Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

🏒 U.S. Men’s hockey team honored at State of the Union, Trump says women’s team coming to White House - The Independent Variable

2026-02-25T04:04:44.000Z

Imagine going from winning a gold medal to having to listen to this imbecile ramble like an incoherent madman do 2+ hours. Even if most of these guys are Trump supporters, I guarantee you none of them were planning on watching the SotU.

📺 The Media Guide S7E1 - foofaraw

2026-02-24T18:38:26.000Z

I’ve been planning to bring The Media Guide back since February began, but I wanted the first one back to be special and recap the best of the year so far. It’s safe to say that’s not happening today; maybe one day. For now, we’ve got the best of the week for ya.

📱 DTF St. Louis S1 (HBO)

This is probably my most anticipated show of the entire year. It comes from Steven Conrad, the creator of Patriot, which ran for two seasons on Amazon, and Perpetual Grace Ltd., which ran for a single season on Epix. Both were fantastic, quirky shows that do everything I look for in a show. The dialogue is just so uniquely him. In the same way you recognize Sorkin or Tarantino dialogue when you hear it, the same is true with Conrad. There’s just something about it where his voice feels tangible in a way most writers can only dream of. This one stars David Harbour, Linda Cardellini, Jason Bateman, and Richard Jenkins. So having this cast—on HBO—for Steven Conrad is just an incredible thought (and step up) that I have trouble putting my excitement into words.

🕵️ The Peril of the Brutal Dark: An Ezra Cain Mystery #1 (Vertigo)

Vertigo is back, baby. This is the third new launch from the revamped Vertigo imprint at DC, following Deniz Camp’s Bleeding Hearts and Kyle Starks’ End of Life. The Peril of the Brutal Dark comes from Chris Condon and Jacob Phillips—the same team behind That Texas Blood and The Enfield Gang Massacre. It’s a noir series following detective Ezra Cain with some magic and hits on some very relevant themes about power in the world today.

🪷 petal rock black by WILLOW

I continue to be incredibly impressed by WILLOW. Between whipping her hair back and forth to the music from the rest of our family, it’s kind of stunning to see her evolution as a musician. She has now put out two straight albums of wonderful music. You can see her taste develop in real time, and imagine all the records she’s been listening to, digesting, and learning from to refine her music. She went from pop to alt-rock (maybe even a bit of metal) and is now veering toward a jazzy, soulful sound. It’s just so much fun to watch her development right in front of our eyes.

🎸 EPiC: Elvis Presley in Concert

Baz Luhrmann is back with another Elvis Presley film, following his 2022 biopic Elvis. This one is part documentary, part concert film, which has gotten some pretty positive reviews so far at early festivals like TIFF. The blending of documentary and concert film has me quite intrigued to see how it comes together, especially since there’s not really much else coming out in theaters this week...

A review of “Heart” by David James Poissant, published in Cincinnati Review - foofaraw

2026-02-24T17:00:23.000Z

Read the story

The best microfiction walks a precarious tightrope between prose poetry and storytelling. Teeter too far to one side and you end up with flights of pure language and metaphor, possibly beautiful, but a better fit for a poetry chapbook. Too far to the other and you’ve compressed a story into a tiny space without the payoff, sacrificing language to make what should be a longer work fit small.

David James Poissant’s “Heart” sits in that magic zone so perfectly you don’t see the punch coming. It has the repetition, the fragmentation, the slightly sentimental slightly surreal tone, and—most of all—the flow of a poem, while maintaining the cadence, momentum, and plot of a complete story.

In fact, it manages to capture two different kinds of stories into its ~500-word length. It begins as a drinking game between friends, the quick pace of several voices allowing a rapid iteration of metaphors about memory and perception. It slips next into an actual memory rather than an imagined one, less whimsical and more emotional, a tone shift that intentionally clashes against the boisterous setup. And, finally—wham!—that ending. Instead of worrying about spoilers, just go ahead and read it. It’s microfiction; it won’t take long. Though, in retrospect, the title did tell you where it was heading.

What makes a story work, especially one of this length, especially one that crams together two narratives that don’t quite go together on the surface? As always, it’s the threading underneath. Both halves explore what it means to perceive life through other people’s bodies. In particular, our parents’ bodies, and how memory can be a physical weight that gets passed down to us.

As readers, we don’t always consciously notice thematic subtext, especially on a first pass, but we sense it. Stories feel more complete and satisfying when that connective tissue is quietly guiding us.

Read this way, the tonal shift sharpens the point. The first half treats bodies and memory as abstractions, borrowed in the search for experience at a remove. The second half closes that distance. What initially feels playful and speculative is devastatingly revealed to be intimate and unavoidable. The story doesn’t reconcile its two halves by smoothing them together, but by letting them press against each other. It tells us the memory of our parents (and our parents’ memories) is an inheritance we cling to no matter how small. Sometimes all our parents leave us is a kind of microfiction of its own.

—Jeff Goldberg

Gewgaws:*

🐟

*Gewgaws are like Michelin stars, but better cause they're for short fiction.
1 is great; 2 is exceptional; 3 is perfect.

Weekend Edition Vol.091 - foofaraw

2026-02-23T05:49:52.000Z

Lots of exciting things are happening in the background here, hence the lack of (and tardiness of) rounds-ups—so we are going straight into the goodness.

The first thing I wanted to call out is two new features on Foofaraw...

First, we started publishing New Yorker-style cartoons, kicking things off with this one from Ellie Black:

Orion’s comment section

by Ellie Black

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And we officially started publishing more McSweeney’s/Onion-esque satire pieces, starting with this wonderful story about the future of weapons.

The Weapons of World War IV

by Grigory Lukin

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Last week’s story is a lot more timely than I expected when I first read it as a submission last year. It is supposed to be a silly, “over-the-top” satirical piece about bad cops, which, don’t get me wrong, has been a problem for the entirety of policing. But given the state of federal policing here in the US this year in strikes a particular cord:

⛳ Par for the course

by David Roe

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We talked to David about rotten apples and the depressing state of the world:

🎙️ David Roe

An interview with the author of Par for the course

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This week's story is a quick flash piece about monsters, curses, and love:

🪱 On the way to forever

by Ramona Gore

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And Ramona sat down to talk about centipedes and love with us:

🎙️ Ramona Gore

An interview with the author of On the way to forever

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And Nick returned with another banger:

🔭 The Record Essay

by Nicholas De Marino

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And of course, you can always go book up a book or two...

