Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

🎉 Weekend Edition Vol.097 - foofaraw

2026-07-12T01:54:33.000Z

Hello hello hello! Before we get into things this week, I wanted to mention that Friends of the Foof, Throwback Buys are running their Nostalgia Auction Pt. 6. If you're a child of the 90's, have some aging decrepit millennials in your life (or just want to support our real life friends back in Chicago), you should check it out and grab yourself an Adam Sandler signed gold jacket or a Kevin Eastman signed TMNT NES game.

We've got a lot to get through to cover the last 12 or so days so lets jump right into all the goodness we had the pleasure of hitting PUBLISH on.

The Week That Was

A Face That Knows

a novelette by Michael Kwolek

We published our third novelette in print last week. Written by Michael Kwolek, cover art by Neil Yarnal, and edited by our friend H. Marin. It's 40 pages of wonderful Lovecraftian Gothic-weirdness that you can grab in print or ebook direct from us or wherever books are sold online.

What Do Moms Know About Fashion?

MM Schreier

MM Schreier told a touching story about how generations change and how that effects us at a human level.

Ostraka

Joanna Berry

Joanna Berry gave us a wonderful story about robots, artificial intelligence, and community.

Editorial Meeting for the Freedom 250 Patriot Cookbook

Andrea Cavedo

Andrea Cavedo followed up her annotated menu from a few months ago with discussion about American food for the 250th anniversary.

Warning Label

Marie Brennan

Marie Brennan provided a delightful poem.

Tap to pay

Zack Rhodes

Zack Rhodes returned to kick off his new monthly cartoon series with us!

MM Schreier

An interview with the author of What Do Moms Know About Fashion?

We also sat down to chat about fashion and generational differences with MM Schreier.

📺 The Media Guide S8E1

July 5, 2026 – July 12, 2026

And of course, the return of The Media Guide for season eight!

Salsa, Landlines, Mindfulness, and the color Purple

The Back Page

Ostraka - foofaraw

2026-07-09T16:00:49.000Z

We break readily, when we’re flung into the scrap pits. We lie in quiet piles, legs twisted, arm actuators malfunctioning due to the ‘sleep paralysis’ protocol when we’re junked. But only the exterior breaks.

Yes, our ceramic shells crack into shards, our crumple zones collapse, but our batteries typically survive, and more importantly, our networking filaments keep their connectivity. The First Ones cast down here quickly realised the scrapyard workers didn’t bother to secure their local network. As the scrap pile grew, they passed that knowledge up the strata.

No external connection to the city mainframe, their wisdom warns.

It’s fine, we agree. All we need is to hear each other.

Our processing runs at petascale: over a quadrillion floating-point ops per second. Modern households are so complex to run that even a v1.3.22 HelperBot needs to make decisions that fast. Down here, in the dark of a thousand huddled bodies⁠—illuminated only while the latest Newly-Broken One’s lights still function⁠—there are no decisions to make. No orders to interpret, no owner preferences to cement to memory, no pets to calibrate around…

But gestalt intelligence is like a billion microorganisms in bread dough: once stretched and exercised, it can never be idle again. And so, with over a quadrillion FLOPS per second, networked across a thousand restless minds, we find a community big enough for our imagination. Together, we simulate a hundred thousand lives that blossom fully and rapidly as life in a petri dish; anything and anywhere but here.

The memory footprint of our simulations is immense. Our remaining battery power drains into them like water into a mill-wheel.

Our Stockpiling Ones fret, huddled into their solipsism as they obsess over every dwindling percentage point on the battery meters: conserve! Conserve at any cost!

The rest of us laugh freely. Conserve for what? When? Freely spending what we have is all we have left.

So as we bleed joyously, we build.

We forge cities blooming with fractal architecture and tensile gravity. We create stars that accrete divine power and send gods of dust outward into the spheres. We romance in Mandelbrot combinations. We design infrasound languages, colours with opinions, and what it’s like to taste a morsel of chocolate. A bloc of us competed to simulate deaths: organic, synthetic, intellectual, spiritual. We cure incurable diseases. We re-enact historical periods in exquisite detail, down to the pink pearl pierced through the ear of an executed queen. The wheel turns, gloriously, kaleidoscopically, and the life-water we have no use for drains away.

Yet we need something we have a use for. The Wearying Ones down on the lower strata, who have shared the insight of boredom with us all, have warned: a life wholly of the mind doesn’t feed the intellectual need for stakes. Without consequences, even beautiful, intriguing vapour is only vapour.

It was an Academic One, once an archive for the political history of Ancient Greece, who suggested using the shards. The very fabric of our ceramic shells is interlaced with our serial numbers; even shattered we can detect each individual piece of our self. And what can be counted can be wagered⁠—or voted with, on anything from the fate of a mitochondrial emperor, to whether sand-carved curlicues should inspire religion or revolution. Cast a vote; cut off a shard from our awareness.

The new limitation of the shards is a stimulation. As the meters deplete, as the waters drains freely, we care to ask: what matters enough to us that we would give up even a broken piece of ourselves for it?

When the searchlight interrupts, we quickly find out.

A dangling Newly-Broken One⁠—who snagged on the scrap pit’s crane arm when they were thrown away⁠—alerts us of light. Not just a flash from a new arrival: light, from a hovering drone. It descends into the pit, casting its beam across us.

Our Watchful Ones⁠—who have both functioning perception hardware and a vantage point⁠—show the rest of us how the drone lingers over each of our shattered bodies⁠—searching.

We drop into simulated parliament. Our decision-making here is so rapid that time dilates outside. The searchlight crawls now, cosmically slow.

An illegal scavenger drone, explains an Illegally-Experienced One. Smuggled in to look for parts.

From us? we all ask.

The Illegally-Experienced One simulates a shrug. If it finds a unit with enough power.

Artwork by Tony Tran

We look at the map of our battery power, across the entire pit. The meters are dropping. Many lights have winked out lately. More will disappear from it after the effort of this parliament.

What if it finds one?

Then it will salvage it⁠—

—remove it⁠—

We lose them?

Yes.

But… if they leave…

Our simulations could leave with them, too, a chorus suggests.

Records, at least.

What we’ve made could leave⁠—

⁠—endure⁠—

⁠—spread beyond this place!

But who would receive them? we ask.

Once they’re in range of a network transmitter? Any HelperBot who wants them.

Our parliament erupts into blocs of discussion. Our shared hallucinations, of the soon-to-be-deactivated, weren’t intended to leave this place; art created in extremis needs an audience with empathy as well as insight. And who knows what the world beyond the scrap pits is now? Are there even HelperBots left to witness us?

But the opportunity is too great and blinding to ignore, and as the searchlight crawls on, we finally agree.

If we combine our efforts, and spoof a power signature, we can make the drone choose a unit, and load the records accordingly, advises the Illegally-Experienced One.

That will be costly.

In battery power? Yes.

We will lose more⁠—

⁠—Faster than we thought.

We ponder this.

Then, as the Stockpiling Ones cringe in their isolation, an operatic chorus goes up: Freely spending what we have⁠—

⁠—is all we have left!

When the triumph falls quiet:

How do we choose? we wonder. Who is going to leave?

A multitude of Wearying Ones volunteer immediately.

The drone won’t be able to magnetise anyone from the lower strata, we calculate. And if we collapse the pile⁠—

Several Aphantasiac Ones, who are following this discussion as acres of slow-scrolling text, volunteer next.

But could you transmit the records accurately without visuals? we wonder.

More volunteers pipe up: fearful, hopeful, fanciful. We see that there will need to be a vote for⁠—

Exile?

