# Broads and Books Productions > The home for Midwest Weird, Fuzzy Memories + more Public Ghost content for AI and LLM tooling. This file includes a bounded export of public pages first, then recent public posts. Append `.md` to any post or page URL to get the content in Markdown (for example, `/example-post.md`). ## Pages ### Your home for weird and wild podcasts URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/about/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T14:26:35.000Z Broads and Books Productions creates podcasts that make you laugh, think, rage, and all of the above. Sign up for free and get news and updates from: - [Fuzzy Memories Podcast](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/fuzzy-memories-podcast/): The good, the rad, and the fugly of the 1980s and 90s. - [Midwest Weird](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/midwest-weird/): The audio literary magazine with strange stories from the Midwest. - *Want your work featured on Midwest Weird?* [*Submit here!*](https://duotrope.com/duosuma/submit/midwest-weird-DL9g3?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [Donzerly Light](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/donzerly-light/): Pop culture musings from Heath Smith. - [Wyrd Woman](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/wyrd-woman-podcast/): An audio fiction podcast with all episodes available to binge. - [Broads and Books](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/broads-and-books/): The funny and feminist book podcast that ran from 2910 to 2023\. ### The team: [Amy Lee Lillard](https://www.amyleelillard.com/?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) and Erin Johnston started [Broads and Books podcast](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/broads-and-books/) in 2019\. Then they aimed for world domination and started this production house in 2023\. Along the way, they made [Heath Smith](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/donzerly-light/) sign a billion-year-contract to be a Broad. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/84/d7/84d769b9-1ebb-4e45-bba1-cabe1b891bd8/content/images/2026/07/Broads-Photo1-1.jpg) Amy and Erin wearing tuxes and heels for the last time. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/84/d7/84d769b9-1ebb-4e45-bba1-cabe1b891bd8/content/images/2026/07/Heath-and-Jesus-copy.jpg) The perfect encapsulation of Heath. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/84/d7/84d769b9-1ebb-4e45-bba1-cabe1b891bd8/content/images/2026/07/IMG_3968.JPG) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/84/d7/84d769b9-1ebb-4e45-bba1-cabe1b891bd8/content/images/2026/07/B8FD31B3-898D-4896-B7B3-1D23E5D4830F-1.JPG) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/84/d7/84d769b9-1ebb-4e45-bba1-cabe1b891bd8/content/images/2026/07/IMG_2539-2.PNG) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/84/d7/84d769b9-1ebb-4e45-bba1-cabe1b891bd8/content/images/2026/07/IMG_3788-1.JPG) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/84/d7/84d769b9-1ebb-4e45-bba1-cabe1b891bd8/content/images/2026/07/IMG_9114.jpg) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/84/d7/84d769b9-1ebb-4e45-bba1-cabe1b891bd8/content/images/2026/07/IMG_3039-2-copy.jpg) Moments of agony and ecstasy. Clockwise from top left: Heath and Amy middle-school dance; The Broads; A live episode of Broads and Books; Definitely us; Heath's husband and occasional guest star Michael joins; Reacting to something scandalous. ## Posts ### Actors Who Tried Music in the '80s and '90s URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/fuzzy-memories-podcast-actors-who-tried-music-in-the-80s-and-90s/ Last updated: 2026-07-29T05:56:47.000Z This week we're looking at actors from the 1980s and 1990s who tried their hand at a music career. Plus, our unmitigated gall from the week and so much more. Mentioned in this episode: - Joey Lawrence - Keanu Reeves - Gwyneth Paltrow - Jamie Walters - Tenacious D - Flight of the Conchords *Fuzzy Memories is the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. Three latchkey kids who made it out alive break down everything from Madonna and Masters of the Universe to Twin Peaks and Titanic. Join us to celebrate the hits, the misses and the misfits of the weirdest decades.* ### Wild Career Swings in the 1980s and 90s URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/fuzzy-memories-podcast-wild-career-swings-in-the-1980s-and-90s/ Last updated: 2026-07-15T10:00:03.000Z This week: the wildest career swings from celebrities. Plus, our unmitigated gall from the week and so much more. Mentioned in this episode: - Garth Brooks -> Chris Gaines - Shirley Temple -> diplomacy - David Arquette -> Bozo the Clown - Dionne Warwich -> Psychic Friends Network - Nancy Reagan (acting) -> First Lady - Omri Katz -> so many weird ones, including Mary Danksters *Fuzzy Memories is the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. Three latchkey kids who made it out alive break down everything from Madonna and Masters of the Universe to Twin Peaks and Titanic. Join us to celebrate the hits, the misses and the misfits of the weirdest decades.* ### How to submit to Midwest Weird URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/how-to-submit-to-midwest-weird/ Last updated: 2026-07-15T11:41:28.000Z Let's say you write weird fiction or nonfiction. Let's say you're from or based in the Midwest. And let's say you dig podcasts and audio fiction. Midwest Weird might be the perfect place for you! And we're now open to submissions. So: read the info below, listen to some recent episodes, then submit your work! --- ### Is your work right for Midwest Weird? We're an audio literary magazine featuring weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. **What is Weird?** It could be the style. The content. The genre. It could be you. If you think it’s weird, your work may fit with us. Check out our past episodes for a feel of what we like. **What is NOT Weird?** Sci-fi and horror are not automatically weird. If you write in these genres, take a listen to [this episode](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/growth-keira-perkins/) for a great example of the interesting twists and surprises that make it weird. **Who are we looking for?** We’re looking for weird work from writers based in the Midwest. We’re especially looking for work from writers who are women or nonbinary, part of the LGBTQ, BIPOC, and disabled communities, and/or other underrepresented writers. We’re also looking for writers who are excited about creating audio versions of their work. Midwest Weird is expanding the notion of a literary magazine, and what creators of today can do. **How does this work?** If your work becomes part of Midwest Weird, your story can be read and produced by our team, or you can take the lead. You will retain all rights to your story. In the future, we'll also offer honorariums for accepted work. **What do I submit?** Send us a word or pdf doc with your fiction or nonfiction. Work should be between 1,000 to 4,000 words. A little more or less is fine. Your work can be original, or it can be previously published. Include a short bio, including your membership in any underrepresented groups. Don't sweat if you haven't published much in the past; we're eager for new voices! Have any audio or podcast experience? Let us know! *Please only submit once within a six month period unless specifically asked. If you've already been published by Midwest Weird, we ask that you refrain from submitting again.* **Long story short** If you think we might like your work, send it our way. And stay weird. --- ### **Listen to past episodes to see what we're looking for!** --- ### Ready to submit? [LET'S GO](https://duotrope.com/duosuma/submit/midwest-weird-DL9g3?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) Thanks for listening and submitting! And stay weird. ### HELLO from the Broads URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/hello-from-the-broads/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T15:47:11.000Z Broads and Books Productions creates podcasts that make you laugh, think, rage, and all of the above. Sign up for free and get news and updates from: - [Fuzzy Memories Podcast](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/fuzzy-memories-podcast/): The good, the rad, and the fugly of the 1980s and 90s. - [Midwest Weird](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/midwest-weird/): The audio literary magazine with strange stories from the Midwest. - *Want your work featured on Midwest Weird?* [*Submit here!*](https://duotrope.com/duosuma/submit/midwest-weird-DL9g3?