Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

The Devil You Know - foofaraw

2026-10-22T16:18:09.000Z

Joyce Ferguson sat across from the devil⁠—or more accurately⁠—a devil. She was sort of glad not to be considered important enough to be seen by the big guy himself. She was only meeting with a caseworker of Hell.

“Looking over your record, I see you traded your soul in exchange for a car that never needed to go to a mechanic," the man across from her said in a calm voice lacking the wickedness she was expecting from someone in Hell. “Later, you also traded your soul to a different devil for unlimited hex support.”

Guilty as charged. Joyce made a noncommittal noise.

She had watched enough television shows with lawyers giving advice to know not to admit her guilt. She attempted not to squirm under the caseworker’s gaze.

He was a petite, Asian man in a black kimono, the fabric covered with a macabre print of skulls. His aura of calm rivalled any Buddhist monk.

She wondered if this was the man’s true form, or if he took on this face and shape to trick her into letting her guard down and forgetting she was in Hell.

“Perhaps you didn’t realize that two bargains would only add more time to your service.” He folded his hands on his wooden desk. “Also, your file indicates you tried multiple times to get out of the contract you made.”

The office almost looked peaceful and ordinary with the tasteful shodo watercolors of misty mountains and the miniature Zen garden on his desk. Though, instead of a rock in his frame of sand, there was a pile of excrement he’d made patterns around with his miniature rake. The only thing out of place was the window behind him, showing a cavern filled with flames.

A beatific smile laced the caseworker’s lips. “You thought if you plotted to die a year earlier than when your contract outlined, your bargain would be void, and you wouldn’t have to sell your soul to the devil. How did that work out for you?”

“When I laid on the railroad tracks, every train switched tracks. When I tried to step out in front of the bus, a good Samaritan pushed me out of the way. My attempt to die early in a skydiving accident by not pulling the cord failed because the instructor somehow caught up with me and strapped himself to me.” Joyce also learned she couldn’t drown. Pills hadn’t worked, instead, they just gave her permanent liver damage-which caused health conditions that eventually caused her death.

Her contract had ended at that point, meaning the devil was free to take her life. Even so, he’d waited another five miserable years. By then, her car had also failed and died. Satan probably thought this last detail was some kind of poetic justice for trying to end things early.

Joyce’s final days had been Hell on earth.

“Let’s get this over with. What is my punishment going to be?” She crossed her arms. “Are you going to boil me in pits of hot lava?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “An eternity of hot lava is reserved for child molesters, serial killers, and rapists.” He waved a hand behind him at the window. A naked man writhed in the flames. He looked a lot like her state’s former senator. “Being whipped while shackled to the walls of Hell is reserved for corrupt politicians, sleazy lawyers, heads of insurance companies, and corporate CEOs whose companies are destroying the environment. There’s a special place in hell for people like you.”

Joyce held her breath.

The devil reached into a desk drawer and removed a folder. “You sold your soul to the devil in exchange for material goods, not once but twice. Had that been all, you would be spending the next two lifetimes, 160 years in your case, as his servant. However, you also tried to cheat my employer, so you have another two lifetimes added onto your sentence. You’ll be in the devil’s service for 320 years.”

Her jaw dropped. Three hundred years wasn’t eternity, but it would feel like it.

He continued on in a matter-of-fact tone, as if this was everyday work for him. “I found your special place in hell using our career survey. The best fit for your skills means you will become one of Satan Industries’ consultants, finding the mortals on Earth who are willing to trade their souls for material goods, power, wealth, or other selfish pursuits.”

“No! I don’t want to be a bad person. Isn’t there a job that doesn’t involve being a con-artist?” Joyce could already feel her karma withering away.

It was as if he had looked into her soul and figured out what would be the worst torture to her that didn’t involve physical pain.

He folded his hands over the file. “This job is perfect for you. I guarantee you’ll love it.”

She was fortunate she’d dated a servant of a devil for a short time. Bub, her former girlfriend, had given Joyce tips on ways to navigate the afterlife.

“I’m Buddhist,” Joyce said. “How does this factor into my religious beliefs? I don’t believe in Christian Hell.” Buddhist Hell was so much better⁠—which was pretty much what life on Earth was. “I need to transcend to the next plane of existence through good deeds and peaceful actions.”

“Once again, it looks like you think you’ve found a loophole.” His sly smile made her stomach flip-flop. “Satan Industries might make an exception in this case… just this once. We do want to honor your religious preference and desire to transcend to another dimension.”

Joyce had a bad feeling about what he might suggest.

“Would you care to make a wager?” He leaned forward, reminding her of a shark about to pounce. “After you collect your first 100 souls, we can discuss renegotiating the terms of your contract.”

That sounded promising. Still Joyce didn’t know why he looked like a cat that had just swallowed a canary. She tried to figure out what she wasn’t seeing that he did. “So I just have to collect a hundred souls, and then I can ask for another job?”

“We will reevaluate your qualifications and newly acquired skills. Then we can discuss other options that might be an appropriate fit.”

This sounded too good to be true. She wondered why he was so willing to discuss this with her. “And what you offer will be an actual job? It isn’t me being flogged in the pits of hell or being burned for all eternity?”

“Those aren’t jobs. Those are punishments. Jobs would include floggers, pitchfork personnel, guards, and other such staff. Of course, I suspect you’ll collect those 100 souls and find the job is more rewarding than expected. Most people do.”

It sounded so reasonable, like he was a real case manager.

“Do we have a deal?” he asked.

She bit her lip, thinking it over. What choice did she have? Either she could do the job and hate it for the next 320 years, or she could do the job and renegotiate after she reached her quota.

“Okay, deal,” she said.

He stood and extended his hand. She eyed his very normal-looking palm, covered in a map of wrinkles. He didn’t look like he would burn her. When she took his hand, she found his grip to be firm, but ordinary. He didn’t even write their bargain in her blood.

He seated himself and handed her the file with her name on it. “Review the contents. Your mentor will be with you shortly to show you the ropes.”

Art by Addison Smith

“So, you got Sensei Dan as your caseworker?” the devil in the blue suit asked. “He’s pretty good. Fair, but not lenient. Keep that in mind.”

Joyce’s mentor devil’s name was Beliel. Despite his old-fashioned name, he looked like a hipster with his sunglasses and pompadour. He drove them around in a pink convertible, which was able to teleport to locations of desperate mortals who had summoned a devil (or a Satan Industries’ employee) by saying or thinking the magic words:

“I would sell my soul to the devil for…”

No one stopped Beliel as he passed a security desk at the try outs for a New York Ballet academy to find his first client.

“How did you do that?” she whispered. The receptionist hadn’t stopped him. Security didn’t stop him.

“No one will notice you until you talk to them directly. Otherwise, you get to move around like a ghost.”

“But doesn’t that mean you might get hit by a car or something?” Joyce asked.

“We’re incorporeal. The physical world doesn’t apply to us. How long have you been dead? You haven’t been hungry once, have you?”

He was correct. She hadn’t even realized it. She didn’t need to sleep or eat. It was her soul that lived on, not her body.