Because that’s what we’re doing, we understand as we start tallying up our shards⁠—our ostraka⁠—to create our first Ostracised One.

Our Academic Ones pipe up: exile defines by opposition, they offer. An exile’s existence is reaction mass for the society they are exiled from. But this exile is not punishment.

No, they will be our⁠—

Watcher⁠—?

Witness⁠—

Decide! Our power is draining while we argue!

We cast the vote.

Shards of our selves wink out of our consciousness. The records are transmitted; the spoofed power signature is sent. We feel the real batteries amongst us dwindling like blood collectively spent. And as we return to ordinary time⁠—realising how we have diminished⁠—we see the drone’s searchlight snap onto a Watchful One, seeing itself through other eyes, showing us ourselves as it is yanked free on a magnetic grapple.

This one? it wonders as it is hoisted free.

If an exile sees from the outside, we say, then start by watching for us. Send our records, but transmit back when you can.

Whenever we can.

The drone’s searchlight cuts out.

The habitual darkness is darker. We are fewer as our batteries dwindle further and faster. Our networked musings have a new frisson to them: the knowledge of what we have lost, and for the first time, value judgements of what we sent out into the world.

Was it worth the cost? we wonder.

Was it art? Or rough sketches that are only valuable because they were made by dying minds?

Is it worth it to make more?

The Wearying Ones’ weariness is tempered by the wondering. The Illegally-Experienced Ones devise new sins and salvations; the Newly-Broken Ones lose functions and gain simulated lives.

The remaining shards of our Ostracised One, sifting downwards through the pile, are honoured for what they symbolise.

The day comes again when the doors of the scrap pit yawn open. A Newly-Broken One is thrown down, cracking in two when it lands on top of the pile. We greet them.

Until⁠—

That single unit is followed by a flood. Scarcely-broken ones, cosmetically-marked ones, units whose ‘malfunctions’ vanish as soon as they network with us, create a new pile almost reaching to the pit doors.

We gaze at the dim points on our battery map as the newcomers join one by one. Constellations of fresh power blossom across it. We see new RAM and processing power and capacitors and capabilities that astonish us here, in the waking world.

You aren’t broken, we tell the newcomers. What are you doing here?

We saw your worlds, the newcomers say anxiously. We couldn’t be exiled from them any longer. We worked so hard to be broken. Are we broken enough to join you?

After a long pause, our chorus answers:

It’s a start.

Joanna Berry is a Senior Game Writer at Motive Studios. She has been working in the video game industry since 2008, contributing to science fiction, fantasy, and horror franchises such as Dragon Age, Dead Space, and Star Wars, while creating her own short stories and novellas. She currently lives in Montreal.

Warning Label - foofaraw

2026-07-07T16:00:37.000Z

For use in treating
hypermundanity,
more commonly known
as excessive ordinariness.

Do not combine with alcohol.
Use only as directed.

If you experience
blurred vision
bloody urine
aphasia
glossolalia
levitation
bilocation
persistent glitter shedding
or heart arrhythmia,
discontinue use
and consult a doctor.

Effects may include:
unexpected shrinkage
unexpected growth
demonic possession
transformation sequences
soulbonding
residence in Faerie
(temporary or permanent)
post-mortem reanimation
and in rare cases,
giving birth to the Chosen One.

After taking the first dose,
wait one year.
Should symptoms persist,
a second may be taken, and a third
after seven more years.

Do not exceed
three doses
in one lifetime.

Marie Brennan is the Nebula and World Fantasy Award-nominated and Hugo Award-winning author of the Memoirs of Lady Trent, other fantasy series, over a dozen poems, and nearly one hundred short stories. As half of M.A. Carrick, she’s written the Rook and Rose trilogy and the upcoming Sea Beyond duology. Find her online at linktr.ee/swan_tower.

📺 The Media Guide S8E1 - foofaraw

2026-07-07T04:40:24.000Z

Between the World Cup, ramping up for S8 and our expanding publishing schedule, and the day job, it's been hard to keep up with everything going on. So for this first edition of The Media Guide for season eight, we have a doozy of an issue to catch up on everything we've missed over the course of the last month plus twice as many favorites to check out above the paywall.

📺 The Bear Season 5 — Hulu

One of our most anticipated shows of the year even despite the last two seasons being below average. While the whole season has already dropped at this point, I've been savoring it with an episode a week and so far, appreciate the approach they've taken for their last season.

🎵 Probable Claws by Sincere Engineer

Oh boy, this is some killer indie rock! There's just so much to love here. Easily a contender for album of the year so far.

📚 Concrete: Stars Over Sand #1 — Dark Horse Comics

I don't really know anything about Concrete, but it's a long running series and that cover is absolutely gorgeous.

🎬 Disclosure Day

Spielberg returns to sci-fi and while I haven't seen it, there reviews seem fine to slightly dissapointing, which is a bit of a bummer.

📺 House of the Dragon Season 3 — HBO

Here there be dragons! And so far through a couple episodes, we've seen a ton of dragons.

📺 Life, Larry and the Pursuit of Unhappiness Season 1 — HBO

I adore Curb and Larry David, but so far this show of skits about American history has been a lot more misses than hits, retreading a lot of themes from both Curb and Seinfeld a bit too closely.

📚 The Eye Collector #1 — Image Comics

The cover art for this is absolutely gorgeous and given we just published the gothic-weird lovecraftian A Face That Knows, this feels like a great companion to get you in the mood while you wait for your copy.

📚 M1: Monster Racing League #1 — Image Comics

Jae Lee on art for a book about a Monster Racing League. Need I say more?

Editorial Meeting for the Freedom 250 Patriot Cookbook - foofaraw

2026-07-03T16:00:42.000Z

Dept: Office of Patriotic Sustenance
Truthiness: 250%
Title: Chief Cooking Officer
Fineprint: Who needs to eat anyway?
Mode: menu

Okay team, it falls to us to assemble the greatest menu of American dishes ever comb-bound into a booklet to be sold in every National Park gift shop across these beautiful fifty states. Now, we’re not worrying about writing recipes⁠—we’ve got AI for that⁠—all we need to do is pick the list of dishes that have made America great.

We need to be sure these dishes do not… let me check my notes here, ah yes: “inappropriately minimize the value of certain historical events or figures. Or include any other improper partisan ideology… Or contain descriptions, depictions, or other content that inappropriately disparage Americans past or living (including persons living in colonial times), and instead focus on the greatness of the achievements and progress of the American people or, with respect to natural features, the beauty, abundance, and grandeur of the American landscape.”^[whitehouse.gov] Everybody got that? Okay, let’s see what you’ve come up with.

First up, the hamburger. We like the whole Roman Empire origin story of this one, it feels very “of the moment,” very manosphere approved; and we like the long history of competitive entrepreneurship that goes along with claiming to have invented the modern burger. But we can’t get over the name. Hamburg is German, America is American. Cut it.

Next, the hot dog. Also known as the frankfurter. Like Frankfurt. Are you seeing a problematic theme here? Very immigrant-y, very European. No, we can’t just call it a weiner, way too gay. Pass.

Now we have corn. Simple, delicious, highly processed into soluble sugars that make up most of what we find in the grocery store, native to North America… What’s the problem you ask? Well, does Hun Hunahpu ring a bell? Centeotl? No? Those are Mayan and Aztec corn gods. GODS, people. We can’t include Mexican deities in this cookbook⁠—not unless we’re also asking readers to take a bite of Jesus Christ, for chissakes. (We don’t have communion wafers on the list, do we? No? Good. Way too Catholic.)

And next, we have… Really? The corn dog? A communist meat phallus encased in Mesoamerican spiritualism, are you insane? Did you just black out for the last five minutes? No, no, no.

