Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

🍽️ The Retro Diner - foofaraw

2026-04-03T05:22:46.000Z

Harriet entered the building through the main lobby doors and checked her watch. Satisfied, she bypassed the elevators, and walked purposefully to the stairwell. The stairs would take longer, but she savored the anticipation. She clutched a tiny foil wrapper in her hand, and for the first time in months, Harriet felt hopeful.

A week ago, Harriet had been having lunch at a popular café with friends. The weekly lunch date was important to her well-being. Since the war had started, she was trying hard to maintain some semblance of normalcy in her life. Lunch at the Retro Diner was always a highlight of her week. The server approached their table. “Separate checks, right?” he asked.

“Yup, same as usual,” she answered. A few minutes later, he returned and placed their checks in a pile with four foil-wrapped candies on the table.

“Ooh, chocolates! That’s new!” said Esther, reaching for one and popping it into her mouth. She glanced at the writing on the wrapper and smoothed it out on the table. “Laugh heartily once a day. It’s food for the soul,” she read aloud. “Ha! That’s rich! As if there were anything worth laughing about lately.”

“Mine says Good health comes of good habits,” said Susan. “Tell that to everyone who died in that last pandemic. Good habits didn’t help them.” She glanced over at Harriet, who seemed oddly distracted.

“A polka-dotted umbrella will make you happy,” read Linda. “Well, that’s kind of true. What’s yours say, Harriet? Harriet? Are you even listening?” Harriet looked down at the wrapper in her hand.

“Redeem your free wish at 2:00 PM this Friday on the seventh floor,” Harriet answered slowly.

“Really? That’s what yours says? That’s oddly specific,” said Esther.

“Let me see that,” Susan said, taking the foil wrapper from Harriet’s hand. “Huh. It looks just like the rest of ours. The font is the same and everything. So weird,” she said. “Well,” she added more brightly, “what would you wish for if you could wish for anything, Harriet?”

“I, uh, I’m not sure. There’s so much wrong in the world right now. Where to start?” answered Harriet.

“Well, I’d wish for world peace,” Linda declared.

“How would that even work?” Susan asked. “If we had world peace, what would happen to people in occupied countries? Is each country stuck in its current situation? What about disputed borders and all that?”

“OK, well, these constant storms are becoming unbearable. How about a climate reset to the year 2050? Wouldn’t that be great?” asked Linda.

“I don’t know, Linda,” Harriet answered. “It sounds good, but I doubt that a wish could reverse what’s already happened. You can’t change history. How about… eternal happiness?”

“No, that’s no good,” said Susan. “It’s sorrow and adversity that makes us appreciate happiness; if you were always happy, it wouldn’t be special. No, there has to be a better wish…”

“Money!” said Linda. “That’s what I’d wish for. I’m drowning in student loans.”

“You know what they say,” Esther offered, “money can’t buy happiness. Rich people are just as miserable as the rest of us. And besides, didn’t you ever read that famous horror story, ‘The Monkey’s Paw’? That guy wished for money, and it cost him his son!” They continued in this way for a few more minutes as they paid their bills and walked outside.

“So, Harriet, are you coming back here at 2:00 PM on Friday to redeem your free wish?” Susan asked with a smile.

“I wish—pun intended,” Harriet answered, “but I’ll be at work. Sorry, friends, I’ll have to miss my chance to bestow global nirvana, or whatever. Ha ha!” The friends chuckled and went their separate ways.

Artwork by Tony Tran

She had laughed it off for her friends, but for the rest of the week, Harriet kept thinking about wishes, and re-reading the candy wrapper. Redeem your free wish at 2:00 PM this Friday on the seventh floor. She thought back to old folk and fairy tales that she’d read. Wishes often went awry—even if you got what you wished for. She had read “The Monkey’s Paw” online earlier in the week. That was enough to scare anyone from wishing for personal gain; but surely there was a wish that wouldn’t be harmful. Harriet weighed the possibilities in her mind and thought about Friday. The building that housed the restaurant was close enough to work. She could take a late lunch break and go up to the seventh floor. What was up there? Just offices, she guessed. But—maybe the candy wrapper was some kind of restaurant promotion with a prize or something. Maybe the restaurant had a business office on the seventh floor, and they’d be waiting for her. It couldn’t hurt to look, she assured herself. She could go up to the seventh floor and look around. Later on, she’d tell her friends and they’d all have a good laugh. Harriet made up her mind to go.

On Friday at 1:45 PM, Harriet left work and walked down the block. She felt optimistic. She passed the restaurant entrance and entered through the building’s main lobby doors. She walked up the stairs and checked the time again. It was 1:57 PM. At precisely 1:59 PM, she pushed open the fire doors and stepped into the seventh-floor corridor.

Nothing. There was no sign, no greeting, no people. A quick glance at the directory on the wall told her the restaurant did not have an office here. Her optimism was replaced by a sense of foolishness. She had come this far, however, so she kept faith in the plan. At exactly 2:00 PM, she held out the tiny wrapper in both hands and declared aloud, “I wish that I will always have reason to hope.” The lights flickered for a second and Harriet felt dizzy. She looked around, distractedly, and blinked slowly.

“Redeem your free wish at 2:00 PM this Friday on the seventh floor,” Harriet answered slowly.

Lisa Taylor is a writer and academic librarian. Her poems and short stories have been published in a variety of print and online journals and anthologies, including publications of Third Estate Art, Moonstone Arts, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, MER Literary, and Black Hare Press. Lisa makes her home in Florida, the land of flowers, where it's harder to stop something from growing than to start it.

🎙️ Michael Allen Rose - foofaraw

2026-04-03T05:17:10.000Z

Read Michael's story, Of Iron & Oatmeal, now!

Do you view this story as a critique of military (and/or corporate) “brainwashing?”

There are certain themes I come back to again and again in my writing, and one of those is the abuse of power. You can bet that in just about any Michael Allen Rose story, eventually the “big bad guy” will be revealed, at least in part as Religion or Capitalism or the Corporation or the Government. One of those “big ol’ capital letter” systems that have bloated to the point where although they may be “run by” people, they no longer consider “people” a central concern. So yes, I think even when I’m being glib and funny in my genre fiction, whether it’s horror or sci-fi or bizarro or whatever, there’s always a layer of social satire underneath that screaming “don’t trust the system, it’s there to exploit you.” I think history will back me up on this.

Were you a military brat, by chance?

I came from a long line of military folks, but actually I was the one who broke the cycle. I was the first kid on my dad’s side of the family to go to college and get liberal arts degrees rather than dropping out of high school and joining the service. I saw what military service did to my dad, who ended up disabled and retired by the time I was three, and thought “Nope.” Growing up just down the road from an Air Force base though, certainly had an influence on me. I was surrounded by military brats all through my school years, and befriended several, so I was peripheral to the military in more than a few ways.

