Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

🌳 Removal - foofaraw

2026-04-29T15:09:42.000Z

“Jettison Tattoo Removal, Negotiable Fee.”

The sign, old-fashioned gold script on a dark wooden plaque, hung in a window between a Black barber shop and a corner store advertising money transfers. A smaller wooden “Open” sign hung from the bigger sign.

It’s been two years since I got that tattoo, with Terry beside me on the other table getting a matching one. It was his first one and I was worried about how much it would hurt him, but he had such a high pain tolerance.

It wasn’t my first tattoo. As a matter of fact, we had a hard time finding a good spot for it. There aren’t too many women with as much ink as I have. Sometimes I thought I must be able to feel them on me, like the Illustrated Man could, but the only one I could ever feel was the one from that day, a tree of life with his name woven into the branches, matching the tree of life holding my name on his chest. I could feel it now, above my left breast, its branches pressed into me like an inlay.

I opened the door and entered. A soft bell rang.

The shop was small, with a pair of couches facing each other over a coffee table littered with magazines. There was no tattoo-removal gear in sight. The glass-fronted shelves beneath the empty wooden counter displayed an odd selection of objects: glass vials with multi-colored contents, loose gemstones, carved stone boxes. A few framed art deco prints decorated the walls. The air smelled of furniture polish.

An elderly man came through a curtain and sat on a high-backed stool behind the counter.

“Welcome,” he said. He wore a dark suit, and had a long, pale, aristocratic face, dark eyes, and a full head of improbably dark hair. Gold rings with multiple gems, red and darker red, glinted on his long-fingered hand which rested immobile on the countertop.

“Hi,” I said. “What do you mean, negotiable fee? I don’t have a lot of money.”

“I charge depending on the value to me of removing the tattoo.”

“What? How can there be any value to you?”

“If I feel like I can remove the underlying reason for getting the tattoo, I will do it for no fee, but only if the underlying reason is significant.”

This was not strange at all. “Aren’t all tattoos significant?” I asked.

“You’d be surprised. Some people get one because they think it’ll make them cool. Then they find it doesn’t work, and the tattoo now reminds them every day of their lack of cool, which they’d rather forget. They often say the removal is for professional reasons, or family reasons, or some other excuse.

“Some people still have a tattoo of someone they grew out of, a movie star or musician, and now they feel like a fool walking around with some boy-band’s logo on their shoulder. They say, ‘I’m just not that girl anymore, y’know?’

“But some people have real reasons for getting them, and for keeping them. And some have just as real reasons for losing them. I can help those people. Why’d you get it, and why do you want to lose it?”

I opened my coat, undid a couple of buttons on my work shirt, and touched a finger to the tattoo. He leaned over the counter and peered closely.

“Very nice work,” he said, sitting back. “What’s its meaning?”

“It’s a tree of life. Terry had a matching one with my name in it.”

“Had?”

“He’s dead.”

“Ah, it reminds you of your friend Terry, and that makes you sad. Sorry, Miss, that’s not my kind of thing. I can recommend a good conventional tattoo removal shop.” He turned away and opened a drawer behind his counter.

I rubbed my fingertips over the tat. “We got the tattoos together after we were released from the hospital after suicide attempts. He designed them. He was a wonderful artist.”

He stopped digging through the drawer and looked up at me with new interest.

“Ah, well, that’s different. Please sit.” He gestured to a couch off to the side. “Tea?”

“Sure, thanks.”

He went to the door and turned the lock, then reversed the sign so it told the world, “Closed,” then went into the back. The table in front of the couch was littered with the usual tattoo magazines along with amateur zines on many subjects: tattooing, witchcraft, Jungian psychology, feminist anarchism.

He came in with the tea things as I was reading a slim book of “transgressive body horror” flash fiction.

“You have quite a selection of reading material here,” I said as I cleared a spot for the tray.

“I like to keep an open mind. Sugar?”

“Just a bit. No milk, thanks.”

“Please tell me about the tattoo. Tattoos.”

“Four years ago I attempted suicide. I rode my bike at high speed into a bridge abutment. I was really high. It was four in the morning. I heard later that the paramedics had to revive me. I’d lost a lot of blood and almost lost my leg. Footpeg right through the calf muscle.”

My hand reached automatically down to my leg, but I caught it and reached for my tea instead. “They thought it was an accident until I woke up in the hospital raving about how I was was supposed to be dead. I was in that hospital for a long time. I met Terry there, in group.”

I stopped and drank some tea. “This is delicious.”

“It’s my own blend. Please go on. Terry had also attempted suicide?”

“Yes. He had been self-harming all his life and finally decided to just cut deeper. His roommate, his college roommate, found him. His parents had him committed.”

I took a deep breath. “We fell in love. They warned us about that. Trauma bonding isn’t a basis for a relationship, they said. We didn’t care. We knew how we felt, like we had a reason to live now. I was in addiction treatment and could walk again, so I was able to release myself. I got a job and rented a shitty little apartment. When Terry was released, he moved in.

“We were happy, but things were not always easy. We both knew there was a way out, more than one way, and we talked about how to promise ourselves and each other that we’d stay. I had lots of tats, but Terry didn’t have any, just a lot of scars. We thought we could get matching tattoos to remind us.”

He leaned forward. “You were afraid you wouldn’t be able to keep the promise, or that he wouldn’t. That’s why you marked it on your flesh.”

I was struck silent.

