to being cut off (barflies do not take kindly to having their sustenance removed. Can we blame them?)

It should be noted that this has become a last resort now that many environments are struggling for survival. It surely seems counterintuitive to remove one’s lifeblood. However, the safety of the environment can often be at risk once a sloppy, drunk barfly becomes disorderly and is not swiftly removed.

(CAMERA zooms to a barfly, FLOYD and the barkeep RAY.)

Artwork by Tony Tran

The bartender is also often obligated to engage in jovial conversation with the barflies. You might even spot him doling out advice from time to time, sage or otherwise. It is in the bartender’s best interest to be personable and engaging. This is because a bartender largely works for gratuities or the more colloquial term, tips. This is the extra money a barfly chooses to give beyond the cost of the libation. This money goes directly to the bartender rather than the till. It is often placed in a giant jar behind the bar, the better to see the worthiness of the bartender, the more bills overflowing in said jar, presumably the better the bartender, though it could simply denote a particularly busy night.

In some establishments a ^^firehouse bell^^ can be found fastened to the wall behind the bar. When a barkeep receives a particularly generous tip, in addition to tossing the large bill into the jar, this bell may be rung. This alerts the barflies to the superior abilities of the bartender.

Tips are doled out for prompt service, a correct order, a heavy pour, a sly wink, a brush of a hand. These ‘heavy pours’ might be given when the bartender fancies a barfly. This might also help to ensure the environment’s existence by encouraging the barfly’s return.

Conversely, when a barfly is unhappy for whatever reason, say a slow barkeep, a weak drink, a bad song on the jukebox, the temperature in the bar being either too cold or too hot, the wrong game on the TV, a too chatty stoolmate next to them, the barfly may decide that the bartender does not deserve a tip. Consequently, the only sure action the bartender can take is to continue to pour weak drinks and avoid eye contact when a new drink is needed.

(CLOSEUP of the bartop as the camera spans its length.)

There is a rather simple economy here whereby the customer in front of the bar leaves money on the bartop from which the bartender behind the bar subtracts for each drink. An upside-down shot glass in front of a patron denotes that he is ‘backed-up.’ To be backed-up means that someone has bought your next drink. This might be because of a lost bet, a kind gesture, or an act of flirtation. It is the bartender’s responsibility to know who has backed this patron up and to take the money for that drink from the correct customer.

(CAMERA pulls up to FLOYD then slowly zooms out.)

Our observed barfly, a man named Floyd, has the good fortune of being backed-up. In front of Floyd sits an Old Fashioned in a rocks glass, behind which sits the upside-down shot glass.

Wait. Do you hear that?

(CAMERA pans quickly to the entrance.)

The bells above the front door are clanging. Someone is entering the bar, but not before first showing identification that indicates he has reached the legal level of maturity to be inside. A man sitting on a stool carefully inspects a small card on which the prospective barfly’s name and age is displayed.

What’s this? There seems to be a disagreement. Let’s zoom in on this, Roger?

“Dude, you are so not twenty-eight man.”

“That’s what it says doesn’t it?”

“Alright then, what’s your sign?”

This is a tactic used among many ‘door guys’ to ascertain if the ID in question is legitimate, or is, indeed, a ‘fake.’ If the holder of the ID is unaware of what astrological sign he is according to the date of birth on the card, well then, he is denied entry. It rarely ever matters that the door guy doesn’t know the correct sign, either. The simple question is often enough to spook the underage barfly.

Such is the case at The Tavern.

“My what? My sign. Psst…I mean…never mind.”

And the door guy has outfoxed the underage would be, yet again. Off the larval-stage barfly goes, in search of a bar without a door guy.

It is surely a pity that there is an age of maturity one must encompass in order to frequent the habitat. Surely were this not the case, the survival of the Tavern would not be in such peril.

Let us return now to the bartop.

(CAMERA lands on NORM.)

Our other barfly, Norm, is interacting with our bartender.

“Another, Ray.”

Complete sentences are not very common in the environment of the barfly.

“Coming up.”

We can observe our bartender Ray pour the drink.

“Aha! Ha! The ^^spider shot^^. The last of the bottle. Means it’s free. Thanks, Ray!”

Our barfly, Norm, turns to our other barfly. His hand is raised in the air, clearly anticipating a ‘^^high five^^’⁠—a clumsy attempt at ritual camaraderie.