What are your feelings on oatmeal? And if you do like it, I’m curious why that was the food you chose for this specific story?

Sometimes, I’ll start a story with a title or a line, instead of a fully formed idea. In this case, it was the non-sequiter: “I’m not very happy about it, but I ate the oatmeal.” It’s a fun challenge, and I highly recommend it for other writers to try. Then, it sat there in a file all alone for several years, until eventually my brain started to mull over things like “Why is my character upset about eating the oatmeal? What does oatmeal mean to them? Were there raisins?” I worked at a call center for a summer back in high school, and hated it. Combined with my natural disgust for corporations and impersonal capitalist systems, the story slowly formed. For the record, I like oatmeal just fine. Most of my experience with it comes from making it for my girlfriend on the weekend (she likes how I make it. The secret is the milk to oats ratio.) Apple cranberry is my meal of choice.

What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?

I’ve had a variety of crap jobs. In my teen years, I worked as a housekeeper at a hospital, and at one point actually ended up cleaning the floors of the morgue, armed with only a floor buffer. I distinctly recall the sound of the bubbling machines that, I assume, kept bodies in good condition, while being the only person on that floor of the building. I also worked as a dishwasher at a country club, where even little kids had check books of their own. I worked at a pet store for a bit, where I got to scoop handfuls of liquid puppy poo out of cages filled with ill puppies. But believe it or not, my worst job was for a corporation (which shall not be named) just doing office work. The back-stabbing, the cruelty, the social climbing and politics, the mean spirited exhaustion of people, the byzantine paperwork, and the endless glare of the fluorescent lights slowly killing us? I cried on the way to work sometimes.

And do you think it made you as queasy and felt as soul-sucking as Robert’s new gig?

In an ideal world, most people would be able to pursue their passions,find meaningful work, and have enough resources to cover their basic needs no matter their employment status. I would imagine, if people were really honest, and you were able to take a poll of every person in the world that works, the majority would probably be generally unhappy with at least some - if not most - aspects of what they do. Especially those people who have no choice but to work in conscience-crushing, soul-sucking jobs they’re forced to pretend to care about. So, yeah, because the world we live in is so very far from ideal, I think most people have this experience at least once in their lives, if not many times. Except maybe billionaires, but… screw billionaires.

The ending is both pretty funny and revelatory—we don’t know what this thing is, where it comes from, but if we can harness its power for our benefit while “the people” bear the “costs,” we are more than happy to be complicit… I guess that’s a long way to tie this back to the current moment we seem to be living through and ask if that rings true to you as well?

Oh absolutely. It’s easy to forget that a lot of genre fiction writers, especially in sci-fi and horror, aren’t really writing about the future. They’re simply looking at the present and extrapolating what they see, taking it to an extreme, and writing a world that’s only a couple of tiny changes away from our own. We are living in a time that’s hotly politicized, with every aspect of our lives being scrutinized, criticized, and used as fuel for straw-men created by those who don’t agree with us so they can justify harm. But even with that tension, most people are happy to sit behind their keyboard, spread conjecture and insults, and not actually seek out verified information or build connections. Or worse yet, listen to “an authority” that definitely doesn’t care about them or have any of their interests at heart. They are, as you say, complicit in their own subjugation. Most people don’t like to consider consequences, or think long-term. It’s inconvenient and unpleasant.

How many times has this story been rejected?

I think the story was rejected around 6 to 8 times from various publications? Interestingly, the first time it got somewhere was in 2024 when it was picked up as a translation for an anthology released by South America’s Vestigio Press called Brecha II: AntologÍa de Literatura ExtraÑa. It was my first foreign language publication. I wish I could read it, but sadly my public school education failed me, and I can’t read Spanish well enough to enjoy it! It was “kept for further consideration” once or twice, but until now, has not seen publication in English. I’m happy that Foofaraw enjoyed it enough to unleash it on the masses!

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

This is cheating a little bit, because it’s a story in one of the anthologies my own small press RoShamBo Publishing put out, but John Bruni wrote a wonderful story called Family Tradition for our Stories From The Motel Sick anthology. A man checks into our metaphysical motel to commit suicide, and ends up having a long, dark night of the soul in which he meets the ghosts of his father and his past and breaks a long cycle of violence and mental illness. It’s hard to explain further without spoiling it, but for me publishing it was a no-brainer.

What book are you reading right now?

I’m currently in the middle of a true crime book about the murder of Emmett Till called The Barn: The Secret History of a Murder in Mississippi by Wright Thompson. It’s pretty intense, as you’d imagine. And I just finished an amazing book called Mother-Eating by Jess Hagemann that’s a horror-tinged retelling of the story of Marie Antionette’s reign through the lens of a woman who sells her daughter to a Texas death cult for fame and fortune. In lighter moments, I’ve been absolutely obsessed with Matt Dinniman’s Dungeon Crawler Carl series!

I have a Patreon where I release a new zine or chapbook just about every month, so if people like weird, limited edition, hand-mailed stories, plays, and other oddities, that’s a good place to get more of me! You can find that, and all sorts of other things at my link tree: http://linktr.ee/michaelallenrose

Also, Bizarro Con is coming up, which is something I’ve been involved with for years, and is the place I met many of my best friends in writing. Portland, Oregon, May 14-16 2026! If you’re a weirdo and haven’t found a place your imagination fits in yet, you should check it out. www.bizarrocon.com

Be kind to each other. Please. Help each other out. A rising tide raises all ships.

Thanks to Michael for taking the time to talk oatmeal, terrible jobs, and brainwashing on this lovely afternoon!

Shrinking (2026) - A Humdrum Life

2026-04-02T05:47:42.000Z

Some of the emotional beats still work for me, others fell flat, and others just seemed to vanish. Still a fun hang with delightful characters.

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Shrinking (2026) - A Humdrum Life

2026-04-02T05:47:30.000Z

Some of the emotional beats still work for me, others fell flat, and others just seemed to vanish. Still a fun hang with delightful characters.

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Shrinking (2026) - A Humdrum Life

2026-04-02T04:03:42.000Z

Some of the emotional beats still work for me, others fell flat, and others just seemed to vanish. Still a fun hang with delightful characters.

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Something Very Bad Is Going to Happen (2026) - A Humdrum Life

2026-04-01T21:28:17.000Z

Couldn’t get past the first 20min… gave it an extra half star because I assume it has to get better… but oof that was rough…

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🚧 OBSTRUCTION #15 - foofaraw

2026-04-01T16:00:20.000Z

Catch up!

Matthew Burbridge

The story so far:

ELBOWS OUT! THIS IS CAPITALISM (2026) - A Humdrum Life

2026-03-31T22:42:32.000Z

A fun, raw, and rowdy pop-punk album.

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🥣 Of Iron & Oatmeal - foofaraw

2026-03-31T16:20:29.000Z

I’m not very happy about it, but I ate the oatmeal.