“Do you know why you attempted suicide?” he asked.

“They made us talk about that a lot in group, but I’m not sure I ever got to the bottom of it. I just felt there was no reason to keep living. Life was hard and painful. I couldn’t see a future worth making any effort for. That’s what Terry changed in me.”

I took another sip of tea, not sure why I was telling him all this. He took a sip too, watching me over the rim of his cup. “What’s your name?” I asked him. “I’m Vicki.”

“Arthur,” he said. “So you thought you could live for another person?”

“I hoped. I loved him so much. I thought it would be enough.”

“But it wasn’t, was it? Not for him.”

“I came home that day and he wasn’t there. I called him and he didn’t pick up. I called other people, but no-one had heard from him, so all I could do was wait. The next morning a cop came by and told me he’d been found dead. I went with her and saw Terry to ID him. He was very white, bloodless. He’d slashed his wrists.”

I had to stop for a minute. Arthur watched me.

I said, “He went somewhere else to do it, so I wouldn’t find him.”

“You want to follow him,” Arthur said.

I looked up, dizzy. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

His face was close, dark eyes burrowing into mine. Everything, including his face, had a halo around it.

“You drugged me,” I said. “Is that how you get off, killing suicidal people?” I tried to stand, but my bad leg wobbled out from under me, and I fell back on the couch.

“No,” he said, “and it’s not a drug, not in the way you mean. I’ll remove your tattoo. In payment, you give me what made you get it.”

“What, my love, my promise, my memories? No way.”

“I won’t take those. Or your life. But I will have to dig down for the real reason. I think I know, but I have to be sure.”

“Do you need me to consent?”

“Yes.”

Something turned over in me. “Do it.”

Artwork by Tony Tran

A memory hits me so hard I can almost see it—me going back to my empty apartment in my black dress and standing there wondering what to do next after the funeral. His parents holding a service, disappointed that he can’t be buried in hallowed ground. They have his ashes. They insist on keeping them. His tattoo of my name is now ash, mixed with what’s left of the rest of him. His blood’s gone, soaked into the ground of the overgrown empty lot behind the old gas station.

The memory track skips backwards, and I’m standing in the coroner’s lab, looking at his face, blue-shadowed under the fluorescent lights, and the tattoo on his chest, standing out like a special effect against the pale skin. The scars on his vacant body are finally complete.

Another jump-cut, and I’m opening the apartment door, seeing the cop there, knowing why she’s there, not wanting to know.

Then, seeing Terry alive for the last time. I kiss him in bed and go off to work. He would usually get up around noon and work until late at his desk, that desk we’d schlepped home from down the street where it had been left for the taking. When I get home, he isn’t there.

Then, a vivid memory that makes me catch my breath, of Terry and me making love, me on top, his beautiful eyes wide, watching me. The tattoo with my name on it is fresh on his chest. The window is open and it’s raining. I cry out and then—

Terry showing me the tattoo designs. He looks away, afraid I won’t like them. I take his face in my hands and kiss him hard.

The way I feel when when he sees the apartment for the first time. He grew up with money, and I’m sure he’ll hate the place. He hugs me, and we walk around all two rooms of it. He says, “All ours.” Oh, my heart.

Walking around the courtyard at the hospital, me limping with a cane, him bandaged up. We talk about art and music and food. I tell him I’m a good cook. He smiles, waggles his eyebrows, and says “I like to eat.”

Seeing him for the first time in group, those improbable eyes that hardly ever look up, that voice so low and reluctant, those mummy-wrapped wrists.

Waking up in the hospital, flailing around, crying, “Why aren’t I dead?” Nurses holding me down, saying, “You’re all right now, you’re safe.”

Flying down the highway on my bike. No job, no place to live, no money. The only thing I own is the bike. The only option I have is to go back to my family. You know what they say: Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

But I don’t have to go there. I have somewhere else I can go, somewhere where I don’t have to hear the droning voice of criticism like a drill hitting the bone, the constant stabbing fear of failure, the fury, the pain, all clenched in my brain like a fistful of poison. There’s only one way to let the poison out. I aim for the abutment, put my head down, and go full throttle. I’m ready for you.

I was lying on a couch. An old man knelt on the floor beside me.

The room spun as I sat up and looked around, not knowing where I was. Memories trickled back, confused and tangled.

The man said, “Take your time. You’re all right. It’ll take a few minutes for it all to settle.”

I looked around the room. Tattoo removal. I looked down. The tattoo was gone. I put my hand to my chest and whispered, “What did you take?” I tried to remember everything. Terry, I remember Terry. My God, he was so beautiful. The memory of his suicide was a sword through me—guilt, anger, and a loss deeper than anything I could’ve believed possible.

The man, Arthur, held up a small vial, the contents twisting in it like a nest of snakes. Beautiful eyes glittered in the eddies, calling me to join them, telling me how peaceful it would be to be embraced by the swirling beauty forever.

Arthur put the vial away inside his jacket and said, “I took your death wish. I can use that.”

The next day, the shop was gone, with a “For Lease” sign in the window. I asked at the barbershop what had happened to it. The barber shrugged and said it had closed after being open for only a few weeks.. The clerk at the corner store said the same. “It was usually closed. The dude hardly ever had any customers. You can’t run a business that way.”

I went to the window and cupped my hands to see through the glass. The counter and couches were still there, but the shelves were all empty. Whatever he’d taken from me was gone.