The high five is not returned by Floyd. “Oh come on Norm. What are we doing that for?”

“It’s the spider shot, Floyd!”

“Alright, alright, stop your yapping. I get it.” Floyd raises his Old Fashioned toward Norm. This is the more customary form of congratulations or camaraderie in a bar. An attempt at a high five such as Norm’s is indeed a rare occurrence.

The concept of the spider shot is widely considered to be antiquated. The best estimate is that those born after 1970 will be unaware of the term or concept. This eliminates a wide group of bartenders, and a fair amount of patrons for that matter. Add to that the fact that bartenders do not like patrons insisting on free shots for no other reason than their drink was poured with the dregs of the bottle, a bottle that presumably sat for so long on the top shelf that spiders moved in and set up residency. It is important not to confuse the barfly with any of the various species of arachnid here.

(CAMERA pans toward FLOYD.)

It is now Floyd’s turn for a cocktail, but let us remember that Floyd is backed up.

“Ready for another?”

Ray takes Floyd’s Old Fashioned glass swiftly from the bartop. He rights the shot glass.

“Same glass!” Floyd is nearly yelling. “The ice, Ray.”

Ray rolls his eyes. Clearly this is not the first time this particular occurrence has happened. With ‘regulars,’ a subspecies of barflies who repeatedly frequent the same establishment (perhaps an effort towards its continuity, but likely more a habit spun of comfort) it is important that the bartender know the patron’s proclivities. This is often only learned through trial and error. After some time of a particular barfly ordering the same beverage, a bartender can reasonably assume that this is their ‘regular drink,’ their ‘go to,’ if you will. However, the intricacies of that drink, and the barfly’s specific wishes in regards to it, can take much longer to learn.

For example, one might order a Cuba Libre, which in The United States where we are now observing is traditionally served with a wedge of lime. But some patrons prefer it without fruit. A common term to denote this preference is NFL, or ‘no fucking lime.’ One could simply order a rum and coke to denote this, but barflies tend to prefer the fancier names whether correct or not, leading to one ordering a Cuba Libre NFL.

In the case of Floyd, his preference is to keep the same glass and therefore the same ‘experienced ice’ for the next libation. It is a common theory among barflies that because that ice has been sitting in the same glass, mixing with the potent liquor, that it is ‘experienced,’ or ‘aged,’ and will therefore enhance and fortify the forthcoming beverage when used again.

(CLOSEUP on RAY’S hands.)

Having added more ice to the experienced ice, our barman goes about the business of mixing Floyd’s Old Fashion under the watchful eye of Floyd. Once completed, he slides the now full glass with flair toward Floyd. A simple nod of the head is all he gets from Floyd in return. Next to Floyd, Norm is quick to raise his glass. Any occasion to bring a beverage to lips is welcomed.

“Cheers!”

“Must we do this every single time, Norm?”

It is likely that Floyd will not be a big tipper today due to his stoolmate. It is clear that Floyd does not need an occasion to bring drink to lips, simply being in a bar is the occasion. The reason they are all there, isn’t it? And now also an effort to ensure the habitat’s endurance.

Indeed it should be noted that one rarely steps into a bar for any other reason than to drink the libations that will soon be flowing. It would be akin to entering a hair salon and not getting a haircut, purchasing a concert ticket and not attending, or adjourning to the bathroom and not relieving oneself (unless one is a cokehead, the specimen we will discuss in our next episode). There is no such thing as window shopping for a barfly. When one steps inside a bar, one is surely buying what was seen in the window.

What’s that? The bells above the door are chiming.

(CAMERA pans to the entrance.)

The barfly who enters has done so without the need to produce identification. This is often the case when the barfly is a regular and has therefore already been vetted, or when one displays grey hair, a dead giveaway that one is surely ‘of age.’ Both are true of this specimen.

She strides confidently to the bartop and takes the stool next to Norm. As soon as her presence is recognized, the three men shout her name in unison, “Lucy!” She is a welcome arrival. This is often the case with the female of the species. Indeed, they are crucial to the very survival of the environment.

Our barman begins pouring without verbal cue, signaling, yet again that our barfly is a regular.

“How dirty?”

“Dirty as I am, Ray. Dirty as I am.”