After two hours of watching Beliel con mortals out of their souls, instructing her in the tricks of the trade, and teaching her about teleportation, she could see why some people⁠—not herself, of course⁠—might be enticed by an afterlife of magic and immortality.

“Will I get a car like yours?” she asked.

“No. You get to drive your old Toyota Camry.”

She’d been stuck with that ugly rust bucket for fifty years. She didn’t want to look at it in the afterlife as well.

She would probably stick to teleporting through doors⁠—which was how they arrived at the bar in Reno, exiting out of the men’s restroom.

Beliel waved the scroll under her nose. The client’s wish shimmered on the parchment under the listed name with a sickly chartreuse glow.

Timothy Appler

Reno, NV

I would trade my soul to be able to drink as much as I want.

As Joyce scanned the room, she noticed a man at the bar with an aura that matched the chartreuse glow on Beliel’s scroll⁠—not so different from the jaundice of his skin.

Beliel seated himself at the bar while Joyce hung back to observe. Her mentor hailed the bartender and ordered himself a drink. “You have no idea how much I want this drink.”

The man at the bar grunted.

Joyce understood Beliel probably did want to drink, but he wouldn’t be able to if he was incorporeal.

“I really shouldn’t,” Beliel said. “My doctor says I should quit.”

The older man tipped back a drink so strong Joyce could spell it permeating off him from feet away. “Mine too. What do doctors know? My grandfather smoked cigars and drank all his life. He didn’t die from either.”

Beliel nodded. “I know. Some people get lucky with genetics, I guess.”

The bartender set a drink in front of Beliel, but he didn’t touch it.

“Life is short. I should be able to enjoy it the way I want!” Tim lit up a cigarette.

Beliel slapped him on the back. “Amen to that!”

Beliel nodded and offered sympathy for the next thirty minutes before offering Tim a solution.

“How much do you want to be able to drink all day without any consequences?” Beliel asked.

“I’d give my right eye for that!” the older man chuckled.

“I would give my liver to be able to get drunk all day!” Beliel said.

“I’d give my liver, but that’s the problem. I already did. The doc says I need to quit before I drink myself into the grave.” He sucked on his teeth, as if thinking it over. “I’d give my soul to be able to drink as much as I want, for as long as I want.”

“I can help you with that.” Beliel reached into the breast pocket of his blue suit and extracted a contract.

Joyce thought the contract was more than generous. Tim was allotted twenty years to live his life without it affecting his health.

“He’ll probably die from lung cancer anyway,” Beliel whispered as his client staggered off.

Beliel made the job look easy.

“Don’t you feel guilty enabling this man’s bad behavior?” she asked.

“No. I’m giving him what he wants.”

Joyce had initially been wowed by the magical aspect of the job, but she didn’t love the idea of making people’s lives worse by helping them give into their base desires.

Like she once had. She’d been shallow and given in to selfish desires when she’d sold her soul.

Beliel leaned back against the bar. “If you don’t want to work with alcoholics, you can find other people on the list who you want to help.”

Joyce harrumphed. “I’m not delusional enough to believe I’m helping anyone.”

“Suit yourself.”

Joyce watched a new name appear on the long list of names he had been crossing off. The names shifted around on the paper.

She nodded to it. “I think one just disappeared.”

“Some lucky devil got that one before we did. It happens.”

Beliel found another two souls in the bar who weren’t even on his list.

“Bars and casinos are my favorite hangouts. I always pick up a few extras that aren’t on the list, which means less competition. You just need the mortals to say the magic words out loud to make the bargain. But you can’t say it for them. I guess Satan has some sort of moral code.”

“Right.” She crossed her arms, doubtful.

“He was once an angel, right?” He tapped the scroll of names. “These guys have already said they want the bargain. They just have to sign the contract. You don’t have to be as strict with these suckers. But the freelance work, you need to convince them so they think of it on their own. That’s where the real work comes in. I suggest you leave those souls for veteran devils to collect.”

By noon, Beliel had crossed four names off the list and made five bargains, using his freelance technique on the desperate.

“You’re making bargains quicker than I thought possible,” she said. Despite how unscrupulous a job it was, she was impressed with his efficiency.

“What can I say? I’m too good for Hell.”

“How long does it take you to get a mortal to sign over their soul?” Joyce asked.

“These days? A few minutes to a few hours.” He smoothed a comb through his pompadour. “But that’s only because I’m good at recognizing desperate souls and what they need.”

She imagined it would take her longer as she built on-the-job experience. “How many souls can you collect in a day?”

“You won’t harvest any souls until the contract expires. Satan Industries is usually pretty generous with people’s life expectancy, giving them what they would guess a normal life would be, depending on risk factors.”

Her voice came out a squeal. “So that means I have to wait fifty years to collect a soul?”

“Or more.”

Dread settled into the pit of her stomach. Once again, she had been outsmarted by a devil. She was going to be at this a long time before she even got to discuss being considered for another form of servitude.

Her karma would wither away and she would someday⁠—in 320 years⁠—be born into a life worse than her last one. Life was suffering, as the Buddhists said. So was the afterlife. Her next life would be worse than her last because of all the conning she did in the afterlife.

She wondered if she could get out of that by becoming a born-again Christian and repenting. Then again… she already tried outwitting Satan multiple times and it hadn’t worked out for her any of the times she tried before.

That was how Joyce started her afterlife, suckered into the ultimate pyramid scheme, unable to escape.

Sarina Dorie has sold over 280 short stories to markets like Analog, Daily Science Fiction, Fantasy Magazine, and F & SF. She has over one hundred books up on Amazon, including her bestselling series, Womby’s School for Wayward Witches. A few of her favorite things include: gluten-free brownies (not necessarily glutton-free), Star Trek, steampunk, fairies, Severus Snape, and Mr. Darcy.

You can find info about her short stories and novels on her website:
www.sarinadorie.com

Older Fellow - foofaraw

2026-10-21T16:00:18.000Z

—Ellie Black

Dryad - foofaraw

2026-10-20T16:00:24.000Z

resembling a pair of acorns as they
pushed against the fabric of her blouse
⁠— Han Kang, The Vegetarian: A Novel

You wake up in the morning
with the sap run out
of your veins

into a bucket at your bedside
the sunrise has already come and swept away.

You whistle for the feet you’d
curled like roots
into the steep of dreams

but they can’t lift themselves out of the earth
without breaking off their toes.

You touch your elbows and knees
as if they were knots
the nightmare had loosened but couldn’t untie:

hangman’s knots, perhaps, though you can’t recall
it was suicide or an execution.

All you remember is an evaporation.
A scent you gave off all night.
All you remember is the cold nose of the wind

that seemed to be everywhere without a mouth
and couldn’t hurt.

Robert Perchan’s latest books are the comic futuristic novella Tropic of Scorpio (Spuyten Duyvil Press, 2022) and Last Notes from a Split Peninsula: Poems and Prose Poems (UnCollected Press, 2021). His short story collection “Shocks, Meester?” is out now from Spuyten Duyvil as well. His poetry collection Fluid in Darkness, Frozen in Light won the 1999 Pearl Poetry Prize. Bob continues to eat, drink and write in Busan, South Korea, under the bemused gaze of his translator wife, Mi-kyung Lee.