It was up to me to learn how to live without it.

After retiring from a lifetime of wrangling Unix systems, Rae Patterson (she/they) has turned her hand to writing the Horror and SFF literature that she has always loved so much. She has a blog at https://raepatterson.ca. She currently lives in Montreal, Canada, alone with her books, computers, and video games.

📺 The Media Guide S7E5 - foofaraw

2026-04-29T04:00:59.000Z

Quick one this week as we've released a bunch of stuff and I'm a little under the weather.

First, our first anthology of 30 original stories is out now and available everywhere books are sold online on May 1st.

A Great Big Fuss (2025)

a foofaraw anthology—don’t go making a huge deal about it, that’s what we’re here for…

Foofaraw Press

And we launched a new subscriber feature where you can read all of our zines, novelettes, and anthologies in a beautiful webapp that will sync all your reading progress.

Reader — foofaraw

Foofaraw Reader app

The Media Guide | Foofaraw

Your weekly guide to the movies, shows, comics, and albums worth knowing about.

Foofaraw

Interactive webapp for paid subscribers

📺 Widow's Bay Season 1 — Apple TV

New horror-comedy show from Katie Dippold, who wrote on Parks & Rec, starring the wonderful Matthew Rhys, and a killer crew of directors including Hiro Murai (Atlanta), Andrew DeYoung (The Chair Company), and Ti West (X). High, high hopes for this one.

🎬 Hokum

Adam Scott stars in this horror film from Neon about a horror writer at a haunted house. It might sound cliche, but I think this will actually be a great one.

🎵 Something Worth Waiting For by Friko

The Chicago Hallogallo indie rock scene continues to absolutely kill it. No city continues to put out great rock bands like Chicago. Not a lot of great music this week, but Friko and a couple others stood out.

📚 Final Boss: Masked Vigilante #1 — Image Comics

One-shot from Tyler Kirkham in the Final Boss world.

Paid subscribers get the full breakdown of all shows, movies, comics, and albums for this week along with access to the Foofaraw Media Guide webapp.

A Great Big Fuss (2025) - foofaraw

2026-04-28T04:58:41.000Z

The first anthology from Foofaraw Press has arrived. You can pick up a copy of A Great Big Fuss (2025) direct now and everywhere books are sold on May 1! We have a limited edition hardcover, paperback, and digital version (ePub and PDF), or all of the above at our Metalabel shop. Print copies purchased direct also come with the digital versions.

A Great Big Fuss (2025)

a foofaraw anthology—don’t go making a huge deal about it, that’s what we’re here for…

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 May 1st.

Digital copy for paid subscribers

Big Mistakes (2026) - A Humdrum Life

2026-04-25T21:10:15.000Z

Good fun that got better as it went along.

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🎙️ Mark Granger - foofaraw

2026-04-24T16:04:01.000Z

Read Mark's story, The Lion Slide, now!

Was there any particular park you had in mind while writing this story?

It’s an amalgam of two parks near where I live.

Were there any good ghost stories or local legends where you grew up?

I asked my wife about this and she told me about St Wistan.

In 849 AD, after he was murdered by his cousin Brifardus who wanted to take the throne from St Wistan’s mother Queen Elfleda, a church was built in his honour. Since then it is said that human hair grows between the blades of grass in the churchyard on the anniversary of death. This was ‘verified’ in the 12th century by a church commission sent by the Archbishop of Canterbury.

When you were a kid, do you think you’d have the guts to go down the slide at night?

Of course. I ain’t yeller.

Do you think you’d have been the one looking back, contemplating, or pulling your friend to keep going forward?

I’m getting the hell out of there. I ain’t yeller, but I ain’t stupid.

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

None of your business, mate.*

*too many.

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

It’s going to be a Stephen King one because I’ve recently been re-reading Nights Shift. So I’ll say The Last Rung On The Ladder.

But the last ‘new’ story that’s been stuck in my head for ages now is ‘The Island with the Animals’ by Stephanie Malia Morris that you can find in Uncanny Magazine.

What book are you reading right now?

I’ve got a few on the go.

Game of Thrones (for the first time - never seen the series)
Black Wave - Michelle Tea
The Roominghouse Madrigals - Charles Bukowski
Night Shift - Stephen King

I’d love people to check out my short story “The Valley That Wasn’t There” in Behind the Revolving Door, an Anthology of Choices, Volume II and the comic I co-wrote with the excellent Liam ‘Pais’ Hill, ‘Portal Loo’, which is in the anthology Secrets of The Majestic.

Also check out series 5, episode 10 of The Weakest Link (UK version) on BBC iPlayer for my proudest ever joke related moment, where Romesh Ranganathan tells my Mario joke.

And if you’re sick of me, please check out some work from these uber talented writers and performers:

If you have access to BBC Sounds you should check out ‘Fantasy Park: Fifty Years On’ written by Henrik Persson and others. From the description on the Sounds page: Imagine this: 1975 and middle America coming to a standstill as almost a million people descend on Fantasy Park – for the 'greatest rock concert ever staged'. 50 years on, Bob Harris hears the story.

Field Trip Sketch Comedy Presents is a fantastic and weird sketch comedy podcast available everywhere and written by Field Trip Sketch Comedy who include the very talented Max Kreisky.

Hannah Rose May’s most recent comic The Exorcism At Buckingham Palace is currently out.

