Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

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.

🎉 Weekend Edition Vol.100 - foofaraw

2026-08-15T22:24:34.000Z

The Foofs (2025) anthology is here! It features all of the award-winning stories published by other mags in 2025, plus many, many more! You can pre-order direct from us now to get 15%, otherwise it'll be available everywhere books are sold online on September 1st!

Paid subscribers get a free digital copy and Patron's should be receiving their paperback soon!

The Foofs (2025)

Best of Strange Fiction anthology

The Week That Was

Your Daily Tear Away Horoscope

Camden Rose

This week's story was a wonderful twist on the horoscope-style story from Camden Rose and it's pretty damn fun to read on the site too!

The Explorer’s Club

Steve Wheat

This week's poem brought the return of Steve Wheat here in back-to-back months.

Spelling Bee

Rusty Epstein

Rusty stopped by to share what might be my favorite cartoon we've published yet.

Camden Rose

An interview with the author of Your Daily Tear Away Horoscope

Then Camden got to chatting with us about relationships and tarot.

A review of “Ex Partum” by Emma Burnett

Jeff Goldberg

And our Editor-at-ease wrote up a review of "Ex Partum", the newest novella from our friend Emma Burnett!

Three demons, a walrus, and some congratulations!

The Foofs (2025) - foofaraw

2026-08-15T22:18:53.000Z

Award-winning short stories of all shapes and sizes from around the world published in various litmags during 2025 featuring Try Luigi's Pizza by Rachel Henderson, We Were Never Afraid of the Spider by Timothy Fox, An Infestation of Elliotts by Galen Gower, Blotter Acid by Devin James Leonard, Bone-eater Earth by Emma Burnett, Jillian, Formerly Known as Frog Girl by Alaina Hammond, and many, many more!

You can now pre-order a copy of all of the award winning stories from 2025 and receive 15% off before the official release on September 1st. We have a limited edition hardcover, paperback, and digital version (ePub and PDF) available direct on our store for pre-order. Print copies purchased direct also come with the digital versions.

Foofaraw Press Store

Books, ebooks, and limited editions from Foofaraw Press.

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

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

Digital copy for paid subscribers

A review of “Ex Partum” by Emma Burnett - foofaraw

2026-08-14T16:00:56.000Z

An examination of the word “speculative”

I’ve always disliked the term “speculative fiction.” I don’t mean I dislike actual works classified as speculative fiction, mind you, but the term itself. There have been arguments over the meaning of this term for going on almost a hundred years now, and it’s fallen in and out of favor several times along the way. So I’m not the only one.

(This is, I promise, a review of Emma Burnett’s Ex Partum, and we’ll get there eventually.)

Part of my issue is the use of the term as a euphemism meant to cultivate a more literary-sounding veneer. It has never been enough for some fans of science fiction that their preferred genre has achieved total and complete cultural dominance, but it needs respectability as well.

More importantly, words have meaning.

Robert A. Heinlein, the coiner⁠—or at least original popularizer⁠—of that term, defined it, in part, as works of fiction that tackle the question of “What would happen if–.” That makes sense from a definitional standpoint! Speculating, as it were.

He used the term as a direct synonym for science fiction. In recent decades, it has expanded into a big tent, including (according to Wikipedia) sixteen different genres. One problem with this expansion and the vague meaning is that at some point we need to acknowledge that most works of fiction tackle some kind of “what if” scenario. What if these two enemies fell in love? What if this serial killer left clues that only one detective could decode? What if this cookie reminded the narrator of his youth? And, okay, if we acknowledge that, sure, we’re all critically thinking human beings and we know what we’re talking about, and, okay, speculative fiction refers to the reality-breaking “what if” scenarios, we also have to start to wonder why this still-hugely broad category needs to exist.

But since the term started as a synonym for science fiction, and it’s almost always used to mean “science fiction and whoever else we’ve decided to invite this time,” we also have to speak to the real problem, which is that “what if” science fiction is the absolute worst kind of science fiction.

There are four types of science fiction.

Not delineated by sub-genre, but by primary purpose. In descending order of worst to best.