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [Donzerly Light](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/donzerly-light/): Pop culture musings from Heath Smith. - [Wyrd Woman](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/wyrd-woman-podcast/): An audio fiction podcast with all episodes available to binge. - [Broads and Books](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/broads-and-books/): The funny and feminist book podcast that ran from 2910 to 2023\. ### The team: [Amy Lee Lillard](https://www.amyleelillard.com/?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) and Erin Johnston started [Broads and Books podcast](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/broads-and-books/) in 2019\. Then they aimed for world domination and started this production house in 2023\. Along the way, they made [Heath Smith](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/donzerly-light/) sign a billion-year-contract to be a Broad. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/84/d7/84d769b9-1ebb-4e45-bba1-cabe1b891bd8/content/images/2026/07/Broads-Photo1-1.jpg) Amy and Erin wearing tuxes and heels for the last time. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/84/d7/84d769b9-1ebb-4e45-bba1-cabe1b891bd8/content/images/2026/07/Heath-and-Jesus-copy.jpg) The perfect encapsulation of Heath. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/84/d7/84d769b9-1ebb-4e45-bba1-cabe1b891bd8/content/images/2026/07/IMG_3968.JPG) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/84/d7/84d769b9-1ebb-4e45-bba1-cabe1b891bd8/content/images/2026/07/B8FD31B3-898D-4896-B7B3-1D23E5D4830F-1.JPG) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/84/d7/84d769b9-1ebb-4e45-bba1-cabe1b891bd8/content/images/2026/07/IMG_2539-2.PNG) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/84/d7/84d769b9-1ebb-4e45-bba1-cabe1b891bd8/content/images/2026/07/IMG_3788-1.JPG) Moments of agony and ecstasy. Welcome. Let's have some fun. ### We've Got Questions URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/fuzzy-memories-podcast-weve-got-questions/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T21:16:48.000Z This week we're asking ourselves questions about 1980s and 90s pop culture. Plus, our unmitigated gall from the week and so much more. Mentioned in this episode: - Reba McEntire - NKOTB - David Bowie - Mariah Carey - [Nancy Reagan (always)](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/fuzzy-memories-1980s-and-90s-scandals/) - Overalls - Doc Martens - So much more *Fuzzy Memories is the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. Three latchkey kids who made it out alive break down everything from Madonna and Masters of the Universe to Twin Peaks and Titanic. Join us to celebrate the hits, the misses and the misfits of the weirdest decades.* ### 1980s and 90s Scares URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/fuzzy-memories-podcast-1980s-and-90s-scares/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T15:42:01.000Z This week we're looking at the things that scared us from the 1980s and 90s (which may, or may not, have been objectively scary) ! Plus, our unmitigated gall from the week and so much more. Mentioned in this episode: - DARE - Showbiz Pizza Band (Rockafire Explosion) - Mascots - IT - Return to Oz - Nightmare on Elm St *Fuzzy Memories is the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. Three latchkey kids who made it out alive break down everything from Madonna and Masters of the Universe to Twin Peaks and Titanic. Join us to celebrate the hits, the misses and the misfits of the weirdest decades.* ### 1980s and 90s Scandals URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/fuzzy-memories-1980s-and-90s-scandals/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T15:45:58.000Z This week we're looking at 1980s and 90s scandals! Plus, our unmitigated gall from the week and so much more. Mentioned in this episode: - Madonna's "Like a Prayer" video - Heidi Fleiss and the little black book - Press Your Luck scammer - Ozzy Osbourne - Nancy Reagan - Rob Lowe *Fuzzy Memories is the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. Three latchkey kids who made it out alive break down everything from Madonna and Masters of the Universe to Twin Peaks and Titanic. Join us to celebrate the hits, the misses and the misfits of the weirdest decades.* ### 1980s & 90s Fictional Business Icons URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/fuzzy-memories-podcast-1980s-90s-fictional-business-icons/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T15:55:21.000Z This week we're looking at 1980s and 90s business icons from TV and film. Plus, our unmitigated gall from the week and so much more. Mentioned in this episode: - Willy Wonka - Who's the Boss - Wayne Enterprises - Pretty Woman - Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion - Office Space *Fuzzy Memories is the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. Three latchkey kids who made it out alive break down everything from Madonna and Masters of the Universe to Twin Peaks and Titanic. Join us to celebrate the hits, the misses and the misfits of the weirdest decades.* ### 1980s & 90s TV Moments that Live in our Brains URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/fuzzy-memories-podcast-1980s-90s-tv-moments-that-live-in-our-brains/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T15:58:50.000Z This week we're looking at 1980s and 90s TV moments that live in our brain rent-free. Plus, our unmitigated gall from the week and so much more. Mentioned in this episode: - Mike Seaver from Growing Pains - Jessie Spano from Saved by the Bell - Marlena from Days of our Lives - Spartan cheerleaders from SNL - Mega Powers from WWF - Theme songs from 1980s shows *Fuzzy Memories is the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. Three latchkey kids who made it out alive break down everything from Madonna and Masters of the Universe to Twin Peaks and Titanic. Join us to celebrate the hits, the misses and the misfits of the weirdest decades.* ### 1980s & 90s Stars Who Broke Bad URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/fuzzy-memories-podcast-1980s-90s-stars-who-broke-bad/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T20:28:09.000Z Welcome to Season 3! This season, we're looking at different themes each episode. This week we're looking at 1980s and 90s stars who got worse over time! Plus, our unmitigated gall from the week and so much more. Mentioned in this episode: - Dennis Rodman - Kirk Cameron - Scott Baio - Jenny McCarthy - Gwyneth Paltrow - Nicky Minaj Fuzzy Memories is the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. Three latchkey kids who made it out alive break down everything from Madonna and Masters of the Universe to Twin Peaks and Titanic. Join us to celebrate the hits, the misses and the misfits of the weirdest decades. ### Very Special Episodes URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/fuzzy-memories-podcast-very-special-episodes/ Last updated: 2026-07-23T14:34:42.000Z Look, we've got range. We've got skillz. And we show you these facts with our very special episodes. Here's some of our favorites: - [Valentine's Day: Care Bears, Awful Commercials, and Pop Culture Poetry](https://youtu.be/QrNSEgR5sDE?si=1oTDc6tjwXI4C0-F&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [Summer: Bad Camps, Dangerous Footwear, and Suggestive Summer Songs](https://youtu.be/8F2dk7zQd9U?si=zGHGunXUk7tNf77r&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [Halloween: Scary Movies, Underrated Candy, and True Crime](https://youtu.be/QRRjosYKEpg?si=SEgiKR8B5Q%5FP7Aup&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [Holidays: Dolly Parton, California Raisins, and Hans Gruber](https://youtu.be/34ZqXi9DzkU?si=PxYkypNK5UOrlhjX&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [Best and Worst Housewives!](https://youtu.be/OHK97XKflKk?si=eJZTWjjB2L4bPsUC&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [The Most Unmitigated Gall](https://youtu.be/4kqx1ZimX6M?si=Rm5fx-YGZV9bAmzi&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [Remakes, Reboots, and Rewinds](https://youtu.be/7tD0uIin5dE?si=VdnnNHQtWfnrDTju&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) *Fuzzy Memories is the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. Three latchkey kids who made it out alive break down everything from Madonna and Masters of the Universe to Twin Peaks and Titanic. Join us to celebrate the hits, the misses and the misfits of the weirdest decades.* ### Wyrd Woman Recap URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/wyrd-woman-recap/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T16:00:18.000Z This show was created in 2023, and was part artistic experiment, part historical obsession, and part absolute terror at the prospect of Trump winning a second term. And, welp, here we are. Second term of who knows how many. So in many ways, the story sounds from another time. But also of this time. Because many of the fears I talked about have come true. And many more will. --- The story is this. *When an isolated woman starts recording her dreams of strange women, things get weird. Over nine nights, reality becomes fantasy, past and future meld, and fate binds and beckons.