Liam Johnson most recent comic Who is Adrian Apollo?, a new 3riller for 2000AD, is part of Prog 2473. Also, if you’re able, check out his episode of Emmerdale from the 4th of February - available on YouTube.

Another great podcast is Hail Chaos hosted by Alex Garrick Wright. It’s an improvised fantasy comedy. It’s very silly.

And finally, (I think finally - sorry to anyone I know who I’ve forgot to include) if you have kids, a series based on Julia Donaldson and Axel Scheffler’s Zog books and head written by Matt Baker is coming out this year via the BBC and Magic Light pictures.

I’ll just add here, anyone I’ve mentioned has more work out there so do look them up.

🛝 The Lion Slide - foofaraw

2026-04-23T16:00:01.000Z

Oli and Craig sat on the wall outside Burgon’s News, the newsagents at the edge of Gildeen park, eating crisps.

“You ever hear the story about the lion slide?” said Craig, through mouthfuls of Ready Salted.

“Hasn’t everybody?” said Oli. “Used to freak me out. But then I grew up.”

The lion slide in Gildeen park had become legend.

The big fibreglass cat lounged atop a green metal tunnel with its four legs spread out over the edges. Its tail was the ladder and its giant pink tongue functioned as the slide, lolling out of its yawning mouth on to the soft playground surface below.

It had seemed to appear overnight, replacing the traditional climbing frame and slide apparatus that dominated Gildeen Park for years. Everything else was the same: the elephant on the spring that cut your thigh when you sat on it, the roundabout that barely moved anymore, and the swings with chunks missing from the seats. But the lion looked out of place. Brand new. Shiny. Safe. Friendly.

That was the scariest thing about it. It invited kids in. The big goofy eyes, the dopey expression. Cartoons had taught children that animals with a face like that were slow moving, stupid, easily tricked. Bugs Bunny would have made short work of it. Thirty seconds into the episode, the lion would be holding a bomb painted to look like an apple, and BOOM, soot blackened face and mane half burnt off.

Parents would send their toddlers into the big lion head and minutes later there would be screaming. The parents would rush in, pulling out their bloodied kids, blaming it on insects, wildlife, or other kids.

Parents didn’t blame it on the lion. How could they? That would mean believing it was something more than a slide.

But the children knew better. They always do. It wasn’t long before every kid in the area heard about it and gave it a wide berth.

“Remember Jason?” said Craig. “How he never came back to school?”

“Didn’t he move to Torquay?” said Oli.

“His parents did. They couldn’t stand being here. Not after what happened. Jason had been in detention, see? So when he left school, it was already pitch black, and for some reason the idiot decided to take a shortcut through the park.”

“Yeah, so?”

“He never came out the other side.” Craig threw his crisp packet in the bin. “What do you think of that?”

“One,” said Oli, “people get abducted all the time, and two, if he never came out the other side, how do you know he went in in the first place?”

“Ella D’Mario saw him go in. She was picking up milk from Burgon’s and, get this,” Craig was getting more animated now, “when she came out, she heard a scream and something she said sounded like an animal crunching on bones.”

“And Ella D’Mario knows what an animal crunching bones sounds like? She lives on an estate in the middle of England, not the plains of Africa.”

“She’s seen a David Attenborough documentary, ain’t she? Anyway, if you’re so sure, why don’t you go through there tonight? I’ll text Ella, yeah? We can all go.”

“No,” said Oli. “I’m not doing that.”

“Scared?” said Craig. “Little scaredy boy, are you?”

“Yes,” said Oli, “yes, I am. But not because of some story about a kid-eating slide. Like I said, I’ve seen the news. People go missing from parks at night all the time. Besides, I’ve got homework to do.”

But Oli found himself back at Burgon’s News that night and when he got there, Craig and Ella were waiting.

“Knew he’d come,” said Craig, extending his palm to Ella. “You owe me a fiver.”

Ella counted out five pound coins into Craig’s waiting hand.

“I’m just picking up some fags for my mum,” said Oli. At thirteen years old, he shouldn’t have been able to buy them, but Mr Burgon was a family friend. “I’m not going in there.”

“Come on, Oli, it’ll be fun,” said Ella.

Later, Oli would tell his mum that it wasn’t peer pressure that convinced him to go in, but of course it was. One friend he could resist, but two? And one a pretty girl? He was only human.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” said Oli. “But we’re in and out. No hanging around just to prove we’re not scared. We’re all scared, no matter what either of you say.” He turned to Ella. “And if you even slightly believe what you told Craig, you definitely should be.”

“Of course I’m scared,” said Ella, “that’s what makes it fun.”

“Okay. In and out,” agreed Craig. Ella nodded. “Everybody got their phones?”

Oli and Ella held up their little black Nokias.

“Whack on the torch, and we go in,” said Craig, pushing a few buttons on his to make the pathetic beam of light that passed as a torch come on. “First sign of trouble, we run. I mean, even if the lion’s alive, how fast can it move if it’s made of metal?”

“Fibreglass,” corrected Oli. “Fibreglass is lighter.”

“Whatever. What do you say? We’ll be safe from anything with three of us. Plus, if there’s any weirdos, we can call the police. Okay?”

“Okay. But in and out,” said Oli.

“In and out,” said Ella.

“In and out,” agreed Craig. Then they stepped on to the grass.

