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Too Many Mystics - foofaraw

2026-07-30T16:44:44.000Z

Stake-outs are the worst part of my job. I’m too easily distracted. If I do a crossword puzzle or text on my phone while sitting in the car, there’s a good chance a cheating husband walks right by me, grinning and tucking in his shirttail. Contrary to the exciting lives of television detectives, real investigations consist of a lot of sitting on your butt in a cluttered car, looking at your watch, and drinking cold coffee.

I check my watch for the hundredth time, wondering how long I should wait before calling it a night. Another unfortunate trait of cheating husbands⁠—and wives⁠—is they tend to do their extracurricular activities at night. While I enjoy a night out as much as the next guy, any more of this night stalking and my behind will be the same shape as the car seat.

I flip open the case folder and stare at the allegedly adulterous husband. Mr. Paraday looks like a nice guy. He could be your local banker or congressman; mid-thirties, brown hair, green eyes. Still in good shape from his twice-weekly trips to the gym near where he works as an investor.

I lift his file to examine Mrs. Paraday’s photo beneath. She’s a beauty. Pale blonde with eyes of amethyst. Tailored clothes and expensive jewelry. Funny, no matter how hot your spouse is at home, the fires always seemed brighter on the other side of the white picket fence. Mrs. Paraday came into my office, sure the lipstick on her husband’s collar wasn’t hers. There are probably a million other signs her husband is cheating, but that one convinces her. Her hefty retainer pays for trips to my favorite diner and this month’s rent.

The passenger door opens and someone slides into the seat. I almost spill my coffee. I’m sure I locked the passenger door.

“Good evening,” Mr. Paraday says. “You looked lonely over here.”

“Who? What?” I’ve never had a person I’m surveilling engage me in conversation in my car.

The man laughs. “Sorry. I’m an observant guy, always looking over my shoulder.”

“There’s been some kind of mistake.”

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Paraday says. “You’ll still get paid. She always loses me about here when she tails me, so she hired a professional.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Andrew.”

I haven’t decided between fighting and flighting, so I sit with my mouth open and shake his hand. He looks younger than his picture. He also appears more alert and less like an investor. I’m acutely aware of my rumpled suit, spare tire, and the mustard stains on my tie.

“I’m Amos,” I say. “Amos Kelm. Sorry. I’m usually better than this.”

“No worries. She doesn’t really think I’m having an affair. She wants to know what I’m up to when I disappear at night.”

Since he’s being so forthright, I work up the courage and ask, “What are you doing at night?” He probably has a pretty girlfriend, but he might reveal something about himself if I ask.

“I’ve got a side business.” He glances at the empty street. “That’s what she wants to know about. I shouldn’t have married her for her inquisitive mind.”

I don’t know what to say. Having seen Mrs. Paraday, no one would have been attracted to her only for her mind. “Now if you’ll leave, I’ll return your wife’s retainer to her. No hard feelings.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Andrew says. “I’m sure you’re very good. Unfortunately, I can’t have any witnesses, and you’re making me late.”

“Late for wh⁠—” A bright light flashes outside, and the man raises his fist and punches me in the mouth.

I awake the next morning to the sound of birds chirping. The interior of the car is hot. I’m drooling. Now I’m really annoyed at Mr. Paraday. Breaking into my car, punching me in the jaw. Finding him in a sordid affair would suit me fine. I rub my chin; it’s sore but nothing’s broken.

My car is a couple miles from where I’d parked. Around me are tall buildings with lots of glass. I rub my stiff neck and lick my split lip. I don’t look at myself in the mirror.

I return to my apartment, shower, and try to sleep. It’s barely noon, and I have blackout curtains, but my brain keeps replaying my conversation with Mr. Paraday. Witnesses to what? I get up and call a friend at the police department downtown.

“Hey, Les.” I try to sound friendly. “Did you lose much on the game last weekend?”

“Cut the crap, Amos. It’s nuts around here today.” There’s shouting in the background.

“What’s going on?”

“Where have you been? We had an explosion on Dixon Street during the night, and a dozen people appeared in the middle of it. No injuries and no IDs.”

“What did they say when you questioned them?” Dixon Street is where I saw the flash of light and where Mr. Paraday clocked me.

“Nothing. They’re speaking a language we can’t understand and wearing strange clothes. We’re bringing someone in from the university to try to talk to them.”

“That is weird,” I say. “Guess I need to turn on the TV.”

“Yeah,” Les replies. “You don’t know anything about it? You’re the weirdness magnet around here.”

“Innocent until proven guilty. Call me if a herd of dinosaurs shows up.” I hang up. I have a reputation for encountering the supernatural, but nine times out of ten, it’s a weird guy with fake fangs. It’s the one of ten that keeps me awake at night.

What does Mr. Paraday have to do with strange people appearing out of nowhere? Human trafficking? Refugee smuggling? No wonder his wife believes he’s up to something. I do too, but for the life of me, I can’t guess what.

I fix myself a cup of coffee and turn on the TV. The local news runs a short segment on the strangers being taken to the hospital. They are tall and blond but look like Native Americans with high cheekbones and long straight hair. They stare at the crowd and stand together as the police and paramedics lead them to waiting ambulances. From the hospital, the newscast says, they’ll be taken to police headquarters for questioning about the explosion at the abandoned Sun Bank building.

“This is strange,” I admit.

Someone knocks on the door. Grateful I’m at least in my bathrobe, I answer it, coffee cup in hand.

“Well,” Mrs. Paraday says. “What did you find?”

I clutch my robe together with my free hand. “How do you know where I live?”

She looks like a million bucks in a suit that matches the color of her hair. “I do a background check on everyone I hire. Are you going to invite me in?”

“Sure,” I say, although the place looks like the maid hadn’t been in for several years, which she hasn’t. “I’ve got your retainer around here someplace. I didn’t find out anything about your husband. He just disappeared.”

I find the envelope of money and hand it to her.

Her delicate brows dip. “You’re giving up?”

“I can keep following him, but he knows he’s being watched. He’s unlikely to do anything suspicious within camera range.”

“I thought you were better at your job.” She hands me the money back. “Keep following him for a week. Tell me everything he does.”

“Are you sure?”

“If you can’t find his girlfriend in that time, keep the retainer.”

Considering how empty my refrigerator is, I don’t refuse. I take the money and open the door. “See you in a week.”

She gives her hair a flip and bounces out of the room, leaving me with a packet of money and no idea how to continue the case. My face can’t take more smashing.

It’s easy to follow Mr. Paraday from his office that evening; he goes straight home after work. I review the photographs I’d taken the night before on Dixon Street. Lots of shadows and Mr. Paraday entering the building.

I eat a greasy burger at the diner and locate Mr. Paraday’s car. Assuming he’s home for the night, I drive to Dixon Street. Part of it is cordoned off with police tape where the strangers appeared, but I find Sun Bank where I’d seen Mr. Paraday. It’s an abandoned bank and not an apartment building. A chunk of the front wall is missing. A barricade of sawhorses blocks the entrance.

I take my camera and go for a closer look. Skirting the police tape, I search for an entrance aside from the damaged facade, but the side doors are secured by heavy chains and shiny new locks.

Stepping off the curb, I stumble. I save my camera by holding it in the air. I make sure no one saw me lose my dignity as my butt hits the pavement. Brushing myself off, my fingers come away coated with dark green algae. It glows faintly under the streetlights.

“What the⁠—” I scramble to my feet. The slime is difficult to rub off. I follow the stream of phosphorescent material to the source. Oddly enough, the glowing material isn’t in a circular pattern. Rather, it is a series of lines. Could it be writing?

Wishing for a higher vantage point to get a better view, I snap a few pictures. I feel sick to my stomach and weak while standing within the lines. I shake my head and back away.

This isn’t getting me any closer to finding out what Mr. Paraday was doing here, so I return home to wash off the algae and see if I can determine anything from the weird markings on the street.

Hours later, cleaner and back in my faded bathrobe, I have more questions than answers. Manipulating the digital photographs of the markings on the street, I guess what they might look like from above. I end up with a large triangle and a circle at each corner. In the center of the triangle is an eye. Reminds me of the etchings on a dollar bill.