I got the job through my father, who was a high-falutin’ military muckity-muck with too much pull, brass balls to match his medals, and far too much confidence in a son who would rather play with himself than with guns and knives. Each time he would throw me a football and it would hit me in the face—sending me crying into the house—a little piece of him fell off and died, squirming on the lawn. He bought me my first BB Gun at the tender age of six and took me out into the backyard to shoot at cans. I fired in earnest, missing the cans entirely for the duration of an entire load of BBs, finally hitting the neighbor’s dog with the final shot. The dog yelped, sending me into a crying fit. Even as my father assured me that I had not killed the dog, I screamed and apologized to the gods. I felt worse than Hitler. I would not stop bawling until he took the BB gun from my outstretched hands and, muttering, retreated into the house.

As a teenager, things got worse. I became moody and turned inward. My father pounded on the wall, trying to compete with my Bauhaus and Sisters of Mercy records. He bought me army green t-shirts, I scrawled messages on them in black Sharpie. I was too lazy or stoned to check my spelling, which meant that I often went to school with messages like “I only do whut the vices on my head teel me to.” You can imagine my popularity level soaring through the roof like a balloon made of pig shit.

My father tried to make me call him “sir,” but instead I started referring to him as “The General,” which he absolutely despised. “That’s incorrect! You know damn well I’m a colonel!” He’d ground me. I’d sneak out. He’d get some poor sucker to watch me. I’d befriend my guard and take them out partying. But, despite this acrimony, we both survived, and my father, to his credit, just kept shaking his head and pushing. He was practically a modern-day Sisyphus. When I graduated high school (with straight C’s), I was ready for a life of hanging out in the basement, working part-time at a record store, and trying to score pot from hippie chicks without standards. This, however, was not to be: in a last-minute Hail Mary play, my father shot and scored at the buzzer, landing me a “job opportunity.”

“Son?” he asked, barging through the door of my room, “I’m coming in.”

“You’re already in,” I muttered.

“Get up. Come on. You’ve got a job interview this afternoon.” He stood stick-straight, years of military service having fused his spine into attention.

“But I—” I sputtered, before being manhandled out of bed and unceremoniously dumped into a suit jacket and shoved toward the dresser.

“Don’t worry. It’s civilian. You’re not being forcibly enlisted.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, removing the jacket so I could put on something resembling clothes. “A group of dudes with papers and handcuffs aren’t about to jump me and make me sign things?”

“They won’t allow that,” said the General, unconvincingly.

As we drove, I tried to ask questions: “What’s going on?” “What kind of job?” “Why are you doing this?” “Do you have any prescription medication? I have a headache.” and the like. Silence was my only answer until we pulled onto the base. The guard saw the sticker on my dad’s car, saluted, and we blew through the gates. I had been on the base before—a couple of times—and it always made me feel weird. I was no terrorist, but I always felt like I was waiting for some soldier to see the inside of my head, assume I was some kind of communist, and shoot me. I was glad that, despite being a military family, mom insisted we live off base and do our best to fit into townie culture.

We pulled up in front of a large, white three-story building on the east side of the base. I had never seen it before. There was a sign on the well-manicured front lawn, with large brown block letters that read: “LAUBER MILITARY TESTING INSTITUTE.” I convulsed, a symptom of what I called “mild tourette’s” and what the doctors called “general anxiety about life.”

“Go ahead,” dad commanded, “Doctor High is waiting for you.”

I snickered, and he cuffed the back of my head, causing my vision to flicker.

“Listen, do what they tell you, and do good work,” he said.

“When do I get picked up?” I started to ask.

He leaned over and opened the passenger side door, shoving me out unceremoniously. “They pay weekly. Have fun and do what they tell you.”

Before I could mutter my distaste, the car was already halfway down the street and turning the corner.

Receptionists can go one of two ways, stereotypically speaking. One, they can be frumpy, no-nonsense, and a little scary. Alternately, they can be sexy and delightful, like a sweet song floating on the breeze. The receptionist at the Lauber Military Testing Institute was the rare combination of both at once.

The lobby was decorated with 1970’s furniture, a wash of wooden paneling, and comfortable looking couches. A pristine, gleaming white desk, looking far too modern for the room, stood imposingly opposite the front doors. Behind the desk, a young woman sat typing something into a computer. She was a redhead, the waves of her hair cascading like seawater across the shore of her shoulders. I looked her over and her plunging neckline revealed the edges of large, full breasts, with just a tiny slip of light blue lace showing beyond the collar of a maroon dress. She looked like a model, not a military receptionist.

Shyly, I approached the desk, unsure of what to say. I stood there, dumbly for a minute, listening to the clicking of her keys. Finally, I cleared my throat.

“Fill out the form, bring it back up here when you’re done,” she said, never looking up. Her hand left the keys long enough to pull a clipboard from behind the desk and push it across to me with ruthless efficiency.

“I’m here for a job?” I said, hesitantly, “My father is—”

“Fill out the form, bring it back up here when you’re done,” she said, louder this time, still focused on the screen in front of her.

I took the clipboard from her, wordlessly, and took a seat on one of the ratty orange and brown patterned love-seats. Dad hadn’t said anything about filling out forms—I had assumed this was a done deal, whatever it was. The form was long and detailed, and became more than a little confusing as it went on:

Name: Robert Patton McKinley.

Age: Nineteen.

Are you now, or have you ever been a member of the Captain Video Telephone Fun Club? No. I don’t know what that is, and I was born after landlines went extinct. And video, for that matter.

It was generally pretty easy until I got to questions like boiling point, facial symmetry ratio, and weight of edible meat contained in physical form. Drawing on the methods I’d perfected in high school, I sketched some duckies with machine guns in lieu of writing things down. Perfect.

The hot lady receptionist didn’t say much when I handed her the clipboard back. I watched her eyes scan it over without much interest, then she shrugged and pointed to her right. “Through the doors, to your right. Have a seat in there, and you’ll be called when it’s your turn. Bathrooms are to the left. Don’t drink or eat anything until after your interview. Thank you.”

“What am I applying for?” I stood there, blinking. She squinted at me, looking me over from head to toe, and decided something, as her eyes went off like flashbulbs and she sighed with heavy theatricality.

“Follow me.” The receptionist walked me through the double doors and into a huge rectangular space, cubicles receding into the distance and blurring into a soupy stew of noise and motion somewhere on the horizon. The walls were enormous, spattered with giant motivational posters, as big as unrolled elephant skins. It reminded me of a barn, only instead of animal shit, it smelled like coffee and artificial fruit with an undercurrent of nervous sweat.

“This is a call center? Is this a phone job? I thought it was a Military Testing Institute.”

She chewed her gum briskly, her eyes narrowing. “It is. It’s lots of things.” The gum snapped like a gunshot and something inside me convulsed like an angry hiccup. “Just follow the guidelines and you’ll be fine.”