Artwork by Tony Tran

As they walked through the park they struggled to see more than a few inches in front of them. The moon was barely visible through thick clouds and, as they got further in, the lamps from the street were useless. The phone torches were weak and only cut spaghetti strand thin beams of light into the inky black. Ella’s was faulty and flickered on and off rapidly. Most of the park was grass, and it had been raining earlier, so as they walked their feet squelched in near perfect unison.

Then there it was. Dopey eyes shining in the torchlight, raindrops glistening on the sightless pupils, the open mouth and lolling tongue frozen in place. Just like normal.

“See?” said Oli. “Nothing. Now let’s get out of here before some park weirdo turns up.”

“Give it a minute,” said Craig, his phone’s pathetic torch scanning the lion like a prison searchlight, as if he was willing it to move.

Oli looked at his phone until 8:45 clicked over to 8:46. “That’s a minute. In and out you said. Time to out.”

“Yeah, come on, Craig,” said Ella. “I don’t like it anymore.”

For a moment, Oli thought Craig wasn’t listening. Ella and Oli lowered their torches, leaving Craig’s sole beam shining at the lion’s face. It was then that Oli thought, just for a fraction of a fraction of a second, that one of its pupils contracted and there was drool on the tongue. A fresh shiny rivulet of saliva too large to be a rain drop, making its way down to the ground.

But then it was gone.

If it was ever there.

“Let’s go,” said Craig, then, to Ella. “You didn’t see Jason at all, did you?”

Ella looked insulted. “I did. I saw him walk off in this direction, then I heard a scream and crunching. I mean, traffic was bad that night, so it was faint, but I could swear…”

Oli and Craig looked at each other, laughed and then started leaving.

Ella trotted alongside them. “Okay, don’t believe me, but I know what I heard.”

They squelched back out towards Burgon’s News. Three pairs of feet in almost perfect unison.

Then, after a minute or so, five or six more started ambling behind them. It was hard to be sure how many, as it was if something big and cumbersome was struggling to coordinate its limbs.

Squelch, squelch, SQUELCH, squelch, SQUELCH, SQUELCH.

Oli, Craig, and Ella sped up a little, refusing to turn around to see what it was.

There was heavy breathing and what sounded like a roar—if lions roared with their tongues out. At one point, god help him, Oli swore he felt the tongue on his calf. He wanted to turn around to see, but he kept looking forward, eyes fixed on the lights of the street and Burgon’s News in the distance. Ella’s torch cut out and they were left with two tiny beams carving a glistening path in front of them. If they could just make it to the street, something told him they’d be safe. The park was the lion’s territory, and a lion didn’t leave its territory.

But then one of the beams cut an arc in the grass. Craig. He’d turned around to look. Now Oli wanted to turn around more than ever, see what Craig was seeing, but Ella grabbed his wrist and, god damn it, they ran—Oli’s little low beam torch drawing shapes in the air like sparklers on bonfire night as they stumbled across the uneven ground.

Finally, they hit pavement.

Ella was bent over, breathing hard. Oli was crying. A motorbike sped past, the roar of the engine almost drowning out the scream.

But then it was quiet. No more traffic. Not another soul on the street.

Oli and Ella stood there under the neon sign of Burgon’s News, listening to what could only be described as the crunching of bones.

Mark Granger (He/Him) is a writer from Leicestershire, UK. He lives with his wife, two children, dog, and an unnerving sense that something is watching him from the shadows. His short fiction and poetry have been published in Qualia Nous Vol 2, Secrets Of The Majestic and Fumptruck. He can be found at markgranger.com

Another House Party - foofaraw

2026-04-22T16:00:16.000Z

—Ellie Black

📮 April Zine - foofaraw

2026-04-21T21:49:56.000Z

The April issues of Foofaraw Zine is here!

While I know it's horribly late, I didn't want to let Tony's beautiful cover art go to waste...

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

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

Periodic Aggregation: Routed Carefully & Electronically Logged

This month...

Funny Page

Another House Party by Ellie Black

Stories

The Retro Diner by Lisa Taylor
The Bug by George P. Cross
Out of the Band by David McGillveray
The Lion Slide by Mark Granger
Removal by Rae Patterson

Poem

Our Garden Plot by Andrew Maust

Observations

The Monster At the End of the Essay by Nicholas de Marino

Interviews

Lisa Taylor
George P. Cross
David McGillveray
Mark Granger

Cover art

by Tony Tran

〄

On to the zines...

📺 The Media Guide S7E4 - foofaraw

2026-04-21T14:49:36.000Z

Welcome back to another excellent week of comics and... not much else. That doesn't mean it's a complete waste of a week though. There are still some decent shows returning and a couple albums that might be worth checking out...

The Media Guide | Foofaraw

Your weekly guide to the movies, shows, comics, and albums worth knowing about.

Foofaraw

Interactive webapp for paid subscribers

⚔️ Head Lopper Vol. 2 #1 — Image Comics

It's the return of one of the most fun, quirky comics with amazing world building, delightful art, and humor throughout. It's a hard book to beat, and I'm 100% here for it coming back with a new number one.

💪 Half Man Season 1 — HBO

Richard Gadd made some pretty big waves when he broke into the industry creating and starring in Netflix's Baby Reindeer. It was a bit of a viral hit, but it was something I just couldn't find my way to finish. It'll be interesting to see if he can find success again now that he's on the big stage with HBO and real expectations.