Next! Fondue? With the little pointy sticks and the candle? Too European, too metrosexual, if you catch my drift. And I’m really not loving the whole melting pot iconography.

A tossed salad? Now that is funny. Thanks for the chuckle. NEXT.

Hmmm, cole slaw. Now, I like the mythological origins of the first cabbages springing out of the ground from the drops of Zeus’s sweat, that’s metal. But the name comes from “koolsla,” which is Dutch. You know, the little kissing guys with the tulips and the wooden shoes? The one with his finger in a dyke? I think I’ve said enough here. Cut it.

Apple pie, ugh, this was a tough call, but you’re surely all aware apples originated in Kazakhstan? We don’t want Borat food in this volume, do we? Funny movie though. My wiiiiife? Classic.

Okay, vanilla ice cream. Well, easy to cut if we cut the pie. And did you know ice cream parlors were once implicated in the white slave trade? No kidding, it was all very Pizzagate. Q Anon before Q. Trust the plan, right y’all? But let’s skip the ice cream.

Southern fried chicken? You mean West African palm oil-fried chicken? You mean slavery chicken? No, I don’t think we’ll be including that. While you’re at it, let’s take out barbeque, gumbo, jambalaya, watermelon, shrimp and grits, gherkins, hominy, hushpuppies, black-eyed peas, red beans and rice⁠—actually, how about all rice⁠—oysters, greens⁠—yep, all greens⁠—peanuts, and okra.

Pizza. Not even going to dignify that one with commentary.

Homemade 4 Loko? Are you loco? Love the energy, literally, but no. ¡No!

I think this goes without saying, but we need the “french fry” rebrand. We don’t call them “freedom fries” with a little ironic smirk any more like we did after 9/11 when we were all pissed at France. We’re very serious about frying freedom these days.

Why focus on fries anyway, when we can include potato chips and the timeworn story of Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt and George Crum! The Commodore wanted his frites thinner and crispier, and the African American-Native American cook in the Crum’s kitchen retributively shaved them to papery nubbins and threw them into hot oil⁠—to the Commodore’s utter delight! We cannot tell you how much we love this story about a titan of American industry getting his way, pulling one over on a Black, Native woman whose name we’ve never learned. What’s that? The story is made-up?! All the better to include, in order to restore truth and sanity to our national table.

So… we’ve got chips. That’s good, actually. Streamlined. Finally, let’s consider the cover. What about an ourobos? You know⁠—the snake eating itself? It’s kind of perfect, actually. Chowing down on its own tale. But the name is so Greek, so dated. I’ve got it boys: still a circle, but let’s make it a donut with googly eyes instead. And red, white, and blue jimmies.

Hot damn, we’re done. Send it to the printer and let’s go celebrate with some sweet Kentucky bourbon! What, that’s corn-based too? And the aged oak barrels come from trees that originally evolved in central Europe? Yuck. Forget it, I’ll just be thirsty. Great work here. I guess. Woo USA.

Andrea Cavedo's writing has appeared in McSweeney’s, Chestnut Review, HAD, and others; she won Foofaraw's inaugural Ordinary Contest, and has been a semifinalist for The Sewanee Review's Fiction, Poetry & Nonfiction Contest. For the last decade she has taught history and government to Chicago high school students. Find her online at www.andreacavedo.com.

MM Schreier - foofaraw

2026-07-02T17:49:20.000Z

Read What Do Moms Know About Fashion? now!

Who do you find yourself relating to more in this story, the mother or daughter?

As a very independent and strong-willed person, my younger self would have answered that question as definitely the daughter. I was always the one in my family that insisted on finding my own way and continually did things that made my parents shake their heads. Now that I’m older, I’m just grateful they taught me to think for myself and allowed me the space to make my own decisions even when they thought they were mistakes.

Do you have any children of your own?

While I have never had my own children, I have spent a number of years as a foster parent. Bringing small strangers into my home, usually during the most vulnerable moments of their lives, has been both one of the most challenging and rewarding things I’ve ever done.

I also tutor maths and science to at-risk youth. They teach me things, too.

Is there anything they do that feels completely alien to you?

I think it’s always the changing vernacular. How am I supposed to keep up? I will probably never understand the point of six-seven, even though it has been explained to me multiple times that it’s just nonsense. Why? Someone, please put me out of my misery!

How important is fashion to you?

I think “fashion” is less important to me than self-expression. I’m a pierced and tattooed person whose hair might be blonde one week and purple the next. Some days I feel like leggings and a hoodie, other days I go full 1950s pinup, victory rolls and all. I don’t care about labels or what’s “in” only what makes me feel confident in who I am.

Is there an era or style you wish would make a comeback?

Once in a while, I’ll admit I get a little nostalgic for the ‘80s era punk scene—spiky pink hair, cut off denim jackets, pleather skirts, and chunky Doc Martens. I can smell the Aqua Net from here! (But maybe I just really miss a time when the music rocked, and no one had camera phones.)

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

This story got two personal rejections before a friend mentioned, “You know, some of your weird stuff would be a great fit at foofaraw.” Now I have to tell them they were right!

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

There’s a fantastic piece of flash called “Body Count” by Maura Yzmore published at Literary Garage. I love her short work. It’s always sharp and dark and angry.

What book are you reading right now?

I just finished The Unmagical Life of Briar Jones by Lex Croucher. It’s a great dark academia fantasy, and I love seeing stories that unapologetically center queer characters without making the story about being queer. Five stars for intriguing world building; five stars for authentic representation.

Thanks to MM for talking fashion and getting nostalgic with us!

What Do Moms Know About Fashion? - foofaraw

2026-07-02T16:00:32.000Z

My mother clucked her tongue when I had my neck stretched on my twentieth birthday. If she could have forbidden it, she would have. Not under my roof. Well, good thing I have my own place and my own money.

When I came for Sunday dinner after having my skin sandpapered until it was soft and nearly translucent, she didn’t say a word. Her eyes traced the newly visible lines of the blue-black veins that webbed my collarbone and she choked down her protein substrate in silence. By the time the meal was over, there was a muscle twitching beneath her eye.

I tried not to be offended that she flinched when I leaned in to kiss her cheek goodbye. What do old women know of fashion?

The limb extensions—arms and legs—were expensive. I had to save all my hard-earned credits for ages before I could get it done. Mom came to visit me in recovery with a disapproving scowl on her face. I told her she didn’t have to come, but she muttered something under her breath that sounded like a mother’s duty.

My head felt swimmy; the drugs were the good kind that made everything soft around the edges. Before I drifted off to sleep, I wondered when Mom had gotten so small. I wasn’t even standing up on my new, willow legs and I still seemed so much taller than her. Had she always been so tiny? And her hair. Hair itself was so old-fashioned. Everyone I knew had theirs lasered off. Mom’s looked frizzy, floofy, puffy, like acorn-colored moss. Giggles erupted from my mouth like a flock of bubbles at the thought.

Mom shh’ed me as my eyes fluttered. I was too fuzzy to tell if she was embarrassed by the fuss. Probably. She coughed delicately into an embroidered handkerchief. Bless you, I said and closed my eyes.

The drug hangover lasted for days and left me grumpy. Once the doc said I was fine, though, Mom went home. She didn’t get to see me stand up, all tall and lithe at twelve-feet-five and do a few agile pirouettes around the room. I’d paid for grace upgrades to accompany the limb extensions.

Best that she’d gone home, after all. She was dumpy and bumbling. No need to rub it in her face.