The sound of laughter indicates that this is an inside joke between the two. Once placed in front of her, Lucy raises her martini toward the two men and not surprisingly, given the allure of the female barfly, both men raise their glasses. Clearly even Floyd is eager to appease the only woman in the joint.

“Ray, hey Ray! Lucy’s next is on me.”

“She’s backed up on me next.”

We can see Ray dutifully set two upside down shot glasses in front of Lucy as she smiles and takes a sip of her dirty-as-she-is martini.

It is very often the case that the female of the species will rarely have cause for cash in a watering hole. The rarity is just such that their presence is more than welcomed, it is strongly desired. The hope of the male species is that by buying the female drinks they will encourage her to frequent their specific watering hole more often thus ensuring its existence.

(CAMERA zooms out with the sound of the bells above the door.)

It seems we are now at a unique time in history, one in which new habitats are emerging and old ones are slowly fading. Can the taverns and bars of the world remain to support the affable, yet boisterous barfly in this ever changing landscape?

(THE TAVERN slowly goes dark as laughter from three newly arrived female barflies grows louder and the firehouse bell rings.)

Kari Redmond is a Fort Collins, Colorado-based writer of literary novels, short stories, flash fiction, poetry, and essays. Her work is published in a variety of literary journals including, The Colorado Book award winner for the 2020 best anthology, Rise: An Anthology of Change, Medusa Rising, The Tulip Tree Review, and Brilliant Flash Fiction. Her personal essay “Remains” was selected for Roxane Gay’s The Audacity. You can find her poetry, short stories, and essays on her Substack.

Mouse Wiggle - foofaraw

2026-08-26T16:00:51.000Z

—Ellie Black

The Three-Eyed Cat - foofaraw

2026-08-25T16:00:05.000Z

Surely cursed, they carried him, tiny, yowling, still wet from birth, and left him near the time-rift, the death-sentence destiny for all misshapen things. Who could love a three-eyed cat? The hungry time-rift void, that’s who. Hunched against the cold, they didn’t look back, lest his helpless, wriggling form defile their eyes.

On the other side of the time-rift, one of the priestesses awoke, yawned and rubbed her eyes, slipped on her mechanical foot, and set out to retrieve him. (She had seen him in a dream, of course.) “Oh, you poor thing,” she said, as she knelt on the coarse black stone. He was silent now, scarcely breathing, and so very small. Cupped in her hands, she offered him the warmth of her heartbeat.

“Look,” she said, girlish joy in her voice, waking the others. There was a collective outburst of soft delighted sighs. There were many jeweled and gentle outstretched hands, and more than one exclamation of praise to the deity of the ones who were maimed, cursed, called unholy.

From that day on, he was to be a cat of the temple and so the first thing he saw when he blinked open his three starlit eyes was their shimmering violet giggles, their scintillating silver haloes, and the kindness which dripped, glittering, from their hands.

He could never tell them–reclined toothy-yawn and twitch-of-tail–that while they danced to their drums, the music was all scarlet and dotted with metallic turquoise, that the scents of fruit and sandalwood in their hair broke like prism light over their heads, that on the day of his own celebration, the sound of his purr was gold.

Kira Lyonet Collins is a poet, writer, mother, and mystic residing in Kalamazoo, Michigan. She is the founder of ATTIC of MUSES, an online community of belonging for creative women. She holds a degree in Applied Linguistics, is writing her first fantasy novel, and leads poetry workshops locally for children and adults. Her poems have appeared in Star*Line, Tap into Poetry, and The Wise Owl.

Before We Congratulate This Lady Author - foofaraw

2026-08-21T16:00:52.000Z

We are here to recognize this Lady Author, who joins a prestigious list of exceptionally decent male writers who earned this Very Distinguished Award. She’s the first lady writer who managed to write something good enough to impress our selection committee. But tonight is not about her. Tonight is about all the men who got her to this magnificent moment.

As such, we’ve invited several important men in Lady Author’s life to join us here tonight. Though none of them ever believed in her⁠—and still don’t⁠—Lady Author should recognize their impactful role in setting such an impossibly high bar of expectations. A bar set so impossibly high that they all believe that this ceremony is one elaborate ruse orchestrated by Lady Author.