It’s after midnight, but Madame Mystic’s little storefront might still be open. She knows archaic symbols, and for a few bucks, the fortune teller may be able to tell me how the symbol connects to the strangers’ arrival.

I didn’t bother to call. Madame Mystic never answers the phone.

When I pull up outside the storefront, it’s 1 a.m. and the TAROT sign is lit. I enter without knocking. The room has the prerequisite trappings: bead curtains, candles, incense. The white-haired owner sits at a round table, a flickering globe casting dappled shadows on her lined face. Her eyes flash violet. She doesn’t smile when I close the door behind me.

“It’s late, Amos.” Madame Mystic keeps shuffling cards with her long, thin fingers.

“Do you have time to look at something?”

“If you’ve got the money, I’ve got the time.”

I take out my wallet and the photos I’d printed. I pull out a chair and sit. “Are you okay?”

She reaches for my wallet and takes out a twenty. “You can’t show me anything stranger than the things I’ve seen this week. A woman with no lifeline. An old man with a tattoo clawing its way out of his skin. Something’s going on, and I’m too low on the arcane totem pole to know what it is.”

I push the photos with the strange symbol toward her.

Her eyes barely scan them before she jumps to her feet. “What the hell? How could you show me this?”

“What is it?” I ask.

Instead of replying, she turns and heads through the bead curtain to her small apartment in the back. Within two minutes, she returns with a duffle bag and a large book. She slams the book down on the table and scoops the tarot cards and crystal ball into the bag.

“That symbol is suns dying, planets colliding, and giant cephalopods breaking out of dimensional prisons. My advice is to say good-bye to your loved ones.”

I consider running, but I wouldn’t know from what. “What does the symbol mean?”

Closing her bag, she says, “This is a book of deadly symbols. I should have burned it. But the knowledge of what’s coming may give you solace.”

I stand. “Relax, Mystic, and tell me what it means.”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she grabs a purple shawl and walks around the table to the door. “Blow out the candles when you leave. I hope to see you again someday in a higher realm.” She slams the door behind her.

I pick up my wallet and wonder what to do next. Madame Mystic is the best at dealing with supernatural crap. What frightens a psychic so badly that she runs away when she sees lines on asphalt? I pull the leather-bound book to me. It’s heavy, covered in dark brown leather with a demonic face raised on the cover. Dark hollows for eyes rest above a hook nose and a frowning mouth. I sit and open the book.

The first few pages are with woodcut illustrations of people affected by curses and hexes. Images appear of snakes, spiders, and imps torturing men and women, usually naked and in chains. I flip past drawings of grisly warts and boils until I come to symbols of destruction. Some aren’t bad compared to the plague of locusts and rivers of blood, but I find the triangular symbol I’d photographed, the Burning Eye. I read down the page. The symbol represents an upcoming apocalypse the likes of which the four horsemen would flee.

The destruction foretold by the symbol is brought about by the Sovereign and his eleven heralds. Whenever he and his underlings arrive, annihilation occurs.

Okay, I get the picture. Mr. Paraday is possibly the Sovereign, a dimensional bad guy who thinks he rules the universe. The book doesn’t mention what the heralds are capable of, but I suspect they aren’t here to cut in line at your favorite bistro. Is there a counter-curse? I turn the page but nowhere is there a hint of how to stop the Sovereign and his henchmen.

Why me? When the fates call for someone to save the universe, I’m not on their speed dial. This is bigtime apocalypse stuff and way out of my league. Damn Madame Mystic.

I blow out the candles and head to the door.

⟦“What?”⟧ a voice asks from the gloom. ⟦“Are you going to leave me here in the dark?”⟧

I look around for a speaker but see no one.

⟦“Down here, dumbass,”⟧ comes a voice from the table.

The book smiles at me.

✱

Driving back to my apartment, I glance at the tome lying in the passenger seat. Have I lost my mind? My great aunt accosted the mailman with a colander, convinced he was a Martian. Maybe insanity runs in the family.

“This can’t be happening,” I say.

⟦“It’s a surprise for me, too.”⟧ The book’s voice is deep. ⟦“Where can we get our hands on some explosives?”⟧

“Explosives? What do you want to blow up?” I can’t believe I’m talking to an inanimate object in the middle of the night.

⟦“Madame Mystic would leave me with a guy with fewer brain cells than Xanderax the Fool. At least he had gunpowder.”⟧

I refuse to argue with a book, but I repeat my question. “What do you want to blow up?”

⟦“The eleven extensions, of course. We have to kill them before they destroy the world. You saw the symbol.”⟧

“You want to kill the eleven people who appeared on Dixon Street?”

⟦“Don’t make me repeat myself. An army with projectile weapons could do the job. The sooner we destroy them, the quicker the Sovereign leaves.”⟧

The book is more insane than I am. “No one is killing anyone. If the symbol causes the end of the world, how did someone live long enough to put it in your book?”

The book snorts. ⟦“Because I’m indestructible. Maybe you do have more brain cells than Xanderax the Fool. So, what’s the plan?”⟧

I don’t have a plan. I’ve lost my flipping mind. Someone opens a portal and lets bad things in, and a talking book is telling me it’s the end of the world. “Do you have a symbol for stopping an apocalypse?” I ask.

⟦“I’m not the Book of Benevolent Symbols, numb nuts.”⟧

“Amos,” I say. “My name is Amos.” I wrack my brain for someone who knows as much about the supernatural as Madame Mystic but can’t think of anyone. I can’t go to the police with a fairy tale. Or a talking book with its own bloodthirsty agenda.

⟦“Did you read the footnotes?”⟧ the book asks. ⟦“The bastard likes to think he’s being fair by leaving a loophole.”⟧

I haven’t seen any footnotes. “A way out? Some way to defeat the heralds?”

⟦“I’d be nodding if I could. He always gives the target world a slim chance of survival.”⟧

“You’re from another world?”

⟦“Another universe, baby. Just like Madame Mystic.”⟧

I look up at the night sky. “From a distant star?”

⟦“Did you sleep through science class? I said universe, not galaxy. All those stars are galaxies in our universe. One of zillions of universes.”⟧

I can’t comprehend it. A more personal question keeps cycling through my brain. In for a penny… “The Sovereign let me live. Am I the loophole, some kind of Chosen One?”

It laughs. ⟦“Chosen to die of fatty tissue buildup in your cardiovascular system within five years? Possibly. Save the Earth? Not without a lot of help. You’re too unimportant for him to waste time on you. Do you know any other wizards besides Madame Mystic?”⟧

“No.”

⟦“C4 it is.”⟧

I need to think without the book asking me where I keep my explosives. “Why would the Sovereign marry a woman with an inquisitive mind?”

⟦“Is this a riddle, Ambling Amos? I don’t know.”⟧

“He told me that the night he opened the portal.”

I pull over on the empty street and stop. “Madame Mystic once told me she was taken from another universe as a child, things got messed up, and there were copies of her running around.”

⟦“That’s true. I have seen others, younger and older, in her shop. One of them probably traded me for something.”⟧

“Do they all have purple eyes, Babbling Book? Mrs. Paraday has violet eyes. Is she a supernatural creature, a Madame Mystic?”

⟦“Biblio is my name, not Wikipedia. I don’t know anything about anyone named Mrs. Paraday. Would she have firearms?”⟧

If Mrs. Paraday is connected to this mess, maybe she’ll know how to solve it.

Otherwise, I’m going to need a lot of dynamite.

✱

Mrs. Paraday doesn’t look bad for being woken before sunrise. She opens the door to invite me in, her silk robe a soft pink.

“Coffee?” She turns to the kitchen. “I’ve already made a pot. Andrew left early this morning for the office. Said he had work to do.”

I imagine he did. The cops wouldn’t be able to keep the heralds in processing much longer.

“Coffee would be good.” I lay the Book of Deadly Symbols on the kitchen counter and turn it so the book can see her.

She returns with a full cup. “Black, I assume?”

I take it with lots of cream and sugar, but I don’t correct her. “That’s fine.”

“What’s this?” She points to the book. “Something to do with my husband?”