4) “What If” science fiction. This is the worst kind for two reasons. Reason one is that fiction whose whole purpose is to ask and answer an internal question is essentially just a logic puzzle. What are we, babies? The second reason is my friend constantly tries to convince me that “what if” science fiction helps prepare humanity for a variety of futures and therefore is the most important kind of fiction, and then he tries to get me to read books about aliens turning the Earth into a giant video game. (Which I did eventually read and did unfortunately love.) The point is, “What If” science fiction loses ranking by the sheer pompousness of its close association to the trying-to-sound-fancy “speculative.”

3) “Spectacle” (as opposed to “speculative”) science fiction. I’m not exactly sure what to call this one. Action science fiction, pure plot science fiction, aliens shooting laser guns at each other, etc., just a complete reveling in the fun of unbounded science fiction play. It’s the kind of science fiction that will have some breakout successes, and fans will clamor for more literary critics to review it, and those same fans will then all angrily respond to one hundred percent of that literary criticism by saying “it’s not about that” or “it’s not meant to be realistic” or “can’t we just enjoy things.”

2) “Lens on current society” science fiction. This is the thing science fiction does best! It allows an author to take us out of the limitations of our current world, weaken our psychological defenses by telling us a story about something that appears different from us, and then secretly point out all the ills of modern society while we thought we were reading about aliens. This is obviously the best kind of science fiction minus one, because this is what all the best fiction does. It’s also a good way to prove that speculative fiction is a bad term, because people often point to Atwood and Le Guin as some of the best examples of speculative fiction, by which they are trying to attach the entire genre to their literary bona fides, but it’s amazingly obvious that neither of those authors were interested in some purely technical “what if” scenario building, but actually attempting to comment on us as we are now. The most speculative of speculative fiction is not speculative at all.

1) Weird shit. The only reason “lens on society” doesn’t come in first is because we all know the best science fiction is the stuff that’s too weird to make any certain statement about its purpose.

The Review

Emma Burnett’s Ex Partum, a fantastic novel that you should read, falls clearly into the #2 “Lens on current society” science fiction, in exactly the best ways of Atwood and Le Guin. And, just like the novels of Atwood and Le Guin, many reviews and readers treat it like a #4 “What if” science fiction novel.

There is a clear high-concept world framing that understandably takes center stage in many readings. In the world of Ex Partum, subscription capitalism has reached a localized zenith. Everything from housing to medical care to⁠—most importantly⁠—food is now gated by universally controlled corporate subscription models. (On second thought, if one considers “rent” or “mortgage payments” akin to a subscription, that part of subscription capitalism is already nearly universal.)

In the life of the protagonist Panya and her baby Liber, subscription food is the key factor in the story’s worldbuilding, where all consumables have been reduced to user-tailored slurpable “nutribulbs.” To maintain this lock on distributable goo substances, the entire society has cultivated a taboo against the concept of chewing, deployed viciously against an othered group of solid-food-chomping humans who choose to live outside of corporate control. When baby Liber rejects moving from breastfeeding to nutribulbs, Panya begins to bump up against the extent of her social conditioning.

As the title implies, the book explores postpartum depression. Maybe more like postpartum anxiety. Within the limits imposed by her subscription life, she must constantly ask herself: “Am I doing the right thing by my child?”

But, also, other anxieties. There’s a lot about class and status anxiety, about immigration and security anxiety, about being unsure of your footing in society. Work anxiety. Purpose anxiety (an anxiety I clearly share).

These anxieties resolve phenomenally into a critique of current techno-overlord-capitalism trends. And there’s a point in reading this book where you realize this is not a fantastically realized #4 “What If” science fiction novel, but a blistering #2 “Lens on current society” science fiction novel. Because the novel is not really interested in exploring some fully realized plotting of corporate subscription models. It’s interested in today’s living humans, already trapped by the capitalism thrust upon us.

But, furthermore, the story’s strength lies in driving more micro and more inward in its care. It’s the pre-resolution that matters. (Endings are almost always irrelevant to the quality of a story.) Ex Partum focuses on the way anxiety about belonging keeps one, intentionally, in a place of doubt and loneliness and constant tension.

While it’s easy to discuss the book’s core conceit⁠—extending “everything is a subscription now” to its horrible logical conclusion⁠—most of the book focuses on the much more interesting question of how people (or a person) might allow themselves to live that way. It’s not just “lens on current society” but “lens on human psychology,” an even stronger, better sub-purpose.