Foofaraw Press on Metalabel

Printed books and zines from the foofaraw digital zine

🎙️ Ramona Gore - foofaraw

2026-02-20T15:00:51.000Z

Read Ramona’s story, On the way to forever, on Foofaraw now!

Why a centipede?

I had considered other animals for Annika to turn into, like a bear or a wolf. Something more in line with a typical fairy tale story. But I thought the visual of her turning into a centipede would be more interesting and it would allow her to retain some of her humanity.

Do you think Annika and Lotte’s love will stand the test of time?

I'd like to think Annika and Lotte's love will last, even if it's not always easy. As I mentioned in the story, there’s the class difference to think about and how their relationship will conflict with any royal duties Annika has, like marrying a prince. People will also have a hard time accepting their relationship, but it’s hard to argue with true love’s kiss. I’m sure if the two of them put in the work, they’ll make it, since love is all about choosing someone over and over again.

Had Lotte not come around when she did, how long do you think Annika would’ve stayed curled up in that spot?

I think Annika would have stayed curled up in that spot until she turned back to normal. She’s used to staying out of people’s way whenever the curse takes over, not wanting to make people uncomfortable with her appearance. And I’m sure she could do without the looks of revulsion people give her too.

Do you believe the prince to be a coward? Or do you think his actions were understandable given the circumstances?

When I was writing the prince, I didn’t think of him as a coward—just someone embarrassed by his failure. At the time, he was more concerned with the fact that he failed to do the one thing that’s expected of a prince than that Annika was going to transform. Afterall, what did that say about him? That he was unable to break a curse through true love’s kiss as many princes before him have done. So he ran because of himself, not Annika.

Why do you think the witch cursed Annika in the first place?

I never thought too deeply about why Annika was cursed since the story was always meant to be a subversion of the true love’s kiss trope. The ‘before’ didn’t matter too much to me. But it was probably to get back at the king and queen for something, like in Sleeping Beauty.

What book are you reading right now?

I’m currently reading Bloodmarked by Tracy Deonn, which is the second book in the Legendborn Cycle series. I really enjoyed the first one because it was rooted in the history of the American South while remaining a fantasy novel. I’m a big fan of books that explore cultural identity. So I’m excited to see how Bloodmarked builds upon the first book.

Thanks to Ramona for chatting with us about centipedes and love!

🪱 On the way to forever - foofaraw

2026-02-19T19:41:56.000Z

They kiss, and for the first time in forever, Annika allows herself to hope. The prince has slain the witch responsible for her misery, saving her from a cruel fate. All that remains is to break the curse with true love’s kiss. But when she pulls back, there’s no grand display of light or purging of black magic. Nothing has changed. The spell hasn’t been lifted.

Annika can see the realization dawn in his eyes and she wonders who’s more devastated by this turn of events: him or her.

The prince stumbles backwards in his haste to detangle himself from her. He gapes at her for a moment—looking as lost as she feels—before making a break for it. He sprints down the stone steps of the dais, leaving Annika alone to deal with the aftermath.

All of her strength seems to leave her at once. She falls to the floor, large gasping sobs spilling out. Her chest heaves as reality sinks in. The curse isn’t broken. This is her forever after.

Through the open window, night creeps into the room, eclipsing Annika. She starts to shake, first with a slight twitch, and then with a full-blown convulsion. Her skin bubbles as something desperately tries to break free.

Annika braces herself as her chest cracks open—a number of spindly legs sticking out. Her body turns inward, giving way to an exoskeleton. The only thing left is a centipede—a monster. It’s almost worse that she gets to keep her own face.

Artwork by Tony Tran

Hours later, Lotte finds Annika curled up in the same spot, tears silently running down her cheeks. Despite her current condition, Lotte doesn't think twice about taking her in her arms, a soothing presence amidst a sea of despair. A special ability that comes with being friends since diapers, regardless of their difference in social status. Many have commented on the impropriety of their friendship, but Annika can’t find it in her to stay away. Being with Lotte is the closest she’s ever gotten to being complete.

“It didn’t work,” Annika howls, “He couldn’t fix me!”

“Maybe he’s not the one,” she suggests, voice tinged with hope.

“But he did everything right! How could he not be the one?! If he can't break the curse then what hope does anyone else have?!”

Lotte’s body becomes still. “May I kiss you, Princess Annika?”

She gazes at her with watery eyes, not quite understanding the words she spoke. Lotte tentatively slides a hand to her cheek and Annika’s heart flutters in response. She slowly leans in, her presence overwhelming.

“I—” Annika finds herself doing the same, impossibly drawn to Lotte.

Their lips brush and warmth spreads through her entire body. A soft glow envelops them and they separate with a gasp. Annika has shed her skin, and can no longer sense the centipede crawling inside her brain. The curse is gone.

“See. He wasn’t the one,” Lotte said, eyes bright.

“Yeah, he wasn’t.”

Annika dives back in for another kiss.

Ramona Gore currently resides in upstate NY with her very spoiled dog. Her work has been published in Haunted Words Press, For Page & Screen Magazine, Free Flash Fiction, The Viridian Door, and many others.

Orion's comment section - foofaraw

2026-02-18T17:00:46.000Z

—Ellie Black

🔭 The Record Essay - foofaraw

2026-02-17T17:00:16.000Z

Back when I had a record player. HSS-CRCK-POP!

“No!” my little sister shouts. It's her room and she's scared.

“Last one,” I lie, cross-legged on a Garfield-colored rag rug. I can't listen alone. Because of the nightmares.