“Possibly. You’re not going to believe this⁠—”

The book’s eyes open wide. ⟦“No, no, no! She’s too young! She’ll be no help at all.”⟧

Mrs. Paraday looks at the book and then at me. “What’s going on?”

“Biblio, what do you mean?” I ask.

⟦“The older Mystics have all the power. They don’t learn their most powerful spells until they’re over a hundred. This one can barely light a candle without a match.”⟧

“What is going on?” Mrs. Paraday asks. “How does it know I can light candles without a match?”

“It’s a long story,” I tell her about the heralds and how I suspect her husband is the Sovereign. I don’t believe it myself, but she listens.

“You mean there are other versions of me?” Mrs. Paraday asks. “How is that possible?”

⟦“Different universes,”⟧ Biblio says. ⟦“Madame Mystic seems to be in all of them. Old, young, powerful, weak.”⟧

“And Andrew married me because I might be one of them?”

“He has a sense of humor,” I say. “By having a powerful but untrained sorceress for a wife, he thinks you won’t be able to stop him.”

“I can’t believe it.” She rubs her temples. “I knew he was different but not this weird.”

She takes the book from me and flips through pages. “Is there something we can use? Droughts, turbulence, mustard gas, surfeitancy. We need to apply the symbol to Andrew to stop him, right?”

⟦“Or find some dynamite,”⟧ comes the muffled reply from Biblio. The book is open with his face against the counter.

“Wait,” I say. “Did you say surfeitancy?”

“I don’t know what that means,” she says.

“I do crosswords. Let me see that curse.” I pull the book to me and read aloud. “An overabundance of something. Requirements are the symbol and a sample of what you need to create.” The symbol is a series of overlaid triangles. Easy enough to reproduce. “Do you have a permanent marker?”

⟦“What are you going to do?”⟧ Biblo asks. ⟦“You can’t fight the end of the world by producing more of something. Just ask Noah.”⟧ He’s still muffled because I’m holding the book open, trying to memorize the symbol.

Mrs. Paraday runs from the room and returns with a large marker. The kitchen nook is sizable and I move the table to draw on the floor.

I finish and it’s not perfect, but it will have to do. Whatever I place in the empty space between triangles should be reproduced. I don’t know how many times, but I’m hoping there will be enough to destroy the Sovereign and his heralds.

⟦“What destroys a world-destroyer?”⟧ Biblio asks. ⟦“Don’t tell me you’ve had a stick of dynamite in your pocket this entire time.”⟧

I reach out my hand to Mrs. Paraday. “We have something better than dynamite. We have a Madame Mystic.”

She steps into the symbol, and the lines on the floor turn bright blue. “What’s happening?” she asks.

Lights flash outside the penthouse windows, painting the sunrise in violet and turquoise.

⟦“They’re coming,”⟧ Biblio says. Explosions sound in the distance. ⟦“Most of them are pissed.”⟧

Mrs. Paraday sways, electric sparks highlighting her hair and running up and down her robe. She turns to me and smiles. “They’re here. We should get to the police station.”

“I’ll drive.” I tuck Biblio under my arm.

“That won’t be necessary,” she says, and her eyes flash amethyst.

Biblio, I, and Mrs. Paraday⁠—still in her silk bathrobe⁠—stand in the parking lot of the police station. The symbol I drew comes with us and lies around us on the asphalt. Sirens are going off, and officers are yelling. But they’re hardly noticeable as small white-haired ladies float from the morning sky. Most of them are older than Mrs. Paraday. They’re wearing suits, dresses, and armor, all in purple. Doors and tunnels appear, depositing more Madame Mystics.

“What the hell have you done?” my Madame Mystic stomps up. She holds her duffle bag and gets up on her toes to shout in my face. Behind her, a Mystic wearing large purple spectacles lands and heads toward the police station with the others.

“It’s the only thing I could think of,” I say. “A surfeitancy of Mystics. There must be hundreds of you. More than enough to handle the Sovereign.”

Madame Mystic shakes her head. “Ripped from universes everywhere. Who knows what chaos your little stunt has caused.”

⟦“Hey, Mystic,”⟧ Biblio says.

“Don’t talk to me.”

“But will it work?” I ask. “Can you and your copies defeat this guy?”

“We’re not copies.” The ground shakes as explosions rip apart the police station. “We’re about to find out if we can stop one of the most powerful beings in all the universes. His minions aren’t far behind.”

She holds out her hand to Mrs. Paraday. “Get out of that thing and come with me. Amos, stay here.”

Mrs. Paraday steps out of the symbol and it vanishes. Madame Mystic and Mrs. Paraday join the dozens of other Mystics at the foot of the stairs as the Sovereign and his eleven heralds float out of the demolished building.

They pause in mid-air as if confused at the Mystics’ appearance.

The Sovereign lands. “Interesting, but it will have little impact on this world’s destruction.”

Mrs. Paraday moves to the front. “Andrew, I want a divorce.”

“Granted.” He waves his hand, and a herald’s eyes flash crimson. Beams tear up the ground and edge toward Mrs. Paraday.

Our Madame Mystic steps forward. A bubble⁠—purple of course⁠—encloses her and Mrs. Paraday. One of the Mystics, clad in a mechanized suit of armor, fires a weapon at the herald and blasts him backward.

Shields spring up around the Mystics as the other heralds fire eye lasers at them. The Mystics are pressed back but do not scatter.

What can I do to help? I duck behind a police car and consult Biblio. “What symbol would be deadly to the Sovereign?”

⟦“The symbol of avoiding being burned to a crisp. We need to run and hide until this is over.”⟧

The Sovereign raises his hands and blasts erupt from his palms and strike the witches. Mystics fly through the sky. One in a hat carrying a parrot umbrella hits the hood of the police car and slides onto the ground. Dusting herself off, she opens the umbrella and flies back into the fray.

“Boils, comets, centaurs,” I read the book quickly. Nothing to help us. The Mystics split apart and purple lightning strikes the heralds, but it looks like the witches are losing. Mystics lie around us, some stunned and some not moving.

But there are fewer heralds. The half-dozen remaining gather behind their master, letting him fight the Mystics.

The Sovereign smiles and raises his hands at the clump of Mystics remaining, our Madame Mystic and Mrs. Paraday among them. I run from my hiding place, unsure of what I can do to help the situation. The Sovereign is aglow with magic flames. Whatever he’s going to throw at the ladies is a big one.

“Biblio, how indestructible are you?” I pant as I run.

⟦“What are you talking about?”⟧

“I guess we’re going to see.”

I leap in front of the remaining group of Mystics, holding Biblio close to my chest. The blast, when it hits, sends fire though my muscles and bones, but the book absorbs the blast and sends it back to the Sovereign. He screams as his spell rebounds into him. He disintegrates with a scream.

The remaining heralds vanish like smoke before I pass out.

Artwork by Tony Tran

“Well,” Madame Mystic says, “that’s one approach we’ve never tried.”

“True,” another one says. “Too risky. Look how many of us were killed or injured. Some have gotten noticeably younger as they burned up their magics. It’ll take them years to regain their spells.”

I try to sit up. I’m lying on the asphalt. The sun has risen and the parking lot looks like a battlefield. EMTs are helping injured Mystics and police officers into ambulances.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“You’re awake!” Mrs. Paraday exclaims from beside me. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been electrocuted and put through a meat grinder. How are you? Where’s Biblio?”

My Madame Mystic enters my field of vision. She’s holding the burnt husk of a book. “Your little friend didn’t make it. Clever idea to sacrifice him as a shield. I didn’t know he had it in him.”

“Neither did he.” I grunt as I sit up. “What about the Sovereign? Is he gone?”

Mystic nodded. “We don’t know for how long, but he won’t be using that body for a while. Good work, Amos.”

She helps me to my feet. “Now we have to get all these Mystics healed and home again. Too many of us in one place causes a problem.”

“You’re not mad at me for calling you back?” My legs shake and Mrs. Paraday supports me.

Mystic looks at the police building, now a pile of smoking rubble, and her dead and wounded sisters. “A little. But you’ve shown us Madame Mystics can unite and save a world.”

“Let’s get you checked out,” Mrs. Paraday says. “The authorities are claiming this was a freak lightning storm.”