The Squint

If I have any qualms with the book, it’s that the ending lets Panya off a little too easily in terms of moral ambiguity. She’s a complex character, not always kind and rarely perfect, fighting for no one but herself and her child. Towards the end, we learn that her husband has not just been absent, both emotionally and in body, but also physically abusive. It’s not that I don’t believe in his abuse (sadly, I believe it all too much) but that it lets Panya (and the reader) avoid any further moral conundrum right around the time she is choosing whether to flee with her child.

Not that this small qualm stops the momentum or keeps the book from succeeding in its purpose. It’s a quiet story that manages to be very loud, a family drama with a society-spanning clash folded inside it, less a speculative warning than a brilliant interrogation of our current “whatever this is.” And extremely enjoyable to read.

From a classification standpoint, Ex Partum demonstrates that no work of science fiction (or any fiction) can be truly categorized with any sure solidity into any of the taxonomically-authoritative four purposes. It’s fuzzy borders. A science fiction story can be pure fun, with lovingly detailed “what if” scenarios, explore the depths of the human condition, and also hyper-fixate on weird-as-shit goopy food bulbs. Ex Partum does all four at once, at various points, usually on the same page. So you have to say “primary purpose” rather than “purpose,” and employ other milquetoast conditionals to avoid getting yelled at on Bluesky.

But some primary purposes are more primary than others, and Ex Partum knows exactly which one it’s really about. Some reviewers will keep calling it a #4 and we can mostly leave them to it. But underneath the high concept, it never loses the thread of what it’s actually interested in. It’s not the mechanics of subscription capitalism, but the specific, private, human weight of deciding whether to keep chewing. No matter how much you want to argue that all fiction can truly satisfy all purposes and, furthermore, that all purposes are of equal merit, they aren’t. And, in your heart of hearts, you know it when you read it.

Gewgaws*

🐟🐟

*Gewgaws are like Michelin stars, but better cause they're for short fiction. They are determined by the editor with input from the reviewer.
1 is great; 2 is exceptional; 3 is perfect.

Ex Partum

New mother Panya lives in the perfect environment of Blocks 6-8, where all amenities are on site and goods are delivered by drone. Little Liber is perfect, their residence is fully enclosed, her world is regulated, sterilised, and safe.Panya feels stretched to her limits, with her partner working away to cover their bills. So what if she feels isolated? So what if she struggles to manage expectations? It’s what they have to do to remain in their community. It’s how they take care of their child.But Liber is struggling. She’s refusing to switch to eating nutribulbs, like everyone in their community. And people are starting to ask questions. Her partner. The doctors. The authorities. Besieged by norms and expectations, what choice does Panya have? The consequences could break her world.

Jeff Goldberg is a writer living in the Berkshires of western Massachusetts. His fiction has appeared in Malarkey, JAKE, Exacting Clam, and elsewhere. He is the author of the novella, There Are Infinite Universes and All of Them Are Boring, published by ELJ Editions. He is the short fiction editor-at-ease at foofaraw and can be found at mixedmetaphors.net or Bluesky at @mixedmetaphors.bsky.social.

Disclaimer: while we at Foofaraw love Emma and her writing, this book was purchased independently by both the reviewer and the press with our own money and the reviewer had full autonomy to write what they wanted with no editorial oversight (although we have a policy of not publishing reviews that are outright negative). (Jeff is also a volunteer editor and reviewer for Foofaraw.)

Camden Rose - foofaraw

2026-08-14T15:35:43.000Z

Read Your Daily Tear Away Horoscope now!

I’m a bit scared to ask… but gone through any rough breakups lately?

No, (I’ve actually been happily married for about 5 years now), but if you read any of my stories, you’ll notice that I do have a (small) obsession with doomed relationships. I’m intrigued by people who stay in relationships that are doomed to fail and end up having big dramatic break-ups because of it. I also love writing stories that are strangely formatted, so the premise of a tear away horoscope intrigued me.

Or have you ever been on the other end and had an ex go a little off the hinges?

I have not to the extent in the story, but I have had few friendships that have ended with a bang. In retrospect, those relationships were probably unrequited lover-friendships where we both had feelings but weren’t willing to admit it.

What’s your sign? Do you think it fits you?

I’m an aquarius. Not sure if it fits me! Some people say it does, and some people say it doesn’t. However, I find it quite frustrating that aquarius is an air sign and not a water sign.

Do you believe in astrology? Tarot?