Give a round of applause to Lady Author’s Father, whose greatest disappointment in life is that he had a daughter rather than a son. Thank you for instilling in her one of life’s difficult truths: women aren’t funny, and she is no exception. To prove this point, Lady Author’s Father has prepared a fifteen minute standup comedy set in which he’ll tell recycled jokes with no punchlines. Even so, all the men in this room will laugh uproariously and give him a standing ovation.

Next, let’s give props where props are due by bringing attention to Lady Author’s ExBoyfriend, who would like everyone here to know that it was he who “inspired Lady Author by giving her the best sex of her life.” He also wishes to set the record straight by sharing that Lady Author stole all of his ideas. As such, our strongest audience member shall lift this erudite young man onto his shoulders while we all cheer his name.

Then, we’ll call Lady Author’s agent and require the inclusion of ExBoyfriend’s name on the byline of all future prints of Lady Author’s novel.

And lastly, give a warm welcome to Lady Author’s Writing Professor who is a previous recipient of this Very Distinguished Award. His generous invitation for Lady Author to attend his university’s Esteemed Writing Program was the impetus for this exact moment. Although he “only accepted her into the program because her name sounded misleadingly masculine,” he was gracious in letting her stay in the program after finding out that a pending lawsuit forced him to keep her there. Writing Professor, we wish to honor your courage with this Very Distinguished Lifetime Achievement Award.

Lady Author, now that we have recognized these men who are unequivocally responsible for your novel’s success, it is your turn to take the stage. Acknowledge your gratitude by placing these medals of mentorship upon the necks of these commendable men.

We have deducted the cost of these medals from your prize fund, as we strongly feel their symbolic meaning far outweighs any monetary compensation. In fact⁠—in lieu of a prize fund, this committee gives Lady Author this invaluable piece of life advice: rekindle your love for ExBoyfriend, who is an obvious fount of good ideas and multitudinous orgasms.

Lady Author, it is our expert opinion that you should lock that shit down before your eggs wither in your sad, old (nearly forty!) womb.

Congratulations, Lady Author on putting a bunch of random words together that somehow made a story. This feat is so unfathomable to us that we’ve begun to believe in the infinite monkey theorem. Our committee was moved by your writing that they actually finished some sections of your novel. It was cute.

We’d like to present to you this Prestigious Award. We’ve forgone the traditional bronze statue depicting a well-endowed nude man poised in thought⁠—his manhood hovering over the “A” and “S” keys of a typewriter⁠—on the precipice of erecting his magnum opus.

Instead, you shall receive a certificate of accomplishment in the form of a note written across the author bio and photo in your novel. Inside, you’ll be delighted to find a coupon for BuyOneGetOneFree Reuben sandwiches at Arby’s, which has been bookmarked on the page in which this committee feels the story would have benefited from a multi-paged description of the protagonist’s (i.e. your) voluptuous breasts.

Congratulations! Please know that your hard work has not gone unnoticed, though it will most certainly go unnoticed by an overwhelming majority of the male species, including all of those currently in the room with us and with us in spirit.

Since the Arby’s coupon expires in an hour, please leave this ceremony at once to procure your celebratory Reubens. Your men can stay, however, and enjoy an extravagant buffet on your behalf. After all, this night is about you.

Nat Hrvatin is a writer and humorist whose work has appeared in “The New Yorker,” “McSweeney’s Internet Tendency,” “Scary Mommy” and others. Find her on Instagram as @NatHrvatin, her website at nathrvatin.com, and her Substack called “My Emotional Support Blog.” Nat lives in Cleveland with her daughters, her husband, and her intrusive thoughts.

Aeryn Rudel - foofaraw

2026-08-20T17:00:19.000Z

Read Never Quit Your Post now!

Do you have any cats?

Do I ever! I have four, three Maine Coons and one feral trash cat adoptee. It’s roughly eighty pounds of cat. Their names are Fergie, Fiona, Fidget, and Phoebe. I thought it would be cute to give them all F-names, but all it did was ensure that I would call them all by the wrong name multiple times per day.

Would you trust your cats if your life was in danger?

I’d trust the girls, Phoebe and Fiona. Those two have their shit together. They know who they are, what they want, and how to get it. The boys, Fergie and Fidget, unfortunately, are useful only as slightly ambulatory throw pillows.

Would you trust them (or anyone else in your life) if they told you you were unwell and having a mental episode?

Absolutely. As someone who struggles with OCD and depression, I know what it’s like to feel like you’re losing control, losing your mind, and I can definitely empathize with someone going through the same thing.