The yellow-orange Fisher-Price record arm surfs vinyl. MONSTER SERIES, POWER RECORDS. All caps. Yellow label. The logo looks like The Hulk in a not-so-incredible Mummy costume.

We have three.

Drunk DRACULA, head tilted, blood dribbling; a WEREWOLF doing his best Jack Nicholson; and a constipated FRANKENSTEIN, although it's clearly the Creature. (“They must be idiots,” I think then. “Branding trumps accuracy,” I think now. “Thanks, Capitalism.”)

The two of us weathered near-universal monsters, snowstorms, helicopter crashes, dead parents, dying parents, corpse desecration, and drowning.

Seven minutes at a time. Over and over. Looped fever dreams.

My sister whispers, “Stop, please.”

I jam the dial from 33 to 45 RPM.

“Listen,” I say. “They're chipmunks.”

We laugh. I swap records.

“Last one,” she lies.

Back when I had an 8-track player. CLICK, CLACK, CLUNK!

Let It Be is the last album by The Beatles and my first 8-track. Well, technically, their second-to-last. And I just tossed aside a half-dozen other sandwich-sized hunks of plastic.

All through the day, I replay it between nuggets of Steppenwolf's Gold, Issac Hayes' Shaft, and Art Garfunkel's Fate For Breakfast. (I know what you're thinking: “Which of the six electrifying album covers of Art at the breakfast table was it?” Sorry, I must've blocked that out.)

Then bedtime. The chuckle of sitcoms in the living room muffles my music—as long as it’s quiet enough. Crawl over the rag rug—mine's blue and purple, the kind reserved for hippos, elephants, and marine animals in children's books—hold your breath through the analog clonks, and twist the volume to a hair above zilch.

Now crawl back in bed and drift off to George Harrison singing…

KHKRRHH! (Shit! Something's crushing me!)

KHKRRHH! (What's that noise? What's happening?)

KHKRRHH! (What's that thing over there? NO-NO-NO!)

A decade later, I learn about sleep paralysis and hypnopompic hallucinations. This answers most of my questions about The Beatles, the witch who lived in the wood grain of my closet doors, and those swirling lights that turned into Mutilor and Scorpius, robeasts from planet Doom. (You know, from Voltron. Or are they deros from The Shaver Mystery? Wait, is all this just a screen memory?)

These days I'm more of an Elvis guy.

Back when I had a boombox. ZHEE-VGN-VGN-ZHEEP!

That's the sound of the radio. It's also got a tape deck and a CD player.

Between birthday presents and piggybacking on Mom's Columbia House dozen-albums-for-a-penny-then-we-get-your-firstborn, I've collected a couple dozen jewel cases.

But I keep coming back to mixtapes. I can listen to any song I want, as long as they play it on the radio first.

Right now I'm mashing ⏩︎ and ⏯︎, looking for The Prodigy's “Breathe.” It's somewhere after Our Lady Peace's “Superman's Dead” and right before Green Day's “Basket Case.”

Context: I'm in middle school and just started lifting weights.

Over-sharing: a weight. A belt weight, to be precise, like for diving, attached to my genitals with medical tape. (Let's ⏸ here and say, unequivocally, that this is dangerous. And doesn't work.) Short story long, the weight slips, bounces off the boombox, and now the CD player lid won't stay shut.

Not my first rodeo, but I don't have a spare copy of Jack London's “The Sea Wolf,” which is the perfect weight for holding down the lid at Mom's house. The closest thing at Dad's is a red, illustrated children's bible—the only bible in the house, actually.

Nope, too light.

I try the weight. It works, but leaves scratch marks where the moon don't shine.

Back when I had a CD player. VING-VING-VRIHRING-ING!

The end is nigh. Not Y2K, though that's nigh, too. The local alternative radio station, 107.9 The End, is changing formats. On their last day, they play R.E.M.'s “It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)” over and over again. (They did this when they started, too, but I didn't know that. I do know R.E.M.'s Monster summons a dope dragon on the Playstation game “Monster Rancher.”)

I only tune in a few minutes. I'm distracted.

You guessed it, I'm in love.

Her name is DragonRealms. She's a MUD—Multi-User Dungeon—and she's a text-based, open fantasy world, like Zork, but with D&D rules.

A month later, I meet a girl. (On DragonRealms, duh.) She invites me to an AOL chat room where we roleplay we're in a goth club and she cyber kisses me. I promptly raid the neighbors' mailboxes and swipe enough free AOL trial discs to outlast the Apocalypse.

Evenings pass as the answering machine picks up calls from pollsters and telemarketers who want to know if we'd be more likely to vote for Al Gore if he switched long-distance carriers.

One evening, I lose my cyber virginity. All while listening to a CD player with headphones around my neck so I can hear if Mom or my sister comes downstairs. Probably a Sony Walkman with Dynamic Bass Boost. Winamp is lame. I need to be mobile.

I start downloading music on this new thing called Napster and burning CD-Rs. I even make a few bucks selling bootlegs in high school. (Thanks Jason!)

One evening, my cyber girlfriend turns me into a vampire. Then she dumps me for a werewolf or something.

The world is over, but life goes on. I keep burning CDs until Columbia House shows up to collect.

—Nicholas De Marino

Glimmering fragments - The Independent Variable

2026-02-14T17:00:37.000Z

by Grigory Lukin

🎙️ David Roe - foofaraw

2026-02-13T17:00:50.000Z

Read David’s story, Par for the course, on Foofaraw now!

Do you think DiAngelo ever manages to make it off traffic duty in Ivory Bluffs?

In the universe I’ve created, which is a barely exaggerated version of our own world, DiAngelo will never make it off traffic duty. Detective Pound is a bigoted buffoon and will therefore have a long and illustrious career with the Ivory Bluffs PD. Detective DiAngelo is a reasonable, evidence-based person, and will therefore find herself permanently benched. If DiAngelo were a real person, I would strongly urge her to consider any other conceivable career.

If this story were to continue, would the death eventually be ruled death by golf ball or is Hopkins doomed to get wrapped up in the legal system?