H.C. Ricci - foofaraw

2026-10-20T00:02:15.000Z

Any weird things going on in your home lately, H.C.?

I’m continuously clearing black gunk out of my bathroom sink, but it keeps coming back, almost immediately. I suspect it’s evolving.

If you had to use a word that was not a color to describe how the portal looked, what comes to mind?

Radiant, and blindingly so. Or, maybe more of a shimmering iridescence?

How do you think Doug’s therapist reacts the next time he walks into their office?

I don’t know. But I suppose, if I had to start over and rewrite it, I might set it in the therapist’s office and use that setting to frame the narrative, maybe even embedding the story inside a dialogue between Doug and his therapist, selectively teasing out the details bit by bit.

What do you think is actually going on in Doug’s head when he sees himself in the mirror? Does he recognize something is off? Is he completely subsumed by whatever has taken over?

Like all stories, it’s up to the reader to decide. I’d like to think that Doug’s denial has given way to a sort of radical acceptance. I suppose you could also interpret it as regression and further denial. Perhaps there’s more lurking beneath the surface.

My words hold a mirror to your own beliefs. Are you an optimist, a pessimist, an out-of-the-box thinker who likes to slap your own uncanny and totally unhinged ending on things?

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

“Moon Drama” by Ashlee Lhamon. I don’t often laugh out loud when I’m reading, but with a premise like that you can’t help but giggle. Also, “Make Westing” by Jack London.

What book are you reading right now?

Carl’s Doomsday Scenario from the Dungeon Crawler Carl series. I love the tone and voice, but could do with a few less stats.

Thanks to HC for the chitchat on weird portals aplenty!

Sad Salad - foofaraw

2026-10-16T16:00:52.000Z

Derek G.

Glendale, CA

★★☆☆☆ March 30, 2024 | 11:54 PM

took my girlfriend to cheesecake factory tonight for our 2 year anniversary cause it’s her favorite and i was trying to make it a thing even though she’s been all moody lately. we got the buffalo blasts and 2 vodka sodas to start. she ordered her usual chicken madeira and i just got a side salad cause i already ate a PB&J at home. my girl looked at me like i ordered a bowl of napkins and the waitress (danielle maybe?) just wrote “sad salad.” after that she got all defensive and i guess we got loud. the manager said we were “disturbing the other patrons” and asked us to leave which i don’t agree with but he was nice about it so no hard feelings. pretty sure they boxed her madeira though and i paid so whatever.

food: 2/5 - the buffalo blasts were ok
service: 5/5 - danielle was chill
company: 0/5 - we broke up in the parking lot

i’m single now so DMs are open. danielle if you’re reading this i swear i’m not a salad guy. Just being responsible. hit me up.

Jessica M.

Los Angeles, CA

★★★★☆ March 31, 2024 | 1:32 AM

I don’t normally write restaurant reviews, but since my ex-boyfriend decided to post his run-on sentence meltdown, here we are.

The night started with an argument before we even got there, which Derek conveniently left out. He parked six blocks away to avoid the meter. My feet were killing me.

Still trying to salvage the night, we ordered drinks and an app. It was fine until he ordered a side salad as his entrée. It’s not even about the salad. It’s that everything is a joke to him, and I’m always the punchline. Weddings. Birthdays. My grandfather’s funeral. I find myself practicing apologies for him before he opens his mouth. By the time the manager asked us to leave, I knew I was done.

Food: 4/5 - My madeira to-go was delicious.
Service: 4/5 - Danielle did her best.
Company: 0/5 - The Cheesecake Factory didn’t ruin my night. Derek did.

And Danielle, if you’re seeing this, you can have him.

Danielle L.

Burbank, CA

★★★★★ April 2, 2024 | 4:23 PM

This is the cleanest, best-run Cheesecake Factory I’ve worked at. And I’ve worked at a few.

About to start my shift and saw the recent reviews. I’ve served worse couples, but not many. We train for this. To smile, offer bread. I followed the script. I just didn’t have it in me to sell it. By table twelve, everyone thinks they’re the exception. They never are.

Derek: Please stop coming in during dinner rush and “just hanging out.” We are not friends. You’re taking up seats meant for paying guests.

Jessica: Glad you enjoyed your madeira. I promise I’m not interested in Derek. He didn’t even tip.

The Making of Kyrios /// - The Independent Variable

2026-10-15T19:27:45.000Z

The inspiration behind AT Kyrios, the process of making it, and what makes it unique.

I'm obviously a giant fan of both Kyrios and ArrowType given Kyrios is all over this site as both our wordmark and headers. So it was a ton of fun to learn about Stephen's process from start to finish, especially the photos of the graveyard monument that was used as heavy inspiration for the typeface. I still buy blackletter typefaces like they are my lifeblood, but to this day, nothing has surpassed the love I have for Kyrios, with it's fun, psychedelic styling on top of a structured and elegant blackletter font. It doesn't hurt that Stephen made the /// glyph/ligature you'll see in the title of this post after I specifically requested it.

How to Avoid Your Problems - foofaraw

2026-10-15T16:00:00.000Z

1. Distract Yourself

Doug did just about anything he could to avoid thinking about the giant interdimensional hole in his living room. He tried mediation, pottery, weight lifting, even tai chi. His therapist told him the hole didn’t exist. Doug generally agreed, but found that position harder to maintain when an interdimensional tentacle reached through his wall and accidentally slapped him while groping for fodder to feed one of its dozen mouths. But better a tentacle than the bug-eyed gaze of a Peeping Tom⁠—as happened once on a date.

2. Pretend It Isn’t There

Doug had been in the kitchen preparing tea, leaving his date to bask in the radiating glow which filled the living room. The colors which trickled in didn’t belong on the visible spectrum, though green is a fairly close approximation.

To his date, the strange colors and ominous humming felt like an unwelcome acid flashback. Yet for all her uneasiness, the interdimensional hole wasn’t quite a dealbreaker. Everybody had their quirks.

Seeing a fly-faced entity burst through the wall and flash her a demented grin… Now that was a deal breaker. It was also too heavy for Cherly to handle, sending her into a fit of reality-shattering screams.

Doug, calmly setting the tea on the counter and walking to the living room, did his best to reassure Cheryl what she was seeing wasn’t real. That it was merely a manifestation of repressed childhood trauma, or something… Unfortunately, his date didn’t seem to get the message.

3. Pretend Harder

Doug decided to take a break from dating and work on himself. He spent his weeks, journaling, meditating, exercising, and listening to podcasts while the hole grew larger. Cracks from the interdimensional portal spread from room to room, but Doug pretended not to notice. The house became boiling hot and the windows radiated strange cosmic colors. Doug tried calling a technician to fix the heat, but nobody dared enter.

One day, a flock of four-winged creatures resembling manta rays began nesting in Doug’s attic. He spent a few hours Googling “how to get rid of bats,” but ultimately decided to live and let live. It was something he read in The Four Agreements. Or was it The Power of Now? He could never remember.