Madame Mystic tucks the burnt remains of Biblio in her bag.

“I’m going to miss the little pyromaniac,” I say and mean it.

She moves to help a green-skinned version find her broom.

“Are you going to be all right?” I ask Mrs. Paraday.

“As a Madame Mystic or a widow?”

“Both.”

She considers it as she helps me limp to the ambulance. “I’m looking forward to seeing what adventures I get into next.”

I’ll miss her, but I’m looking forward to taking pictures of adulterers who aren’t trying to destroy the planet.

Tom Howard is a fantasy and science fiction short story writer living in Little Rock, Arkansas. This story is part of his Superworld universe (Volume 1 available on Amazon).

Abigail Kemske - foofaraw

2026-07-30T16:30:49.000Z

Read The Tongues of Ghosts now!

The metaphor here is not very subtle and feels very personal, I’m curious how you view and feel about the story now that it’s out in the world?

It definitely makes me feel a little vulnerable sharing something personal like this, however the fact that I could write this particular story is also a testament to how much I have healed. This was a story I had been wanting to write about for years, but it was always too difficult before.

Is there a specific reason you went with a ghost?

Having an eating disorder was a very haunting experience. The thoughts were all consuming, my energy waned, I’d get light headed and floaty. I felt and looked like a ghost of myself, which is what I was going for in this story. Earlier versions had the ghost tapping on the window of the protagonist’s bedroom anytime she was eating, but I couldn't get it to work that way. Once I figured out the ghost was eating for her, everything sort of fell into place.

I don’t know if it’s just the subject matter making me feel this way, but your prose feels both matter-of-fact and delicate at the same time—is that intentional, is that just how you typically write, or is that just where the story took you?

This is not my typical writing style. (I am a lover of lush prose!) This is a delicate subject matter so it makes sense the prose feels that way. And when getting into the headspace of a teen struggling like this, feeling haunted by themselves, it didn’t feel right to include as much lyricism I love to use.

That is an interesting question! I think the ghost would haunt the screen more, manipulating what the protagonist sees/hears, confusing her on what real life is really like without a filter. But in some ways we are returning to the 90s with JNCO-like jeans back in style and ultra-thin celebrities, so maybe it wouldn't be too much different. Maybe organic fruit snacks instead.

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

26 times! (Never give up!!)

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

“My Suicides” by Debbi Urbanski published in Apex Magazine. I can’t stop thinking about it.

What book are you reading right now?

The Works of Vermin by Hiron Ennes.

The prose here is so delicious. I’m obsessed.

Links to all my stories and sign-up for my newsletter are on my website https://www.abigailkemske.com/

Huge thanks to Abigail for opening up with us!

Pete Crow-Armstrong Is Good Enough To Raise The Forbidden Question - The Independent Variable

2026-07-29T05:02:16.000Z

defector.com

Don’t go giving me hope now…

Armand Hammer /// Tiny Desk - The Independent Variable

2026-07-29T05:01:26.000Z

youtube.com

So. Damn. Good. Armand Hammer is incredible as always. I think the reason rap stands out to me more on Tiny Desk is two fold. First, I think rap is just better in a more intimate setting as opposed to someone rapping loudly and being played over excessive speakers in large venues; it just doesn’t carry well. Second, they almost always bring a full real band, with drums, guitar, bass, etc. Some rappers do travel with bands, but it’s not the norm. There’s just no beating real instruments in an intimate space, with charismatic leads.

Text Messages from the Mall Food Court Kiosk Where I Am Trying to Order a Chicago-Style Hot Dog - The Independent Variable

2026-07-28T23:56:04.000Z

McSweeney's Internet Tendency

You tried to add ketchup. What is wrong with you? Your total is $12.99.

As a Chicagoan who puts ketchup on their hotdog I feel very conflicted about this.

For Better Or Worse, 'The Odyssey' Is Peak Christopher Nolan - The Independent Variable

2026-07-28T20:39:03.000Z

Defector

And so we have his vision of The Odyssey, a massive, operatic cinematic experience mostly about the story's own operatic massiveness. In many ways, Nolan especially has always been making The Odyssey from the inside out, obsessed as he has been with his own harrowing quest to make big, majestic spectacles.

Just testing out linkblog posts from my new publicly available web app, Readding, that turns your Linkding links into a beautiful read it later experience and lets you post to Ghost or Pika blogs.

Space is a haunted house, and we are its ghosts - foofaraw

2026-07-28T16:00:01.000Z

The universe flees as fast as it can, stretching, expanding infinites
as we rattle our chains
hungry to hurtle free of Earth

In the distance,
black holes scream
planets combust
binary stars death spiral
desperate to escape our flesh-cursed-sentience,
our haunted-haunting emptiness

H.V. Patterson is a speculative poet, fiction writer, and playwright living in Oklahoma. Poetry credits include ETTT, Star*Line, Dwarf Stars, Haven Speculative, and Brave New Weird. You can find her on BlueSky: @hvpatterson, Instagram: @hvpattersonwriter, or at hvpatterson.com

The Tongues of Ghosts - foofaraw

2026-07-23T19:43:01.000Z

I’m almost fourteen years old when the ghost wakes me for the second night in a row.

A cold breath at my chin, a lapping of something that should be wet, leaving my skin hollow. I swat it, but the licking persists, my fingers finding soggy poundcake crumbs left on my chin from the slice I stole after my parents went to bed. The one Mom refused to eat. The one I regretted eating.

Half my chin is licked clean of crumbs. The skinlike ice.

✱

In the morning, I hover at the refrigerator reading the weight loss chart Mom recently attached to the door.

Motivation, she had said.

The treadmill whirrs in the basement along with the near shouting volume of the morning news.

I open the fridge, rifle through bottles of fluorescent drinks boldly labeled Fat Burning Water!, push aside the skim milk and Diet Coke to find the fat-free cream cheese for my bagel. As I eat, the tongue returns, licking the cream cheese on the bagel-half waiting on my plate. A long white thing flicking in and out of nowhere.

Schliick. Schliiiiiick.

The cheese melts into globs that settle into the bagel’s air pockets.

I toss that half in the trash.

✱

I wear my new JNCOs to school, the black ones with white stitching, so long they rest like puddles at my feet.

The girl I sit with at lunch eyes me as I sit at our table. She’s my only friend. She mutters thunder thighs to the girl next to her. They share a sly grin, as they share the childish, stick-straight body I no longer have. Her sense of humor is sometimes cruel. I pretend I don’t hear.

She had saved me from the bullies in middle school, the group of girls who used to be my friends suddenly, collectively, giving me the silent treatment, stealing my things and throwing them in the toilet. She told me happiness is the best revenge. I can pretend when I’m with her. I don’t want to be alone again.

Eating Gushers for lunch, my friend and the girl next to her read an issue of Cosmo featuring a skin-bearing model on the cover. I nibble at the corn on my tray, one kernel at a time, unable to focus on the table gossip⁠—head spinning, too engrossed in my mini-pizza disappearing bite-by-bite, the slit of pale lips that opens and closes, the nothingness within.

✱

It’s been weeks since the ghosty tongue first woke me up, my JNCOs baggier and needing a belt. I’ll cover the cinched waistband with a long sweatshirt, but Mom knocks and enters my room before I can.

“I’m getting dressed.” I tug my t-shirt over my head.

“Breakfast is… oh, sorry.” Mom peeks in then swings the door wide open.

“Mom!”

She lifts the hem of my t-shirt and tugs at my waistband while not-so-subtly eyeing my body. “When did you get so skinny? What size are these?”

In the mirror, the ghost swells my flesh so the shirt is too small, spills my skin over the waistband. I shiver.

“Ugh, stop! I like them like this. They’re supposed to be big.” I shake her off and head to the kitchen.

We sit at the table⁠—me with bacon and a Toaster Strudel, Mom with a Slimfast. She watches me. I take a bite, but the ghost tastes it for me.

“Aren’t you eating?” I nod to the plate of bacon.

“Too many calories.” Mom grimaces and downs the rest of her shake. “But you need to eat. You’re skinny as it is.”