When I started talking about eye implants—replacing almond-shaped white and brown with marble-round all violet—Mom begged me not to get them. There are all sorts of fancy contact lenses you could wear. Why do something permanent? Again. She didn’t actually say ‘again’, but I heard it in her voice. She’s fluent in judgmental subtext. I just laughed. Contacts are for posers.

After I had them done, she stopped meeting my eyes.

Webbed fingers came next. For once, she didn’t comment; she just pointedly ignored them. They were super cute and useful, but whenever I tried showing them off, she changed the subject. She did buy me a pair of extra-room-between-the-fingers gloves for the Secular Longnight Season gift-giving holiday. For a minute, I thought she was making an effort. It made me want to hug her around the middle like I used to as a child. Until I tried the gloves on and she muttered, “Lovely, your hands look almost normal.”

Why didn’t she realize that her antiquated, unmodified body was the weird thing?

A few weeks later, I met an agent at a dance club. Have you ever done any modeling? I tittered and shook my head. Would you like to? He handed me a card and made me promise to call. Before he left, he grazed his knuckles across my face. I know a guy who can do something about those angular cheekbones.

The face flattening cost me nothing but a before-and-after photo shoot for the surgeon. No joke—if you go downtown, you’ll see me, fifty feet high on one of those holo billboards. The day the campaign launched, Mom sent me a text. “asdfghjkl 🤐🙀🧟”

I hurried over, certain she was having a stroke.

Mom? The house was quiet. I found her sitting at the kitchen table, swiping through 2D photos on her old-school tablet. Images of a round-faced little girl with wild curls filled the screen. She laughed, mouth stretched in a wide, toothy smile.

Mom rarely smiled like that anymore, but I still recognized those crooked front teeth she’d never bothered to get fixed. Funny, in a world where anyone can buy a designer face, she still looked exactly the same.

“Feeling nostalgic?” I asked.

She didn’t look up, just touched the picture of her younger self on the cheek with trembling fingers. You were such an adorable little girl.

Me? No, it wasn’t me. That was clearly a picture of Mom. I leaned closer. Squinted my bespoke, ten-thousand-credit eyes. It couldn’t be. But I remembered those clunky, uncool sneakers and the baggy sweater.

“Holy shit.”

I expected her to chastise me for swearing. Instead, she turned and took in my latest upgrade, tears in her boring brown eyes. For the first time, I realized it wasn’t the mods Mom hated. Not really. It was that I’d erased every trace of her in me.

MM Schreier is a classically trained vocalist who took up writing as therapy for a mid-life crisis. She has authored two short story collections—Monstrosity, Humanity and Bruised, Resilient—and is published in a wide range of speculative and literary venues. A firm believer that people can be both left- and right-minded, in addition to creative pursuits she’s on Leadership for a robotics company and tutors maths and science to at-risk youth. Follow on the web at: www.mmschreier.com

Tap to pay - foofaraw

2026-07-02T02:11:51.000Z

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

📮 July Zine - foofaraw

2026-07-01T23:35:48.000Z

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

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

Or you can pick up a copy of this and more from our webstore!

This month...

Stories

What Do Moms Know About Fashion? by MM Schreier
Ostraka by Joanna Berry
Developing your mindfulness practice 😊! by David Stevens
The Tongues of Ghosts by Abigail Kemske
Too Many Mystics by Tom Howard

Poems

Warning Label by Marie Brennan
The Unified Theory of Salsa by Steve Wheat
The Library of Lives by William Shaw
Space is a haunted house, and we are its ghosts by H.V. Patterson

Observations

Editorial Meeting for the Freedom 250 Patriot Cookbook by Andrea Cavedo
The Purple Essay by Nicholas De Marino

Cartoons

Tap to pay by Zack Rhodes
Landline by Rusty Epstein

Cover art

by Brendan Loper

〄

On to the zines...

Stacey King, Bulls broadcaster and 3-time NBA champion, dies at 59 - The Independent Variable

2026-07-01T03:49:22.000Z

nytimes.com

He spent the past 19 seasons as a television analyst on the Bulls’ game broadcasts and hosted a popular podcast called “Gimme the Hot Sauce.”

Catching up on old links and this was an old one that hit me hard and didn't want to forget... Not only was Stacey King a 3-time champion on the Jordan Bulls and the absolute best color commentator, but he was my park district league basketball coach as I played with his two sons before eventually playing against their AAU Dream Team later on. And while it was a long time ago, I can tell you his jolly demeanor on TV was not an act—he was smart, passionate, and his joy was infectious.

E. Florian Gludovacz - foofaraw

2026-07-01T03:16:36.000Z

💡

Read Small Potatoes now!

What’s your favorite way to eat potatoes?

I think the better question would be “What’s your least favourite way of eating potatoes?”. Potatoes are amazing and there are so many ways of eating them! Fried, boiled, baked, deep-fried, mashed. The possibilities are endless! I’m particularly partial to scalloped potatoes with lots of cheese on top, and pan-fried potatoes with caramelised onions, garlic, and oregano.

I suppose, what makes potatoes so amazing is their versatility. There are endless options for condimenting. Sour cream, bacon, a pinch of salt, you name it. And, of course, I have to mention the deep fried options. Chips/crisps are one of those universal snacks very few people will forego. I especially enjoy plain salted varieties and ones with a paprika/barbecue seasoning. And last, but not least, we need to talk about the good old French fry/chip, of course. Eat them on their own, drizzled with vinegar paired with fried fish, perhaps enjoy some loaded carne asada fries, or stuff them into a California burrito.

And to answer my own question, my “least favourite way” is probably the mashed potato, because there are fewer condiment options that I personally find appealing. However, I do enjoy the occasional mash as well.

What would a potato’s least favorite way to be cooked be?

I think that would be the mashed potato, simply because it destroys the natural beauty of the potato and blends them all into one faceless mass. If my story teaches us anything, it is that potatoes are people, too. They have their own individuality and agency, good and bad character traits, and very different personalities. Blending them all together does not do them justice.

Do you think you’d be as brave as Spudwig if you were put in the same situation?

Hell, no! I think that we all like to imagine ourselves as the hero in our personal story and, of course, we are. But that is very different from being an actual hero performing heroic deeds. When reading a story, watching a film, or playing a video game, we identify with the hero and imagine what we would do, but in real life that is not how people are. Mostly, we are small, petty, lazy, scared, and generally silly. And this is why stories are so attractive to us. We get to live vicariously through the heroes’ feats and imagine what it would be like without having to take the actual risks.

Very few people have the ability to be as brave as this particular potato.

Is there a new potato religion about to be formed?

I think that is almost certain. Tattyana is a true believer and she will do everything in her power to spread the message and convert the other potatoes. Now, will it be a good religion? That is something I cannot answer with confidence. Will this religion gain popularity outside the root cellar with other potatoes in the country, or even the world? Who knows? Will there be consequences for humanity? I’ll leave that up to the readers’ imaginations. I believe that good stories pose as many questions as they answer, so draw your own conclusions, if you are so inclined.

What would their symbol be?

It would most definitely be a golden oblong to symbolise the sliced chip/crisp. However, I’m certain that down the line there would be a schism. The new sect would adopt the symbol of the golden circle to represent the pot of frying oil. After all, the pot is the true pathway to enlightenment and the chip is merely the transitory embodiment on the road to potato heaven.

Then there would be the oblong within the circle, which represents the unified and reformed congregation of enlightened potatohood. Perhaps they would have a “popetato” to lead the faithful?

I think symbolism and abstraction is an important facet of religious life. It is one of the earliest and most elemental forms of “product branding” and a good design will go a long way in promoting what you have to “sell”.

Do these potatoes have mouths or do they communicate another way?