Hopkins' fate is inextricably linked to DiAngelo’s. Both are falsely accused of something; Hopkins’ false accusation is, of course, much more serious, but DiAngelo is likewise accused of being emotional and incompetent, which is clearly untrue. In this world, both accusations will stick, and the very absurdity of the accusations will make them all the stickier. Ivory Bluffs is a clown show from the Mayor’s office down, and clowns with power can be the most dangerous people imaginable.

Does a rotten apple spoil a bunch? Can a spoiled bunch ever be fixed?

Absolutely, and it all has to do with training and acculturation. In the police example, imagine a fresh-faced rookie who notices his colleague is on the take and performs his job with casual cruelty. A morally compromised person will gleefully take this as permission to become their worst selves. But even a righteous person will feel themselves degraded over time; swimming upstream is exhausting, and the temptation to grab one’s own share of the spoils can be overwhelming.

Can it be fixed? Yes! But it requires both external pressure and a careful selection of leadership. It also calls for a certain ruthlessness—usually, large swaths of an organization must be terminated. Policies can be altered swiftly, but changing a culture takes tremendous time, effort, and a willingness to be hated.

Do you have any personal experience with bigoted police officers?

I am a heterosexual white man in Canada, a privilege that has shielded me from any negative experiences with the police, bigoted or otherwise. However, from a subject matter standpoint, institutional corruption always fascinates me as a plot driver. It creates interesting stakes and obstacles, and sets the scene for betrayals and twists. And from a comedic standpoint, I find the funniest characters are those who are both utterly confident and absolutely wrong about everything. This story combines both of these elements.

Since you made mention of the Cardinals, are you a Cardinals fan?

I am going to be honest: I may be the least sports-aware person on the planet. My wife and I are big trivia fans, and we’re pretty good, but we always need a sports expert on our team because we’re stumped by even the most basic questions. I figured our hero, Detective Pound, would be a big football guy, which is the sole reason the Cardinals make an appearance. This story did not require much research, with one exception: “Google, what is Arizona’s football team?”

Have you seen the show Deli Boys? It opens with an assassin killing an important character with a pinpoint-accurate drive.

I have not seen that show, but it sounds hilarious! I must watch it. I recall an episode of Six Feet Under, which had a framing device at the beginning of each episode where some random person would die and then end up in the main characters’ funeral home. One episode began with a character being killed by an errant golf ball to the head. No doubt this was rattling around in my brain as I wrote this story.

What book are you reading right now?

I always have two books on the go, one fiction and one non-fiction, so please forgive the double answer. My current fiction book is Faithful Place by Tana French. It’s a murder mystery set in Ireland, featuring much more competent police officers than Detective Pound. It’s part of a series called The Dublin Murder Squad. I’m always a bit reluctant to commit to a series like this, because I prefer variety and like to read as many different authors and stories as possible. But I adore French and I’m enjoying this moody Irish mystery immensely.

The non-fiction is Abundance by Ezra Klein and Derek Thompson. It’s about the difficulty of undertaking big, much-needed infrastructure projects in America these days due to well-meaning but ultimately self-defeating regulations. They call for “a liberalism that builds,” specifically, a liberalism that can build the future: more (clean) energy, more transit, more housing. Abundance, in short. So, I suppose my current reading list reflects the interests illustrated in “Par for the Course”: murder and broken institutions.

I would like to take the opportunity to thank my endlessly talented friends in my writer’s group, “Up, Down, Left, Write.” We’re an international band of misfits and malcontents, ranging from newer writers all the way to published novelists and award winners. “Par for the Course” was reviewed and helped along by UDLW, for which I am eternally grateful. And a word of advice for all the writers out there: find a great writing community! They will sharpen your craft, hold you accountable to deadlines, and offer encouragement after that thousandth rejection letter.

Thanks to David for chatting with us about rotten apples and the terrible state of our world right now...

⛳ Par for the course - foofaraw

2026-02-12T19:41:44.000Z

The Ivory Bluffs Police Station thrusts into the clear blue sky, white and ramrod straight, gleaming under the Arizona sun. I always stand a little taller walking up these steps. At home, I’m just another schlub—mowing the lawn, folding the laundry, sweating over the grill. But here, I don’t carry groceries. I carry a gun and a badge.

I check in with the guys coming off the night shift, see what the city’s troublemakers have been up to since the sun went down. Sounds like nothing special, just a couple of regulars drying out in the drunk tank, so we talk football instead. Fucking Cardinals, they shit the bed again last night. What’s a guy gotta do to get a winning season?

Suffering through a play-by-play of my team’s defeat leaves me cranky by the time I reach my desk, so I stare daggers at DiAngelo, my partner. She’s new to Ivory Bluffs PD, transferred from somewhere in California. One of the “Sans,” I think—who knows which, and frankly, who cares. They stuck her with me since the Pinkos at Internal Affairs put my real partner on paid leave for “brutality.” DiAngelo’s a real ballbuster, a bit of a bleeding heart, and probably a lesbian.

“Mornin’,” I grumble.

“Good morning,” she says curtly, eyes never leaving her computer screen. She doesn’t watch football, doesn’t even have cable. We never have anything to talk about, no common thread. These damned Gen Z’ers, they probably just sit around all day watching TikToks about dancing trans people.

As soon as my chair creaks beneath the weight of my rock-hard ass, my desk phone rings. “Sergeant Pound speaking.” I listen to the crackling voice on the other end and slam the phone back in its cradle. “Saddle up, DiAngelo—it’s go time. We just caught a murder.”

We pile into the cruiser and tear out, sirens blaring. DiAngelo sure isn’t one for chitchat. She’s silent the whole drive, sipping from her thermos. I suspect it’s some sort of oat milk and uterine tea concoction.

I know we’ve arrived once we pass the Barry Goldwater Golf Course, a green aberration in the endless red wastes. The victim’s house is on Squaw Creek Lane, right off the seventh hole. It’s a wealthy neighborhood: grand houses, manicured gardens, and Range Rover SUVs. Folks around here are soft, too rich for their own good. They sure ain’t used to dead bodies—no doubt they’re already bitching up a storm. Chief’ll be ridin’ me on this one.