I nibble the smallest bites I can until she leaves, then let the ghost’s tongue slip into my mouth, reaching down my throat like a slushy snake, satiating me with frigid dread.

✱

There’s a pizza party in math class. A girl with a rope-like braid smiles when she sits next to me.

“You don’t like pizza?” she mumbles, mouth full.

A pool of grease shimmers on the untouched slice. The ghost’s hovering face floats down and bites it for me.

The girl’s brow creases.

I go to the bathroom and take the slice with me. The ghost follows, gobbling away, lips slick with grease. I toss the crust in the trash when the girl walks in.

Warm fingertips brush my shoulder as I run into the stall.

My only friend ditched me weeks ago.

✱

I glide to the living room when Mom calls me. Walking feels like flying. She’s on the couch with a glass of iced Miller lite. I sit in the tweed recliner.

“Your teacher called.” Mom’s bobbed hair sashays under her chin as she talks. “Said you threw away your slice of pizza in the bathroom.”

Aren’t you proud? I want to say. The self-control. The motivation.

But the way she eyes me⁠—jaw set, cheeks flushed⁠—leaves me crumpling in the chair.

Pasty arms wrap around me, through me. A promise the ghost will stay.

“Just stop it. Stop it right now.” Mom’s words suck like a leech at my ear.

✱

Mom serves Lean Cuisine for dinner in front of the TV. She watches Seinfeld over the top of an Atkin’s diet book. I watch myself eat. Watch my ghost. Thin faced, eyes buggy and shadowed. Blue veins flow like rivers under our skin.

The ghost is fully formed now, a month after Mom said to just stop. Her final word. I’m better at hiding her now.

Looking at the ghost is like looking in a translucent mirror. Which is the ghost and which is me? I can’t be sure.

No one sees me. No one sees her the way I do.

Artwork by Tony Tran

My body aches from trying to stay warm, from hunching over my stomach where the ghost curls up like a freezing mist. My body, her home.

She intrudes my thoughts, sucks on blood and bile, sinew and spirit. I move as if I were mist too.

I arrive early to school, so I don’t have to talk to anyone. I expected it to be empty, but some kids are hanging out in the hallway, happy and cheerful, joking and hugging, their way of being a distant memory.

The girl with a rope-like braid from class waves me over, hands me a sprinkle covered donut. “You don’t have to eat it, but you should sit with us anyway.”

She stands so close, I feel her body heat.

Goosebumps flutter across my arms, downy hair stands sentry, a spectral forest across my skin. I flatten them with a swipe of my hand.

As we sit, the ghost twists my stomach into knots, but I don’t let it satiate me. I take in the sugary donut scent.

The girl takes a bite of her donut and sighs. “So good.”

Lurching from me, the ghost’s eyes are wide as moons. The scent of sugar is intoxicating.

Laughter fills the hall when someone gets frosting on their nose. Kids help themselves to second servings.

The ghost’s mouth widens, tongue stretching, flicking, twisting for my donut.

But I don’t watch her. I ignore her chill, the way she makes my skin feel flabby, the sucking sound of her licking her ghostly lips. Everyone here is so relaxed and happy. No cruel jokes about their bodies, no thoughts of fat and carbs and calories. A long-lost taste. A joy that had left me.

Do I dare try?

The ghost thrashes, jiggles my flesh, makes her haunting moan, but I carry on.

I swallow hard, pluck a sprinkle and set it on my tongue, closing my eyes at the ghost’s sharp toothed snaps, clenching my fists when she moves through me with a wintry chill. The sugar melts on my tongue, the sweetness I used to know. I pick off a few more sprinkles, and don’t give the ghost a single crumb.

✱

After all these years, the ghost doesn’t haunt my every move anymore. I eat without her, bound through my days instead of drifting. However, she still visits as lips and teeth, as a disembodied finger waiting to peel away the frosting on an indulgent piece of cake; still squishes flesh I don’t have in the mirror. But most of the time, it’s that same lapping at my cheek, a ghost’s tongue searching for crumbs, cold and wet, but not. Sometimes she lingers, makes me hollow, skin like ice. But now when I shiver in that familiar way, feel the urge to drift and float, I take a deep breath and tell her to go.

Abigail Kemske is a writer of weird things and dark forests. She lives near Minneapolis, MN with her spouse, two children, and their two Maine coon cats, Mr. Benedict Flufferbatch and Hades. Her fiction is published in The Saturday Evening Post, The Dark, Apex Magazine, Nature: Futures, Gavagai among other venues. Find her on social media @abigailkemske and online at abigailkemske.com.

Font Club Belgica /// Future Fonts - The Independent Variable

2026-07-23T15:35:35.000Z

futurefonts.com

FC Lead is using the constraints of merging pieces of glass together with lead into one solid drawing. Counterparts are created with light without any unnecessary cuts. Resulting in unconventional letters.

🤯
I have one word... woah... this is both magical and beautiful. Insta-buy.

The Library of Lives - foofaraw

2026-07-21T16:00:04.000Z

The air is thick with dust and the smell of decaying wood pulp. Shelving units like fossilised bones stretch beyond the limits of sight. Waterproof dust jackets protect ancient volumes from the desultory clouds which form among the upper shelves. At ground level, strobe-light-lurid mushrooms spill out from cracks between tiles the colour of ageing vellum.

This is the Library of Lives. Every human being who exists, who ever has existed, who ever will exist, has their biography recorded here, beginning to end. Some lives take up multiple, thick volumes. Others merit only a pamphlet. And somewhere in here, your own life is waiting to be read.

You consult the worn index pinned to a nearby shelf. You’re nearly there now. Crouching in the weak amber light, you find a row of dusty volumes, and begin to run your fingers along the base of the shelf. You move past your own life several times before you identify it, repeating your own name under your breath. Usually you like to hear the sound of your own name, but your sense of haste drowns out even this small pleasure. Eventually, you spot a single sheet sticking out from between two paperback digests.

Your story begins: “The air is thick with dust and the smell of decaying wood pulp…” You scan hastily down the darkly inked letters, skipping over atmospheric details and descriptions of searching the shelves. The final words, laid out in staccato phrases, strike a chill within your heart, your eyes jerking from left to right as you absorb your inevitable conclusion:

There are three lines left
In the story of your life.
Hope you enjoyed it.

William Shaw is a writer from Sheffield, currently living in the USA. His writing has appeared in Strange Horizons, Daily Science Fiction, and The Georgia Review. You can find his website at https://williamshawwriter.wordpress.com and his Bluesky at @williamshaw.bsky.social.

📺 The Media Guide S8E3 - foofaraw

2026-07-20T21:43:46.000Z

Now that the World Cup is over, we can finally get back into the swing of things at fOOfARAW HQ. While we won't be getting much in terms of new movies this week as everyone cowers from the Goliath of The Odyssey, there are a ton of fun shows, comics, and albums to talk about.

📺 King of the Hill Season 15 — Hulu

King of the Hills season 14 was one of, if not my favorite returning show of 2025, so I'm really looking forward to season 15. We actually went back and started from season 1 earlier this year and it's been a blast as we've ripped through multiple seasons. I had only seen an episode here or there before so it's like an entirely new show for me.

📚 Sicko #1 — Ignition Press

I continue to be extremely impressed with Ignition Press. The quantity of books they're putting out along with the quality, and the talent they've brought to the table are outstanding. They seem to be executing at a level that DSLTRY promised, but couldn't deliver. I hope it continues with wonderful people like Tini Howard, one of the best writers out there right now, for this new book. There are some surreal horror‑mutant vibes and looks fun.

🎵 Beautiful Mess by Gin Wigmore

I wasn't familiar with Gin Wigmore, but she is a New Zealand singer‑songwriter who hasn't released an album in over eight years; she absolutely killed this one. There's so much joy and soul in this. It's some upbeat rock 'n' roll, with heavy country influence and folk Americana storytelling—everything you could want in an album like this. Her voice is stunning as well. This one really came out of nowhere and surprised me.

🎬 The Dink

Given no one wants to compete with the Odyssey in theaters, we get a pickleball movie on Apple starring Chicago's own Jake Johnson. I'm sure it'll be a fun and light-hearted comedy, but I don't see this knocking anyones socks off.