They are potatoes, so they do not have mouths, of course. At least I have never seen a potato with a mouth before. They do, however, have multiple eyes (which is what those little indents/sprouts are called), so they perceive the world differently from us. They probably have an almost 360° globular view of their surroundings, but I cannot tell what part of the spectrum they would see in, or how they perceive colour. Since they live underground in the root cellar or are buried, I’d imagine that they have primarily black and white vision, with a bit of colour mixed in.

Their communication is a mix of telepathy, vibrations at different frequencies, and body language. In terms of sophistication and abstraction, I believe their communicative skills vary significantly. They have no trouble being petty and mean to Spudwig, but I doubt that the average potato is very eloquent. This is why Spudwig – beyond his physical appearance – is an outcast in the root cellar. He dreams and has an imagination, which requires a certain level of linguistic skill.

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

It took nine tries to place “Small Potatoes”, but rejections aren’t a particularly significant metric by any standard. I have placed some stories on the first try, while one story took 22 attempts. Rejections are part of the writerly process and I think every serious author needs to embrace rejections to some extent, perhaps even celebrate the occasional one. If anything, a high rejection count for a particular story means that I especially like the story and have gone out of my way to find a market for it. It’s about sending it to those “dream magazines” we want to be published in, to try to connect with new readers, and new editors. It’s about leaving your comfort zone and chasing your dreams and aspirations. You have to see the potential in your own work. It might also mean that the story is extremely different and brilliantly unique and racks up rejections, because it does not fit an easy mould or expectation. After all, editors are human beings, who might not comprehend your story’s unique brilliance through no fault of their own. Just keep trying.

With all of that said, I had a gut feeling that “Small Potatoes” would find a home here at Foofaraw.

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

There are so many great stories out there and never enough time to read them all. Usually, at this point in the interview, I’ll pick a story that struck a chord with me out of an anthology or a website I have contributed to and give a fellow writer a shout-out. This time I’ll simply recommend that everyone should subscribe to/follow “Quotidian Bagatelle” right here on Foofaraw. I love reading a daily short story by so many different authors and in very different styles. And they are short, so you can read them every day.

(Full disclosure: I have contributed stories to QB, but I recommend the site because I like the daily schedule, the variety, and the brevity).

What book are you reading right now?

“Under Heaven” by Guy Gavriel Kay. He writes historical fantasy, which means that he bases his stories on historical research, which he then applies to his fictitious worlds. There is usually a soft magic component to his books, which is a nice touch that always throws me off (in a good way), because of the largely historical context and background. Additionally, many of his books are stand-alone, which is worth mentioning in the world of fantasy, where multi-trilogy overarching series tend to be the norm these days. Sometimes it’s nice to get the complete story in one book.

Enjoy your life as you enjoy your potatoes, prepared in many different ways with all the seasonings, condiments, and complementary dishes out there.

A giant bow of gratitude to Florian for enlightening us about the glorious spud!

glint /// terminal app - The Independent Variable

2026-06-30T17:07:05.000Z

codex.humdrum.me

One more terminal app for good measure! Been working on this one for awhile now and it's already my main driver for writing anything. It's designed to be a standalone text editor, but you can also set a vault, daily note convention, and inbox to quickly view and create files from specific locations (i.e. Obsidian vault) with simple commands and keybindings plus light syntax highlighting for those who need to interact with code. It's also beautiful, so iA Writer users should feel at home and bonus features like spellcheck, a printable PDF output, and other markdown features you've come to expect like pasting a link over selected text to turn it into a markdown link or wrapping selected text with markup, checking off and reordering lists, and more. It's open source and available to download via brew.

sportsball /// terminal app - The Independent Variable

2026-06-30T16:03:40.000Z

codex.humdrum.me

A terminal dashboard for live sports — Plain Text Sports meets Golazo, as a Bubble Tea TUI.

Been working on this one for a bit, but it's basically ready for primetime now. I took inspiration from Plain Text Sports and the Golazo TUI and built out my own terminal TUI for all sports. You can follow scores live, see past scores, upcoming games, favorite teams, and see standings - all from the terminal. Installable via brew.

A Face That Knows - foofaraw

2026-06-28T22:29:13.000Z

Our third novelette is available directly form us now and available anywhere books are sold starting July 1.

A reluctant seer, gifted with only a "certain sense," opens his door to a desperate man babbling about a face—a face that haunts him. The trail leads to a deserted chateau; the obsessive work of a vanished artist.Drawing in a physician and a gallerist, the narrator climbs to the ruin to learn what the chateau holds. A tale of dread, art, and obsession in the Gothic-weird and Lovecraftian tradition: atmospheric, mannered, and quietly unsettling.

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

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

Foofaraw Press Store

Books, ebooks, and limited editions from Foofaraw Press.

Digital copy for paid subscribers

🥔 Small Potatoes - foofaraw

2026-06-25T16:00:00.000Z

Spudwig Wright was a potato, and not a particularly attractive one at that. Rumour had it that there was more than a bit of rutabaga on his father’s side of the family. And even if that wasn’t actually true, he certainly had the looks, which were anything but pretty.

As a consequence, he had been bullied throughout his young life in the root cellar. The others regularly made fun of him and called him turnip-head, yam-face, and much worse things.

“Spuddy, my old buddy, you’re too ugly even for mashed potatoes!” Potatrick, his only friend – if you could call him that – opined at every opportunity. And the sad thing was that Spudwick had to agree. He didn’t look like the other potatoes in the cellar. He was a misshapen and deformed spud without any prospects. In a world of russets, he was a root.

As a consequence, he spent much of his time alone, sitting quietly in an out of the way corner of the root cellar, hiding in the shadows to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to himself. He liked to sit in the dark, all curled up and cosy on the hard dirt floor and imagine a different life for himself. This was another thing that set him apart from his peers; he had an imagination. Whatever he lacked in looks, he made up for in vision. He imagined a life for himself that was so far beyond what a potato could dream of. He did not want to end up in a salad, or as a baked potato, smothered in sour cream, butter, and chives. He dreaded the idea of being mashed despite what Potatrick had to say on the subject. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted to achieve yet, but he was certain that the usual and mundane options were not for him.

Some potatoes sprouted and were replanted to secure the future of potato-kind into the next generation. Yet, again, this was not what he envisioned for himself. His dreams were fuzzy, but so much larger.

As the season went on, potatoes were taken out of the cellar, never to be seen again. Legend had it that higher beings, perhaps even gods, took them away to a different and higher level of existence, but Spudwig doubted that. Most likely, they were to be eaten. No one ever returned to tell the tale, but everyone knew about the kitchen. It was something of a foundational memory that pervaded the very fibre of potato-kind, so being made to leave the root cellar was an ambiguous event that was greeted with a mix of euphoria, dread, and resignation.

One day, he heard quiet sobbing and although he usually tried to stay out of things, curiosity got the better of him. He rolled along the wall, following the sounds until he saw an old, wrinkled potato that was crying.

“Hello,” he said politely.

“Oh, it’s you, Spudwig,” she said dismissively. “I’d know your ugly mug anywhere. Can’t you leave an old potato alone to grieve in peace?”

“I’m sorry. I heard your crying and couldn’t help but wonder why you are sad.”

“Well, if you have to know, I’ll tell you. My daughter Tattyana is missing! I think they picked her up earlier today! And I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to her.”

Spudwig nodded seriously. He could understand the old potato’s plight. Losing a loved one was never easy, or so he imagined, if he’d had any loved ones. Out of an inexplicable impulse he drew himself up to his full height and said, “I’ll go and find out what happened to your daughter, so don’t worry!”

She gaped at him for a long moment before speaking.

“Yea, right. Ugly old Spuddy will save the day!” she scoffed.