I use tarot cards for writing inspiration, but don’t believe in them or astrology. However, I have quite a few friends that love tarot cards and oracle cards, so it is an active part of my life even if I don’t believe in it myself.

Have you ever slashed someone’s tires before?

No, but I loved the song “Before He Cheats” by Carrie Underwood as a child. There’s a fun tire slashing scene (and car wrecking scene) in the music video.

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

This story was rejected 29 times before it was accepted by you (thank you!). It’s funny, when I wrote this story many years ago, I thought it was a very original idea, but the first editor who rejected it said she liked it but had just received three other horoscope stories that week so could only take one. I refused to give up on it though and now it’s found a home! As a writer, it’s a great feeling when someone backs a story that has been making the rounds for a while (I started submitting this story back in June of 2023).

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

Tia Tashiro has been my recent short story obsession of mine. I really loved her story “When Eve Chose Us” which features a person joining the hivemind.

What book are you reading right now?

Right now, I’m reading A Desolation Called Peace by Arkady Martine. I’ve really been enjoying the worldbuilding. As someone who struggles to write longer pieces, I truly admire people who can write compelling long stories.

Don’t slash anyone’s tires!

Thanks to Camden for the chitchat on horoscopes and doomed relationships!

Your Daily Tear Away Horoscope - foofaraw

2026-08-13T16:00:57.000Z

FEB 1

The new month dawns upon you. With Mercury and Venus by your side, forget the transgressions of the past and grow into the awakening of the new. Take chances, discover truths, and live without regrets.

Mantra of the day: Forgetting is growing.

FEB 2

Focus your energy on social obligations today. Friends need your help and in return, they will introduce you to someone who will change your life. If you give your energy to your friends and to your daily horoscope as the moon gives tides to the earth, you will be rewarded.

Mantra of the day: Friendships, and horoscopes, are give and take.

FEB 3

Form new relationships and take a chance on those who have been drawn into your orbit. You’re in equinox to Saturn, twisted with Neptune, created to be guided by those around you. Be prepared and excited for a new adventure.

Mantra of the day: New people, new me.

FEB 4

There are big changes ahead of you. People you have recently met will guide you through it. Celebrate what you have, and don’t hesitate to text him first. The sun is at your back, lighting your way.

Mantra of the day: I’m not desperate, just actively seeking.

FEB 5

Mars and Mercury are aligned, and just as they are bound to each other, you’ll find your new relationship is bound to past ones. Ignore the similarities and focus on what you can do this time. With each new love, you will learn more about yourself. Now is the time to commit.

Mantra of the day: I don’t have a type.

FEB 6

Saturn and Uranus briefly pass. Time to do something new. Take your new boy on a trip to the mountain with the hidden lake⁠—you know the one. Once there, sit at the picnic table that has lost a bench and stare into his deep brown eyes while the stars glitter above. When you get home, bake him a cake. You’ve always loved baking.

Mantra of the day: I think I love him.

FEB 11

Venus is in retrograde, prompting you to remember your place in the world. Know you are nothing but a dot in the cosmos of the universe. Trust in your daily horoscope calendar today and forever more. I can help you choose, but only if you flip me every day.

Mantra of the day: I am nothing. My horoscope is everything.

FEB 12

Matters of the heart are not as simple as they seem. This boy is distracting you from your path, your future. He’s a Scorpio after all. You’ve learned what you can; you’ve grown in your anger. Time to end what was destined to fail.

Mantra of the day: I don’t love him anymore.

FEB 13

Since you need proof like Mercury needs moons, go to his house. Pay attention. Notice the second toothbrush, the lingerie, the smell of perfume. I told you to give it up, but you didn’t listen. If you don’t stop him, he will break your heart instead of the other way around. Jupiter predicted it.

Mantra of the day: I was wrong. My horoscope was right.

FEB 14

Celebrate love. Unless you don’t have anyone in your life because you didn’t listen to your horoscope, then drown your sorrows in a tub of Blue Bell ice cream. Mars compels you to.

Mantra of the day: Mint ice cream is warmer than my heart.

FEB 15

Just like the planets above, know I am always here for you. In this time of grief, trust in your daily horoscope to make choices so you don’t have to. According to Saturn, you shouldn’t make any big decisions.

Mantra of the day: I can give up, and that’s okay.

FEB 16

Try not to think about him, or your ex, or the ex before. Try not to dwell on the fact that he’s happier without you. You have quite a track record at this point. To be expected from a Gemini.