Two patrol cars are already on the scene. “What do we got, Officer?” I ask one of the uniforms.

The officer gestures at a man splayed out on the front lawn of a three-story McMansion. “Victim is Sheldon McGillicuddy, age fifty-seven. He’s the homeowner. No witnesses.”

I saunter over to the corpse. McGillicuddy is starfished on the grass, wearing sweatpants, a white t-shirt, and a bathrobe. “Christ almighty,” I say, lowering my aviators. “What do you make of this, DiAngelo?”

She bends over for a closer look, and I inspect her toned posterior. Not bad. Must be all that Zumba or Jazzercise or whatever the kids are doing these days.

“There’s bruising on his right temple,” she says. “Looks like blunt force trauma.”

I squint through the morning rays. “Good eye, Detective. These rich-types are always hiring illegals to pretty up their yards. I’m thinking some bad hombre looking for a quick score beaned him with a shovel.”

She frowns. “The contusion looks too small for that.”

“For fuck’s sake, you’re always defending the illegals,” I say. “Is DiAngelo a Mexican name or something?”

She mumbles something about Italy, but I don’t have time for her globalist claptrap. “Officer!” I shout, waving at the uniform. “Secure a ten-block radius and stop anyone who looks like they came from one of those Mexican countries.”

“All due respect, Sergeant, I think that’s premature,” DiAngelo says. “We should search the scene first.”

“By all means, Detective, let’s waste our time while cartel gangsters run rampant through our town!”

DiAngelo ignores me and scans the area. She zeroes in on something a few yards from the body and drops to one knee, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. She plucks a small, white object from the grass and holds it aloft.

“It’s a golf ball,” she announces.

“I can see that.”

Artwork by Tony Tran

“I think it’s pretty obvious what happened here.”

“Agreed,” I say, placing my hands on my hips. “Not Mexicans after all.”

“Right.”

“Must be the Indians.”

DiAngelo’s jaw drops. “What?”

“Yeah. This golf course was built on some old burial ground. The Indians have been whining about it for ages. They must have murdered our friend here and left the golf ball as a message.” I click my tongue. “Sick bastards.”

“No, Sergeant,” DiAngelo says, a distinctly snowflake exasperation bleeding into her voice. She points behind the house where the rolling hills of the fairway peek above a privacy fence. “I think a stray ball hit Mr. McGillicuddy while he was coming out to get his newspaper.”

I’m barely listening. “Interesting,” I murmur as I study the verdant grass. “On second thought, it must have been those environmentalists who’re always blabbing on about the golf course for suckin’ up all the water.” I hail the uniform again. “Officer! What was the name of that Black fella y’all arrested at the golf protests last month?”

“Hopkins,” he says. “He’s that Commie professor down at the university, always riling up the students.”

“Put out a fresh warrant for his arrest. I got some questions for him.”

We hang around while CSI performs their dog-and-pony show. DiAngelo wanders off, leaning against our car, arms folded. Stewing, no doubt, over my natural instincts and lightning-quick deductions. She’s yet to crack a case since her transfer.

My phone rings. “Pound.”

“Sergeant, it’s Mayor Hardman. I just wanted to thank you for the swift arrest in this case. Mr. McGillicuddy was a close friend and a major donor to my campaign. If you ever need a favor, just let me know.”

“Well, sir, any chance you could get my partner reinstated? Detective Payne.”

There’s a pause on the line. “Payne... is he the one who tased that nursing mother?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“And maybe get DiAngelo reassigned to traffic? She’s a bit emotional. Doesn’t seem like detective material.”

“Consider it done.”

I hang up and light a well-deserved cigar. Another notch in my belt, another scumbag off the streets. A smile spreads across my lips as I exhale a steady stream of smoke. It just goes to show, even in today’s America, hard work still pays off.

David Roe lives and works in beautiful Nova Scotia, Canada. He has a lifelong passion for writing, literature, and history, a passion that culminated in a rarely consulted Master of Arts degree. These days, he can usually be found writing by the seashore and thinking thoughts of great importance. His work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine and Writer’s Playground.

🫠 Ai Weiwei on China, the West and shrinking space for dissent - The Independent Variable

2026-02-11T17:13:52.000Z

Reuters

In China, censorship relates to red lines. You cannot cross some red lines. It’s about state policy and discussions (about) state power. It’s also related to what they would call minority or religious issues, which can be very sensitive, so people would not touch those topics. If touched, it could cause you different levels of damage. But in the West, especially now, you also see censorship everywhere— not necessarily just from the state but from companies, from institutions, from schools or museums.

Anything by or about Ai Weiwei (艾未未) is worth a read. He’s dynamic and nuanced, and I don’t always agree with his views, but his passion, compassion, and willingness to speak truth to power are unimpeachable.

A quick reminder, he’s the artist who dropped a 2,000-year-old urn in a series of black and white photos in the '90s.

Historically speaking, iconoclasm is pretty ugly and makes for some craven, manipulative bedfellows, but those urn drop images are still important and potent today.

🇭🇰 Jimmy Lai: Hong Kong pro-democracy tycoon gets 20 years' jail under national security law - The Independent Variable

2026-02-11T17:13:23.000Z

BBC

Meanwhile, in China…

This isn’t a “count your blessings” moment. It’s a preview.

Fun FAKE NEWS Fact: During the Civil War, President Abraham Lincoln curbed freedom of speech by suspending habeaus corpus.

🧸 Chicago Cubs spring training preview: Players feel primed to contend after banner offseason - The Independent Variable

2026-02-11T02:16:13.000Z

Athletic

The last thing I need right now is hope in the Cubs chances…

🤖 As AI enters the operating room, reports arise of botched surgeries and misidentified body parts - The Independent Variable

2026-02-11T00:47:26.000Z

Reuters

The device had already been on the market for about three years. Until then, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration had received unconfirmed reports of seven instances in which the device malfunctioned and another report of a patient injury. Since AI was added to the device, the FDA has received unconfirmed reports of at least 100 malfunctions and adverse events.