The calling floor was swarming with people, men and women, all wearing little red and white name tags. Before I could ask any further questions, the receptionist vanished, and I was left alone at the mouth of this bustling hive of activity. A portly man with too many teeth grinned his way toward me. His smile looked permanently etched into his skull, like a scar. A frown would look unnaturally artificial on this man’s face, unsettling like cracking an egg for an omelette and finding a live baby alligator.

“Robert? Hi there, nice to meet you, I’m Barry.”

The large man shook my hand, with a firm grip. I watched his arm fat jiggle as I found myself asking “How did you know my name?”

He ignored this. “Glad you came in. Very excited for your interview. Follow me. You find the place okay?” He strolled through the maze of cubes with purpose, as I jogged to keep up.

“My dad dropped me off.”

“Good, good, here we go.” We arrived at a small, undecorated office to the side of the large room. A table of dark, scarred wood lay in the center of the room. The walls were blank, no windows or doors besides the one came through, except for a rectangular metal portal on the side of the room. It was painted gray, with hinges and latches affixed to the corners. A small counter jutted out below. “Sit down, make yourself comfortable.”

I sat in the chair nearest to me, allowing myself to plop down with authority. The castors squeaked. Meanwhile, Barry circumvented the table, passing near the metal port in the wall, and tapped on it three times with his knuckles.

Almost immediately, the latches popped open, and the hatch opened up. A pair of gloved hands pushed an orange cafeteria tray through the opening, and left it sitting on the counter. Barry picked up the tray and brought it over to the table, setting it in front of me, and taking his own seat.

It was a bowl filled with some kind of fresh, hot porridge. The aroma wafting from it reminded me of the country. It was a yellowish color, not quite off-white. Chunks of some unidentifiable substance broke the surface here and there like icebergs in a tiny sea. Fruit, maybe? A large spoon was arranged next to it, atop a napkin.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Oatmeal. So, can you tell me a little bit about your experience? Have you ever done phone work before? Customer service?”

“Oatmeal?”

“Yes. Is this your first phone job?”

“Yeah, I… haven’t really done… why is there oatmeal?”

“Go ahead, just eat the oatmeal.” I noticed he had the clipboard with the application I’d filled out earlier. I didn’t remember seeing anyone hand it to him.

“How did you…?”

“It says on your application that you haven’t really had too many regular jobs before. Other than the record store? Is that right?”

“I guess not, I mean, I’ve done freelance work for people, yard work, watching my friend’s convenience store while he grabs a smoke. But I’m sure I can figure it out. I’m friendly. This can’t be too much different from shooting the shit about music, can it?”

He laughed way too hard at this, an ear-shattering, donkey chortle. If he could, I feel like he’d have reached all the way across the table and curled his arm around me to smack my back.

“Yes, I’m sure you can handle it. There are scripts for all of this. You just follow the script, based on what the caller needs. Simple. Anyone can do it. Do you need cinnamon? Sugar?”

“What?”

“For the oatmeal.”

I stared down at the still steaming bowl. “No?”

“Okay, well, everything seems to be in order. Go ahead and just eat the oatmeal, and we’ll get you set up with a headset and a cube so you can start right away.”

He folded his hands under his chin, leaning his fat head on his knuckles, and fluttered his eyelashes at me. Maybe because I was uncomfortable with Barry staring at me, I didn’t know what else to do, so I reached down, grabbed the spoon, and pushed it down into the oatmeal. It enveloped the utensil like a boot in a swamp.

“I’m not really hungry. Can I… just…?” I didn’t really know how to finish that question.

Barry frowned and stood up. He walked to the little metal door and knocked on it again. Immediately, it slid open, and two hands floated through the opening. They handed Barry two shakers, one marked “Brown Sugar” and the other marked “Cinnamon.”

“Here. Dry additives only. Liquid changes the efficacy.”

I took a long look before reaching out and grabbing the shakers. Upending them, I shook out a few granules of each, and gave the bowl a stir.

The first bite was pretty okay. It was bland, but not unappealing. I caught eyes with Barry and put another spoonful into my mouth. It didn’t take long to finish the bowl. When I did, I felt the nervous energy suspended in the room leak out like air from a balloon.

“Good. You like softball? We have a softball team. Meets Thursdays.” Barry practically pulled me to my feet and ushered me out of the room. “Take a fifteen minute break every four hours. Shifts of eight or more get you a half an hour lunch too. That’s paid.”

By this point, he was pulling me down a fluorescent corridor of cubicles. On every side of me, dozens, maybe hundreds of people buzzed like hornets in a hive, talking on headsets, clicking computers, poking tablets with their fingers, and generally creating a cacophony.

Before I could ask anything further, Barry pushed me gently down into a rolling chair. Before me, on the particleboard desktop surface, a plastic-wrapped headset and a bagged cordless mouse lay prostrate before a large monitor. The sound of a desktop computer whirring away quietly reached my ears from beneath the desk, before Barry spoke again.

“Follow the scripts. Here’s your manual. I’ll check on you in an hour or two.”

A well-used photocopied booklet hit the desk in front of me, startling me. It was thick, and as I paged through it, I saw endless columns that all seemed to be cross-referenced with computer codes. Responses, replies, and scripts for every scenario. I wish I’d asked what we did here. I wish I’d asked where the bathroom was, as I held back a dribble of fear pee. What the hell was I supposed to do now? I moved the mouse inside its little baggie, and the screen blazed to life.

First name. Last name. Hit enter. A diagram of how to put on the headset properly, and then a whole litany of instructions. Step by step. Everything I needed to know, with hyperlinks and search term highlights.

It appeared this was a call center for a variety of different departments, which is why the instructions were so intricate. The book was divided into dozens of sections. I flipped through with my thumbs, and saw everything from “Tax Code Department” to “Hydrogen Bomb Victim Help Line” to “Area 52,” calls to which were to be answered specifically: “Area 52, there is no Area 51, it doesn’t exist, and it’s one number less anyway, which makes it objectively worse. Please reply ‘affirmative’ if you’ve found the Voyager golden record and are extraterrestrial to planet Earth, otherwise hang up, check your number, and dial again.”

I plugged my headset into the port, and instantly, a digital series of beeps sounded off. I clicked the “answer button” on my screen and words flashed across it like a karaoke machine. The display code read “OCR.”

“Office of Civilian Relations, this is Robert, how may I help you today?”

“Hello? Is this America?”

Her voice was small, a lick of some sandy foreign accent rolling around the edges of her consonants. I didn’t feel nervous, but for some reason, I was sweating. I patted down my forehead with my free hand, and it came away moist and clammy. I wiped it on my jeans and continued.

“Yes ma’am, this is the Office of Civilian Relations,” I nervously replied, scanning the screen and the book for responses and codes in a whirl of letters and numbers, “How may I... help you?”

“There are troops here on my farm. They are scaring my goats and making my children nervous.”