🐺 Hotwire Trip Switch by Prince Daddy & the Hyena

Didn't find much music I really loved today, but this was a fun surprise for me from a band I've never heard of before. Definitely worth checking out if you are into the 2010's era emo/pop-punk scene.

🛡️ Corpse Knight #1 — Skybound

I don't know anything about this book or this creative team, but just looking at that wonderful cover, this feels like the art-forward world-building books we've been getting a ton of lately. And I say that in the best way possible.

Paid subscribers get the full breakdown of all shows, movies, comics, and albums for this week along with access to the Foofaraw Media Guide webapp.

🎙️ David McGillveray - foofaraw

2026-04-20T23:15:45.000Z

Read David's story, Out of the Band, now!

Are you a musician yourself?

Absolutely not. No talent, not enough patience. But I am a life-long music obsessive, record buyer and attendee of obscure gigs. Indie, reggae, synthpop, punk, electronica, rock, rave, a bit of metal, house, hip-hop (nineties vintage), goth, more indie, I love it all. No country, though. That’s inexplicable.

What band or album do you find yourself returning to over and over lately?

I have a core of bands that are never far from the record player, and I admit this does situate me in time and space. Killing Joke, New Model Army, Sisters of Mercy, Joy Division, Smiths. I’m an eighties alternative post-punk cliche! More recently, I recommend the work of a British band called Heartworms - a bit goth, a bit early-eighties alt-rock, with a sprinkle of something of their own.

Do you think Galen has any regrets with the way he lived his life and/or treated the people around him?

I don’t think so. He’s an arsehole and he deserves his fate. There’s a difference between realisation and regret. I don’t think he moves into the regret stage by the end, but he makes some progress. He realises he’s brought much of it on himself and the world doesn’t need him, which is a start. He has an eternity to do his regretting.

Was there any real life band that you pictured while writing this story?

Not really. It’s a bit of an archetype, an amalgamation of every dysfunctional band in history. But the story popped into my head, fully formed, at a specific gig, Depeche Mode at the Olympic Stadium in London. We were watching the support act, a British singer called Nadine Shah (well worth checking out, btw), and she performed at the front of the stage with her band. This was because the rest of the stage, and it’s massive, had Depeche Mode’s synthesizers and other equipment set up all around it. Some of it was shrouded in sheets. It sparked the idea for the story and you can see some of that imagery in it.

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

Hmm. Nerd alert. Let me check my rejection notes/list of grievances. Eleven. That’s not bad. My current record for story rejections before finding a home is thirty-two. Rejections are not statements of fact about a story’s worth, although it’s easy to lose confidence in the face of a blizzard of them. Equally, acceptances are very often a confluence of fortunate timing, a first reader’s mood and personal taste, luck and finding the right editor as well as quality and skill. Writers must harden themselves to these realities. The only thing they can control is what they write, and how well. If you like what you write, send it out. Although there is always the possibility that you might be kidding yourself.

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

I don’t read a huge amount of short fiction, although I’m dipping into the classic pulp stories of Robert Bloch at the moment. My reading habits revolve around older sci-fi novels, travelogues and rock biographies. The last speculative fiction that properly blew me away was the Amaranthine Spectrum books by Tom Toner a few years ago. He’s got such a big, original imagination, weird and different. Too much stuff these days is full of wet characters leaking emotions all over the page.

What book are you reading right now?

I’m reading Angel Station by Walter Jon Williams, a cyberpunky space opera from 1989. It’s pretty good. I’m a fan of his early stuff, especially Hardwired and Voice of the Whirlwind, and all the original school of cyberpunk authors. I liked the gritty, grimy feel of their worlds.

I self-published a collection of my previously published short sci-fi stories last year. It’s called Forgotten Dragons, Plastic People and you can get it via Amazon. It features obsessive space-monks, messages encoded in the songs of alien birds, modified US saboteurs in China and plastic elves.

Sunday, April 19, 2026 - A Humdrum Life

2026-04-19T21:22:05.000Z

The swallows have returned…

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🐌 Our Garden Plot - foofaraw

2026-04-19T16:00:38.000Z

It was a dry, dead patch of land
Where even the pebbles shriveled
Beneath the scorching sun
But you said we could make it grow
Anything, something, everything

You said it wouldn’t be too hard
To dig a well, and carve a canal
To install vapor towers and solar shields
On our hands, blisters formed and burst
In mockery of your boast

Every night our bones ached
Skin caked with sweat and dirt
We lay cradled in a gentle embrace
Quietly dreading the next plague
That would decimate our crop

When that first sapling produced
Its first small pear, no larger than my palm
You sliced it like a christmas ham
Like we were starving peasants
We toasted “To us and our harvest”

My blisters are now callouses
The canal flows like a river
Water turbines hum with electric life
Vapor machines draw dew
Across that once dry, dead patch of land

I wish you could see it now
No longer a sapling, our first tree’s roots
Reach deep around where you sleep
Still cradled in a gentle embrace
We remain in this place we made

Andrew Maust is a recovering adjunct who lives in Mesa, Arizona. His writing can be found in Radon Journal, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, MetaStellar, and Utopia Science Fiction. When he isn't writing, he spends his time extolling the virtues of sleeping in a hammock.

Zach Cregger's Sci-Fi Thriller The Flood Will Land in Theaters in 2028 - The Independent Variable

2026-04-17T23:54:09.000Z

reactormag.com

The Flood was originally in development at Netflix, but in November, The Wrap reported https://www.thewrap.com/zach-cregger-sci-fi-movie-the-flood- netflix- theatrical/ that development there had come to a halt when Netflix would not commit to a theatrical release for the film.