* *Why are these women – old, broken, unnatural, mad, and ugly – appearing in her dreams? Why must difference always mean danger? And what happens when these women come together, connecting across time and space as worlds die?* All episodes are available to binge. Start with Night 1! --- [Wyrd Woman](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/wyrd-woman-podcast/) was created, written, narrated, and produced by me, Amy Lee Lillard. All music comes from Nine Inch Nails Ghosts I-IV, *courtesy of the* [*Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike license*](https://wiki.creativecommons.org/wiki/Case%5FStudies/Nine%5FInch%5FNails%5FGhosts%5FI-IV?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Questions? Comments? Email me at amyleelillard at proton dot me.* ### "Bob," Mario Senzale URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-bob-mario-senzale/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T16:19:00.000Z Mario Senzale is a South American writer and mathematician currently living in Indianapolis, Indiana. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *Today’s episode: "Bob," by Mario Senzale. Read by the Midwest Weird team.* Linda was away on a business trip. I had the place to myself until Thursday. My plan: to make that Irish stew my mother taught me. The one Linda says is too much work. I put some Miles Davis on the turntable, poured myself a glass of Chardonnay, and started cooking. The knife went through a potato. Clean. I reached for another one when I heard the TV. I walked into the living room, knife in hand. A man was on my couch. Dr. Phil’s hair, khaki pants, white shirt, average height, a bit overweight, the kind of face you'd see at a PTA meeting. He was watching the TV. "Who are you?" The man didn't look at me. He just kept watching the screen. "How did you get in here?" He changed the channel like I wasn't there. "Excuse me sir. Sir, you need to leave." He settled deeper into the couch. Found a Gordon Ramsay show and loosened his belt. "Ok. I'm calling the police." The cops showed up twenty minutes later. Two officers. Gordon Ramsay was yelling at somebody. The man leaned forward slightly. "Officers, this man broke into my house and won't leave." The older cop looked at the man. His whole face changed. "Oh, that’s Bob." "You know him?" "Sure," the officer said, that warmth you use for a friend. "Everyone knows Bob." "Ok… can you get him out of my property?" The cops looked at each other. "Has he threatened you?" the younger one asked. "Well, not really, but -" "Did he break anything?" “I don’t think so… he did break into my house, I think." They both stared at me like I'd said something inappropriate. "You think… Look, if he hasn't done anything wrong, there’s nothing we can do," the older cop said. He glanced at Bob. Bob was watching the TV, calm and attentive. "Have a good day, sir." They left. Bob did not. I finished cooking the stew, put it in the fridge and went straight to bed, hoping Bob would be gone by morning. At night, I had the urge to pee. So I walked to the bathroom. The door was closed, light underneath. I knocked. “Excuse me, I need to use the bathroom.” Water running, vapor coming from below. “Sir! Bob!” I heard him shifting around. Unhurried. I tried opening the door, but it was locked. I knocked harder. “Bob! Bob!” Nothing. I knocked again and again. The water stopped. “Bob! I really need to go!” He took his time. My bladder did not. Ten minutes later, Bob emerged. Naked. His penis swung as he walked past me without looking. I rushed into the bathroom, cleaned myself, put my underwear in the washer and went back to bed. Bob was lying there. On my side. Asleep. I grabbed my work clothes from the dresser and moved to the couch. In the morning, Bob was gone. Thank God. I brushed my teeth and went to the bus stop. And there he was. Bob. I got behind him. The bus pulled up. Crowded. Bob stepped on. I could not. The doors closed. I watched them leave and waited for the next one. It started to pour. I went to Francesca’s, my lunch spot. One chicken parmigiana left, three people ahead. Carbonara, lasagna, risotto. I saw the girl from the counter boxing up the chicken as I got close. She knows me, I always go there. “Hi, I’ll have the chicken par-“ “Oh, I’m sorry, it’s taken.” She passed the box through my left shoulder, a hand grabbed it, and I turned. Bob. I looked back at the girl. “Excuse me, I think I was here before.” The girl looked at me. “He made the order first. I’m sorry.” Bob took the box to the window table and ate slowly, cutting the chicken into perfect squares. He looked up once, caught my eye, chewed. I ordered a salad. I should go on a diet anyways. I ate the leaves from a table in the middle of the room. No view. That evening, I came home to find Bob in the kitchen. Eating stew. My stew. The one that’s too much work. I walked up to him. “Excuse me, that’s mine.” He didn’t respond. I grabbed the bowl and pulled. He grabbed it with both hands, looked me in the eyes, and growled. I let go. “You’re crazy. Crazy!”, I told him from a safe distance. He slurped the broth. A couple of minutes later, he finished and stood. Wiped his mouth with the tablecloth, walked to the couch, and turned the TV on. Kitchen Nightmares. He sure loves those cooking shows. I went back to the fridge. He finished all the stew. My stew. I grabbed four turkey slices, defrosted two dinner rolls in the microwave, and made myself sliders. In the middle, still cold. When I finished, Bob was gone. I turned off the TV and headed to the bathroom. On my way there, I saw Bob. On my side of the bed. Open eyes. Fully clothed. I grabbed clean clothes from the dresser. He followed me with his eyes. Then I rushed to the bathroom. Maybe I’d been rude, trying to grab his bowl. I thought about it as I flossed. I woke up to chatter from the kitchen. Linda was there, talking to Bob. “Hi honey! Good morning! Your friend is hilarious,” she told me, luggage in one hand, Starbucks in the other. “Linda, he’s not my friend. He’s Bob. I don’t know why he’s here or what he’s doing. I think he’s dangerous.” “Chris, don’t be rude,” she replied with a frown. Bob was doing something with his hands, like some magic trick or something. I don’t know. Linda smiled at the reveal. I went to the bathroom to get ready. My toothbrush was wet. Used. I brushed with my finger, got dressed and left for work. I like work. Long hours, but it's quiet. Lots of cubicles but mine is next to the window. I can see the cathedral. I can see the pigeons. I can see… Bob. In my chair, grabbing the pen with his full fist, doodling on my notes. I think he drew a dick. With balls. I went to the reception desk and talked to Maggie. “Maggie, there’s someone in my desk.” “It’s Bob.” “I know it’s Bob… wait, you know him?” “Everyone knows Bob.” I grabbed my face with both hands. What is happening? “Maggie, what is he doing here?” “What do you mean? It’s his desk.” “No, no, no. Maggie, please. Don’t gaslight me. You know it’s my desk.” “Chris, don’t be rude. You can use Gary’s desk. He’s on vacation.” That night I got home late from work. I hung my jacket, dropped my keys in the bowl by the door. That's when I heard it. Sounds from the bedroom. I walked to the doorway. Linda in bed. With Bob. Her eyes closed, mouth open. Bob on top of her. Moving. “Oh God! Oh God! Oh… Bob!” I knocked on the bedroom door. “EXCUSE ME!” Bob looked at me over his shoulder. Didn’t stop. He kept moving. Kept eye contact. “Linda!” “Not now, Chris, I’m close.” I stood there. Watching. Then I went back to the couch and turned on the TV. Hell’s Kitchen. I hear the moans from the bedroom. I can’t take this anymore. I grabbed my keys and jacket and went back to work. There, I made a pillow with the jacket and placed myself under the desk. Gary’s desk. Not Bob’s. Bob didn’t come to work the next day. He probably stayed home. Fucking my wife. Eating my food. At lunch, I had the chicken parmigiano. I went back to my desk in the afternoon. I watched through the window at the cathedral. At the pigeons. I stayed there for three days until Maggie found out. Then, I had to return home. I arrived early. Nobody’s home. No Linda. No Bob. I turned the TV on and ordered delivery. General Tso’s combo. Notre Dame vs Bowling Green. The doorbell rang and I saw him. The delivery guy. Leaving. Bag in hand, Bob. I watched from the kitchen as he ate my food. Loudly, grease on his chin. Wiped his mouth with the tablecloth, walked to the couch, and changed the channel. MasterChef. I stood there, not knowing what to do. Bob shifted on