I looked at my chart of handy responses, my finger tracing over the grimy, yellowing laminate protecting the paper until it came to rest beneath “Troops in yard/farm” in the “case” column. Subsection C under the row read “frightened/upset ungulates.”

I input the code from the book on the screen, and immediately, a series of windows popped up with scripts, definitions, an FAQ, and several high-definition photographs of goats.

“I understand and I’d be happy to assist you. Where are you located?”

She spelled the name of her city for me, a place with consonant pairings I was unfamiliar with.

I noticed a blinking icon in the corner of my display. I clicked on it and a visible waveform showed up under a window entitled “full spectrum analysis.” The computer was recording the call and responding to me and this woman in real time. Before I’d even finished typing in the name of the city, maps were opening, and the script highlighted some words and scrolled down.

“Is this Ms. Suri Ghorbani?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Excellent, I just need a little more information,” I said, reading off the screen. The cursor blinked in another field with a neon green arrow.

“Okay, fine.”

I had an odd thought, and needed to express it. “Do you speak any other languages besides English?”

The screen immediately flashed a bright red pop-up window that said “DO NOT IMPROVISE. STICK TO THE SCRIPT.”

“I’m not speaking English. I’m speaking Farsi. What are you talking about?”

Did I somehow learn to speak Farsi without even trying? Was I some kind of savant?

“It’s the translator,” a strange, low, gravelly voice echoed in my ear.

“Excuse me?” I asked, wondering how the lady changed her voice so thoroughly.

“I said it was fine. What information do you need? My goats are freaking out.”

I read a list of contact information queries from the screen, and Ms. Ghorbani quickly answered them. I could tell she was losing her patience. “Listen, I complained to one of the officers here, and they gave me a card with this number, and I need you do something. Have you ever tasted the milk of an upset goat? It’s terrible.”

In large, red, white, and blue letters, the screen kept spitting out responses.

“If you can hold on just one moment, ma’am, I’ll take care of that for you.” I stared at the screen. How was I supposed to take care of soldiers invading a farm on the other side of the planet? I figured maybe the system would tell me how to log a complaint for her, or at least have me read some kind of propaganda about America helping out in her area—with emphasis on gratitude and patriotism and such.

Suddenly, my guts started acting funny. It was like an attack of irritable bowel syndrome, with painful cramps and rumbling pockets of gas.

My guts were rolling and boiling. A low moan escaped my lips as I rubbed circles around my belly, trying to coerce my guts to cooperate. The pain was getting worse. I rotated the chair idly left and right as I swiveled my head, looking for anyone that seemed like a supervisor. Seeing nobody, I fought back a wave of nausea and struggled to get up, but when I tried to stand, I couldn’t even get off the chair. I felt like my digestive system weighed a thousand pounds.

“Hello, are you still there?” asked Ms. Ghorbani.

“Yes, sorry—” I managed to grunt, as I doubled over. I reached for the headset, fearing I’d end up being sick and making a mess on my first day of work. I needed to find a restroom, stat.

Almost immediately, the computer flashed another red window, and that same voice from before, the low, gravelly one, appeared in my ear. “Don’t remove the headset.”

I felt a tickle rolling up my throat, like a long hair was stuck at the very back, irritating my uvula, making me simultaneously gag and cough. My tongue flattened to the bottom of my mouth, and I felt my cheeks puff up as bile began to rise and soak the back of my gums. I tried desperately to move the mouthpiece away from my face before I vomited all over it, but my arms disobeyed, keeping it pressed against my lips.

“Hello? Hello? Are you listening to me?” I heard the voice on the other end of the line becoming increasingly irritated.

Just then, something wet and bulbous forced its way into my mouth. I felt full, like I’d given birth to one of those novelty jawbreaker candies. The chunk of matter pulsed and pushed its way forward. Grimacing, my eyes closed instinctively to save myself the humiliation of barfing all over myself and my work station. With the sound of a particularly large turd hitting toilet water, the chewy mass scraped past my teeth and outward. I peered down at my mouthpiece, trying to keep myself grounded. It was fine, and no half-digested food was piled in my lap. I blinked a few times.

“Can I speak to your supervisor, please?” I’d almost forgotten about the person I was talking to in my brief moment of panic.

I tried out my mouth. All the muscles seemed to work as usual. “I’m sorry, ma’am, there was a momentary... crisis. Please, let’s continue.”

“I don’t know what—” Her voice was cut off by a loud “schloomp.” I imagined a watermelon being emptied of its contents with a particularly large plunger.

The screen opened a window displaying a large “10”, and text underneath read: “Operator, please hold for the retrieval process.”

The number changed to a “9”. Then, an “8”.

A sound came through the speaker. Like a hose being dragged through wet grass.

“Ms. Ghorbani?” There was no reply, but a pop-up window informed me that I should relax and silence any extraneous speech or utterance.

“7.” I felt something vibrate. My mouth opened up slightly like I was about to go in for a kiss. I was not involved in this decision. “6.” On “5” I felt something slide into my mouth. It was warm. I gagged a little. “4.” I was practically paralyzed. I wondered if this is how coma victims feel? My senses still worked, but I was no longer in control of what I was doing. My brain simply wouldn’t send the electrical impulses to my muscles. On “3” I heard “relax” in my mind’s eye. Not audibly, not with my ears exactly, but with the part of my mind that processes hearing. I know that sounds weird, but it was like when you’re hypnotized at one of those comedy shows where they make you think you’re a turkey, or forget the number seven. Your brain knows none of it is real, but you’re doing these things anyway, and you can’t really understand why, and somehow, you don’t really care.

“2.” It’s kind of like being on nitrous oxide. Part of your brain is there, but it’s floating on an inflatable purple hippo in a swimming pool, not really giving a shit whether or not you’re cognizant. The lump in my mouth slithered down my throat, and as I tried to gargle, a strange sense of calm came over me. My brain must have been firing shots of serotonin and dopamine into the air like a celebrating Texan. “1.” “0.”. The timer disappeared, and I sat back in my chair as a pop-up window declared the call successfully completed. I looked around, trying to peer into the other cubes to see how my colleagues were doing, but they were designed so that everyone was visually isolated. I clicked the “Break” button in the bottom right corner of the screen. Immediately, a 15-minute timer popped up and began counting down.

Artwork by Tony Tran

Nobody was in the breakroom when I found it. The vending machines stood against one wall, arranged like tombstones, with various generic names like “COFFEE,” “SNACK,” and “SODA” marking where junk food went to die. In the corner stood a larger machine, unmarked. A stack of wax-coated paper bowls towered next to it, along with a canister of individually wrapped plastic spoons. Behind the glass, a series of colored LED lights illuminated signs.

“Apple Cinnamon, Strawberry Cream, Maple Brown Sugar, Plain…” I read aloud.

“How’s it going?” a loud voice startled me. I turned to see Barry, grinning that huge plastic grin, leaning against the door frame. “Break time, already?”