Well... I've been reading articles and posting from the terminal, which has been fun! So I'm still getting the hang of things around here....

But anyway... It's awesome Cregger ditched Netflix to get a theatrical release, but I feel like he might be doing a little too much... Three movies in three years only ever results in diminishing returns, unless you are Coppola.

YouTube now lets you turn off Shorts - The Independent Variable

2026-04-17T01:12:23.000Z

theverge.com

Limit your Shorts scrolling to zero minutes per day.

And to think, I just cancelled my YouTube Premium Family subscription… maybe I should keep it after all…

Tax Day means less filings from immigrants worried about exposure to ICE - The Independent Variable

2026-04-16T23:05:59.000Z

washingtonpost.com via themorningnews.org

So not only are we spending hundreds of billions to try to deport people, we're also going to be losing hundreds of billions from the tax revenue they bring in.

Spaceballs: The New One - The Independent Variable

2026-04-16T17:22:13.000Z

youtu.be via worldofreel.com

The fact that Mel Brooks is going to turn 100 soon is wild. He looks and sounds great. But I hope they film his stuff first, because Spaceballs was like my Bible as a kid, and I really hope they can deliver on this. Even if not, what the hell—it'll be fun to have something with a 100-year-old Mel Brooks in it.

The conspiratorial left needed proof Trump is a monster. They settled on Sascha Riley. - The Independent Variable

2026-04-16T17:12:04.000Z

ms.now

When asked directly what expertise she brought to survivors of trafficking or child abuse, Voldeng said, “My approach is proactive and pre-emptive.” Her team, she said, is “a mix of Red Cross meets Jedi Knights.”

I don't even know where to begin. If anything, this feels more like a mental health story than a political story. It's a little scary to think that something like this can happen. Our brains are just so fragile and malleable. I'm sure this guy maybe believes it and thinks his memories are true, But I just don't think in any world that any of that is a real possibility. The fact that people want to help him get the message out and believe it is an even more troubling sign of the times. What's even worse is it would probably take real proof of something like this to get the people on Trump's side to turn against him. There's enough monstrous stuff out there that he's done and said with real evidence alreasy, and it has zero effect on people and their morality as they strive for more power and ignore the real-life consequences that come from that.

Allbirds, the San Francisco shoe brand that made 'Salesforce Ones,' pivots to AI - The Independent Variable

2026-04-16T17:05:09.000Z

sfgate.com

American Exchange Group, which entered a purchase agreement with Allbirds earlier this year, intends to “build on Allbirds’ legacy and deliver compelling products to Allbirds’ customers” by changing its name to NewBird AI. The company is set to receive $50 million from an investor, and stocks have soared to $19 per share, up from $2.59 earlier this year.

This feels like the moment when we can officially say AI has jumped the shark. Even as a skeptic, I have to admit the usefulness is real; I've been able to utilize Claude Code to help me make some little web apps and tools for myself, but I don't know how you go from being a huge shoe company—even if you are based in the Bay—to an AI company. Its capitalism run rampant. Everyone's just chasing a dollar rather than working on things that they actually think are important, that they enjoy, or that they want to do. It's the personification of a bad MBA.

Out of the Band - foofaraw

2026-04-16T16:00:16.000Z

Galen walked from the fog of dry ice and on to the stage like he always did, owning it, until there was only the mic stand between him and his people.

But there was no roar this time, no blinding spotlight, no desperate desire in the eyes of the boys and girls pressed against the barrier. There were no waves of love hitting him like a tangible, psychic pressure, filling his heart and brain, the feeling that had sustained him for so long.

The auditorium was empty.

A few cleaners picked up crushed plastic beer glasses and dropped them lethargically into polythene sacks, ignoring the stage. Various members of the road crew were on stage, moving gear about or crouching by the equipment, tinkering. Prepping for sound check, the purgatory of lost rock bands.

Galen recognised most of the crew, they’d been with the band for years. But they wouldn’t meet his eyes, wouldn’t even look at him. He knew they laughed about him.

“He’s even worse than on the last tour.”

“It’s the dope. Can’t handle it.”

“How can you be that fucked up and still think you’re the Messiah?”

They never said it to his face, not even the rest of the band did that. They used to call him The Head. As in big. As in dick. But none of them had lived the lives of saints, especially early on.

Fuckers. Disloyal fuckers. He’d made this band. His songs had bought their penthouses.

Galen tried out a couple of his old moves, just for fun, but they seemed foolish now. He stepped back from the microphone. It had been set a couple of inches too low for him.

The stage was lit up by harsh overhead lights so the techs could work. He could see naked cables snaking across the floor, the wear on the speaker cabinets, the old flight cases propping up the laptops at the back. Without the magic of stage lighting the mystique was spoiled, the atmosphere sucked away. It was one of the reasons Galen hated soundcheck. That, and having to hang out with the rest of them while they pretended the crew were important, or worse, their mates.

No one noticed any of them when he was out front.

A black sheet was draped over Zhero’s drumkit so it resembled a pile of forgotten furniture in an abandoned house. The kit had grown since the last time Galen bothered to look. Zhero always had to have one more drum to bash, one more hi-hat. It was compensation for his inadequacy. Look at me, I’m over here behind the kit! Look at me! Galen had always hated Zhero’s hi-hats. Total shit.