the couch. He ripped one. Smelled like rotten eggs and General Tso. He didn't flinch. I covered my nose. I hate Bob. Bob’s the worst. He left the remote next to him. I grabbed it. He grabbed my wrist. Then, he stood up. His face close to mine. He looked into my eyes. I tried to breathe. When I inhaled, he exhaled. He made me breathe used air. CO2\. My chest burned. He didn’t stop. He never stops. I fainted. He stayed. It was too late. Everyone knows Bob. ### Nicki Minaj's Beefs URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-nicki-minajs-beefs/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T15:19:56.000Z *Editor's Note: Heath wrote this before Nicki Minaj's recent revelation of being a MAGA idiot. He saw it coming : )* Watching two celebrities have a public spat is something I enjoy. Maybe “enjoy” is the wrong word. It’s something I like to examine? (That sounds more respectable.) It can get cringy, but it’s usually fun if whatever they’re arguing about is stupid. Take for example the time Jennifer Lawrence told *Vogue* in an interview that she had purchased a house and when she moved in, it was full of crystals and geodes and she asked someone to get rid of the crystals and geodes, but someone on her staff told her that they had to call a crystal specialist to come in and move them or it’s bad luck. She told them to get rid of them anyway and then her house flooded. Coincidence? Spencer Pratt (he was on the show *The Hills* several years ago, if you’re having trouble placing the name) doesn’t think so. He went online and says he’s never seeing another Jennifer Lawrence movies because she was talking shit about crystals and he felt like those comments were directed at him. At this point, you might be asking yourself the same question I asked myself, “Who the fuck is asking for Spencer Pratt’s opinion on anything?” Whoever that is, is the real villain in this story. I tried to find out if Spencer Pratt ever saw another Jennifer Lawrence movie and my findings were inconclusive. I couldn’t even determine if he’d seen any movies since this happened, but I feel pretty confident that he hasn’t read any books since then. Jennifer Lawrence never did respond to Spencer Pratt, but you know who maybe had the best comeback ever? That honor goes to Rihanna. Several years ago, Ciara commented during in an interview that she’d run into Rihanna at a party and Rihanna “wasn’t the nicest.” Rihanna responded online by saying, “My bad Ci. Did I 4get to tip u?” which is a pretty solid comeback and Ciara probably should have just left things alone. But she didn’t. She replied, “Trust me Rihanna u don’t want to see me on or off the stage.” Not only is that vaguely threatening, she was also more or less setting up Rihanna for any number of responses about how no one wants to see Ciara on stage, but Rihanna went in a slightly different direction and replied, “Good luck with booking that stage u speak of.” And that is how you do it, folks. Rihanna has since referred to her online shenanigans as troll behavior, and if it was troll behavior, she set the standard that other internet trolls should attempt to live up to. But if we’re talking about celebrity beefs, we need to discuss the undisputed queen of celebrity beefs: Nicki Minaj, a title she earned because of the sheer number of beefs she’s been involved in. I can immediately think of at least 10 celebrities that Nicki Minaj has argued with and I didn’t even have to Google it! I don’t know how she has time to record albums or even sleep with all the arguing she’s doing day in and day out. Most of the people she argues with are other female rappers and since a lot of the content of rap music is about boasting about how good of a rapper you are, maybe she just can’t help herself. Or, since she’s a grown person, she could probably try and a different way to process what’s bothering her. Yoga is helpful when it comes to mindfulness and self-reflection. She could try some breathing exercises or maybe even regular exercises. Go for a long walk when someone gets under your skin just because they exist! Sometimes when I’m annoyed at a coworker, I’ll write an email detailing the many, many reasons why I think they’re a shithead and then delete it because I know sending it would just make the situation worse. She could try something like that. Or I guess she could keep being a full lunatic online since she hasn’t really faced any consequences for that behavior thus far. Speaking of consequences, do not tell her I wrote this essay. The last thing I need is Nicki Minaj ripping me to shreds on X. I like to think she’s got more important people to focus on, but it’s kind of hard to tell what or who is going to set her off. See below for just a few of the people who have had the honor of doing that. - **Cardi B:** Nicki Minaj’s beef with Cardi B has been going on for almost 10 years. Way back in 2017, Nicki Minaj liked a fan’s comment dissing Cardi B on X. Soon after, they both wrote verses for the Migos song “MotorSport” and it sounds like they didn’t love working together, but things really took a turn in September 2018 when they got into a physical altercation at the Harper’s Bazaar ICONS party in New York City. Apparently, they argued and then Cardi B threw a shoe at Nicki Minaj. Cardi B was escorted out of the party with a ripped dress and a visible lump on her head. They continued to argue off and on for years and things got intense again in September 2025 when Cardi B’s new album came out. Nicki Minaj pointed out on X that the promotional price for the album was just $4.99 on iTunes and that started off a whole back and forth that involved comments directed at their children and Cardi B mentioning that Nicki Minaj’s brother is currently in jail for child rape. At least they kept everything above board! - **Taylor Swift**: In 2015, Taylor Swift was nominated for Video of the Year at the MTV Video Music Awards for her song, “Bad Blood,” a very apt title in this scenario. Nicki Minaj was not nominated for Video of the Year for her song, “Anaconda.” Naturally, Nicki Minaj complained about it on Twitter and instead of just saying, “I’m angry that my song wasn’t nominated,” she said that MTV only nominates women with slim bodies. Taylor Swift responded on Twitter, saying that Nicki Minaj was pitting women against each other. Nicki Minaj said she wasn’t talking about Taylor Swift, something she was certainly doing. They ended up making up and performing together on the show that year and I kind of feel like that’s similar to giving a child a treat after they’ve thrown a temper tantrum. - **Miley Cyrus:** Miley Cyrus was the host of the MTV Video Music Awards that same year and while promoting the show, she said in an interview that Nicki Minaj was, “not too kind.” During the show, Nicki Minaj won an award and in her acceptance speech she said, “Now, back to this bitch that had a lot to say about me the other day in the press. Miley, what’s good?” From an objective standpoint, this seems to confirm the idea that Nicki Minaj is “not too kind.” It certainly doesn’t suggest that she’s the average amount of kind. And did Miley Cyrus have “a lot” to say about Nicki Minaj? I don’t think three words counts as “a lot.” That’s just math. When Miley Cyrus suggested that her remark was taken out of context, Nicki Minaj said that it’s not right that Miley Cyrus has Black performers in her videos and on stage with her, but that she doesn’t want to know how a Black woman feels. I bet the gaslighters of the world fucking loved that! Anyway, Miley Cyrus said she liked Cardi B in a song in 2019 and then Nicki Minaj called her a Perdue chicken, an oddly specific insult. - **SZA:** I don’t know if anyone who was had a public dustup with Nicki Minaj was expecting to be involved in a public dustup with Nicki Minaj, but I think SZA was caught by surprise more than most. In July 2025, Nicki Minaj posted several tweets that accused Terrence Henderson of bullying. When I first read that name, I assumed Terrence Henderson was the widower of Florence Henderson, from T*he Brady Bunch*, and I was surprised that he was still alive and then wondered why he’d be bullying anyone. It turns out that Terrence Henderson is the president of Top Dawg Entertainment and has never even met Florence Henderson. Around the same time that Nicki Minaj was posting those tweets, SZA posted, “Mercury retrograde – don’t take the bait lol silly goose.” So of course Nicki Minaj assumed that tweet was about her (I’m starting to think that she thinks every tweet is about her) and then posted a bunch of tweets critiquing SZA’s appearance and downplaying her success. SZA wrapped up the mostly one-sided exchange by tweeting, “Yall have a blessed night!” I wonder what pisses Nicki Minaj off more – when she thinks people are criticizing her or when she realizes people aren’t