“I didn’t feel well,” I said.

Barry walked over to me and put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. It was cold and clammy. “You’ll get used to the job. It takes a little time, but soon, you’ll be in and out of calls like clockwork. Heck, I bet you’ll be on the leaderboard in no time.”

“I don’t know. I think I’m sick. Maybe I should go home?”

“Nonsense, you just need a pick-me-up. Here, pick a flavor.” His fingers hovered over the buttons on the colorful, wordless machine. With his free hand, he grabbed a bowl and slid it into an opening in the machine’s front. “You like Raisin Walnut?”

“I don’t think I want any more oatmeal right now. I don’t know if that first bowl messed up my stomach or what.”

“Trust me, this stuff is just the thing for stomach problems. Good, stick-to-your guts kind of stuff. Here, try this. Berries and cream. Personal favorite.” He pressed a couple of buttons and the dark red LED light blinked a few times. A chute in the machine started pumping out hot, steaming oatmeal, and a few seconds later, Barry turned and presented it to me.

I looked down at it and then up at him. I took a bite. It was actually pretty good. The taste was bright and fruity. I thoughtfully chewed it and swallowed. As soon as I did, I heard my stomach gurgle, and without warning, patterns and lights started to flash before my eyes. My head went woozy and I stumbled, but before I fell over, a feeling of peace and tranquility flooded in and then, I felt better.

“Now, let’s go back to your desk. Try another few calls. I’ll be wandering the floor if you need me, but now that your stomach is full, I think you’re going to be fine. Sometimes you just need a little refill.”

Barry led me back to my cube, which showed just a few minutes left on the clock. I sat down and took a deep breath, glancing over my shoulder at Barry. His smile hadn’t moved, but something in his eyes was different. Like, his mouth was smiling, but his eyes were doing something else entirely.

I put on the headset and sat, staring at the countdown. I had to admit, I was feeling better than earlier. The timer reached “0” and immediately, a call came in. I read my lines off the display.

“Office of Contamination and Isolation, how may I help you?”

“Yes… hello. I was told to call this number after being diagnosed with a virus?”

“Can you read me the code written on your intake slip?” A little purple box awaited my input.

“Sure. It’s um… 3A7-C19?”

“Perfect, thank you. Your name, sir?”

“Todd Berryman. Do you need my insurance information or..?”

“One moment.”

A map window appeared and I watched the system track the call in real time. Little by little, it zeroed in on an address, and I watched as a small arrow moved down the sidewalk from a sky-high view.

“How long have you been experiencing these symptoms?” I asked, prompted by the screen.

“About a week or so.”

An overlay appeared—it looked like a heat map—and the little arrow turned dark red. “Please hold, sir.” My stomach burbled again. Apparently, the oatmeal had done little to settle it. This time, there was no pain, just a lot of noise. I couldn’t hold back a burp, and immediately felt my face turn red with embarrassment.

“Excuse me?” asked the man’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Be still,” said an entirely different, guttural voice. I wondered if he’d heard it too?

A tendril of something hit the back of my throat like I was upchucking a strand of uncooked spaghetti. My cheeks puffed outward and I made a weird noise like a rapidly deflating balloon. My lips parted and I felt something dribble over my gums. My eyes closed involuntarily and I hacked up a wad of phlegm. Still coughing, I panicked, crossing my eyes trying to look at the headset. Everything looked normal. I swallowed, trying to maintain normal breathing.

“What other information do you need?” the man asked. He coughed a few times, and then a sort of squishing sound came out of him. “Mmmfgh! Oh God, what’s mmmfgh!” The beginning of a scream was cut short.

I listened to the silence on the other end of the line. “Hello? Mister Berryman?”

Once again, the screen began its ten second countdown, encouraging me to remain still for the retrieval process. This time, I tried to stand up, but my limbs didn’t seem to be cooperating. My mouth began to open up. Frantically, I tried to take my headset off, but my arms wouldn’t respond. “No… no… no!” I said, kicking and thrashing. My movements were too small, too weak. Why couldn’t I move? It was like being stuck in slow motion in a nightmare. The countdown read “7…” “6…”

Shaking with effort, I managed to turn my chair so the headset cable wrapped around the arm. I felt something inside me tear as I wrenched my body to the side with enough force to unbalance me. The whole chair tipped over, with me attached. My head cracked into the floor, with only my shoulder saving me from a concussive blow. As I fell, the headset pulled free from my skull, still attached to the machine, and spooled around me like a long, black noodle.

I groaned, trying to control my shaking body, as the headset shuddered. On “3,” something liquid began to seep out, followed on the count of “2” by a mass of gray goo. It was the oatmeal, or something derived from it. It didn’t look digested; it looked alive. It piled up on the floor in a slimy, twitching glob, and began to emit a high-pitched scream. Pulling myself up on my elbows, I began to shuffle backwards, kicking at the pile, trying to stomp it down into the carpet.

“What the fuck are you? What is this?” I squealed, grinding the oatmeal into the floor. I retreated until my back hit the wall of the cubicle opposite mine, and sat there hyperventilating as the ooze began to vibrate. It appeared to be breathing, but my attack had broken it up into multiple dollops, many of which were curling up and turning black as I watched the thing die.

My nausea returned, and I gagged up a long string of bile. I was too weak to move, and just sort of leaned over and let it drip out of my gullet, a long, metallic string of grayish filth.

“Oh no, this is unfortunate.” It was Barry’s voice. I looked up, and saw multiple heads peeking out from their cubes all down the row. Some were shaking their heads, a few looked frightened, but they all had the same look of calm resolution deep within their eyes. Barry was standing with his arms folded, flanked by two men in red shirts wearing security badges.

“What—?” I managed, before being hauled to my feet by the two security guards.

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault. This happens.” He looked down at the blackened lump that had sprung from the headset, lying still like scorched mashed potatoes. “That’s too bad. Two servings wasted. Usually, that’s enough for most people as a starter.”

They ushered me down a hall to a small room, similar to the one I had interviewed in earlier. Was that the same day? It felt so distant now. They sat me down in what looked like a dentist’s chair. I was too weak to resist and had to watch as they strapped me in. I was completely drained and could only turn my head. Barry’s smile was still in place, but his features showed some concern. He was looking at me with sympathy for an animal that had been hit by a car, when the prognosis wasn’t very good. I felt myself being lowered into a supine position.

“It doesn’t always take right away. Something to do with the employee’s metabolism. Maybe body chemistry. I keep telling them, we should start doing drug testing, see if marijuana intake affects the bonding process, but of course, they’re afraid if we do that, we lose the stoners, which, as you can imagine, make up a hefty portion of our employee base.” Barry chuckled as one of the red shirts wheeled over a cart with a large metal pot and some machines attached, whirring away quietly.

The other guard pulled the top off the pot and stirred its contents with a long, wooden spoon. The air filled with the unmistakable aroma of cinnamon.