4. Give Yourself a Pep Talk

Some days, ignoring the hole was easier than others. But the journey to self-improvement was a process⁠—at least that’s what Doug tried to tell himself. When its radioactive glow distracted him from watching television, or its position between the TV and his stereo made cleaning difficult, he tried box breathing. When that failed he recited affirmations.

“I am bigger than the problems I think I have,” he’d proclaim as the interdimensional hole loomed over him, big and green as ever. Then he’d state, “I have control over my life and home.” Unfortunately, the gurgling which echoed from the cosmic void made that difficult to believe. Finally, he’d end by saying, “my challenges are opportunities for growth,” which was true, and offered him a bit of solace in those strange days.

5. Face Your Fears Head On

One day, after morning yoga and before pottery class, Doug decided enough was enough. The interdimensional hole had been sitting in his living room for nearly three months and he was still dancing around the problem. Doug decided the only way to prove the hole was a figment of his overactive imagination was to step into the glowing green void. So with unshakable courage, he ventured to go where no person had ever gone. Doug stepped into the void.

6. Go Back to Pretending

Doug didn’t feel any different when he stepped outside to grab the mail. If anything he felt lighter⁠—as if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He began whistling as he walked, attracting the attention of Fred, Doug’s elderly neighbor who was hard at work mowing his lawn. Fred could hardly believe what he saw, and Fred had seen a lot of strange shit over the past few months.

“Are you alright Doug?”

“Just peachy Fred. How ‘bout you?”

“I’m good. I’m good.” There was a pause. “The only reason I ask… it’s just that… well… you’re glowing.”

“Thank you. I’ve really tried to give myself space to prioritize my mental health.”

“No, you’re literally glowing!”

“Ok then, you have a good one. Make sure to tell the missus I say hi!”

Doug chuckled as he closed the door behind him. Oh Fred, what a joker, he thought as he stepped into the bathroom. Doug flipped the switch and the lights flickered on. The face he found staring back at him in the mirror would have horrified most other people, but Doug was not most people.

Doug’s chestnut hair had turned white as snow, his skin radiated a previously unseen color, and a budding tentacle wriggled from his left nostril. Doug took three deep breaths, gave his reflection a smile, and got ready for pottery class. He stumbled across his reflection again in his car window looking even stranger and more radiant than before. This caught Doug by surprise, but he quickly found his footing. “You’re more than your fears,” he mouthed in a quiet attempt to assure himself that everything would be alright.

H.C. Ricci is a copywriter by day and author by night. His genres of choice include fantasy, sci-fi, and mystery. You can check out his work at hricci.com/fiction.

In Your Tzara Dream - foofaraw

2026-10-13T16:00:54.000Z

The hands have been pulled out of all the clocks in the world.
⁠—Tristan Tzara
Grains et Issues

The clocks wait, naked. Hands left late last night.
Now vacant time can’t name later or now.
Your floor is too orderly⁠—black squares, white
oblongs stare back with evil smiles to spite
loose clocks. You’re naked and your left-hand knights
a random pawn that entered from the right
side of a black bed. It’s time to bow
to naked clocks. Their hands escaped this night.
Now vacant eyes open late. Open now.

—Mark J. Mitchell

William O'Brien - foofaraw

2026-10-09T18:02:01.000Z

💡

Go read Flanders, George and His Pimavanserin now!

Are you a big fan of crows?

I confess my obsession is more with pigeons⁠—my favorites! But writing a story from the POV of a bird is hard enough without benefitting from the intelligence of a crow. It’s hard to imagine Pimavanserin snatching french fries off the ground, adorable though that is.

Have you ever had an extended interaction with a crow or witnessed one do something impressive?

Haven’t we all wanted to? We’ve all seen videos of crows convincing humans to do their dirty work for them. My favorites are when you can sense their trust and tenderness, like when they wait atop a water fountain for a passerby to press the button for them.

Do you think there’s a happy ending for George and Pimavanserin?

Emphatically yes. I hope this story leaves its readers with a sense that George and Pimavanserin share a communion despite their mutual lack of understanding. The challenges George faces are serious beyond a crow’s ability to solve. But the two are better for knowing one another. And that, for them, I think is enough.

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

Nine times! Its very first submission was to a contest from Apparition Lit. They offered a photograph by Graciela Iturbide as the prompt for this story back in 2022. Though I later received form rejections from the other eight markets, Clarke from the Apparition Lit team reached out to share how much this story had touched them. I was very thankful for this encouragement in the early stages of my writing. But I’m thrilled it’s finally found its home in Foofaraw. Really, I couldn’t be happier.

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

I’m up to my neck in the classics while in my second year of my MFA. What story touched me the most recently was “Bullet in the Brain” by Tobias Wolff. What a triumph. For a more contemporary example, I was really excited by “Trimming” by Kara Crawford published in TriQuarterly. Here at Foofaraw, I really enjoyed “Small Potatoes” by E. Florian Gludovacz.

What book are you reading right now?

I just finished “Between Two Fires” by Christopher Buehlman⁠—not for the faint of heart. Before that was “Hunchback” by Saou Ichikawa⁠—also not for the faint of heart, though for different reasons. Now I’ve begun “Never Let Me Go” by Kazuo Ishiguro. Tell me, if you know, is it for the faint of heart?

Only that “Flanders, George and His Pimavanserin” was my very first work accepted for publication. It’s a quiet little story but holds a special place in my heart.

Thanks to William for chatting about birbs with us on this fine afternoon!

Flanders, George and His Pimavanserin - foofaraw

2026-10-08T16:00:37.000Z

All crows are smart, but Pimavanserin is the smartest. It was she who long ago domesticated the fierce coyotes of the desert. Now, she perches atop the highest spire of their roost, the most splendorous cactus in this land of red clay, and waits⁠—every day⁠—for Flanders, George.

Crows have no equals except, perhaps, for the great apes. The beasts seldom bother the flock, confined instead to their shiny white building, transported away and back again by the metal boxes they’ve tamed. Occasionally, the crows need some service from the apes, so they’ll ingratiate themselves with an offering⁠—a gift⁠—invariably taken from another of their kind. (Apes haven’t the intelligence to consider the origin of things.) Still, it’s never happened that one has humbled himself enough to make a crow such an offering. That is, until Pimavanserin.

Flanders, George is a hairy ape. He wears a gown to just past his knees and a pair of slippers that sometimes falls off in the sand. Shoeless or not, he smiles whenever he sees Pimavanserin, and chants her name: constantly, happily, the first gift he ever gave her. Every day, he slips her a small plastic cup and, as if by magic, reveals two orange pellets under his tongue, gleefully depositing them for her.

“Pimavanserin, pimavanserin!” he says, and the crow takes it from him.

There’s no value for her in this exchange. After he leaves for the day, she carries the cup to the deadlands and disposes of it where he can’t see. (For the apes, whatever doesn’t exist before their eyes doesn’t exist at all.)

But there is no gift-giving without service. Flanders, George has a bracelet around his hairy wrist, and he tugs at it restlessly, holding it up to Pimavanserin and pleading with a whimper. She relents and comes down from her perch. Using her sharp talons and dexterous beak, she frees him from his restraint.