Mantra of the day: I don’t make good choices by myself.

FEB 17

Uranus is showing. Spend time with your friends. Go to work. On your way home, don’t pass by his place. He still lives there, though he’s brought another girl to his bed. It will hurt too much to see.

Mantra of the day: I trust my horoscope. It knows what’s best for me.

FEB 18

It is a day of lists. In red pen, write down everything you know about your ex. His looks, his hobbies, his location, and his favorite sweets. Recite the incantation included on the last page. This will drag his spirit into your dreams, where you can fuck then kill him like the praying mantis you want to be.

Mantra of the day: I’m a badass praying mantis.

FEB 19

The universe is working in your favor. Go to the store and buy the prettiest knife you can find. The one you saw in your dreams. The one that glistened like starlight when you slit his throat.

Mantra of the day: The sharper the blade, the deeper the cut.

FEB 20

Neptune weeps with you, its blue aura darker today than before. Take a day to sit with your sorrow. Let it suffocate you like a weighted blanket. Drown yourself in your tears, pour your sorrow all over your list, watching the ink drip onto your pillow in thin red drops. The bleeding words will give you power and confidence to do what needs to be done.

Mantra of the day: The ink will remind me of what I lost.

FEB 21

It is a day of plans. Write down the most vital organs in the body, the ones that die the quickest. Do this in black pen so it doesn’t fade. Venus will hear it, and gift you with the power of discretion.

Mantra of the day: I will know where to hurt him.

FEB 22

It’s important to tackle the tasks you can handle. Under the new moon, use your beautiful new knife to slash his tires. Then, stare at his window, at the light blinding you, and debate slashing him as well. If you can, do it.

Mantra of the day: Consistency is key.

FEB 23

It’s okay to feel regretful sometimes. It is through moments like these that we grow, learn our skills and interests. As long as you listen to your horoscope, everything will be okay.

Mantra of the day: Everything will be okay because I have my horoscope.

FEB 24

Throw away the knife like Uranus should throw away its rings. You were never good at stonecold murder. But, you were always good at making sweets people couldn’t resist. Even if he’s no longer in your life, even if he claims he has moved on, he won’t be able to say no to your baked goods. Refer to the bleeding list for his favorite treat then go to the store and get the perfect ingredients.

Mantra of the day: Shopping is the best therapy.

FEB 25

One of the most effective ways to grieve a relationship is to bake. Spend the day living your best life by focusing on your passion like you do every month. While you’re on this baking binge, make the sweet he loves. They may contain your inkstained tears, but they smell delicious.

Mantra of the day: Revenge is a dish best served cold.

FEB 26

Yesterday’s messes will bleed into the future if you let them. Start by cleaning your apartment. Pour any extra cleaning supplies you have at the end of the day into the dessert. For flavor.

Mantra of the day: Tidy home, tidy heart.

FEB 27

Mercury and Jupiter play like kids in the cosmos. Mimic them by playing your own version of dingdongditch. Go to his home and place the sweets at the door. Ring the doorbell and run. No one can resist your treats when they’re free and smell amazing.

Mantra of the day: Sharing is caring.

FEB 28

Jupiter and Mercury are aligned. That means it’s the perfect day to listen to police reports as you clean up the evidence. It’s important to not let your emotions overwhelm you. Remind yourself that you’re stronger without them, stronger with me.

Mantra of the day: I’m going to scrub that man right out of my hair, and sofa, and bedding, and kitchen.

MAR 1

Mantra of the day: Forgetting is surviving.

Camden Rose is a queer author who loves seeking out magic beneath the everyday world. Her works have appeared with FlashPoint SF and Heartlines Spec. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her spouse, black cats, and collection of books and board games. Currently, she’s reading “Boneeater Earth” by Emma Burnett. You can find her online at www.camdenscorner.com.

Spelling Bee - foofaraw

2026-08-12T16:00:16.000Z

—Rusty Epstein

The Explorer’s Club - foofaraw

2026-08-11T18:12:11.000Z

I could have been born in Canada, but
the family cleaved the space between wars.
In the smelter’s shadow the grass bled
arsenic the day great grandpa was born.
The mines didn’t stop for VE day, but he did.

He shot out of that shaft like an artillery shell
into the Bismarck Sea of Papua New Guinea
chasing phantom u-boats smuggling Kaiser gold.
Children spilled out from his wake like bills
from a getaway car. One dream ended, one war began.