Medical devices, including those used in surgeries and critical monitoring should never have AI because we know AI hallucinates and will always make avoidable mistakes. It may be useful for research and diagnosis (or secondary monitoring) where a human has time to review and confirm, but when someone’s life is on the line, we don’t need to add additional variables that might ignore critical information or take circuitous routes for no good reason, compounding the potential risk of human error that already exists—which AI is not reducing.

The Weapons of World War IV - foofaraw

2026-02-10T17:00:57.000Z

I do not know with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones!”
—Albert Einstein

Those goddamn aliens ruined everything. We had everything lined up, from artillery and nukes to a few experimental weapons that would’ve made one hell of a bang, if nothing else. Sure, the other guys had their own weapons and stratagems, but that’s what made war fun—a chance to prove your mettle, your glory, your ingenuity—casualties be damned.

And then, the moment the first nuke launched, those damn greys showed up and got their stubby little fingers into our business. Just like that, no war ever again.

“Violent self-destructive actions are hereby banned,” they said. “We assume conservatorship of your planet.” That’s all they told us. There were no gifts of alien technology or cold fusion, no fun or wacky or creative ways to blow up our enemies. Bunch of gray-skinned cowards…

It drove our scientists nuts: ever since that intervention, all our weapons stopped working. It makes no sense. Guns won’t fire at all—not even cannons—but you can still shoot fireworks. Except that any fireworks that happen to fly in the direction of someone’s face (or, say, a major city) freeze in mid-air and disappear. Even slingshots won’t work anymore! Hell, you can’t even have a good old-fashioned snowball fight because those damn interlopers view that as violence, too.

We’ve tried so many things—oh, how we’ve tried. Violent speech is allowed. Face-slapping isn’t. (The hand just freezes an inch away from the face.) Parents can’t spank their children. The S&M crowd got particularly depressed because even consensual violence is off-limits. Gently flicking someone on the forehead is allowed. Strong flicking gets you frozen in place. Bombs won’t detonate, regardless of how you build them; even poisons won’t work. And if you only knew what they did to all our beautiful, precious nuclear stockpiles… That, in particular, just breaks my heart.

Those damn aliens treat us as if we were children, and what’s worse, the civilians are loving it! “No more wars!” they chant. “Maybe we can all get along after all,” they sing at all their hippie get-togethers. Iran and Iraq are having peace and reconciliation meetings. Russians and Ukrainians are still scowling and shouting, but they can’t even so much as shove each other.

A bunch of women are suddenly running for office, now that they don’t have to worry about violence of any kind. And a whole lot of men are going back to school, studying physics, chemistry, and whatever else might help us find a loophole in these nanny-state rules that banned all violence.

But little do they know… It took a lot of research; it took a lot of funding; it took more embarrassing experiments than I care to admit, but we did it. By god, we finally did it. We found a loophole that those damn peaceniks from outer space did not think to cover, and tomorrow, at the break of dawn, our paratroopers will land in key enemy capitals, and we will win this new and final war, this long-awaited, glorious World War IV.

The generals and admirals of eons past would laugh at us if they could see our preparations, our extensive training, the new fighting style we had to develop, but that doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is victory, and victory shall be ours. The final world war will be fought with pillows. Our good ol’ ingenuity, combined with the heaviest, fluffiest pillows ever made, will ensure victory. They’ll never see it coming, and when we pillow-fight them all into submission, we shall prevail at last.

Grigory Lukin (rhymes with "story" and "win") is an award-winning filmmaker and an internationally published author of fiction and nonfiction. He’s also a vagabond with three passports and far too much free time. His writing has appeared in Phano, Black Cat Weekly, and multiple anthologies. He enjoys pastries, museums, and hiking from Mexico to Canada. His secret lair is in Montreal. Find him at www.linktr.ee/grigorylukin

🤖 From Chatbots to Dice Rolls: Researchers Use D&D to Test AI’s Long-term Decision-making Abilities - The Independent Variable

2026-02-09T20:30:27.000Z

UCSD

Of course they’re using bots to play D&D. Who wants to have fun with their own imagination? We’re only on this rock to track metrics, increase productivity, and shape our blobby flesh into copyrighted bionic cogs.

Key phrase in the article: “The simulations focused on combat: players battling monsters as part of their D&D campaign.”

So, you just made a “Diablo” simulator?

Why not just scrape “Tomb of Horrors” and call it a day? Or, better yet, base an entire campaign on that “Sacred Geometry” feat from Pathfinder.

Dollars to princess doughnuts, whoever designed this simulation is no fun to play D&D with.

Remember “Tucker’s Kobolds”? Clearly you missed the point.

D&D mean many things to many people. Not all of it’s optimizing glass cannons and exploiting corner cases. For the love of Carl, please stop trying to make everything I love part of The Matrix!

Even those bots realized you need to spice things up with roleplay. That’s the, you know, play part of the word.

Weekend Edition Vol.090 - foofaraw

2026-02-08T21:31:00.000Z

Quick reminder our second novelette came out on the first! Go get it! Or you'll have bad luck for seven years.

Faceless by Ellie Montemayor

a 44-page print novelette

foofarawfoofaraw

This weeks story from Gio Clairval captures the feeling of self-isolation—whether due to living a solitary life of an artist, or I'm sure how some people felt throughout COVID:

📷 Filbert

by Gio Clairval

foofarawfoofaraw

We talked to Gio about photography, depression, and self-isloation:

🎙️ Gio Clairval

An interview with the author of Filbert

foofarawfoofaraw

This months poem is a fun piece of fiction mixed with prose poetry from Frank Spiro:

🕴️ Man is a good man

by Frank Spiro

foofarawfoofaraw

And Nick returned with something a bit different than his usual ADHD column:

🔭 Good AMERICAN News 3

by Nicholas De Marino

foofarawfoofaraw

Nick also did a little fun little subscriber-only column over on TIV, annotating the opening of Walden with links from across the vast interwebs:

Walden: Annotated

Directed by Nicholas De Marino

The Independent VariableNicholas De Marino

Week 06—2026 - The Independent Variable

2026-02-08T20:17:24.000Z

When you're reading this, you may already know what has happened at the Super Bowl on Sunday. Hopefully, the Patriots lose and ICE doesn't do anything idiotic like try to detain Bad Bunny—or anyone at the game... but they are just crazy enough to try some stupid shit like that...