The Purple Essay - foofaraw

2026-07-17T16:00:30.000Z

مع السلامة (ma’a salama) melting pot. さよなら (sayonara), salad bowl. America is an omnibus of purple prose bound in balding eagle skin.

We’re talking primo leather from a batty bird who steals hot dogs from kids at ballparks. True story. ((Not a BORN FREEagle mugging on a ride-or-die Clutch album. (Book of Bad Decisions, 2018. Photo by Dan Winters, danwintersphoto.com. Gallery recs: “Works on Paper: Cold War” and “Constructions.”) And not some early bird crunching half-frozen fish bait for gonzo wildlife photographers. (See *“Photographic Memories,”* by Dale O’Dell, daleodell.photoshelter.com. Gallery recs: “The Secret Martian Expedition of 1950” and “Tales of Loneliness.”))) Look, the Cascade Raptor Center in Eugene, Oregon, does great work. It’s not their fault sombunall bald eagles are jerks.^[The turkey vulture: now there’s a noble bird. Properly glabrous, too.]

💡

The author has omitted a Rube Goldberg Domino Rally of bald eagles bullying golden eagles for jackrabbit scraps into a brief history of jackalopes into taxidermy at a donut shop into almost hitting a camel-sized elk with a huge rack into getting harassed by a small town cop while working as a journalist and… wait, wait! Imma tell that!

💡

I sat there, car idling, third time this week. Police cruiser parked behind me, lights spinning, siren off. Minutes pass, no officer. I look over my shoulder. A spotlight glares. Nothing happens. Spotlight off. Still nothing. Then homie drives by, lights still hot. I shouldn’t have waved. I shouldn’t have tailed him. I didn’t stop in the alley where he parked and killed the lights.

Bald eagles aren’t listed as endangered today, but the details of that DDT/soft eggs nightmare are so horrifying they get a pass. How about the skin of a less-benign species of Least Concern…?

On to the Necronomicon!

As much as I want to stare into the abyss of “H.P. Lovecraft and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Elder God,” ((Whatever doomed writer steals this, please shoehorn in SD/chibi shoggoths.)) you can’t blame him for human-skin-bound-book lore. Best as I(nternet) can tell, that’s from “Evil Dead.”

The technical term is “anthropodermic biblipegy”⁠—but, c’mon, gatekeeping with these-are-just-everyday-descriptive-words from Greek and Latin is the domain of doctors, lawyers, and Hogwarts professors.^[And yoga instructors, though they’re stretching Sanskrit via Hindi. See Aleister Crowley’s “Eight Lectures on Yoga.”] There’s a thing called The Anthropodermic Book Project, a quartet of professionals who test such claims. Their count, last updated April of 2024, is fifty-one books with alleged human skin covers, thirty-two tested, and eighteen confirmed as legit. But they’re on hiatus. Too bad; they’re clear, if wordy, science communicators.^[anthropodermicbooks.org/about/the-science]

But you can’t judge a book by its cover, no matter how titivated or titillating. It’s how it performs in the sheets that counts.

On to the Great American Novel!

SPOILER ALERT!: The following mini-listicle comes from a “dynamic list” on a Wikipedia article.^[Still patronizing A.I.-integrated search engines? It’s your cognitive funeral.] These are potshots at the ones I’m pretty sure I read or at least skimmed the captions in the “Great Illustrated Classics” editions. ((My wife remembers a version of “Around the World in Eighty Days” or somesuch that resexed the canon to include a female protagonist. Here’s her imagining the publisher bragging about the sex change to his wife: “Hey, Francine, look at this. I put s’more tits in there just for you, sweetheart! You want some equality? There you go! I got your interests at heart! So am I takin’ you to dinner or what?”))

Short reviews of Great American Novel candidates I qualified in the preceding paragraph:

“The Scarlet Letter,” by Nathaniel Hawthorne: Everybody fucks.
“Moby-Dick,” by Herman Melville: Whales, too, but not quickly enough to keep up with whaling.
“Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” by Harriet Beecher Stowe: Slavery is bad. Ditto for stereotyping.
“Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,” by Mark Twain: The South be cray cray.
“The Red Badge of Courage,” by Stephen Crane: War kinda sucks.
“The Great Gatsby,” by F. Scott Fitzgerald: Green light on these assholes.
“The Grapes of Wrath,” by John Steinbeck: Life’s a bitch and then you breastfeed some rando. Thanks, America.
“The Catcher in the Rye,” by J.D. Salinger: Shut up, whiner. ((On the other hand, his short story “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” is haunting and casts two incidents in Catcher in a very different light.))
“Lolita,” by Vladimir Nabokov: I hatehatehate that this book is so good.
“To Kill a Mockingbird,” by Harper Lee: Only in Mayberry.
“American Psycho,” by Bret Easton Ellis: Yeah, that squares.
“Infinite Jest,” by David Foster Wallace: Great except for the footnotes and parts about rehab and tennis.

All worthwhile, but something’s missing… Where’s the inter-generational trauma? The outsider vs. the establishment? The literal little guy vs. the literal big guy? What about transgressions, spectacles, gun violence, sideshows, and strip clubs? Where’s the elective surgery, exploitation of children, and the insidious spirit of entrepreneurship? And cults? And explosions?

Page for page, Katherine Dunn’s “Geek Love” is packed with more America and Americana than any of those. My favorite book, hands down.^[IYKYK.]

But maybe there’s no need to distill America(s) into a single book when we can enjoy them by volume.

On to omnibuses!

I mostly read on A4, two pages a side, double-sided, printed on a laser jet printer. Had to ditch my library when I ditched the States. But a handful of tombs made the cut as makeshift décor, Zoom background fodder, computer trays, and doorstops.

Partial reviews of four omnibuses

“The Best of Raymond Chandler,” by Raymond Chandler (Chancellor Press, 1985): Font size a little small. Paper adequate thickness and prone to yellowing. It kicks the second Philip Marlowe story, “Farewell My Lovely,” to the end and dubs it “the spiciest Chandler of all,” which, as far as I can tell, refers to the racial slurs. Missing my favorite, “The Little Sister.”
“The Art of Eating,” by M.F.K. Fisher (Harvest, 2004): Lovely transfer of classy, historical font. Slightly slippery paper. Sections of the war-time primer, “How to Cook a Wolf,” may prove useful.
“The Books of Earthsea,” by Ursula K. Le Guin (Saga Press, 2018): Beautiful illustrations by Charles Vess. Eminently readable font and size. Lovely paper. Ged sleeps a lot. A medically concerning amount, actually. “Tehanu” saves the series, though.
“The Complete Aubrey/Maturin Novels,” by Patrick O’Brian (HarperCollins, 2016): I don’t own this. Font’s too small. Paper’s too thin. I lug around all twenty of the twenty-one Norton hardbacks; they’re cheap, adequate, and you can make a little fort out of them. The only OG British version floating around is number fifteen, “Clarissa Oakes,” which I requisitioned on principle. It was renamed “The Truelove” in the States, perhaps because they thought no one would buy a nautical historical novel named after a woman. For shame, Norton, for shame. (“Mind if I smoke?” “I don’t care if you burn.”)

On to the end!

More than two dozen countries have red, white, and blue flags. That’s hardly imaginative. Time for a makeover, America! Mix those colors and what do you get: purple!^[Well, magenta, if you’re mixing light, not pigment, but since when was light-displaying technology important?] As of today('s Wikipedia search), there are only a handful of countries with purple on their flags, and most of those only include it as part of a rainbow. ((Having said that, the purple parrot on Dominca’s flag is quite fetching and the principles behind the partly purple rebel flag of Saint-Dominigue from the Haitian Revolution and the Anarcha-feminism flag are both, ahem, part of a healthy, open-minded diet for freethinkers who don’t outlaw ideas or criminalize flag burning, hint-hint, wink-wink.))

This is too good an opportunity to pass up. Here, a mock-up in JS Paint:

There you go, America, a brand new flag! Happy birthday! Who loves ya, baby? ((Choose your own Death By Stereo soundtrack! Outraged: “5th of July”; Hopeful: “Desperation Train”; Defiant: “Sing Along With The Patriotic Punks.”))