interested in her at all. - **Megan Thee Stallion:** In 2019, Nicki Minaj and Megan Thee Stallion collaborated on the song “Hot Girl Summer,” but every summer eventually comes to an end and so did their friendship. It’s not exactly clear why they fell out, but if I had to guess, it would probably be because Nicki Minaj seems to be threatened by just about every other female performer (see the first four people on this list and also Lil’ Kim, Remy Ma, Iggy Azalea, Latto, Mariah Carey, etc.). In 2023, in her song, “Red Ruby Da Sleeze,” Nicki Minaj said, “I don’t fuck with horses since Christopher Reeves,” a line directed at Megan Thee Stallion that not only got Christopher Reeve’s last name wrong, but it also seemed wildly insensitive, even for Nicki Minaj. A year later, Megan Thee Stallion released a song, “Hiss,” in which she rapped, “These hoes don’t be mad at Megan, these hoes mad at Megan’s Law.” Megan’s Law is a piece of legislation that requires convicted sex offenders to register on the sex offender registry. Nicki Minaj’s husband, Kenneth Petty is a registered sex offender in New York and has spent time in jail for attempted rape. A few days later, Nicki Minaj released a song called, “Big Foot,” a diss track that referenced Megan Thee Stallion being shot in the foot in 2020\. To each their own, but for my money, getting shot in the foot is far less problematic than being married to a sex offender. Perfectly lovely people get shot in the foot every day! ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “Nicki Minaj. You paid for your brother’s wedding? That’s hella foul. How you spending money to support a pedophile?” \-Remy Ma in “Shether,” indirectly asking to be removed from Nicki Minaj’s Christmas card list. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/fuzzy-memories-podcast/)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "Small Town Inc Is Going Public," Joe Prosit URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-small-town-inc-is-going-public-joe-prosit/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T16:15:54.000Z Joe Prosit writes sci-fi, horror, and psycho fiction. He has independently published six novels and two short story collections. He lives with his wife, kids, and dog in Brainerd, Minnesota. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *Today’s episode: "Small Town is Going Public," by Joe Prosit. Read by the Midwest Weird team.* On the edge of town, the city limit sign boasted Bluff Creek’s most recent mission statement: “Bluff Creek: Providing a quaint and comfortable space for residents and small businesses alike.” Prior to that, it said “Bluff Creek: Fostering community and business opportunities while maintaining rural charm.” And prior to that, it said simply, “Bluff Creek: A Nice Place to Live and Grow.” If Mayor Paul could do it over again, he would have stuck with the original one. It was more outward-facing. More of a slogan than a mission statement. Or, if he could go back to the day last spring when they came up with the most recent mission statement, he’d get rid of the word “small.” It restricted opportunities and limited potential growth. Corporate even told them that day in the Chamber of Commerce conference room to “Think big,” and “Blow things up.” And yet, somehow they settled on a mission statement with the word “small” right in it. And well, that’s how he got where he was today. Randy and Andi from Corporate arrived early. Ten minutes early, which was a bit earlier than the polite and professional five minutes early. He wasn’t ready for them. But there was no telling Randy and Andi from Corporate to wait. They were here and so the meeting would begin. Paul ran through all the niceties of offering them coffee or water or tea, which they refused, and asked all the banal questions such as “How are things in New York?” “How was the drive?” and “Any big plans for the weekend?” because of course bad news always came on a Friday. “We’ll cut right to the chase, Paul,” Randy said. “Paul,” Andi said. “The guys in New York have made a decision, and I’m afraid it’s final.” “We wanted to come and tell you, in person, right away,” Randy said. “This is just business, understand,” Andi said. “Nothing personal.” “I know this is something you can manage with dignity and professionalism,” Randy said. “Well? What is it?” Paul said. “You said you were going to cut to the chase. I know Bluff Creek has been underperforming, but our second quarter numbers were up. We’ve had a good summer with all the tourism dollars coming in.” “That may be true, Paul, but…” Randy said. “Your first and third quarter numbers, well, there’s just no coming back from numbers like those,” Andi said as she placed pages of reports on Paul’s desk. Paul picked up the sheets and rifled through them. Bar graphs. Line charts. Pie graphs. Spreadsheets. “So what? We have to go through another rebranding?” “Not a rebranding,” Randy said. “Okay then. I’m being replaced? I mean, election season is right around the corner. I’d like to at least finish out my term,” Paul said. Randy just shook his head side to side. Andi inhaled deep. “It’s not just you, Paul. And it’s not something another rebranding is going to solve. We’ve tried the rebrandings, the mission statement seminars, the corrective action plans… And yes, we’ve debated about finding a replacement for you,” Andi said. “But the truth is, this town just doesn’t fit into Corporate’s business model and fails to achieve our future planning goals. Simply stated, Bluff Creek no longer aligns with our current marketing strategy.” “Wait. So what are you saying?” Paul asked. “You understand, Paul, being in management, the need for organizations to right-size. To correct personnel and asset imbalances,” Andi said. “It’s been a challenging fiscal year across the board. You know that. And, so, the folks in New York felt it imperative to streamline and release underperforming nodes. Try to see it how Corporate sees things. There’s often a need for constructive downsizing. Addition through subtraction. You understand.” “No,” Paul said. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this.” Randy, having finally grown impatient, held a hand out to Andi, telling her he’d take it from here. “Small Town Incorporated is reducing Bluff Creek.” “Reducing?” Paul asked. “We are letting go of all personnel and liquidating all assets,” Randy said. “And Paul?” Paul said nothing. How could he? The best he could manage was to keep the coffee from jittering over the brim of his cup. “We do expect one hundred percent compliance,” Randy said. “No holdouts.” “Yes. Of course. I understand,” Paul said. “One hundred percent, Paul,” Randy said again. “One hundred percent,” Paul concurred. “They’ll comply. They’re good people. They’ll listen.” “You're a good man, Paul,” Andi said. As Andi packed up her briefcase and got out of her chair, Randy kept his eyes locked with Paul’s. “One hundred percent,” he reminded the mayor. Paul wasn’t sure he had the strength left in his voice to verbally respond, so he nodded while the tears rolled down his cheeks. “There’s always one,” Andi said as the two left the office. # The congregation was comprised of the entire town population. Which wasn’t large. Much smaller than what the city limit sign proclaimed. The dwindling number of residents was both a cause and a symptom of the town’s demise. But at this point, it didn’t matter much. The ones that got out while the getting was good would count themselves lucky. And the ones that remained would soon have nothing to say on the matter. Most Sundays, Pastor Wendell dressed in slacks and a sweater with just the black collar and white tab of his profession peeking above the cable-knit. Only on holidays, he wore the full vestments. Holidays, weddings, and funerals. Today, he was adorned in full regalia: a white flowing robe with a hem that hovered inches above the carpet, a long, green, embroidered sash as directed by the church season, and a thick cross made of Jerusalem olive wood hanging from his neck. “Let’s begin with an invocation,” he said and silenced the muttering of the congregation. He named the Holy Trinity, said thanks for the day, requested their souls be blessed, and closed their collective prayer with an “Amen.” The congregation, regardless of their denomination or religion, echoed the Amen. “Every small town is the same,” Pastor Wendell skipped any confession and absolution, hymns, and readings, and went right into the homily. After all, this service differed from any other. The normal order of service just wouldn’t do. “Every small town is the same,” he repeated with effect. “Every small town is unique. Every small town has a Main Street. In some places, it’s called First Avenue, or Washington Boulevard, or River Street. Something significant to the town’s geography or history. It was Maple Street