Another figure appeared from the darkness, a woman, wearing a surgical mask and gown. “Please try to relax,” she said. “I’m doctor High, and I’ll be taking care of you today.” I noticed that Barry had put on a mask as well, and he hovered over my face. I could imagine that smile beneath the cloth and it looked the same.

“What’s happening? I don’t want any more oatmeal!” I cried, slurring my words. I felt a quick prick in the arm. They must have injected me with something.

“Shhh, it’s going to be all right. The oatmeal will heal you.”

“What the hell is it?” I mumbled.

While lying there in shock, flat on my back, Doctor High placed an endoscope into my mouth and down my esophagus.

“Don’t worry,” said Barry in a soothing voice, “The camera helps the doctor visualize your stomach lining to ensure that the feeding tube is positioned properly.”

I tried to sit up, to fight, to scream, but I was a mannequin.

“When the doctor can see your stomach, she is going to make a small incision in your abdomen. Next, she’ll insert the feeding tube through the opening. Then, she’ll secure the tube and place a sterile dressing around the site. Just FYI, there may be a little drainage of bodily fluids—such as blood or pus—from the wound, so we’ll keep an eye on that. The whole thing will only take an hour or so. We’ll be done before lunch.” He patted the side of the large pot. “Although, I don’t imagine you’ll be very hungry.”

My eyes pleaded with him, as I tried to speak around the endoscope. All that came out was “wffissttt.”

“What is it? Oh, we don’t know. Well, I don’t know. That’s way above my paygrade. Alien technology? Nanobots? A pact with demons? Some kind of virus?” He leaned in, conspiratorially. “Personally, I think it’s a combination of all of them. I think the government made a deal with the devil, who provided some kind of tiny alien robot that spreads and replicates itself like a virus. All we know for sure is that it helps solve America’s problems, and it makes for loyal and compliant employees.”

Picture a swamp, bubbling with gaseous emissions of sulfur. That’s what the oatmeal sounded like, as it pumped itself into the tube and began to fill my stomach cavity.

Later that day, I had taken a dozen new calls. Every single one of them successful. You get used to the process after a while. People say they can hear my smile when I talk to them on the phone. I think that’s true. I just wish they could see what’s behind my eyes.

Michael Allen Rose is an award-winning author, musician, and performer based in Chicagoland. His novel Jurassichrist won the Wonderland Award for best bizarro fiction of 2021, and in 2022 he received the Wonderland for best collection for his illustrated horror primer Last 5 Minutes Of The Human Race. Blending genres including horror, comedy, and bizarro fiction, Michael has been published in numerous anthologies such as Tales From The Crust, The Magazine of Bizarro Fiction, and Dragon Mythicana. He also runs a small press called RoShamBo Publishing, makes industrial music under the name Flood Damage, and is president of the national Bizarro Writers Association. He loves tea and cats.

Sinners (2025) - A Humdrum Life

2026-03-30T14:36:16.000Z

I think I was able to enjoy it a little bit more on rewatch. The one big music scene hits a little less hard when it’s not on the big screen though.

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Project Hail Mary (2026) - A Humdrum Life

2026-03-30T03:18:02.000Z

It was a fun flick, but not much more than that, which is fine. Not every movie needs to be more than has fun.

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Love Story (2026) - A Humdrum Life

2026-03-29T05:34:00.000Z

Enjoyed this more than I thought I would in the first half, but it fell off a bit for me and just felt a little icky and invasive by the end.

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One Battle After Another (2025) - A Humdrum Life

2026-03-29T04:19:00.000Z

Still just as great as the first watch.

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Weekend Edition Vol.092 - foofaraw

2026-03-28T17:00:34.000Z

It’s been a busy month so we are going to pretend like nothing has been missed over these last couple weeks because we’ve published some amazing stories for our special month of March.

Here’s everything from March so far and we’ve still got one more big story to come on Tuesday.

🌒 Moon Drama

Ashlee Lhamon

foofarawfoofaraw

Basement Girls and Attic Gods

🚂 How To Paint a Prairie Ghost Train

Tyler Lee

foofarawfoofaraw

🔭 The abyss in the depths of her eyes

by Isis Aquino and translated by Monica Louzon

foofarawfoofaraw

Plus interviews with all of these wonderful writers:

interviews - foofaraw

Plus a poem:

We published our first two reviews of short fiction:

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

Jeff Goldberg

foofarawfoofaraw

A review of “(Skin)” by Chelsea Sutton, published in Diabolical Plots

Some comics:

Some columns:

🥘 Annotated Draft Menu, Winter 2025 Prix-Fixe

Andrea Cavedo

foofarawfoofaraw

🔭 The Horoscope Essay

Nicholas De Marino

foofarawfoofaraw

🔭 The Missed Connections Essay

Nicholas De Marino

foofarawfoofaraw

Foofaraw Press on Metalabel

Printed books and zines from the foofaraw digital zine

The Rise of the Red Hot Chili Peppers: Our Brother, Hillel (2025) - A Humdrum Life

2026-03-28T04:05:18.000Z

I’m a pretty big fan of RHCP, but I had zero idea of Hillel and thought John Frusciante was the og guitarist. Fun hearing about the early days.

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Almost There (2026) - A Humdrum Life

2026-03-27T21:11:57.000Z

Given the name of the album I thought they might go back to their roots, but alas… L Train is the only song worth listening to.

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Honora (2026) - A Humdrum Life

2026-03-27T17:56:50.000Z

This was my most anticipated album of the year and it lived up to my expectations. It definitely won’t be for everyone as a bass focused jazz album, but Flea is excellent at sharing the stage and elevating other musicians and balancing the instrumentation so his bass or trumpet never feel overpowering, but a compliment to the standup bass, guitar, drums, keys, etc. I need more jazz like this in my life.

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🎙️ Monica Louzon & Isis Aquino - foofaraw

2026-03-27T17:38:07.000Z

Read Isis Aquino and Monica Louzon's story, The abyss in the depths of her eyes, now!

Monica Louzon

What was it about this story that made you want to translate it?

There are several different kinds of poignant loneliness in this story that resonated with me, and I’m a sucker for literally star-crossed lovers.

Are you much of a stargazer?

Yes! I don’t have my own telescope, but I grew up peering through my dad’s telescope on cold winter nights at the Moon, Jupiter, and rings of Saturn (other stuff, too, I’m sure, but those three made the biggest impression on me). Nowadays, I’m always looking up at night - you can often find me walking my dog in the dark, letting him lead me while I stare up at the stars and try to spot the ISS.

Who do you see yourself in more, Lenny or Skylar?

Lenny. There’s a point in the story where Lenny tries to come up with a way to give Skylar hope, but can’t think of anything, so he instead tries to distract her by talking about random things that come to mind - I can relate so hard to this conundrum, and and absolutely employ this exact same strategy in similar situations. (I have lots of trains of thought going at any one time, which makes it easy to distract people with them!)