He wandered about the stage. Here was Mikey’s old bass, propped up against a speaker. He played every single gig they ever did with that bass. Mikey was all right. Uninspiring, but all right. Did his job, nothing too showy, stayed in his spot.

Der Stuka was another story. His little empire was over on the other side of the stage. The prick’s ego was in direct proportion to the number of guitars standing upright and gleaming like they were on parade. Crew swarmed there like flies, tuning, polishing, replacing strings, hoping they’d do it right, because if they didn’t there’d be hell to pay. And they called Galen The Head.

Stuka was a miserable little cretin, but he wasn’t stupid. He had plenty of gutter cunning. To think how he’d turned them all against him, first the rest of the band, then management, then the record company. Whispering, always whispering. He’d worked hard at it, and it was persistent, insidious work.

Galen realised now that Stuka had always resented him—right from the start. His power. It was Galen they all wanted. The fans used to run past Stuka and the rest to get to him. Galen did the interviews because he had something to say. Stuka never had the charisma, the spark. But he was patient and clever and he was happy to take the money and his share of Galen’s light while he chipped away at his foundations. Galen swore it was Stuka that let that guy with the bad dope backstage in Boston.

Artwork by Tony Tran

He returned to the mic. Time had passed. The crew were gone and he stood alone. The fans were beginning to stream in, the obsessives staking their claims by the barrier. They seemed younger.

Stuka had always wanted him out, and Zhero backed him up, and Mikey said nothing when it all went to shit after Boston. Stuka picked his moment well.

What hurt even more was who they replaced him with. Riley! Stumpy Riley, one of Zhero’s drum techs. He’d been creeping around for years, kissing arse like it was part of the job, and then overnight he was out front, in Galen’s spot.

The auditorium here was big, wherever it was. The band had more than held on to their audience. Too safe to feel a real edge? Uncomfortable with genuine confrontation? Then why not try counterfeit rebellion, with a few tattoos and haircuts and nothing inside. A covers band. Sell-outs. Fucking actors.

The place was filling up. Band t-shirts, body art, hair, the uniform, the usual. Galen couldn’t hear their voices now. They weren’t calling his name. Everything was insubstantial, somehow, like reality was being dialled down, decohering. The light faded and changed, dying everything in a deep, velvety red.

The band were walking on to the stage. Galen’s stage. To play Galen’s songs. To his audience.

The dry ice swirled about him, enclosing him like a cloak, obscuring his view, all those faces, until they were less than memories. He’d undone himself and the truth of it finally hit. He was destroyed and the band played on. And he understood then that the dry ice was not dry ice at all, but the mist that divides the first and the second stages forever.

David McGillveray was born in Edinburgh, Scotland but now lives with his family in London. He likes islands, post-punk, curries, walking, live gigs, skimming stones and lots of other things. His fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Analog and The Daily Tomorrow and his story collection Forgotten Dragons, Plastic People is available on Amazon.

Thursday, April 16, 2026 - A Humdrum Life

2026-04-16T15:44:36.000Z

Here we go again…

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Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

🌳 Removal - foofaraw

📺 The Media Guide S7E5 - foofaraw

📺 Widow's Bay Season 1 — Apple TV

🎬 Hokum

🎵 Something Worth Waiting For by Friko

📚 Final Boss: Masked Vigilante #1 — Image Comics

A Great Big Fuss (2025) - foofaraw

Digital copy for paid subscribers

Big Mistakes (2026) - A Humdrum Life

🎙️ Mark Granger - foofaraw

Was there any particular park you had in mind while writing this story?

Were there any good ghost stories or local legends where you grew up?

When you were a kid, do you think you’d have the guts to go down the slide at night?

Do you think you’d have been the one looking back, contemplating, or pulling your friend to keep going forward?

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 Mark for sharing all this goodness and chatting about parks and urban myths!

🛝 The Lion Slide - foofaraw

Another House Party - foofaraw

📮 April Zine - foofaraw

This month...

Funny Page

Stories

Poem

Observations

Interviews

Cover art

📺 The Media Guide S7E4 - foofaraw

⚔️ Head Lopper Vol. 2 #1 — Image Comics

💪 Half Man Season 1 — HBO

🐺 Hotwire Trip Switch by Prince Daddy & the Hyena

🛡️ Corpse Knight #1 — Skybound

🎙️ David McGillveray - foofaraw

Are you a musician yourself?

What band or album do you find yourself returning to over and over lately?

Do you think Galen has any regrets with the way he lived his life and/or treated the people around him?

Was there any real life band that you pictured while writing this story?

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 David for sharing his thoughts on music with us!

Sunday, April 19, 2026 - A Humdrum Life

🐌 Our Garden Plot - foofaraw

Zach Cregger's Sci-Fi Thriller The Flood Will Land in Theaters in 2028 - The Independent Variable

YouTube now lets you turn off Shorts - The Independent Variable

Tax Day means less filings from immigrants worried about exposure to ICE - The Independent Variable

Spaceballs: The New One - The Independent Variable

The conspiratorial left needed proof Trump is a monster. They settled on Sascha Riley. - The Independent Variable

Allbirds, the San Francisco shoe brand that made 'Salesforce Ones,' pivots to AI - The Independent Variable

Out of the Band - foofaraw

Thursday, April 16, 2026 - A Humdrum Life