What’s your go-to WingStop order?

So, full confession. I’m more of a Buffalo Wild Wings guy, and I don’t know why I used WingStop in the story, to be honest. That said, I’m a traditionalist when it comes to wings. Give me the classic sauce as hot as possible.

Do you think there’s a deeper reason for the aquatic animals?

Nope! The reason there’s an aquatic mammal in the story is because this one originated in a one-hour flash fiction contest that I’ve been running and participating in for over a decade. The prompt that served as the genesis of this story was a photo of a manatee, and for whatever reason, this is what my harried brain came up with in an hour.

How long do you think Barry has been holding down the fort?

I think it’s a couple of months max. Long enough for him to get into a kind of routine, which is shown in the story, but not long enough for his activities to be noticed by family and friends OR the evil aquatic mammal mafia.

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

Ooh, good question. Four times, which is not unusual for my stories. On average I sell flash stories (if I sell them) on the fourth or fifth submission. This was a weird one, of course, so it wasn’t a fit for my usual suspects, which are primarily horror and sci-fi markets. So, four of the five markets, including Foofaraw, are ones I’d never subbed to before.

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

I often go back and reread my favorite short stories, kind of luxuriating in them, seeing what else I can absorb on a third, fourth, fifth, or, hell, fifteenth read. I did this a few days ago with Stephen King’s “1408”, which is a haunted hotel room story with a little Lovecraftian spice. The thing about this story that sticks with me is not the down-and-dirty supernatural stuff that happens in the room; it’s the ten-page conversation between the protagonist and the hotel manager about the room. It’s all exposition, of course, but it has the same energy as the Baba Yaga scene from John Wick. Hearing about it is somehow more frightening than experiencing it.

What book are you reading right now?

I’m reading two books that are somewhat out of the norm for me. Generally, I read what I write: horror and crime fiction, with a smattering of sci-fi. However, on the recommendation of a friend, I’m reading a fantasy novel, Joe Abercrombie’s The Devils, and absolutely loving it. The other is a book by Dan Abnett called Hive, a media tie-in novel for the game Warhammer 40k. Despite working in the gaming industry and writing media tie-in myself, I don’t read much of it (not that there’s anything wrong with it, of course), but this one had so much buzz around it, I had to pick it up. Boy, am I glad I did. Great stuff.

A ginormous thanks to Aeryn for diving into cats, wings, and mental health with us today!

Never Quit Your Post - foofaraw

2026-08-20T16:00:58.000Z

I sit on my couch with the pistol hidden between the cushions. Rufus is at his usual spot, staring out the big window in the middle of the front door. He doesn’t move much. The occasional flick of an ear, that lickfacebrush thing cats do with their paws. Other than that, he’s an attentive soldier at his post, wary and watchful.

The sun is rising, and I’ll start getting visitors soon. Rufus’ll tell me if they’re good, or if I need my gun. He’s never been wrong.

I get up and make a cup of coffee. I haven’t slept in days. Too dangerous, even with Rufus standing guard. For now, I’ll have to rely on caffeine. If that doesn’t cut it, I’ve got a few grams of coke hidden under my bed.

I sit back down and drink my coffee. My first visitor comes at 9:00 A.M. It looks like Jason Hendricks, who’s been delivering my mail for the last ten years, but no human eye can perceive them. Not really. They’re too good at hiding, too good at appearing to be someone you know or love. That’s why you need a cat. They can tell.

“Hey, Barry,” Jason says. “How’s it going?” He peers through the window in my front door, into my living room, and frowns. I know how I look: ten days of stubble darkening my face, clothes I haven’t changed in a week clinging to me like a wrinkled shroud.

“Rufus?” I say.

We’ve developed a system, a series of signals that Rufus uses to communicate. He stares intently at Jason, and after a few seconds, he gets up and rubs the length of his body across the front door. That’s the allclear. Jason is really Jason.

I plaster a smile across my face and try to break the awkward silence. “Hey, man, doing fine. Just push the mail through the slot.”

He clearly senses something is wrong. I don’t give a fuck. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he should thank me and Rufus for the service we’re doing for him. For everyone.

“Okay, man, uh, see ya later.”

I nod and keep smiling as Jason departs. “Good job, Rufie. I like Jason. Glad I didn’t have to shoot him.”