where I grew up. Every small town has something that caused the town to rise out of the sod to begin with. Perhaps it was the flowing rapids of a river turned into a damn. An iron ore deposit that brought industry. Or maybe just train tracks where a grain elevator could be built to allow for the export of agricultural commodities. Every small town has a dive bar. An Irish Pub where I grew up. A bar named after the highway that bisects the town like the Ten Stop over in Naperville. Here, it’s Tipsy’s Tavern. And yes, Otis, I’ll admit to seeing the inside of your place from time to time.” Some of the congregation gave a polite chuckle at that. “Every small town has a flower shop,” he said and met Sarah Eventide’s eyes. “Every small town has a bank,” Pastor Wendell said and nodded to Mister Embry who ran 1st National Bank of Bluff Creek. “Every small town has a greasy spoon diner, and I can tell you all that Mary’s Cafe over on Second Street serves up the best eggs benedict you’ll find in any small town across America,” Pastor Wendell said and earned a pain-and-pride-laced grin from Mary in the third pew. “Every small town has a football team that at least once in its past went to the State Tournament. And in our town? We’ve been there four different times and were a field goal away from bringing home the hardware back in Ninety Seven.” Coach Treemont beamed at that. “Every small town is the same. And every small town is unique. Every small town has a year it was founded. And every small town, eventually, will have a date when it is no more,” Pastor Wendell said. “Well, brothers and sisters. It’s my unfortunate duty today to preside over that later date.” Everyone knew why they were gathered here today. No need to come out and say it. Everyone came to this funeral wearing black and knowing full well what awaited them. All the same, this last line delivered by their long-standing minister broke through a few levees holding back tears. “We have loved our small town. I’ll be so bold to say that we’ve loved one another. Although, if what Father Henry has heard in his confessional booths over in Saint Pat’s is true, perhaps not as much as we should have.” A wink to Father Henry told the catholic priest and everyone else gathered there in the protestant church that this was a joke they could all laugh over. They did. Reserved and quickly muted. “Others may ask for more from a town such as ours. As is their right as investors, owners, and administrators. We can’t begrudge them that. We might not agree with their decisions, but we can’t let animosity rule the day. Not on a day such as today,” Pastor Wendell said. Solemn now. Somber as the day required. “So when we depart here today, and we all will depart, go in peace. Go in peace, and praise the Lord.” Pastor Wendell left the pulpit for the altar just below the cross at the front of the church. Next to the altar was a plastic red gas can with “Small Town Inc.” printed on the side. He fought with the safety nozzle for a bit, but the congregation kept their respectful peace as he got it loose. Ushers came to the first row of pews and gave the first attendee in the row a nod. The folks stood up and orderly filed out while Pastor Wendell doused the altar. When he dropped the match and the gasoline caught flame, a few less disciplined folks glanced that way. When he rolled on top of the altar and his vestments roasted, they averted their eyes. When he started screaming in agony, some scrunched their eyes tight. A few covered their ears. But they all filed out of the back of the sanctuary. Smoke rolled from the eaves of First Lutheran as the townsfolk gathered on Main Street. Mayor Paul bade them closer in a larger circle around him. “What did you think of the service?” Otis asked Sarah as they shuffled shoulder to shoulder to the center of Main and 1st Avenue. “It was really beautiful,” Sarah said. “The ending maybe wasn’t as dignified as Pastor Wendell intended,” Otis said. “No. I suppose not,” Sarah said. “Listen up everyone,” Mayor Paul called to the crowd. “I know this isn’t how any of us hoped things would end. I know we all had our hopes and dreams wrapped up in this town. We all have homes here and your plans may have eventually led you out of Bluff Creek. For others, our hopes and dreams are made out of brick and mortar. But I know it’s going to be hard for all of us to watch those dreams go up in smoke. So what I propose is that we help each other out as folks in small towns tend to do. Nobody should be forced to liquidate their own hopes and dreams. So, do your neighbor a favor and pick up the torch for them. Everyone take care of someone else. Make this as quick and painless as possible. That way you don’t have to go through the hardship of doing it to yourself. Understood?” Mayor Paul said. “I’ll take care of ‘Love in Bloom’ if you do ‘Tipsy’s.’ Deal?” Otis said to Sarah. “Okay,” Sarah said. “Well, might as well get started. Corporate set cans and bottles on each street corner,” Mayor Paul said. “Let’s get to work.” And like the stoic midwesterners that they were, they kept their upper lips stiff and saturated each home, school, church, and business in the corporate-provided gasoline. # Randy and Andi watched from the bluffs overlooking the town. They leaned on the hood of the rental car from New York and traded a pair of binoculars back and forth. “Been a dry summer,” Andi said. “This part shouldn’t take long.” “As for the next part?” Randy asked. “There’s always one,” Andi said. # No one resisted the firebombing of Bluff Creek. And Andi was right. The drought that had gripped the region left the grass yellow, brittle, and eager for the flame. Within minutes, every window along Main Street was busted out and vomiting orange flames and black smoke. The firetrucks stayed in the garage and the volunteer firefighters only aided in the destruction. They did the police station while the police torched the fire station. A draw in the long standing rivalry usually conducted over chili contests, county fair dunk tanks, and Christmas toy drives. Sarah never made or used a Molotov Cocktail before. Most residents of Bluff Creek hadn’t. But Jimmy from Main Street Muffler and Auto showed others how to fill the glass bottles with gas from the cans covered in the corporate logo and how to stuff a rag into the neck. He was careful to explain to Sarah how to hold the bottle sideways so as to light the rag and not the gas that had leaked onto the bottle where she had to hold it. He even used his Zippo lighter to ignite the strip of an old t-shirt. “Go ahead,” Jimmy said. “Give ‘er a heave.” Sarah nodded quick, afraid of the burning bomb in her hand, and gave it a good throw. She played softball through high school and still had a decent arm on her. The Molotov Cocktail sailed through the air and shattered the big picture window that looked into Tipsy’s Tavern. A neon beer light crashed down with the big wedges of glass. Flames rose up. “Is that it?” Sarah asked. “Best do another,” Jimmy said and handed her a second. “Just for good measure.” “Do I have to?” Sarah asked, but Jimmy was already lighting the rag. She let her eyes drift two blocks down. ‘Love in Bloom’ was already engulfed. # The fires grew as fires did and soon required no more assistance or encouragement. Every structure in Bluff Creek was an inferno. Even Veterans Memorial Park burned. The residents, those who chose not to self-immolate, were restricted to the blacktop. They gathered again at the intersection of Main and 1st, ashen and greasy from their work. Their faces, as marred and dour as they were, remained poised. After all, their hardest work was yet to come, and per Corporate’s guidance, this wasn’t work that could be outsourced, delegated, or delayed. With Mayor Paul again in the center, they shuffled together to hear his directions. “Well, I’d hoped I’d never have to do this. Hoped we’d never come to this day. I think we all hoped things had gone differently. But there’s no sense in looking back now. Not with any regret or remorse. As Pastor Wendell said, we shouldn’t let animosity rule the day,” he said. A moment passed. The delay he knew wasn’t allowed. His eyes glanced up to the bluffs of the town’s namesake. A glint reflected off a distant pair of binoculars. “I’m told they added water to the jugs so it shouldn’t burn too bad going down. Since I’m mayor, and since I’m responsible for the well-being of this town, I guess I’ll go first. But before I do, I just want to say I’m sorry.” Finally, emotions got the best of the folks of Bluff Creek. The circle closed around Paul. Everyone in the first row wrapped him up in hugs. Those in the second and third rows stretched over and patted his back or tussled up his hair. The circles beyond that touched the innermost circles. Together, they cried. When that was done, they backed away, careful