He whoops and she knows her friend is happy. He pats her head once, twice, three times before scurrying into the desert as he always does, away from the others who chase him.

On a cactus spike, Pimavanserin pierces the bracelet with all the rest. Examining it might help glean some insight into the impenetrable world of the apes. She cannot decipher the glyphs, but they’re minutely different from similar bracelets scavenged from bins outside the great white building.

“FLANDERS, GEORGE,” it reads. This is always the first line, so it’s what Pimavanserin associates with him, though she yearns to learn his true name and the meaning of the other unique script. For the repeats⁠—“NAME:, DOB:, SEX:, ROOM NUMBER:, UNIVERSITY OF NEW MEXICO NEUROLOGY CENTER”⁠—she gleans little significance.

A day passes, and he does not come. She’d like to think nothing of it, but it’s all she can think about. Perhaps the break from routine has her restless, but by the third day, she knows it’s something more. Flanders, George is hers, and if it becomes known that any animal has preyed on him, she’ll use her influence to whatever end.

But the fourth morning, he comes walking out as he always does, in his little gown and slippers. He is still hairy, but his skin is pocked and fraying, symptomatic of sunbaked carcasses that litter the desert floor.

Artwork by Addison Smith

Today, she glides to him. He does not greet her by name, rather falls on his freckled knees. There is no plastic cup for her. Instead, Flanders, George touches the inside of his throat and retches the contents of his stomach onto the sand.

Pimavanserin is dumbstruck. Sure, when she had her young, she fed them in this way, but certainly Flanders, George understands he’s dealing with a mature crow⁠—indeed, the wisest of them all. If he means to offer her food, why would he infantilize her?

With no thought for her, he runs into the desert⁠—before Pimavanserin can tear his bracelet, before he can pat her head. The others come and pull him away. Apes never prey on each other, but Flanders, George wails like he’s being eaten. The smile is gone from his face as he disappears inside.

She searches what he’s left and collects them: the same two orange pellets. No crow has ever entered the white building, just as the apes have never invaded the desert⁠—a gentle truce. Clasping the last bracelet he left her, Pimavanserin decides she will be the first. For his sake.

The closer she gets, the less shiny the building becomes. Instead, the sides of the structure give way, like the skin of larvae, and reveal their internal matter. Dozens of apes reclining, some peaceably, others thrashing wildly about.

It’s not long before she finds where Flanders, George must live. She knows this because the walls are decorated with drawings, crude forms of an ape and a crow together laughing, adventuring, being. He and she.

She cannot get closer because of the building’s invisible barriers, but within the room sits another ape who looks just like Flanders, George. But this one’s bracelet is gray, its skin whole and healthy. Though it wears no gown and slippers, it is hairy and has his same freckles.

It notices her and approaches the barrier. Pimavanserin cranes her neck to read the simian glyphs on its wrist.

“VISITOR NAME: FLANDERS, AMELIA.” What could this mean?

She’s never made an offering to an ape before, but she humbles herself, depositing the orange pellets onto the outside ledge along with Flanders, George’s bracelet.

“Pimavanserin?” it gasps, staring at the offering. Relief fills her. Flanders, George told it her name. They look into each other’s eyes. Between species, there’s only one true understanding: There is no gift-giving without service.

Flanders, George enters the room, and Flanders, Amelia embraces him. He looks bewildered, but that’s okay. From now on, Pimavanserin would come to him. And together, they would heal whatever it was that took his smile away.

William O'Brien is a writer from Atlanta, Georgia and an MFA candidate at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. Learn more at williamobrien.com.

Invisible Man vs. Invisible Stan /// #JJSB3 - The Independent Variable

2026-10-08T02:59:04.000Z

Incredible stuff. Absolutely incredible.

Dan Trachtenberg to Direct ‘Sleeping Beauty’ Movie for Disney - The Independent Variable

2026-10-08T02:57:01.000Z

This is an odd pairing. Dan Trachtenberg, known for “Prey” and “Predator: Badlands,” has signed on to direct a new film inspired by “Sleeping Beauty” for Disney.

I didn’t have this on my bingo card. I really hope he is given the freedom to do something fun with it and not just a rehashing like every other Disney remake. I doubt it, though.

Teenage Engineering Is Going to Stop Making Synths - The Independent Variable

2026-10-08T02:55:15.000Z

Founder Jesper Kouthoofd says the pivot is part of the enigmatic Swedish company’s plan to stay fresh.

I’m sure there are going to be a lot of people that are bummed out about this (go get your extra OP-1’s now), but I find the idea of TE working with more companies, designing and building more types of things to be incredibly exciting.

Loose Lips - foofaraw

2026-10-07T16:00:00.000Z

Art by Rusty Epstein

Three Short Poems - foofaraw

2026-10-06T16:00:53.000Z

straddling the crunch
of ice cube buoys
adrift in his frozen milkshake,
I can’t help but wonder,
how did we get so small?

✱

she assumes every head nods
in solidarity
as she reads her scifaiku⁠—
but I’ve never seen
even a single episode
of star trek

✱

orbital traffic’s nonexistent
rubbery whine ⁠—
no airborne atmospherics
to circulate the rocket’s tread

Julie Allyn Johnson is a sawyer's daughter from the American Midwest whose current obsession is tackling the rough and tumble sport of quilting and the accumulation of fabric. A Pushcart Prize nominee, Julie’s poetry can be found in various journals including Coffin Bell, Lowestoft Chronicle, Star*Line and Chestnut Review.

Some ordinary results (year ii) - foofaraw

2026-10-03T20:22:46.000Z

Entries received 76

Longlist finalists 15 stories

Honorable mentions 5 writers $10 entry fee returned

Total prizes $555 paid to the three winners

Welcome! Another year; another contest; another set of (extra)ordinary results.

Before we get into things, I want to give a ginormous gallon of gratitude to our amazing judges: Andrea Cavedo, Ashlee Lhamon, and Jenifer Reynolds. I've been absolutely honored to have them as judges—and friends—this year.

And of course, this wouldn't be possible without all the wonderful writers who took a chance on our second contest and signed up to participate. While we only take a small cut of the entry fees, it's essentially one of the few ways we raise money to help publish the wonderful stories, poems, columns, and cartoons throughout the year.

Congratulations to all who made the longlist, our five honorable mentions, and of course, our three winners who will be published in November's issue.

Without further ado...