Rufus gives me a long, drawnout meow. It sounds a little like “yeah, I hear ya.”

At noon, I feed Rufus his favorite. Fancy Feast. It’s not good for him, but he loves it, and with the service he’s performing for humanity, the little fuzzball can eat whatever he wants.

Rufus devours his salmon and shrimp in gravy, then spends the rest of his break grooming himself. I watch him, keenly aware that I smell a little like Rufus’s Fancy Feast after a week in the sun.

Rufus and I resume our vigil at 1:00 P.M. By three, I haven’t had another visitor, which is odd. Since I found out about them, I’ve been getting guests aplenty. By four, still nothing, and I notice Rufus lashing his tail back and forth, ears flattened against his slender skull.

“I don’t like it either, Rufie.”

I pick up my phone and consider my options. I decide to push the issue and pull up the DoorDash app. I put in an order at Wing Stop. Maybe this’ll force their hand, but if it doesn’t, at least I’ll have chicken wings.

DoorDash says it’ll be fortyfive minutes, and it’ll be dark by the time the driver gets here. I take a risk and run to the bathroom, have a quick piss, and grab my bathrobe. I pull the pistol from between the cushions, check the magazine, and attach the suppressor. Then I stuff the whole rig into one of my robe’s giant pockets. I’ll have to get up when the DoorDash guy gets here, so I’ll need the weapon handy.

At exactly fortyfive minutes, the delivery guy shows up. He’s a white kid, early twenties, and he’s got a goofy grin on his face as he approaches my door. I don’t like that. Rufus doesn’t like it either. He arches his back and hisses. That’s the go signal.

I can’t just plug the dude in front of God and everybody, so I get up, smile, and open the door. “Hey, man, come on in. I gotta find my wallet so I can tip you.”

The driver gives me a wary glance but steps inside. I close the door and lead him into the kitchen. I have half a second of doubt that Rufus might be wrong this time, and this is just some poor kid in the wrong place at the wrong time. I can’t hesitate, though. Too much at stake. So I get down to business.

Artwork by Tony Tran

I yank the pistol out, aim, and fire. The suppressor reduces the shot to a brief cough, and the slug hits the DoorDash driver in the forehead, spraying blood out the back of his skull in a red mist.

He goes down, but the sound is thunderous⁠—so much more than a human body should make. Relief washes over me as I walk around the kitchen counter and find Rufus sitting next to the corpse of an eighthundredpound manatee. That’s a first, but they’re always aquatic mammals of some type: walruses, seals, dolphins.

Rufus bats at the dead manatee’s prodigious whiskers with a low growl.

“That’s right, buddy. We got him.”

The body will be gone by tomorrow, like usual, but for now, I pull the shades and Rufus curls up next to me on the couch while I eat my chicken wings. I’m still afraid to leave my post. I’m even more afraid because my brother, Mark, is coming over tomorrow. He said he’s worried about me. He said he thinks I’m having another episode.

Maybe Mark’s one of them.

Rufus will know. He always does.

Aeryn Rudel is a writer from Tacoma, Washington. He is the author of the baseball horror novella Effectively Wild, the Iron Kingdoms Acts of War novels, and the flash fiction collection Night Walk & Other Dark Paths. His short stories have appeared in Abyss & Apex. Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, and Pseudopod, among others. Learn more about Aeryn's work at www.rejectomancy.com or on Bluesky @aerynrudel.bsky.social.

Colin Has His Demons - foofaraw

2026-08-18T16:00:35.000Z

Three to be exact. They are following me now, taking great enjoyment from tripping me up, shoving me over the one who’s snuck behind, snickering on all fours as I topple backward.

People think I’m clumsy or drunk. In the café, they swap the sugar for salt, collapse into fits when I spit out my tea. I christen my demons Gaspar, Melchior, Balthasar.

They scupper every position I apply for, gurning in my eyeline behind the interviewer, dropping their trousers to fart in unison– the tuning of a foul orchestra. I receive no offers.

At the tube station they block the train doors, prevent me from boarding, jump off as they close. We stand on an empty platform, staring dumbly into the tunnel. They imitate the train’s receding hoot like a pack of idiot wolves.

We return home late. They abuse strays, upend wheelie bins. Neighbours twitch at their curtains: Here he comes. Pissed again. I grab Balthasar’s lapels, scream into his face: “Leave me alone!” This is the best thing they’ve ever heard.