February's LLoN went out right on time on the first—although we will probably shift to the first Saturday of every month moving forward. It's a depressing one, but an important one.

February 2026

Here is the Little Letter of Nonsense for February! Available to paid subscribers as a PDF and/or in print, delivered straight to your mailbox.

The Independent VariableKevin Kortum

We also launched a new subscriber-only monthly column, Semi-Sequitur, from my friend Nick. It's a really fun take on sharing links, as he annotates public domain works with links to all sorts of things.

Walden: Annotated

Directed by Nicholas De Marino

The Independent VariableNicholas De Marino

When it came to actual linkage, we of course focused on the only thing that really matters right now and that’s what ICE is doing in Minnesota. Luckily, they are pulling agents from MN, but the job isn't done—we still need to keep making our voices heard. Just because they vacate one place, doesn't mean it won't continue elsewhere.

This first link, featuring Aliya Rahman’s testimony, is heartbreaking. To think any human being is being treated like this should terrify all Americans.

🏛️ The testimony of Aliya Rahman

0:00 /6:45 1× It’s absolutely devastating to watch this. I’d love to echo the sentiment I’ve seen on social media and say, “how could anyone watch this and not be devastated?” But I’ve become too jaded. The people doing and celebrating this terrible shit

The Independent VariableKevin Kortum

🧑‍⚖️ Top Minnesota prosecutor says ICE cases are sidelining ‘pressing priorities’

Politico Actual criminals are absolutely loving what’s happening right now. ICE isn’t going after the (extremely small population of) undocumented immigrants that are in gangs because those people would actually fight back and have criminal attorneys on retainer and the idiot goons of ICE want nothing to do

The Independent VariableKevin Kortum

🔫 Mexican Cartels Overwhelm Police With Ammunition Made for the U.S. Military

NY Times Government doesn’t want undocumented immigrants in the country, but they are more than happy to sell non-citizen cartel members high caliber ammunition.

The Independent VariableKevin Kortum

✊ Resist and Unsubscribe

Link Good list/resource for things you can do around various giant conglomerates who have influence over the administration and/or are enablers of ICE. I think my Apple One subscription is the only place I’m still subscribed—and I had a lifelong vendetta against FedEx—but Spotify is

The Independent VariableKevin Kortum

And to end things on a lighter note, the trailer for the latest show from Steve Conrad, who made two of the most underrated shows of the last decade in Patriot and, my personal favorite, Perpetual Grace Ltd.

📺 DTF St. Louis (Trailer)

This is one to keep an eye on when it premiers March 1 on HBO. It stars Jason Bateman, David Harbour, and Linda Cardellini, but more importantly, it comes from writer and creator, Steve Conrad who is also the mind behind the fantastic Patriot as well as my favorite Perpetual

The Independent VariableKevin Kortum

🕴️ Man is a good man - foofaraw

2026-02-08T20:01:20.000Z

Man is a good man.
Calls his parents once a week.
Let a stranger use his metrocard.
Got his doorman a gift card to Macys.
He isn’t even rich.
But he’s comfortable.
Gives to charities he believes in.
On the board of a not-for-profit. A good one too.
Volunteers at a braille library.
When he talks to you you have his full attention.

If that’s not enough he also set up a little free library.
Treats his lover like a god.
His children like planets.
He lets his kid sneeze into his hand and doesn’t find it gross. Seriously.
Every so often he calls them in sick to school.
Do a day just for them. Dadsgiving.
Once he took them to a baseball game.
Caught a home run. Gave it to his youngest.
Who gave it to a crying baby.
He taught them right.
Posted about it on his Instagram.
Look. Funny caption.
He has friends.
They tag him in pictures.
Went to the beach.
Did a hangout. It was effortlessly casual.
People smile around him. They seem proud.
He plays a small instrument.
There’s a video.
He plays it very well.
His voice is idiosyncratic.
It’s like that because he’s so vulnerable.
Have to respect that.
He won an award at his job.
Which is teacher.
He could’ve been an astronaut.
He just finds teaching to be more gratifying.
6th grade English.
Man starts to get tired.
Usually once a year.
Sometimes in April.
Sometimes in August.

Man takes a drive.
North.
Maps out the spots he’s already been to.
Careful not to do a line.
Likes to imagine someone somewhere. In front of a map. FBI on their hat.
They’re on to him. But they’re stumped.
Can’t make out a discernable pattern.
He smiles to himself in the car. He drives faster.

He stops at a sign.
Welcome to Connecticut.
Still 30 minutes out. Can’t be too safe.
Takes the bag out of his trunk.
Takes the bag out of the bag.
Unfurls the white coat.
The stitching and name tag match the group employee photo on the homepage.
He did it himself.
Sometimes he’ll check the hospital complaints on Google.
Sometimes they’ll write about him.
When it’s late at night he’ll read them.
Relive it. Think about it from their perspective. A little pick me up.
Those nights he’ll sleep well.

Back in the car now.
Feels the anticipation.
It’s scary. In a good way.
Takes the right into the hospital parking lot.
Parks close to the stairwell.
Gets into character. Shakes it out. Clears his throat. Practices the nod.
Places the stethoscope around his neck.
Game time.

Knows where to go. Did his research.
Walks into the lobby.
Avoids eye contact.
Glances at the welcome desk.
Gives the practiced nod.
Casual. Perfect.
No one was paying attention. Even better.
Makes his way to the elevators.
Presses up button.
Scared of getting caught.
That’s part of the fun.
Nobody stops him.
Up to the 5th floor.
The ICU.