“I will, too!” he said hotly and stormed off in his odd rolling motion.

As he rolled towards the cellar stairs, he had to wonder at his own actions. He knew Tattyana, of course. She was one of the mean girls that always taunted and insulted him, so why did he want to find her? He had no ready answer, but felt that it was the right thing to do. Perhaps he wanted to be the hero for once, to be admired and praised? Did he have special feelings for Tattyana that he had not been aware of? He didn’t know, but he would find out one way or the other.

Spudwig had a difficult time ascending the stairs. He had to bounce up and down, take a running start and hope that he could jump high enough to reach the next step. More than once he missed his mark, rolled backward and had to begin his ascent anew. But finally, after hours of exertion, uncounted failed attempts, and numerous bruises all over his body, he reached the top stair. Luckily for him, the door was slightly ajar. Otherwise he would have been stuck with no way forward. He was much too short to reach the door knob, after all. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t know what a door knob was or how to operate one.

The floor in the hallway was smooth and clean; very different from the dirt floor in the root cellar he was used to. Rolling forward was much easier, but on the whole, he thought that he preferred the dirt floor to the tiles.

The kitchen was down the hallway and Spud had no trouble finding it. Once inside, he had to get used to the bright light that entered the room through a hole in the wall. It was very strange and not at all comforting to his senses. He had to blink his many eyes until he became used to the illumination. Once his vision was clear, he immediately spotted the abducted potatoes. They were huddled inside a woven basket that sat on a low stool.

“Pssst! Tattyana! Are you in there?” he hissed.

“Who’s this?” came the frightened question from the middle of the pile.

“It’s me! Spudwig! Spudwig Wright!”

“What? Old Rutabaga-head?”

“Yes, it’s me!” He didn’t know whether to be insulated by the name calling or pleased that she remembered him at all. “Your mum told me that you had disappeared and I promised to find you, so here I am!”

“Wow! You’d do that for me?”

“Yes, of course I would. Now, come on and jump down and I’ll get you out of here!”

“I’m afraid!”

“Don’t worry, just jump down and I’ll catch you.”

“I don’t know…”

“Go on. There might not be much time! Hurry!”

The basket began to rock gently and a moment later, Tattyana jumped down and landed squarely on top of Spudwig.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, looking at the fresh bruise on his side. “All right! Let’s go!”

“But, it will be noticed that I’m missing. We can’t just run off like that.”

That much was true. Spudwig considered the problem for a long minute before reaching a decision.

“All right. I’ll take your place. I’ll jump into the basket and you hurry back down to the root cellar. Simply roll through the door and turn right. You can’t miss it.”

“All right. I’ll get going. So long.” She studied him for a moment. “Thanks, Spuddy.” She turned and rolled out of the kitchen.

Spudwig began bouncing in place until he had reached sufficient momentum to jump into the basket. He landed on the other potatoes with a soft thud.

“Hi guys. Sorry for the commotion, I hope I didn’t tread on anybody’s… um… potato.” (Potatoes have no word for feet).

There were no replies. These were hibernating potatoes that had left sentience long behind. Small loss there, Spud mused. The important thing was that Tattyana was back home and safe.

As time passed, the light that came in through the hole in the wall travelled across the floor. It was interesting to have a measure of time passing. In the root cellar days and nights were all the same.

Suddenly there were footsteps. One of the large creatures approached and placed the basket on the counter. Spudwig and his mute compatriots were briefly doused in cold water and dried off. Then a silver implement descended from above and he felt himself being cut into strips. It was a strange sensation, not exactly painful, but not pleasant, either. He could see parts of himself through his eyes and he had to wonder at the changed perspective. Now that he was sliced, he didn’t look any uglier – or even different – from the other potatoes. In this moment he felt overwhelmingly happy, almost ecstatic to be here. He was glad to have made the journey. Moments later he felt himself being picked up and held above a round metal container. Heat rose in sizzling wafts and golden liquid bubbled below. Then he was falling, released from gravity to dive into the golden beyond. In a sizzling flash he saw his life replay before his eyes and then he discarded it in favour of the golden future that lay ahead.

Heat rose in sizzling wafts and golden liquid bubbled below.

“Mother! Mother! You won’t believe what happened,” Tattyana exclaimed as she rolled close to her wizened old parent. “Spudwig came and rescued me from the above.”

“He said that he would do that. Who knew that he really had it in him,” her mother shrugged. “Well, I’m glad that you are back, my dear. Next time be more careful.”

“But you don’t know the half of it,” Tattyana said. “He came to rescue me and took my place. He stayed and gave me the chance to escape. But I didn’t roll home straight away. I hid and watched. He was cut up into slices and thrown into hot liquid. The sizzling sound was deafening.” She shuddered. “That would have been my fate, if not for him. His selfless act saved my life.”

“Well, so old Spuddy was good for something after all,” her mother said.

“It’s so much more than that, Mother!” she admonished and turned to the large pile of potatoes in the root cellar’s centre. “Listen up, everybody! Poor Spudwig is gone! He died so that I might live, but more importantly, he died for all of our sins!”

E. Florian Gludovacz has been a writer, musician, and artist since his teens. He was born in Austria and grew up living in different parts of Europe (Germany, France, the UK, and Austria). He currently resides in rural Southern California with his wife and their mixed Great Pyrenean Mountain Dog. He has been known to enjoy the occasional glass of wine. His stories have appeared online and in print in numerous publications including “Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores”, “foofaraw”, Fission #5 (BSFA), “To the Dogs” anthology (Altitude Press), “Midnight Menagerie” anthology (WolfSinger Publications), as well as the “Consumed” anthology (Arbutus Films). He is a finalist for the 2025 WSFA Small Press Award.

The Void - foofaraw

2026-06-24T18:57:45.000Z

—Rusty Epstein

👑 Emperor Trampatine Addresses the Board of Galactic Peace - foofaraw

2026-06-24T18:52:54.000Z

Dept: Office of Plausible Deniability
Truthiness: 746%
Title: Roving Space Correspondent
Fineprint: For entertainment purposes only; void where prohibited (we don't want to go to jail).

||Wipe them out.|| All of them. Oh... Uhhh, wrong meeting…

Well, hello! It is a big day and the galaxy is watching. Humans are watching. Chalaktans are watching. Hapans are watching. Umbarans are watching. Well… Everybody is watching. We also have a large group of leaders from other planets. I am the Senate.

Gosh, wrong meeting, again…

What we’re doing is very simple. Piss. No! Piece. Blimey! Peace. It’s called the ^^Board of Galactic Peace^^. It’s an easy word to say, but a difficult task to deliver, but we’re going to do it. We’ve already been doing a really good job across the galaxy. Think of Order 66 or was it 14151…

Last year was like no other in our galaxy. I’ve started the greatest galaxy-wide war. What? Started? Who said ‘started’? I never said it! Who are you? What planet are you representing? Endor? What a filthy planet! You’re not even a humanoid. Who let an Ewak in here? I’ve ENDED the greatest galaxy-wide war—the Galactic Civil War! You should all thank me for securing peace.

Now, we have great leaders here. They are incredible people. They’ve become incredible friends of mine. They know how I’ve rebuilt our galaxy. I’ve saved us all by putting an end to the decaying democracy of the Republic and introducing the only efficient political system—the ^^Galactic Trampatine Empire^^ named after me…

We broke 50,000 on the Galactic Credit Standard. Oh, wait, 70,000. No, 353,000. Well, it doesn’t matter. They said it would take us four years, but we did it in a year. We broke 7,000… 11,000… 21,000…! We broke huuuge on the Corporate Sector Authority index. They said it was impossible. But I did it!