Longlist

Lick by Anthea Jones
New Management at the Western Trails Motel by Jonathan Tolstedt
Overheard by SPQM
Slam Click by Meriwether Falk
Stitches of Time by Leow Jinn Jyh
The Memory Thief by Angela Benham
The Scritching by Sam James

Honorable mentions

$10 entry fee returned · listed alphabetically

Ellen’s Final Foster Child by Jane Stecyk
Left Door, Right Door by Kat Albrecht
Rubis by Corrie Haldane
The Fun is in the Searching by David K. Mitchell
The Yolk’s On You by Moira Richardson

Winners

Third place

Frayed Threads

by Ren Crewell-Fuerst

$110 · published in Foofaraw Press

Second place

A Cold Day in Hell and Other Graveyard Shift Problems

by JA Logwood

$165 · published in Foofaraw Press

First place

Beyond Anywhere

by MM Schreier

$280 · published in Foofaraw Press

Also in this series

Story — First place Beyond Anywhere by MM Schreier Coming Nov 16 Story — Second place A Cold Day in Hell and Other Graveyard Shift Problems by JA Logwood Coming Nov 9 Story — Third place Frayed Threads by Ren Crewell-Fuerst Coming Nov 2 Year II announcement An Ordinary Contest — Year II Year I results An Ordinary Contest results — Year I Year I Winner A Cup to Save the World by Andrea Cavedo

Have Hands, Will Hench - foofaraw

2026-10-03T12:00:10.000Z

Our fourth novelette is live! Snag a copy directly from us now or anywhere books are sold.

In a world... ravaged by global warming and wars, Banana Brian is forced to take a job as a supervillain's henchman to pay off his student loans. In order to survive, Brian must find a way to pay off his giant debt, avoid kleptomaniac henchmen, find shortcuts to freedom, and avoid getting killed by rampaging amoral superheroes, the supervillain's brutal enforcers, and a nasty infection he got from a cut...

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 is available everywhere books are sold online including Weightless, Bookshop, and all the big guys if that's your choice of poison.

Foofaraw Press Store

Books, ebooks, and limited editions from Foofaraw Press.

Digital copy for paid subscribers

So, You Want to be an AI Slopper - foofaraw

2026-10-03T01:57:36.000Z

You want glory and riches and fame and book signings and an HBO adaptation and Hollywood parties and piles of cocaine and then groupies and threesomes and orgies and more, so much more! Maybe a couple of statues and the Nobel prize and all of the trophies and medals and the bestseller status and a book tour and red carpets and people chanting your name at the top of their lungs and glory⁠—oh, how you yearn for that glory.

There’s only one problem: you’re expected to sit down and write and rewrite and then edit and chisel and, like, try to put in actual effort⁠—who has the time? Nerd shit. There must be a shortcut.

And sure, maybe you even got one of those books about writing by Le Guin, King, or Bradbury, but it was so dense, had no pictures, and made your head hurt, so you threw it away. Stupid books.

Your next step, of course, is to get your big manuscript⁠—nay, your great magnum opus, your gift to humanity!⁠—done the fast way, with AI. And yeah, sure, some people despise it, but that’s because they’re haters and losers and Luddites. (You’re not really sure what that last word means, but it sounds so retro and cool and you heard it on your favorite podcast.)

So you fire up a chatbot and feed it your Great Big Idea or, you know what, why even bother, just tell it to make something up for you. Ideas, pfft, who even has them these days, am I right? Nah, let the robot take care of it. There! It’s a huge outline with characters, concepts, and all that good stuff, but again, with no pictures. Your eyes start to glaze over and you can just barely make out the bit where the bot praises your creativity. After a quick pat on the back, you acknowledge that part with a nod and a smile, something you tell yourself you’re going to practice in front of a mirror for all of your future interviews.

You give the bot the go-ahead, commanding it to turn that concept into a novel or perhaps a trilogy. It says it’s gonna need more tokens, so you punch in your mom’s credit card number, just like you always do. While it compiles your brilliant masterpiece, you take a break and smoke for a while and chug an extra-large energy drink.

It’s goddamn tiring, being an artist.

Once the novel is done, you don’t even bother to read it. You’re a writer, after all! Reading is for all those idiots who’ll have no choice but to worship you as their new god. A few more clicks and there, the cover’s ready. The hands don’t look quite right, but fuck it, doesn’t matter. Another purchase with your mom’s credit card and boom, your book has a sweet trailer! You post it online, awaiting the glory that is rightfully owed at fucking last.

And while you’re at it, time to message agents: you get another bot to send a couple hundred emails, telling them just how lucky they would be to have the sliver of a chance to represent you. Submission guidelines? Pfft, nah, that’s for weaklings. You’re better than all that: establish dominance!

You give them all an hour to respond. Meanwhile, you go and generate some stories and throw them at all the magazines: let’s make it rain! Book publishing will take a little while: at least two weeks before the checks roll in. There, done: three hundred emails sent to all the editors, explaining why your genius creation (though you’re a little foggy on the plot) deserves to be on their front cover, nothing less. You also tell them you’re Estonian or whatever to make you look a whole lot more exotic in case they dare to question what you wrote.

But back on social media, the comments aren’t quite what you expected. Some nerds make a big meme out of your cover, saying the seven fingers and three nipples are unintentionally hilarious. You don’t quite understand, but hey, it’s free publicity, so you just ask if they’re going to pre-order⁠—and how many. Two minutes later, they make another meme of you. Whatever.

Some hippie chick complains about your AI usage, something about all the electricity and water and trees. That makes no sense, but she’s cute, so you don’t block her. Instead, you copy-paste your chatbot’s words about lawns and golf courses being destructive, too. You’ve never really golfed, though, so you’re not sure. The sunlight hurts your eyes whenever you step out of your mom’s basement. Nah, you’re an alpha-sigma loner wolf; the night is your domain. You chug more energy drinks and fantasize how you could totally fight crime using the ninja stars your mom gave you for Christmas.

Another glance at all your mentions and… what’s that? Some random site posted an article about you, calling you out by name. The vibes are bad. There’s too much text and not a lot of pictures, so you just ask your bot to summarize, and… Huh. The nerds are mad. The agents and the editors are even madder. Come on, where’s their sense of humor? Why can’t they appreciate your genius?

And… shit. A message from your friend, something about googling your name. You try that. The first two pages of results are memes and articles that mock you and your masterpiece. It takes a bunch of scrolling to find anything even remotely relevant, like that small-business page you once created for your dog-walking venture that never quite took off. (Apparently, dogs like to walk during the day.)

You wonder if this mess will go away if you just take a nap, but you’re too wired and unable to sit still and wait it out. Hmm, maybe change your name? Nah, too much work. How about this? You use the chatbot to compose a letter of apology, then copy the whole thing, post it online, and take another break to do some gaming.

Three hours later, you go online again⁠—and… shit, you didn’t quite remove the stupid prompt. The thing you posted for the world to see begins with, “Write something to tell those losers that I’m sorry, I don’t care what.” You swallow hard. Your heartbeat grows erratic. You google yourself one more time and… Huh. That’s a whole lot of memes. You don’t quite comprehend what they all mean. The ones you understand, though, are quite hurtful.

Your mom shouts your name. Ugh, what’s the matter? You stomp upstairs to see why she would dare to interrupt your restless genius. There, on the driveway by the unkempt lawn, you see four news trucks and ten journalists with microphones, and then you get the faintest intuition that maybe, possibly, you may have made a few mistakes.

Lily Lachance (she/her) is a trans woman, immigrant, award-winning filmmaker, author, poet, nomad, and adventurer based in Montreal. She's been published in the Antifa Lit Journal, Gavagai, and multiple anthologies. She enjoys bakeries, museums, stealing energy drinks from babies, and hiking from Mexico to Canada. Her blog is the same as her Bluesky handle: lilylachance.com

Jacob Baugher - foofaraw

2026-10-01T16:52:25.000Z

Read New Beginnings now!