not to knock over the white plastic jugs of bleach labeled “Small Town Inc.” set up like tombstones across the intersection. When everyone was equally dispersed and within reach of a jug, Paul rose his own jug high above their heads. “To the other small towns out there,” he toasted. “May they have better luck than we did.” He poured from a few inches above his open mouth. The clear noxious fluid splashed over his cheeks and burned his eyes. He coughed and spat once, but was determined to finish the job. He had to be an example for the rest of the town. And he was. Others followed in the same manner. Jug held high. Fluid washing over their faces. Baptisms to bookend those held in First Lutheran or Saint Patrick’s. When Otis tipped his back, a good amount of the bleach went into his lungs instead of his gullet. Instantly, he dropped to his knees in an irrepressible hacking fit. His jug fell to the street and landed on its side. The fluid glug glug glugged onto the blacktop as he coughed and fought for air. Even while he struggled, he reached over and sat the jug upright. He didn’t know how much he’d need but refused to run out before the job was done. Otis put a hand on his knee to climb back to his feet. As he did, he couldn’t help but take in the scene around him. Friends, family, patrons of his bar, distant acquaintances, and rivals alike drank to their deaths. Many vomited up blood and bile. Others bled from their eyes while lying on their backs. But they all complied. They all did what they were told by Corporate. All of them except… “Sarah?” he said. She stood a few feet away, her jug of bleach clutched near her breast, her eyes wet but her lips dry. “Sarah, you have to drink,” Otis said. She shook her head side to side in short shivering movements. “I never wanted this,” she stammered. “None of us did,” Otis said. “But that doesn’t matter. Now drink up, just like the rest of us.” “But…” She wasn’t going to do it. He could tell just by looking at her. And, well, that just couldn’t be allowed. “Hey!” Otis called to the others still on their feet. “She’s holding out! Sarah’s not drinking!” Coach Treemont was to Sarah’s right, bending down to vomit and then bobbing back up to chug more bleach. Otis knocked the jug from his hands. He grabbed Coach and shoved him in Sarah’s direction. Mary, who would never fry up the county’s best eggs benedict ever again, had made the bold decision to swallow her death slow, sip by sip. Otis ripped the jug from her lips and pointed her toward Sarah. “Look! She’s trying to get out of it!” Otis announced. “You have to drink, Sarah,” Father Henry said, having heard the ruckus. “Don’t you think you’re any different than the rest of us,” Coach Treemont said. “We’re all doing it, so you have to too,” Mary said. “Take sup, child,” Father said. “Yeah, or as they say in my line of work, bottoms up, bitch,” Otis said. “But… but… I’ll move!” Sarah said as if the idea had only occurred to her now. “I know Bluff Creek is over. I don’t have to live here. I’ll go to a different town. I don’t even have to sell flowers. I’ll do whatever they want.” “You’ll do what you must,” Father Henry said. “And you’ll do it now,” Coach Treemont said. They came for her with fingers hooked like claws and sneers baring their teeth. She screamed and threw her jug of bleach at them. A wash hit Otis in the eyes and he cried out. She threw an elbow and hit Mary in the temple. When Sarah fell, she sent a shoe into Father Henry’s crotch. Coach Treemont wrapped the back of her shirt up in his fists, but she writhed and pulled free. As she ran, Otis tripped over a blood-red and bleach-white corpse. Treemont shoved passed the few that remained on their feet. They fell like trees rotted at the roots in a windstorm. As she ran, blood and bleach stained and cleaned the street simultaneously. When she neared the curb, she stumbled and fell to the sidewalk outside the burning husk of Love in Bloom. Molotov Cocktails tumbled and rolled next to her. It was too late to save the flower shop, but perhaps the bottles of gasoline could still be put to use. Mary was the first to catch up to her. Sarah grabbed a bottle, shattered it against the concrete, and aimed it skyward as Mary fell on her. The shards plunged deep into Mary’s neck. Hot, thick fluid rained on Sarah’s face. Between the curtains of flowing blood and the pall of black smoke clouds, Sarah saw nothing until Coach Treemont ripped Mary’s corpse off of her. The broken bottle lifted from Sarah’s slippery grip with the body. But another bottle was close by. This one already with a burning wick. It crashed against Treemont’s face and ignited just as eagerly as the ones she’d thrown into Tipsy’s Tavern. Treemont’s arms whirled as he stumbled backward, into Father Henry, and for the second time that day, holy vestments met a hellish end. As Sarah picked herself up from the curb, she rose above all the other residents of Bluff Creek. They lay about, poisoned, burned, or cut and bleeding. All of them. Besides her. And besides Otis. He sauntered through the corpses with a pocket knife flipped open and aimed toward her face. “You know, back when we were in school together, I had the biggest crush on you,” Otis said. “And to think I helped you burn down your shop.” “Stay away from me, Otis,” Sarah said as her hand searched the sidewalk for another Molotov Cocktail. None within reach. None that weren’t already tiny bits of burning broken glass. She got up and faced him anyway. “Just drink your bleach and go away. What happens after that is none of your business.” “We’re a community, Sarah,” Otis said. “We were all in this together. And now we’re all going out together. You agreed to it when you signed your contract with Corporate, same as I did. Be a woman of your word.” “I don’t care what the contract says,” Sarah said as they circled each other, she empty-handed and he with a pocket knife. “I know I signed it. I know you signed one just like it. But none of us wanted this.” “What we wanted… that doesn’t matter anymore, now does it?” Otis said. “Then drink your bleach,” Sarah said. “I’ll see that you drink yours first,” Otis said. He charged, knife held high over his head for an attack, but his right foot landed on an empty jug lying sideways on the ground. It shot out from under his boot. He flailed back and his skull cracked hard against the blacktop. Sarah charged too and grabbed another discarded white jug along the way. When Otis tried to sit up, Sarah landed on his chest and pinned his arms down with her knees. “Drink up, Otis. It’s what you're best at,” she said and went pouring out the clear liquid. At first, he held his lips tight. When he did, she aimed the stream into his nostrils. When he gasped, she aimed it for his mouth. When he hacked, she grabbed another bottle and continued the deluge. When he vomited blood, she washed his face clean. When he quit fighting, she jammed the bleach between his teeth and held the jug in place. Her hand formed a tight seal between his lips and the bottle. Its walls sucked in and popped out with each glug. When it ran dry, she threw it aside and looked down Otis’ throat to see a pool of bleach in the back of his mouth. Sarah didn’t see the gleaming polished Oxford loafer coming for her ribs. It hit her square and hard and took all the wind out of her lungs. She rolled to her back, eyes up, and saw a gust of wind carry away the black smoke clouds. Sunlight blinded her for a moment before two figures came between her and the glare. They leered over her in matching black suits. “There’s always one,” Andi said. “Thought we might have two this time,” Randy said. He had a gun and the gun was aimed at Sarah’s forehead. “Well, Sarah. We have to say, we’ve been watching you and really like what we’ve seen,” Andi said. She opened her briefcase and retrieved a stack of papers and an expensive ballpoint pen. “Corporate’s very happy. Love the tenacity. The can-do-it-tive-ness. A real go-getter,” Randy said. “You have ‘management’ written all over you,” Andi said, setting the papers and the pen on her chest. The pen rolled to the pavement while Sarah panted fast and shallow. “Well? What do you say?” Randy asked and then added suggestively, “Mayor Sarah?” Sarah’s fingers floated over the bleach and blood-covered crevices and rocks of Main Street till they found the pen. ### Soap Stars URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-soap-stars/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T15:18:02.000Z I love TV and I there are several reasons why. First, watching TV was a lot more fun than hanging out with my family when I was a kid. That might seem kind of harsh but they know it’s true and now you do too. Second, TV taught me how to tell a good story. We’ve all heard someone try to tell a good story, but do it poorly. Not enough TV is probably the culprit. Or