His father, grain alcohol, and the hardy boys
convinced grandpa Nazi gold was everywhere.
He turned Lugers into divining rods, magnetized
his tugboat, held a seance with an madame medium
hoping to interrogate the ghost of some admiral
who’d slam his spectral fist on a nautical chart.

I was born between recurring dreams -
of children finding fathers finding treasure.
Dad kept the tugboat - uncle Diego tugged
the medium and my three Aunts mixed
reading and drinking into glory. They wrote

like hapa Hemingways, under pseudonyms,
under their dad’s names, if they knew them,
under one another’s names–they didn’t care.
They all landed at the library by the docks -
They drank and yelled and cooed and wooed
until they turned it into a bar, reciting poems
to boys who entered horny and thirsty and left
with stanzas cantering between their ears.

At some point the family acquired a house
- nobody remembers how or who owned it.
But everyone found their way inside eventually
The men smoked and poured sighs over maps,
traced voyages across the wrinkles of the Pacific.
The women cooked and drank and yelled passages,
while cutting papayas across the spines of old books.

Some families start whole, like a grenade,
but not mine, we were born shrapnel, expelled
into a world where maps still offered questions
to our fathers who refused their answers,
into a world where books still offered refuge
to our mothers who refused their safety.
We followed every whisper, went mad with hope
that the secret was not what was hidden but
what someone else had forgotten - lost.

Our parents don’t recognize their children
by their face or name, they only recognize
their insanity, resonating, and welcomed us home.

Steve Wheat has been an itinerant English teacher across continents and has settled in the San Francisco Bay Area to work on renewable energy and de-carbonization. He previously taught fiction and poetry at the San Francisco Writer's Studio and his pieces have appeared in On Spec, Star*Line, Strange Horizons and Radon Journal, and upcoming poems to be released in New Myths and Penumbric. His pieces were nominated for a Pushcart and Rhysling Award in 2024 and 2025 and a Best of the Net nomination in 2025

🎉 Weekend Edition Vol.099 - foofaraw

2026-08-08T23:43:07.000Z

Another week, another weekend.

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

An ordinary contest (year ii)

truly extra-ordinary

The Week That Was

Deer Xing

Cliff Aliperti

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

Solar Sale

Allison Burris

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

Artificial Botany

Zack Rhodes

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

Cliff Aliperti

An interview with the author of Deer Xing

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

The Speedrunning Essay

#28

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

📺 The Media Guide S8E4

August 2, 2026 – August 9, 2026

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

Exploration, horoscopes, and a spelling bee!

The Speedrunning Essay - foofaraw

2026-08-07T16:00:32.000Z

You know what's hilarious? Scientology speedruns.

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

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

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

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

Great stuff.

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

Straight guff.

General Strats

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

From “Super Metroid”: Arm Pumping

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

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

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

From “Diablo 2”: Experience Penalty

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

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

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

Bonus Lessons & Footage

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

Cliff Aliperti - foofaraw

2026-08-06T17:00:49.000Z

Read Deer Xing now!

Do you live near any deer?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What book are you reading right now?

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

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

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

Deer Xing - foofaraw

2026-08-06T16:00:30.000Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of us replied.

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

“Old bastard,” Web said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re not afraid?”

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

“Well, I’ll keep an eye out,” I said.

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

Didn’t take my eye long.

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

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

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

Artwork by Tony Tran

There he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I couldn’t imagine this ending well.

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

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

“Getting used to the deer,” I mentioned.

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

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

“Worried?”

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

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

“On who? Somebody speeding through?”

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

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

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

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

Web glared at me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, what happened now?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

Artificial Botany - foofaraw

2026-08-05T16:00:26.000Z

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

Solar Sale - foofaraw

2026-08-04T21:30:32.000Z

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

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

📺 The Media Guide S8E4 - foofaraw

2026-08-04T20:01:17.000Z

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

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

This week, however, looks a lot more interesting.

🎬 Tony

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

🎵 Criostal by Absolute Lilt

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

📚 Fort Psycho #1 — Oni Press

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

📺 Anna Pigeon Season 1 — USA Network

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

📮 August Zine - foofaraw

2026-08-03T19:35:45.000Z

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

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

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

This month...

Stories

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

Poems

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

Observations

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