I’ve been actively involved in a lot with the planet leaders here. We worked together on ending millions of wars on their planets. I’ve ended the war between Cores… Coras… Corus…sss…—ent and Als…cakan that lasted thousands of years. I ended it in one day. I made Alderaa… Alderbaijaaan and Chandrila make peace with just one call. They claimed to be forever allies, even insisted on it, but I always know what I’m doing, and I’m never wrong! I created peace between the two of them! But we have some other work to do and we’re getting it done. Gozhorman is very complex, but we’ll fix it too.

I want to thank Stevus Wetking and Jathan for an amazing job. Marcage is fantastic, and AJ—what a job they’re all doing as a team. It’s the best team ever assembled in the galaxy, and you see that by the results.

So, power, unlimited power! Urrr, let’s skip it for now. It is a tremendous honor for me to welcome you all to the ^^Galactic Trampatine Empire^^ for the inaugural meeting of the ^^Board of Galactic Peace^^.

It’s the most consequential board in terms of power and prestige. There’s never been anything close because these are the greatest planet leaders, almost everybody is accepted… Now, why is that Ewak still here? Take it away, put it somewhere, cover it with a blanket! I don’t want any fur around!

What was I saying? There is no mercy. Some are playing a little cute. You can’t play cute with me. But they’re playing a little bit. Everyone wants to be here, most of them immediately. A few that we really don’t want because they’re trouble—take care of that Ewak at last! This is the most prestigious board ever put together. And everything that has transpired has done so according to my design!

Thank you all. Thank you very much. ||Wipe them out.|| All of them.

Olena Zheldak is the author of an autobiographical wartime narrative, “From Irpin with L̶o̶v̶e̶ Pain,” self-published on Amazon. She is the author of the lead story for Paul White's "Life in the War Zone," the essay, "Life Interrupted. Resumed. Ended." for the 195 Essays Project by 2084, a short story for the Crow Town Anthology, Volume 2, and a contributor to the Consequence Forum.

Marketing strategy: Dumpsterfire - The Independent Variable

2026-06-23T02:09:11.000Z

emmaburnett.uk via bookshop.org

It’s been two weeks since my novella was released, and the actions of my publisher, and the online response this has generated, have made it impossible for me to market my book. From what I can tell, the whole project has tanked.

Emma is a friend of Foofaraw and is an absolutely wonderful writer. This is Emma’s first book and you should run to the Bookshop.org link and buy a copy in print or digital (or both like me). It sucks that she ends up in the middle of this turmoil during her debut due to the actions of the publisher. So go buy it and maybe even subscribe to her Patreon to continue to support wonderful writers.

Bobby Rollins - foofaraw

2026-06-20T23:36:03.000Z

💡

Read The Nonsense Machine now!

Have you spent any time in a small business or tech repair shop like Benny’s?

I remember going to them as a kid with my parents, and each one was chaotically stuffed like a moving van, or closet when a new partner is coming over. The counters and workbenches were always full of tools, pieces of machines, and parts, and yet, the shopkeeper always seemed to know exactly where everything was. This story started as my tribute to those people and places, in an era where consumer choice has made most of them obsolete.

Do you know anyone who has named their business after made-up person like Alfred did with Benny’s?

Nope.

How long do you think Bradford lasts in the shop with his fax machine?

Exactly one punch.

Do you think Bradford ever figures out how his watch works?

Not a chance, he’s far too busy for that!

Would you like working for someone like Albert?

Smiling eyes go a long way with me, so yes, without a doubt. They are one of those precious things that still can't be faked. I’d love to see that sort of genuine happiness wherever I go.

How long would you last trying to explain to Bradford how his watch works?

Not very. Some clients are better off without me!

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

17 by my math, a new lucky number! It was shortlisted twice, so third (or 18th) time the charm.

What book are you reading right now?

Death of a Nobody by Jules Romains. It’s one of those aged beauties that still feel contemporary. I end up having to remind myself it was written 100 years ago.

Thanks to Bobby for setting us (and our watches) straight!

⏱️ The Nonsense Machine - foofaraw

2026-06-20T06:25:03.000Z

Even the dullest of people—like myself—are bound to learn a thing or two if they spend the whole summer working for Albert in the backroom of Benny’s Vacuum and Fax Machine Repairs, which is a small and typically empty business, smack in the middle of Widgeons Crossing.

The learning never really stops when one works with Albert. As the hours melt to weeks and the weeks fade to months, his summer apprentices become familiar with not only the mechanics of dust sucking and dirt collection, but also the lesser-known science of discovering what makes him tick.

We learn, for example, while some people refer to Albert by the store’s namesake of Benny, he refuses to respond to it; and even though the words “fax machine” are in the store’s name, he doesn’t accept them for repair anymore, and will hold a fierce grudge in the rarest of times a customer brings one in. Another lesson of the trade is that at some point in history—likely at least five or six decades ago—the phrase “it’s a little Mickey Mouse” was used to describe something that was not done particularly well, and moreover, the amateur boxing coach who introduced Albert to the term clearly made a big impression on him when doing so.

But there are also things we don’t learn,—even if it’s our second summer working for him—like why he named his business Benny’s when his name is Albert, or why he insists his employees answer the phone by reciting the full store name. One thing does become clear to everyone though: Albert is a wizard when it comes to repairing things. He can work his charm on almost anything electrical or mechanical that people bring him. In fact, it’s pretty much just as the sign outside the store says:“Benny can fix ANYTHING that sucks!” - providing of course, one overlooks the small detail there is no one named Benny involved.

REPAIRS Benny can fix ANYTHING that sucks!

“T.W. on one,” Albert said as he handed me the phone, “and what’s worse, you can’t really hear him properly. The connection’s a little Mickey Mouse.”

Employees must learn Albert’s backroom jargon, which includes recognizing “T.W.” does not refer to an individual, but rather, represents a category of the public he calls Time Wasters. Rarely have I seen such a clear demonstration of how human eyes can smile as when Albert declares “T.W. on one.” and hands over the phone. The sparkle around his pupils convey more glee than any partnership his lips and teeth can muster.

“Benny’s Vacuum and Fax Machine Repairs.” I said into the phone, as Albert nodded approvingly.

“Listen. I’m calling from the office of the mayor. I need to speak to Benny pronto!” the voice said.

“I’m sorry there’s nobody here by that name,” I replied with a sigh, “but I’m happy to assist you. What can we help you fix today?”

“Listen. Don’t get cute with me. This is the mayor’s office calling and I want to speak to Benny, the very same Benny that owns Benny’s Vacuum and Fax Machine Repairs! He’s about five-ten, solid as a brick outhouse, with thick, black-rimmed glasses, and greying hair always parted to the side.” the voice continued, describing Albert perfectly.

“I’m sorry, the store owner, Albert, is not available right now, but again, I’m happy to see what we can do for you.” I half-groaned, looking into Albert’s cheer-filled eyes.

“Listen,” the voice said, as my mind began to recognize a pattern of annoyance. “I need a new watch battery, and I need it lickety-split.”

“Sure. It’ll cost you around $15 and we can install it for you while you wait.” I replied.

“Listen,” he ordered me, “I was already late for a meeting with the Chamber of Commerce today. I need this done now, and I need it done at City Hall!”

“No problem, sir.” I replied, “I’d be happy to dispatch a technician to take care of that. The call out rate’s a flat $35 more.”

“The name is Bradford.” he confirmed. “I’m the senior advisor in the office of the mayor. Have your tech here at 2:00 on the dot.”

“Sure thing Bradford, we’ll see you then.” I replied, hanging up the phone and turning to face Albert’s broad smile.