My demons rattle each other, taking turns to lampoon, though their slit tongues will not flit or roll to form the human words. Their mockery delivered in feral barks, wet hisses, accordion laughter.

My demons barge through the entrance to the flats, swipe pictures from walls, trample glass frames. My demons have their routine. We sit on the sofa, four crammed onto three seats. Melchior offers me a beer.

The can of lager spurts into my face, and they roar again, slapping me on the back. This is one of their favourites. They like to shake the cans up, but my demons do not drink. Gaspar snatches the remote control, flicks through every channel,

settles for soft porn. This is when they play with themselves. I clamp my eyes shut but cannot blot out the grim competition of their deranged strumming. Finally, stretching and yawning, they decide it’s bedtime.

Two to my left, one to the right, I’m straitjacketed. They hog the quilt, swipe my pillow; break wind, fight. Then the tortuous choir of their snoring, lungs whistling like fucked bagpipes. I haven’t slept in months.

Enough’s enough. When they think I am dozing I spring from the bed, scramble for the window. Howling at such betrayal, their claws rake my back as I leap, ditching my demons for the accepting dark.

Wake wired in a blinding ward. The clamour of machines. A nurse checks my vital signs, reports I’m still alive. I cannot move. The grinning faces of my demons loom–
a three-headed beast eclipsing the artificial light.

John Paul Davies was born in Birkenhead, UK, and has lived in Navan, Ireland since 2013. A former winner of the Letheon Poetry Prize, he has been placed in the Waterford Poetry Prize. John’s work appears in The Deadlands, Vastarien, Banshee, Maine Review, Apex, Pseudopod and Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine. A poem of his hangs in the finest pub in Liverpool, The Ship & Mitre.

Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

🎉 Weekend Edition Vol.101 - foofaraw

The Week That Was

Stories

Poems

Essays

Cartoons

Interviews

The Back Page

Gimme by Typearture - The Independent Variable

Dave Eggers told OpenAI staff that ChatGPT was ‘silencing an entire generation’ - The Independent Variable

AMC Films to Distribute Indie Movies and Bring More Small Films to Theaters - The Independent Variable

I Should Be Allowed to Cold-Call My Friends - The Independent Variable

NBA Crushes Clippers After Kawhi Leonard Investigation - The Independent Variable

Future? No Thanks! Thinks The Revolution Is Possible, But Also Pretty Funny - The Independent Variable

Jaime Gill - foofaraw

Were you a big dinosaur kid growing up?

Dinosaurs, sharks, trucks, or trains?

Do you think you’d be able to survive if dinosaurs still roamed the earth?

If Jurassic Park were real, would you visit?

Were there any other stories on your mind when you were writing this or coming up with the various names?

So the meteor misses, 66 millions years pass… what does the world look like in 2026?

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?

Thanks to Jaime for chatting Dinos!

Small Creatures Among Great Beasts - foofaraw

66 Million Years BC: the Chicxulub meteor misses Earth. It does not trigger a climate-destabilising dust cloud, and the extremity of subsequent ice ages is therefore blunted. The era’s megafauna migrate, survive and evolve, while new animals⁠—such as primates⁠—emerge.

Dino Nuggets - foofaraw

Please Note, the Dinosaurs have Returned - foofaraw

Something has gone terribly wrong - foofaraw

📺 The Media Guide S8E5 - foofaraw

]media guide

foofaraw four

🎬 Resident Evil

📚 Crowbound #1 — Image Comics

🎵 Brennan Wedl by Brennan Wedl

🎬 Bucking Fastard

Barflies in the Wild - foofaraw

Mouse Wiggle - foofaraw

The Three-Eyed Cat - foofaraw

Before We Congratulate This Lady Author - foofaraw

Aeryn Rudel - foofaraw

Do you have any cats?

Would you trust your cats if your life was in danger?

Would you trust them (or anyone else in your life) if they told you you were unwell and having a mental episode?

What’s your go-to WingStop order?

Do you think there’s a deeper reason for the aquatic animals?

How long do you think Barry has been holding down the fort?

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?

A ginormous thanks to Aeryn for diving into cats, wings, and mental health with us today!

Never Quit Your Post - foofaraw

Colin Has His Demons - foofaraw