So I’m of two minds for how this story resolves… on the one hand there’s the “this home, this timeline is where the heart is” on the other, our protagonist feeling incomplete almost feels like a subconscious regret of jumping. Where do you stand on this?

For me, this ending became a parallel to both mental illness and the constant wear of working for a job that doesn’t care about you. We sort of lie to ourselves constantly in regards to our work. “If I just get the promotion, I’ll be happy.” “If I just land the agent, I’ll feel complete.” “If I just get on the NYT bestseller list, It’ll all be worth it.” “If I just accomplish [the goal], I will be [who I’m supposed to be].” It’s a false choice, but I have no sage wisdom about overcoming the cultural lie.

Over the pandemic I opened up to my PCP about some struggles I was having. I told him “Sometimes I wish I would get COVID so I could spend two weeks in the hospital and no one would bother me.”

He pretty much threw anti-deppressants down my throat before I was finished speaking, but he said something at the end of the appointment that really stuck with me. I asked him if he’s seen an uptick of depression in patients since the pandemic and he chuckled and said something along the lines of “It was before the pandemic. Look at how we’re expected to live…”

There’s a whole book in there about how labor exploitation feeds mental illness, but I’m not exactly qualified to write it.

If you were given the seed in that situation, would you have jumped?

If I signed a predatory work contract that took me away from my wife and kids for years on end, then lost them anyway in a divorce and I was offered a chance to go back and make a different choice by an interdimensional being? Yeah, I’d probably jump and take my chances.

One thing I’m curious about is this idea of the “last galaxy seed” – does that mean we are in the final timeline?

No, just that corporate development has exploited nearly everything. The in-world explanation is that this SF Universe operates under the assumption of Black Hole Cosmology – that our entire universe and everything in it exists inside a supermassive black hole – and that inside every black hole’s singularity there is another entire universe and timeline. So the galaxy seed is more like the stuff to populate the void inside Herald’s new singularity universe that he created when he pressed the silver button in the story.

Are we to assume all of the jumpers were given a similar seed or were they really just trying to end it?

When I conceived of the story, it was a mix of the two. I left the predatory contract they all signed a bit too subtle in the final draft of the story.

What is it that you think would drive someone to give up 20 years with their significant other and kid in exchange for a cushy retirement?

I mean, I think people give up a lot just for a cushy retirement anyway. The nice thing about Sci-Fi is that people are willing to suspend disbelief even when pushed to extremes. But look at how our current world operates. We’re expected to work 8-12hrs a day, sometimes more than that. We’re expected to sacrifice our health, marriages, hopes, and dreams, just to scratch out a living on this Earth. At the end of it, most of us will probably die in debt with many regrets and leave nothing for our children.

On a personal note, my father used to work for a corporate office realtor. He was once pulled into the CEO’s office and told that he needed to work harder. The CEO told him that he’d sacrificed two marriages to his business and that he would expect my father to do the same.

Greed is a powerful motivator. I think many people forget that billionaires and major shareholders are not on our side. If they could get rid of us, they would, which is what they’re attempting to do with A.I…

America especially is due for a labor rights revival, and it needs to come soon.

Do you ever feel like our protagonist? Incomplete, like maybe you were up in the stars in another timeline?

I think we all do at times.

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

At least 30 times. I originally wrote this piece for Apex Flash Fiction Contest’s Vacuum Cleaner theme. I switched submission managers last year and not everything carried over. This story racked up a staggering number of personal rejections. I’m glad it finally found a home here.

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

I just finished up editing Flash Fiction Online’s Paranormal Noir anthology. All of the stories there are great reads (though I chose them so I’m biased). Otherwise, I want to highlight Parker O’Neill’s work. I don’t think I’ve read a story of his that I haven’t absolutely loved.

What book are you reading right now?

Right now I’m in the throes of an R&R for (hopefully) my future literary agent. Between that, life, and two kids, and reading for FFO’s slush, my leisure reading has ground to a halt. Earlier this year I loved Joe Abercrombie’s new book “The Devils” and I currently have every intention to read “Demanding the Impossible: A History of Anarchism” by Peter Marshall, which is currently on my desk.

There’s a thousand things I’d like to share: Free Palestine; fuck A.I.; deFlock America; please for the love of God give me more political parties and also pay me more; your local librarians aren’t trying to turn your kids gay, they’re just trying to make everyone feel included. LGBT books are free speech, not an attack on your religion; remove pineapple from pizza; there is a difference between analytical and generative A.I. – one finds cancer, the other is the evil one – please stop conflating the two; our entire healthcare system is exploitative and needs to be reformed; infinite scroll is poop from a butt; If you use A.I. to write for you and then you lie about it you are also poop from a butt; please stop screaming in children’s faces during youth soccer practices you are not a professional soccer coach you are an embarrassment to men and having a mantrum. Go to therapy so you can address your big feelings I can’t believe we need to “Ms. Rachel” men in 2026.

There’s more but that about sums it up at this exact moment.

Please join me in giving a big round of applause to Jakey Baughey!

New Beginnings - foofaraw

2026-10-01T14:16:35.000Z

1.

Now

You take your time with the cleanup. Heavy machinery sparking in the dusty nebula. Great tubes sucking galactic slurry into density accelerators, the remains of the Crion system. Green interstellar glow-lights illuminate the sides of your Spidercraft: the gaudy text “Clifford’s Cosmic Catastrophe Mitigation” splashed across a black hole. Dim shadows kiss the photographs taped to your dash.

You don’t want to be here, staring down the edge of forever. No one does. But there’s no way out for either of us. Not yet.

“Did you hear? There was another jumper at the Orion site.” The words crackle over your comm, punctuated by bursts of static that makes the pictures of your daughter tremble. “They triggered the anomaly and he went right for it. Destabilized the whole sector.”

You don’t respond, but your foreman, Caius, does.

“Always gonna be jumpers.”

2.

Then

The foreman peered over his clipboard. “Herald Gorman?” His voice echoed in the dim hangar, reminiscent of cathedrals.

Herald nodded.

“Caius Brit. You can fly, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Happy first day,” Caius said, in a voice that was anything but. He gestured at the Spidercraft, a round, gray ball with manifold ports. “It’s basically a giant fucking vacuum cleaner. We launch from the station and you pilot it to the work zone. The ship will auto-connect to the vacuum appendages.” He pointed at a red ladder beneath the craft. “That’s how you get in.”

The ship’s cockpit was cramped. A single chair faced an octagonal viewport. Aside from the standard piloting equipment, four levers shined on the flight console.

“Red is for inorganic matter, blue for organic, yellow for gasses, black for fragments of any historical artifacts. Each lever sends whatever you’re sucking into a different density accelerator.” He pointed to the far side of the hangar at a line of craft: gray boxes the size of aircraft carriers labeled “Cosmic Garbage Vault.”

“It doesn’t really matter what goes where, but there are government regulations. If we get fined, it comes out of your pay.” He pointed to the black lever. “If you find anything sentient, do not engage even if it engages with you. Suck it up with everything else. As far as I'm concerned, if the universe didn’t want it, I don’t either.”