David Stevens - foofaraw

2026-07-16T18:30:54.000Z

Read Developing your mindfulness practice 🙂! now!

So… read any good pamphlets lately?

I love a good pamphlet, and by that I mean crazy pamphlet, even when it was Jack Chick telling me that I am going to hell. The internet has ruined them. A pamphlet is like a mode of poetry with constraints imposed not by rules (length of stanzas, rhyme patterns, etc) but by size and cost and commitment to get the thing finished and to the printer in time to hand out at the next demo or march. Hand out enough of them, and your words will change the world! Nowadays anyone just starts a blog or a website or jumps onto reddit and starts raving without end - free verse gone crazy. There is no room for bloat in a pamphlet, and they are the better for it. 🙂

Are you the type of person who enjoys a good pamphlet from the hotel, doctors office, or wherever else?

I like a nice piece of propaganda, though I sometimes feel dirty afterwards. I like seeing other worldviews, especially intense ones, but only for a short while, which is why a pamphlet is perfect. A guilty pleasure is a full on pamphlet that accords with my own world view, that I can read with a knowing smirk and nod along with. Yeah, look at us against the whole world!

Do you have a mindfulness practice?

Not a regular one, though I find it useful at times and I am glad I have been given the tools. What I resent about mindfulness is how it is forced on us as an antidote to the things being imposed on us by the very people forcing it on us. In a job I had a number of years ago, there were people falling by the wayside because of increasing workloads and unrealistic expectations in a really stressful environment. To fix the employee problem, management brought in mindfulness practitioners to teach us stuff to use, on our own time, outside work hours, to deal with the problems caused by work. I suppose that was better than just having jars of valium around the office - “Hey kids, they’re free! Grab a handful!” - but they could also have hired more staff. 😡

What brings you peace?

Now we are getting too personal!

There’s a certain Lynchian/Night Vale thing going on with this story and I’m curious if you are familiar with either of those or if there were other inspirations for this?

I am certainly familiar with David Lynch. A Lynch film can be like a mindfulness practice, you have to commit and just live in the moment that is there and forget the rest of the world. I failed to do that the first time I saw Eraserhead. I was sitting in the cinema, and thought, this must be nearly finished. I looked at my watch and only 20 minutes had passed. You have to decompress first!

Where do we think the reader of the pamphlet goes from here?

Well there are two groups of readers. First there’s the pilgrim. He’s around. (It tends to be a ‘he’.) There is always someone like him around. Someone who is happy to pay the price to transport him to another world, when the price of that is a human life or human suffering. He’s out there, going about his business, sizing up the folk around him, as they pass him in the street, or sit near him on their daily commute. Then there’s us, sitting bored on the train in the days before everyone had a phone. We finished our book and we had forgotten to buy a paper, so we read this thing on grainy paper with weird spelling that someone had left lying around, and strange and dull as it is, we read it to the end. And we wonder, is the fellow this was written for on this train? Living next door? Waiting behind a tree next time I go on a nature walk? And we go on living our lives knowing there are pilgrims out there.

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

But Kevin, there are no others! There has only ever been you. OK, it was rejected 23 times, which is far from the highest number of rejections I have.

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

I just bought “Hello Earth, Are You There?,” a selection of Brian Aldiss’s short stories published for his centenary, and I am looking forward to reading those.

What book are you reading right now?

I recently finished “Loss Protocol” by Paul McAuley. He is such a good writer, with a massive range, from space opera to first contact to this most recent novel, a near future dystopia with a focus on psychedelics and inner rather than outer space, and possible dimension jumping and encounters with archetypes. Another recent read was “Three Days in April,” by Edward Ashton, another near future dystopia. The future is not looking good, but we all knew that.

Be kind to others, we may all be someone else’s Johnny. I know I am. 🤐

We are eternally grateful for all of David's pamphlet knowledge here at Foofaraw!

Developing your mindfulness practice 😊! - foofaraw

2026-07-16T16:00:28.000Z

Dear Pilgrim,

Hallo! We are so glad that you chose our little pamphlet. Thank you for trusting us enough to connect!

Recall a blessed moment from childhood. You pause in a dappled glade. Insects drone, the machine noise that underlies everything. Butterflies dance from flower to flower.

Beautiful.

Mindless.

Then a special visitor emerges.

A timid kangaroo, deciding all was safe, hopped from shelter to nibble fresh grass shoots.

You were in the moment, totally absorbed.

You were mindful.

Choose your location carefully

Your pretty patio. The camellia you planted. The rose from your Mother’s collection. Your familiar birds, lizards, snakes, spiders and scorpions.

No, no, no, no!

Eventually a ball shall fly over your fence. Children will follow an intruding dog. When they fail to emerge, there shall be a ruckus. Parents, police, search parties - would you have them interrupt your meditation?

Find a lonely place.

A little is a lot

Start slowly. A few minutes at a time is best for beginners. Some react badly to this advice, noting the trouble it takes to go to a lonely place.

Start in spring

The Void shall open and all will face the Great Darkness. Until then, why make things difficult? Settle into your new practice in the warmer months.

But start this spring, not next. Some know not the date nor the hour. Some do. Take a hint.

Prepare

Eventually you shall have no need of earthly sustenance. Meanwhile, pack a lunch. It can’t hurt.

Set traps

Even the loneliest places are visited. Some seek a spot where their remains will not be found, leaving their families tormented, wondering at their fate.

More cheerful souls are uplifted by the bracing outdoors.

Then there are Others who eagerly seek to welcome visitors to the wilderness. At night. While they sleep.

Their practice is inimical to your own success.

Be prepared. Ensure they cannot disturb you, but also, that they cannot leave until you are ready to perform your duties as host. Their cries and negative auras are only a minor distraction. You will find many uses for them later.

And if your conscience twinges… no one is innocent.

Misconceptions

Some speak of mindfulness as becoming one with nature.

Pfft! Nature is that which shall be consumed at the coming of The Great Ones. Who wishes to become one with that?

Mindfulness is about living in the moment. The Eternal Moment of a Great One moving you towards, but never quite within, His open maws.

Bonne chance!

Not all have The Right Stuff to spread your consciousness throughout your patch, exerting your will over every tree, leaf, grass blade, insect and small mammal within your domain. Not all shall see The Arrival. For some there shall be fateful interruptions, exorcisms and Heroes Who Fight Back, not to mention housing developments.

%%%Ag&i m k [e)) Df45n& > < >>JM]w . … …. .%%%

Artwork by Tony Tran

Have they gone? Thank Pan. Those fucking snivelling shits. Loser children who avoid the streets of their town for fear of bullies, and come across a fawn. Store it up like a Kodak moment. Rhapsodise about it in their journal. Pfft.

The idiots who become lost and fall down and give up, waiting to die. They see the wallaby hop by, then hear a car, and work out where the street is. If only they had hit their heads. Bled out and done us all a favour.

Some were lucky to see Bambi the day before he and his mother were shot. Mum in the freezer. A quick chop-chop, and Bambi is ready-

for the dogs.

You though. Oh yes, we see you.

A current drew you to a dark place. Your tag-along loser companion was there, the one you could never shake, jabbering away while you stalked between massive trees dragged upwards like kelp, their tops lost in the mist. You gazed upward, aware you were watched by unknown beasts in the thin light. You are one of the special few. You seized the day.

You realised your friend’s value. You grabbed him by the neck and forced his face burbling into the bog water. Anger channelled through your arms, through the knee you were forcing into his back. The relief you felt when you realised that he had stopped kicking some time ago. The release. Without knowing it, you had been searching for something all of your life, and here it was. The smile on your face, the lightness in your shoulders.

The stillness of the corpse.

In a day or two you would stumble from the bush, scratched, clothes torn, dehydrated, muttering about a man, a big man, whom you can describe no better. When pressed for details, when they shake you as though that will fix things, as though that will bring back Johnny, your mutterings will degenerate into screams for your mother.

After this you must be cautious. Eyes will always watch you now (though without seeing you, not really), but the prize was worth it. Your playmate will never be found, no one will ever be able to prove anything.