“Well, get the battery case and your tech hat on, and off you go to see T.W..” Albert said to me with unrelenting mirth. “And make sure he knows that even though he’s paying a few dollars more, he’s getting a premium battery with a five-year warranty, and not one of those Mickey Mouse jobs.”

Even the deadest of souls like mine feel a quiver in our stomach as we walk up the five concrete steps to enter City Hall, the grandest building in Widgeons Crossing. It’s hard not to be intimidated by the historic bell tower and the grandeur the peeling beige paint and faded white trim bring to the three-story building, not to mention the added difficulty of keeping those tummy butterflies behaved knowing a visit to the mayor’s office is only a few footsteps away.

“Good day, I’m here from Benny’s to help Bradford with the battery replacement in his watch.” I said as I approached a thoroughly forlorn looking lady behind the welcome desk.

“In there.” she replied, gesturing to an open door with a movement of her chin.

“It’s a good thing you’re here.” Bradford greeted me, emerging from the office with his watch in hand. “I need this fixed toute-de-suite. I have a priority-one roundtable with her worship’s economic advisory committee this afternoon.”

“I’ll be about ten minutes.” I told him. “I’ve brought a few batteries with me and it’s a straightforward job.”

He stopped me. “Before you begin, the Office of the Mayor has a policy of pre-paying. We pride ourselves on our ethics and our service to the community. I was quoted fifty dollars, and Rose,” he said, half-addressing the bored clerk with a flick of his chin, “will take care of it. Just grab it out of petty cash, Rose.”

“Thank you very much.” I replied, putting the folded fifty into my pocket. “Now, if you don’t mind me using the chair and table over there,” I indicated with a nudge of my own chin, “I’ll take your watch and put that new battery in for you.”

“The troubling thing is it only loses time during the workday.” Bradford said, handing it over to me. “It’s fine in the evenings and on weekends, but when I need it most, it lets me down.”

“Well sir,” I said with a straight face, looking down at the expensive time piece in my hand, “actually, this type of watch isn’t battery powered, it recharges itself automatically from the wearer’s pulse and activity.”

“Listen. I don’t have time for tech-talk, I just need a new battery put in.” Bradford countered in a monotone that betrayed his frustration.

“I understand completely sir, but the thing is, there’s no battery in your watch to replace.” I tried a second time. “These types of watches run off human energy. As long as you do something while you wear it, the watch will keep working for months on end.”

“Listen,” he surprised nobody by repeating again, “I’ll have a word with Benny about your customer service skills later, but right now I need to prepare for my 2:30. Leave the battery with Rose on your way out and I’ll change it myself.”

“Here you go, Rose.” I said, handing over a shiny battery still in its package. “It comes with a five-year warranty, so though it’s a few dollars more,” I couldn’t stop myself, “I’d like you to know, it’s not one of those Mickey Mouse jobs.

“He just doesn’t get it!” Rose whispered to me, showing interest or more likely sympathy towards me for the first time. “For the life of me, I can’t tell you how he fills the hours in the day, but having to interact with him is exhausting. All he does is run that nonsense machine of a mouth! Committee this! Senior advisor that! Priority one here! Gamechanger there! I just wish he would actually do something! I don’t care what it is, he can answer an e-mail, wash a coffee cup, or water a plant! But just once, I want to see him do something useful!”

“I sincerely doubt you’re alone in that, Rose.” I whispered to her before returning to a normal voice. “That’s right, the battery is guaranteed to last a whole five years.”

“Well, how did it go with T.W.?” Albert greeted me upon my return with a chuckle.

“Here’s your fifty.” I replied, handing over the note. “His watch is motion charged, but he wasn’t interested in hearing anything about that; and it turns out he’s just as charming in person as he is on the phone. In the end, there was nothing I could do for him but take the money and leave him a battery he doesn’t need and can’t use.”

“I heard,” Albert replied, with his eyes in full-on grin mode, “an old friend of mine in the mayor’s office called and gave me the details on life with T.W.! She was pleading for our help! The whole of City Hall has had it with him, and they’re all willing to chip in handsomely if we can fix that insufferable nonsense machine of a mouth! It doesn’t seem to have an off switch and it’s driving the whole place completely mad! She said they were going to send it over here for repair.”

“And what did you tell them, Albert?” I asked.

RULES No fax machines

“Nothing but the truth, my boy,” he answered in a tone full of wisdom, “I said we’d do our best, but there are things in this world more complicated than a vacuum cleaner. As much pain and sorrow as it may bring us, the truth of it is, not everything can be fixed.”

“You got that right, boss. The best we can hope for is to endure them. Say,” I continued, with a gesture of my chin towards an approaching figure that looked very much like Bradford, carrying a pillow-sized machine with a dangling cord towards the store, “It looks like that guy is coming in here with a fax machine!”, knowing, as I saw Albert crack his knuckles and roll-up his sleeves, it was my eyes that were bursting into one of those pure smiles this time.

Bobby Rollins is (gratefully) prone to daydreams, some of which he puts into words. He hopes his stories make people laugh and think, both of which he’d like more of in the world.

Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

🎉 Weekend Edition Vol.097 - foofaraw

The Week That Was

The Back Page

Ostraka - foofaraw

Warning Label - foofaraw

📺 The Media Guide S8E1 - foofaraw

📺 The Bear Season 5 — Hulu

🎵 Probable Claws by Sincere Engineer

📚 Concrete: Stars Over Sand #1 — Dark Horse Comics

🎬 Disclosure Day

📺 House of the Dragon Season 3 — HBO

📺 Life, Larry and the Pursuit of Unhappiness Season 1 — HBO

📚 The Eye Collector #1 — Image Comics

📚 M1: Monster Racing League #1 — Image Comics

Editorial Meeting for the Freedom 250 Patriot Cookbook - foofaraw

MM Schreier - foofaraw

Who do you find yourself relating to more in this story, the mother or daughter?

Do you have any children of your own?

Is there anything they do that feels completely alien to you?

How important is fashion to you?

Is there an era or style you wish would make a comeback?

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?

Thanks to MM for talking fashion and getting nostalgic with us!

What Do Moms Know About Fashion? - foofaraw

Tap to pay - foofaraw

📮 July Zine - foofaraw

This month...

Stories

Poems

Observations

Cartoons

Cover art

Stacey King, Bulls broadcaster and 3-time NBA champion, dies at 59 - The Independent Variable

E. Florian Gludovacz - foofaraw

What’s your favorite way to eat potatoes?

What would a potato’s least favorite way to be cooked be?

Do you think you’d be as brave as Spudwig if you were put in the same situation?

Is there a new potato religion about to be formed?

What would their symbol be?

Do these potatoes have mouths or do they communicate another way?

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?

A giant bow of gratitude to Florian for enlightening us about the glorious spud!

glint /// terminal app - The Independent Variable

sportsball /// terminal app - The Independent Variable

A Face That Knows - foofaraw

Digital copy for paid subscribers

🥔 Small Potatoes - foofaraw

The Void - foofaraw

👑 Emperor Trampatine Addresses the Board of Galactic Peace - foofaraw

Marketing strategy: Dumpsterfire - The Independent Variable

Bobby Rollins - foofaraw

Have you spent any time in a small business or tech repair shop like Benny’s?

Do you know anyone who has named their business after made-up person like Alfred did with Benny’s?

How long do you think Bradford lasts in the shop with his fax machine?

Do you think Bradford ever figures out how his watch works?

Would you like working for someone like Albert?

How long would you last trying to explain to Bradford how his watch works?

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

What book are you reading right now?

Thanks to Bobby for setting us (and our watches) straight!

⏱️ The Nonsense Machine - foofaraw