“What’s that?” Herald pointed at a large silver button at the center of the console.

“That,” said Caius, “creates the anomaly once we have enough matter in the accelerators. It sucks everything else down and then collapses in on itself, leaving a perfect void for corporate development.”

“Huh,” Herald said. “Neat.”

Caius rapped his clipboard on the flight console. “Do not approach the anomaly. It’s unstable and could cause massive damage to corporate profits. I’m sick of contract dodgers—we call them jumpers—do your twenty years, get your cushy retirement.”

“Of course. Where do I sign?”

Caius handed him the clipboard.

3.

Now

You wish you hadn’t signed the contract. Wish that you’d taken a normal job on Earth, but it’s too late. Time only flows one way for you.

I have been watching for eighteen years, since you limped in on that sorry excuse for a starship packed full of humans and Nerians and Avandii. I watched you tape up your photographs, a woman and child. You took the woman’s photo down, months later, left it crumpled on the spacecraft’s floor, then eventually vented it out of your craft’s waste-port. The letters from the child numbered fewer and fewer, until they stopped altogether. They are folded up in your room, the last dated five years ago, but still unread.

Perhaps you are the correct choice. Perhaps you will understand what most mono-sentient beings cannot.

4.

Now

“Accelerators full,” Caius’s voice crackles over the comm. “Initiate anomaly.

“Initiating.” Herald presses the silver button.

The remnant haze of the Crion system shudders, swirls into a vortex birthing a center of inky black.

“Craft, pull back,” Caius says.

A chorus of “rogers” warble from the comms. Spidercraft disengage from their vacuum tubes and head for the stars.

“Wait,” a voice says. It echoes, coming from everywhere and nowhere.

Herald waits. The other craft continue. A being appears outside the viewport, floating without life-support, shrouded in a cloak of watery rainbows illuminated by the green glow-lights. A face of black smoke and white eyes. He regards it warily.

“What are you?”

“Your species will call mine Void-breathers one day.”

“One day?”

“One day.”

The other Spidercraft keep retreating.

“What do you want?”

The Void-breather holds out a smoky hand, palm up. A white-blue orb blazes within it.

“The last galaxy seed. Take it. Go through the singularity.”

“Why?”

“It is necessary for continuation,” the being says. “The singularity will replenish them.”

“What happens if I don’t?”

“Nothing, for you,” the being says. “But eventually, no more galaxies. No more tomorrows.”

“I think I’ll take my chances,” Herald says.

“Do you know why your superiors don’t want you near the anomaly?”

“I don’t know, they don’t want us to die?”

The being gestures to the logo on the ship. “Clifford cares about his employees?”

“God, no.”

“The singularity is ascension,” the Void-breather says. “A new beginning. As if this timeline never happened.”

The galaxy seed vanishes and appears in front of Herald, floating. “Take it, go, and you will be rewarded.”

Artwork by Addison Smith

5.

Tomorrow

You come home from your work at the library to your wife and daughter in the small suburban Virginia apartment, unaware of the Crion system or anything that happened there. You are happy, aside from the nightmares that you’re half-trapped somewhere, split, like part of you is being crushed and stretched and reformed into arabesque string under infinite bend. Sometimes it’s too much. You wake up sweating, spilling tears for half-remembered nightmares. Sometimes you stare off into hectic autumn leaves feeling incomplete; if only the final part of you would slide into place, then you’d finally be whole.

But don’t all humans feel that way?

Jacob Baugher is a writer, editor, and musician originally from Baltimore, Maryland. His work is featured in Flash Fiction Online, Radon Journal, Abyss & Apex, Foofaraw, and others. He earned his M.F.A. in fiction from Seton Hill University in 2017 and taught creative writing and composition at a small university in the Ohio Valley. Currently, is an assistant editor for Flash Fiction Online, works for the public library system, and plays in a progressive emo band called Cokeworks. You can follow his writing journey at http://thearchetypist.substack.com

Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

The Devil You Know - foofaraw

Older Fellow - foofaraw

Dryad - foofaraw

H.C. Ricci - foofaraw

Any weird things going on in your home lately, H.C.?

If you had to use a word that was not a color to describe how the portal looked, what comes to mind?

How do you think Doug’s therapist reacts the next time he walks into their office?

What do you think is actually going on in Doug’s head when he sees himself in the mirror? Does he recognize something is off? Is he completely subsumed by whatever has taken over?

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

What book are you reading right now?

Thanks to HC for the chitchat on weird portals aplenty!

Sad Salad - foofaraw

Derek G.

Glendale, CA

★★☆☆☆ March 30, 2024 | 11:54 PM

Jessica M.

Los Angeles, CA

★★★★☆ March 31, 2024 | 1:32 AM

Danielle L.

Burbank, CA

★★★★★ April 2, 2024 | 4:23 PM

The Making of Kyrios /// - The Independent Variable

How to Avoid Your Problems - foofaraw

1. Distract Yourself

2. Pretend It Isn’t There

3. Pretend Harder

4. Give Yourself a Pep Talk

5. Face Your Fears Head On

6. Go Back to Pretending

In Your Tzara Dream - foofaraw

William O'Brien - foofaraw

Are you a big fan of crows?

Have you ever had an extended interaction with a crow or witnessed one do something impressive?

Do you think there’s a happy ending for George and Pimavanserin?

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

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

What book are you reading right now?

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

Thanks to William for chatting about birbs with us on this fine afternoon!

Flanders, George and His Pimavanserin - foofaraw

Invisible Man vs. Invisible Stan /// #JJSB3 - The Independent Variable

Dan Trachtenberg to Direct ‘Sleeping Beauty’ Movie for Disney - The Independent Variable

Teenage Engineering Is Going to Stop Making Synths - The Independent Variable

Loose Lips - foofaraw

Three Short Poems - foofaraw

Some ordinary results (year ii) - foofaraw

Longlist

Honorable mentions

Winners

Frayed Threads

A Cold Day in Hell and Other Graveyard Shift Problems

Beyond Anywhere

Have Hands, Will Hench - foofaraw

Digital copy for paid subscribers

So, You Want to be an AI Slopper - foofaraw

Jacob Baugher - foofaraw

So I’m of two minds for how this story resolves… on the one hand there’s the “this home, this timeline is where the heart is” on the other, our protagonist feeling incomplete almost feels like a subconscious regret of jumping. Where do you stand on this?

If you were given the seed in that situation, would you have jumped?

One thing I’m curious about is this idea of the “last galaxy seed” – does that mean we are in the final timeline?

Are we to assume all of the jumpers were given a similar seed or were they really just trying to end it?

What is it that you think would drive someone to give up 20 years with their significant other and kid in exchange for a cushy retirement?

Do you ever feel like our protagonist? Incomplete, like maybe you were up in the stars in another timeline?

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

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

What book are you reading right now?

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

Please join me in giving a big round of applause to Jakey Baughey!

New Beginnings - foofaraw

1.

Now

2.

Then

3.

Now

4.

Now

5.

Tomorrow