Knows how to spot them.
The families waiting for news.
The ones without hope.
Finds a group.
An old man and two women under 30.
Easy to tell. Mother is missing.
Easy to tell. They’ve been here for days.
Easy to tell. It’s bad.
Cha-ching.
Puts on his sternest face.
He tells himself in his head: Man is a doctor.
Makes himself a coffee.
Approaches the family.

As he gets close they notice him.
They sit up at attention.
Despite their best efforts there’s hope in their eyes.
The old man speaks first:
“Yes? Is there an update on Denise Feingold?”
What a gift. Given the name.
“Yes sir. Perhaps we could find a room to talk in.”

The man leads them to a private waiting room.
Door isn’t locked.
They sit down.
They’re shaking.
So is he. He bites his lower lip.
Can’t help but smile. He lives in this moment.
He finally speaks:
“Wonderful news, Denise is going to make a full recovery.”
The family is silent. They don’t know what to say.
The air in the room lightens. The weight lifts.
The man clenches his teeth. Remember this. This is the feeling.
“But… what about the bleeding?”
“It’s stopped.”
“I thought that a full recovery wasn’t possible?”
“It’s a miracle.”
The family collapses into tears.
Happy, happy, happy.
They’ve been touched by God.
The man’s face is red.
He wants to scream with laughter.
He’s touched something.
Set him ablaze.
He’s about to burst.
“Can we see her?”
“In a few minutes. She needs her rest.”
“Of course, of course.”
He needs to get out of there. He can’t hold it in much longer.
“If you’d excuse me, I have to tell a patient they have rectal cancer.”
Too much information. Doesn’t matter. Family isn’t listening.
They’re crying. They’re hugging. They’re more relieved than they’ve ever been.
He gets up and leaves in a single motion.
They’d find that suspicious later.

He’s spilling.
He speed walks to the elevator.
He holds the down button.
He walks halfway through the lobby. Then he runs.
Up the stairs.
Starts his car.
He’s laughing uncontrollably.
He makes sure to drive responsibly in the garage.
Like a doctor.
Pays his parking.
Then he floors it. Speeds away.
He feels it.
From his fingers to his heart.
Alive, alive, alive.
He’s crying now.
The look on their faces.
He gave that.
Like he’d pants’d the veil of grief.
By now they’d be suspicious.
Soon they’d know.
They’d feel the plummet.
“Why? Who would do that?”
I would. I did.
He’s hard now.

Man saw Moneyball.
In theaters and since. Thinks about it often.
Philip Seymour Hoffman.
Underrated role.
Man is a good man, in the aggregate.
He has more than enough good.
What’s a little something for him?
Remember Dadsgiving?
He deserves.
Nothing wrong with that.
He pulls over at a gas station.
He strips off his jacket. Stuffs it in a bag. Stuffs it in another bag.
Throws it in the trunk.
Takes a nonsensical way home. Doesn’t follow his GPS.
He is ungovernable.

He’ll open the door to his children’s room when he gets home.
They sleep in the same room.
It’s not dark.
They fall asleep to soft pink stars lightly projected across the room.
They’re sleeping soundly.
They won’t wake.
He’ll smile at them from the doorway.
Nothing in his head.
He knows peace.
Released from Samsara.
He will not be reborn.

—Frank Spiro

Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

🏒 U.S. Men’s hockey team honored at State of the Union, Trump says women’s team coming to White House - The Independent Variable

📺 The Media Guide S7E1 - foofaraw

📱 DTF St. Louis S1 (HBO)

🕵️ The Peril of the Brutal Dark: An Ezra Cain Mystery #1 (Vertigo)

🪷 petal rock black by WILLOW

🎸 EPiC: Elvis Presley in Concert

A review of “Heart” by David James Poissant, published in Cincinnati Review - foofaraw

Gewgaws:*

🐟

Weekend Edition Vol.091 - foofaraw

🎙️ Ramona Gore - foofaraw

Why a centipede?

Do you think Annika and Lotte’s love will stand the test of time?

Had Lotte not come around when she did, how long do you think Annika would’ve stayed curled up in that spot?

Do you believe the prince to be a coward? Or do you think his actions were understandable given the circumstances?

Why do you think the witch cursed Annika in the first place?

What book are you reading right now?

Thanks to Ramona for chatting with us about centipedes and love!

🪱 On the way to forever - foofaraw

Orion's comment section - foofaraw

🔭 The Record Essay - foofaraw

Back when I had a record player. HSS-CRCK-POP!

Back when I had an 8-track player. CLICK, CLACK, CLUNK!

Back when I had a boombox. ZHEE-VGN-VGN-ZHEEP!

Back when I had a CD player. VING-VING-VRIHRING-ING!

Glimmering fragments - The Independent Variable

🎙️ David Roe - foofaraw

Do you think DiAngelo ever manages to make it off traffic duty in Ivory Bluffs?

If this story were to continue, would the death eventually be ruled death by golf ball or is Hopkins doomed to get wrapped up in the legal system?

Does a rotten apple spoil a bunch? Can a spoiled bunch ever be fixed?

Do you have any personal experience with bigoted police officers?

Since you made mention of the Cardinals, are you a Cardinals fan?

Have you seen the show Deli Boys? It opens with an assassin killing an important character with a pinpoint-accurate drive.

What book are you reading right now?

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

Thanks to David for chatting with us about rotten apples and the terrible state of our world right now...

⛳ Par for the course - foofaraw

🫠 Ai Weiwei on China, the West and shrinking space for dissent - The Independent Variable

🇭🇰 Jimmy Lai: Hong Kong pro-democracy tycoon gets 20 years' jail under national security law - The Independent Variable

🧸 Chicago Cubs spring training preview: Players feel primed to contend after banner offseason - The Independent Variable

🤖 As AI enters the operating room, reports arise of botched surgeries and misidentified body parts - The Independent Variable

The Weapons of World War IV - foofaraw

🤖 From Chatbots to Dice Rolls: Researchers Use D&D to Test AI’s Long-term Decision-making Abilities - The Independent Variable

Weekend Edition Vol.090 - foofaraw

Week 06—2026 - The Independent Variable

🕴️ Man is a good man - foofaraw