How many times has this story been rejected?

It took 54 submissions over 3.5 years before foofaraw accepted this translation. We got 12 personal rejections and 2 holds in the process (which didn’t overlap, interestingly enough)!

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

I must confess that I haven’t read much English-language short fiction in the past year, but the two works that stuck with me were Zohar Jacobs’s novelette “On the Night Shift” (2025, Asimov’s) - about an engineer in Mission Control who ends up stuck handling a Mars mission crisis overnight - and Michéle Laframboise’s well-written coming-of-age steampunk novella “Maragi’s Secret” (2024, Asimov’s) about family, conservation in the face of hardship, and challenging the status quo.

What book are you reading right now?

I don’t often read nonfiction, but I just finished thoroughly enjoying Terry Pratchett: A Life With Footnotes: The Official Biography (2022) by Rob Wilkins. Rob was Terry’s personal assistant and heavily pulled upon Terry’s own notes toward his incomplete memoir/autobiography to finish this biography for Terry. It was delightful getting to meet Terry and, although a couple bits made me cry, I plan to reread it someday (which speaks volumes - I don’t think I’ve ever reread a nonfiction book)!

If you want to read about librarian drama and books that make pearls (like oysters!), check out (ha!) my story “Shorthand” over at After the Storm Magazine - it came out in January 2026!

I’m really excited to have 3 more translations for different authors coming out during the first half of 2026:

“Letters From a Dead Girl” by Santiago Eximeno, which is a horror microfiction forthcoming in Dreams & Nightmares Magazine,
“The Sea’s Decree” by Armando Boix, which is a folk horror/dark fantasy novelette coming out in Adventures BookZine, and
“Above the Sand, Under the Skin” by Ramiro Sanchiz, which is a weird science fiction story forthcoming from Translunar Travelers Lounge.

Isis Aquino

When you think about what could be out beyond this galaxy, do you get hopeful or pessimistic?

Definitely hopeful. I’m not sure we will ever have the technology to travel through space at super high speeds or do anything depicted in space operas, but I’m absolutely positive that we’ll be discovering new phenomena and understanding more about the universe and the way it works.

Despite being in a terrible position, there is a gracefulness in the way Skylar handles herself. Do you think you’d have the same grace in that situation, at that age?

No way! I would be a mess! But as my father used to say, each generation of children tends to be more aware of itself and the reality around them at earlier ages. I guess that I was trying to depict a teenager that is composed and calm as a result of this tendency towards precocity as a result of an overall advancement in future societies.

Who do you see yourself in more, Lenny or Skylar?

I’d say Lenny, because he’s a smart kid but also kinda awkward. I tend to feel awkward even if I’m really not.

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

“Mouthful of birds” by Samantha Schweblin. I found it unsettling in an enjoyable way.

What book are you reading right now?

It’s in Spanish, it’s an anthology of science fiction written by Puerto Rican women. Its title is “Distopía nuestra de cada día” with a go word by Puerto Rican scholar Angela M. Valentin Rodriguez. All the short stories are mind blowing!

There is a short story I read a couple years ago that stuck with me, it was written by Monica Louzon who happens to have translated my stories into English. The title is “Mother’s Love” and I think about it almost every month. Any woman who reads it will know why.

Thanks to Isis and Monica for chatting with us about space and storytelling in all of the worlds wonderful languages!

“There’s No Basketball Case”: Why the NBA Is Expanding Anyway - The Independent Variable

2026-03-27T03:34:04.000Z

theringer.com

Is there enough talent, especially high-end talent, to support two more teams? How will the talent dilution affect the quality of play? Especially now, at a time when a third of the league’s teams are barely competitive (some, but not all, by design)? Will adding two more franchises exacerbate the tanking crisis? Will struggling small-market squads have an even harder time attracting players when there are two glimmering new teams in two glamour markets?

The real question is how does the NBA work to create more parity? What does the league look like if teams are forced to keep just one superstar rather than the ability to stack three together on a team? I think there are close to 32 players in the league that could conceivably be the best player on their team. Tanking is going to happen in some form or fashion no matter what, whether you add two teams or not. But bickering about the number of teams is pointless—there should just be a constant turning of the knobs to de-incentivize the bad and incentivize the good.

The Madison Becomes Taylor Sheridan’s Biggest Series Debut Ever in Ratings - The Independent Variable

2026-03-27T03:24:36.000Z

hollywoodreporter.com

Response to the series was mixed, with The Madison scoring a 60 percent positive rating among critics on Rotten Tomatoes and 74 percent among viewers.

Oi vey. I made it through thirty minutes before I gave up and gave it 1 star. I was interested because of Pfeiffer and Russell, but boy did it not deliver and felt more like a soap opera to me. I wonder what the week two drop off will be like.

Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

🍽️ The Retro Diner - foofaraw

🎙️ Michael Allen Rose - foofaraw

Do you view this story as a critique of military (and/or corporate) “brainwashing?”

Were you a military brat, by chance?

What are your feelings on oatmeal? And if you do like it, I’m curious why that was the food you chose for this specific story?

What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?

And do you think it made you as queasy and felt as soul-sucking as Robert’s new gig?

How many times has this story been rejected?

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 Michael for taking the time to talk oatmeal, terrible jobs, and brainwashing on this lovely afternoon!

Shrinking (2026) - A Humdrum Life

Shrinking (2026) - A Humdrum Life

Shrinking (2026) - A Humdrum Life

Something Very Bad Is Going to Happen (2026) - A Humdrum Life

🚧 OBSTRUCTION #15 - foofaraw

The story so far:

ELBOWS OUT! THIS IS CAPITALISM (2026) - A Humdrum Life

🥣 Of Iron & Oatmeal - foofaraw

Sinners (2025) - A Humdrum Life

Project Hail Mary (2026) - A Humdrum Life

Love Story (2026) - A Humdrum Life

One Battle After Another (2025) - A Humdrum Life

Weekend Edition Vol.092 - foofaraw

The Rise of the Red Hot Chili Peppers: Our Brother, Hillel (2025) - A Humdrum Life

Almost There (2026) - A Humdrum Life

Honora (2026) - A Humdrum Life

🎙️ Monica Louzon & Isis Aquino - foofaraw

Monica Louzon

What was it about this story that made you want to translate it?

Are you much of a stargazer?

Who do you see yourself in more, Lenny or Skylar?

How many times has this story been rejected?

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?

Isis Aquino

When you think about what could be out beyond this galaxy, do you get hopeful or pessimistic?

Despite being in a terrible position, there is a gracefulness in the way Skylar handles herself. Do you think you’d have the same grace in that situation, at that age?

Who do you see yourself in more, Lenny or Skylar?

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 Isis and Monica for chatting with us about space and storytelling in all of the worlds wonderful languages!

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