But that is for afterwards. Live in the moment. Johnny was the price of admission. You wait patiently. Ferns quiver. Branches part. Before your astonished eyes, something very special, very much rarer than any deer or wallaby emerges, accepting your offering.

It manifests.

No, it was not a big man. Not a man at all.

oh the delight

. … …. .

Here you are now in this moment,holding this pamphlet. You have stayed the course after the fools have drifted away. While you slide through life, feeling apart from everyone else, beneath attention, just outside of awareness, unfulfilled, know that you are seen, beautiful child. We see you, dear pilgrim. You may not realise it, but YOU DID IT.

This is dedicated to YOU.

Thank you for reading our pamphlet. We hope you grow in mindfulness. Have a blessed day!

David Stevens lives in Australia with his wife and those of his children who have not yet figured out the locks. This is his thirtieth published story! His other stories have appeared among other places in Three-Lobed Burning Eye, Pseudopod, Cafe Irreal, Tales to Terrify, Vastarien Literary Journal, and Andromeda Spaceways Magazine. Check out his other stories at davidstevens.info/publications/

Aphera /// A Mac photo editor - The Independent Variable

2026-07-15T19:59:53.000Z

aphera.co

Aphera is the Raw photo editor built natively for Mac, with a from-scratch imaging pipeline and a workflow designed to disappear.

I played around with the beta of this and got a little confused, but finally watched the quick two minute demo and it instantly clicked for me. I highly recommend checking Aphera out. It's fast and a delight to use--plus you can buy it and not pay a subscription, which is a nice change of pace.

The Struthless Shop - The Independent Variable

2026-07-15T19:13:26.000Z

struthless.org

I'm a big fan of Struthless, his art style, his books, his general mindset. He also makes these cool zines, worksheets, and prompted journaling exercises I've downloaded in the past. Well he now as this killer retro site where you can download any and all of em for free.

Landline - foofaraw

2026-07-15T16:00:54.000Z

💡

Rusty Epstein

LARP /// Revenue infrastructure for serious founders - The Independent Variable

2026-07-15T04:05:14.000Z

larp.website

Not sure it’s a good sign I thought there was a chance this was real and not satire.

The Media Guide S8E2 - foofaraw

2026-07-14T16:52:02.000Z

If we're being honest, there is only one thing people will be paying attention to this week, so we will knock that one out first and then get on to some pretty cool comics, shows, and albums that are definitely still worth your time despite The Odyssey dominating the tubes and airwaves.

🎬 The Odyssey

Everyone already knows what this is. Christopher Nolan is back with his IMAX epic starring basically all of Hollywood. I've got my tickets already for Saturday.

📚 Super Mondo Mega Mutts #1 — Oni Press

I am incredibly excited for this one. Curt Pires has absolutely delivered on his first few creator-owned series with Indigo Children and The Lost Fantasy. This time he is taking on those 80's cartoons in the vein of TMNT, Biker Mice from Mars, and Street Sharks, but doing it with his own dogs and artist Juan Gedeon.

📺 Lucky Season 1 — Apple TV

I feel like we don't get a lot of real action shows much these days, but Jonathan Tropper, who created Warrior and Your Friends & Neighbors, and also worked on See, is back with another show for Apple starring Anya Taylor-Joy in a action heist seven episode mini-series. There's a real risk of this being too bland, but it does have Annette Bening, Timothy Olyphant, Clifton Collins Jr., and William Fichtner in it as well.

📺 The Hawk Season 1 — Netflix

Ricky Bobby meets last years' Stick (starring Owen Wilson on Apple TV). Feels a bit too cheesy and campy—so more Happy Gilmore 2 than Talladega Nights, but who knows, the cast is a lot of fun with Molly Shannon and Chris Parnell as supporting characters.

The Unified Theory of Salsa - foofaraw

2026-07-14T16:00:23.000Z

His left foot moves left
His right foot moves right
His right hip moves forward
He steps on something soft
He hears a deep breath - inhaling
She smiles awkwardly
Is there an equal and opposite
reaction behind her lips?

His breathing quickens
a bead of sweat
an enormous, torrential
sluice of sweat
is dropping off his nose
To the floor
Plop
Plop

A couple gyrates past with a birdlike grace–
sequined plumage the light refracts, unwilling,
or unable to hold them, like notes through the window

He doesn’t know the Spanish
but he can feel it, language is strange
like that - sometimes it transmits
through the static corridor of silence

opening between steps. She breaks
like an excited electron repelled and
attracted to new partners

He puts a cold beer to his forehead
Hoping to unfog
dance lesson memories
counting mental steps
spinning mental hips

…. ……… ………. … . ………
…….. …………………. . . …….
…… …… …… …… …… …… …… …… …… …… …… …… ……………………
After an hour the space closes in,
but the music expands the walls
bursts the bar into a continent, two bodies
two billion bodies, in perpetual motion
rubbing rifts into the tectonic plates
She spins, her hair covers his eyes
for a moment, the darkness, the language
he doesn’t speak but understands
the body that isn’t his but is
The moment of motion, inhalation
resounds into the quantum, beyond
time and gravity and loss - a never ending
celebration of the purpose and capability
of the human body, and he steps–
on something soft.

She took six months of classes
so her body could enjoy music again
She tolerates some for forgetting, some
for never knowing a dance is just a dance

There’s a memory she has that she’s
never remembered - her body belongs
in motion - pieces of herself she agonizes
over each morning and evening
fall into place like tumblers into a lock
that doesn’t open, but stays in the moment
that both lock and key reach their pinnacle

Something hard slams down on her foot

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

Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

Too Many Mystics - foofaraw

Abigail Kemske - foofaraw

The metaphor here is not very subtle and feels very personal, I’m curious how you view and feel about the story now that it’s out in the world?

Is there a specific reason you went with a ghost?

I don’t know if it’s just the subject matter making me feel this way, but your prose feels both matter-of-fact and delicate at the same time—is that intentional, is that just how you typically write, or is that just where the story took you?

It also feels very much of a time (JNCO jeans, Gushers, Cosmo). How do you think this story would differ if it were set in the modern day with social media?

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?

Huge thanks to Abigail for opening up with us!

Pete Crow-Armstrong Is Good Enough To Raise The Forbidden Question - The Independent Variable

Armand Hammer /// Tiny Desk - The Independent Variable

Text Messages from the Mall Food Court Kiosk Where I Am Trying to Order a Chicago-Style Hot Dog - The Independent Variable

For Better Or Worse, 'The Odyssey' Is Peak Christopher Nolan - The Independent Variable

Space is a haunted house, and we are its ghosts - foofaraw

The Tongues of Ghosts - foofaraw

Font Club Belgica /// Future Fonts - The Independent Variable

The Library of Lives - foofaraw

📺 The Media Guide S8E3 - foofaraw

📺 King of the Hill Season 15 — Hulu

📚 Sicko #1 — Ignition Press

🎵 Beautiful Mess by Gin Wigmore

🎬 The Dink

The Purple Essay - foofaraw

On to the Necronomicon!

On to the Great American Novel!

Short reviews of Great American Novel candidates I qualified in the preceding paragraph:

On to omnibuses!

Partial reviews of four omnibuses

On to the end!

David Stevens - foofaraw

So… read any good pamphlets lately?

Are you the type of person who enjoys a good pamphlet from the hotel, doctors office, or wherever else?

Do you have a mindfulness practice?

What brings you peace?

There’s a certain Lynchian/Night Vale thing going on with this story and I’m curious if you are familiar with either of those or if there were other inspirations for this?

Where do we think the reader of the pamphlet goes from here?

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?

We are eternally grateful for all of David's pamphlet knowledge here at Foofaraw!

Developing your mindfulness practice 😊! - foofaraw

Aphera /// A Mac photo editor - The Independent Variable

The Struthless Shop - The Independent Variable

Landline - foofaraw

LARP /// Revenue infrastructure for serious founders - The Independent Variable

The Media Guide S8E2 - foofaraw

🎬 The Odyssey

📚 Super Mondo Mega Mutts #1 — Oni Press

📺 Lucky Season 1 — Apple TV

📺 The Hawk Season 1 — Netflix

The Unified Theory of Salsa - foofaraw