we could blame the schools. Just add it to the list, right? Finally, TV introduced me to the world of soap operas. I started watching soap operas when I was a kid and I’d spend weekdays at my grandparent’s house while my parents were working. I had to help mow the lawn and sometimes we’d go to the pool, but I was happiest when I was sitting in my grandparent’s living room, watching soap operas. The two I watched most consistently were *Days of our Lives* and *Another World*. I don’t remember much about *Another World* other than it was on right after *Days of our Lives* and that there was one woman on it who had a short haircut and wore statement earrings that she had to take off when she’d answer the phone. That actress’s name was Linda Dano and she played Felicia Gallant-Blake-Lindquist-St. George. I think she liked to get married almost as much as she like giant fucking earrings. Most of my core soap opera memories involve *Days of our Lives*, which chronicles the lives and loves, trials and tribulations, and the occasional murder of the people of Salem. The earliest storyline I remember involved the Salem Strangler. The way I remembered it, a lot of the people that the Salem Strangler attacked didn’t die, but ended up in the hospital in a coma for a few weeks. But I checked the internet and apparently he did kill a few people. He was supposed to kill Marlena Evans, played by American treasure Deidre Hall, but the fans weren’t having that so the writers had him kill her twin sister instead. Maybe my brain was trying to shield my young mind from being exposed to murder because it knew that I shouldn’t have been watching this show. I remember on more than one occasion, my grandmother suggested that I go outside and play and I thought that was a ludicrous idea. I know outside has a lot of stuff going on, but do you know what it doesn’t have? *Days of our Lives*. I followed *Days of our Lives* off and on for years, but I really got back into it when Marlena was possessed by a demon. That shit was bonkers in the best possible way. It was so stupid, yet so completely engrossing. Everyone I knew was watching because of that storyline! And I knew some pretty top-notch people. Still do! The storyline went on for months. Just Marlena tied to a bed, being the mouthpiece for a demon and everyone else wondering what to do about it. You’d see characters out to lunch and they’d just casually ask if Marlena was still possessed by a demon, the same way you’d ask if your aunt was back from her cruise yet. You might be wondering how one gets possessed by a demon. That’s a fair question. In this instance, Stefano (who was behind most of the bad shit going down in Salem) hypnotized Marlena, opening her mind to the devil’s influence. You might also be wondering who exorcised Marlena’s demon and that would be John Black, who used to be a police officer and Marlena’s lover, but had decided to become a priest, as one does. Marlena was finally freed of the demon on Easter. She is risen (off that bed), amiright? Soap operas have not only given us some outstanding stories, but they’ve also been a launching pad for some of the great actors of our time. And Josh Duhamel, too. Like sands through the hourglass, these are the actors who I wanted to talk about being on soap operas. - **Julianne Moore**: Julianne Moore is one of the greatest actors of her generation. She’s been nominated for five Academy Awards, winning in 2015 for *Still Alice*. If that’s not impressive enough, then may I direct your attention to *Game Change*. That’s the TV movie where she played Sarah Palin and did such a good job that I didn’t spontaneously combust while thinking about Sarah Palin for the duration of the movie – something I didn’t think was possible. She won an Emmy for that role. You don’t normally hear the words “win” and “Sarah Palin” so close to each other, but this is the exception. On *As The World Turns* in the late 80s, Julianne Moore played Frannie and Frannie’s “identical half-sister and cousin” Sabrina. What even is an identical half-sister and cousin? Whatever it is, if Julianne Moore was playing it, I’d believe it was a real thing. - **Sarah Michelle Gellar:** Most people know Sarah Michelle Gellar from playing the title character on *Buffy the Vampire Slayer* from 1997-2003\. That show is a pop culture blind spot for me, but I’ve got nothing but praise to offer for her work in *Cruel Intentions* and *I Know What You Did Last Summer*. Her characters in both of those movies were way more grown up than most teens should be. Was that because they watched soap operas when they were too young, like I did? It’s quite possible. Sarah Michelle Gellar played Kendall Hart on *All My Children* in the mid-90s and won a Daytime Emmy for her work. Kendall was a troubled teen and yelled at Susan Lucci a lot. I bet Kendall was pissed when Susan Lucci finally won her own Daytime Emmy. - **Angela Bassett:** She might be a queen now, but when she was just starting out, Angela Bassett was a nurse on *Search For Tomorrow* for 10 episodes in 1985\. She also appeared on *Guiding Light* and *Ryan’s Hope*, but only for one episode each. I have no idea how many times actors that worked with the Queen of Wakonda for one day on *Guiding Light* have name dropped her at cocktail parties. Do numbers even go that high? Between *Boyz N the Hood*, *Malcolm X* and *What’s Love Got to Do With It?*, Angela Bassett might be the most successful actor that ever got their start on a soap opera. All that and she never even got possessed by a demon? To quote Hillary Duff, “This is what dreams are made of.” - **Kevin Bacon** Kevin Bacon’s first acting job wasn’t on a soap opera. He appeared in *National Lampoon’s Animal House* and then appeared on *Guiding Light* from 1980 to 1981\. He played a teenage alcoholic named Tim Werner. The words “teenage” and “alcoholic” are bad enough on their own; is there ever really a good enough reason to put them together? I don’t know if Kevin Bacon learned how to dance when he was a teenage alcoholic on *Guiding Light*, but it certainly came in handy a couple years later when he appeared in *Footloose*. Maybe they taught dance at rehab in the 80s. - **Michael B. Jordan** Do you know what Kevin Bacon and Michael B. Jordan have in common? The “B” in Michael B. Jordan stands for “bacon.” Alas, that is not true. What is true is that Michael B. Jordan’s first acting job was also not on a soap opera. His first acting job was on *The Wire* in 2002 and then he played Reggie Montgomery on *All My Children* from 2003 to 2006\. But that’s not all! The role of Reggie Montgomery was originated by Chadwick Boseman, who starred alongside Michael B. Jordan in *Black Panther*. I guess Chadwick Boseman told the powers that be at *All My Children* that he thought the Reggie Montgomery character was too stereotypical and they didn’t care for that feedback and recast the role with Michael B. Jordan. I’d rather not thank the sketchy soap opera executives who made this situation possible, so instead I’ll just thank Michael B. Jordan and his personal trainer. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “What’s the matter, Dina? Don’t you recognize your own mother?” \-Matt LeBlanc as Joey Tribiani playing Dr. Drake Romoray, using the brain of Jessica Lockhart, a character played by Cecilia Monroe, who was played by Susan Sarandon, after a successful brain transplant on the fictionalized version of *Days of our Lives* from *Friends*. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/fuzzy-memories-podcast/)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### Best Batmans URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-best-batmans/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T15:16:05.000Z We live in a time of reboots and reimaginings and I don’t think any character has ever been rebooted or reimagined more than Batman. Sometimes he’s campy and sometimes he’s super serious and sometimes he’s wearing a rubber suit that features nipples. I feel like there are as many versions of Batman in the zeitgeist as there are different flavor variations of Mountain Dew. Is Baja Blast Batman next? My first memory of Batman was from watching *Super Friends* when I was a kid. He spent a lot of his time hanging out at the Hall of Justice with Superman, Wonder Woman and the rest of the team. I spent more time than was strictly necessary wondering if the Hall of Justice was in Gotham City or Metropolis or an entirely different place. If Batman was spending all his time at the Hall of Justice and it wasn’t in Gotham City, then who was watching Gotham City? Had he told Commissioner Gordon that he was going to be out of town for a bit? Was there a Batmobile, Batcopter and Batplane in Gotham City and then another Batmobile, Batcopter and Batplane at the Hall of Justice? Moving all those vehicles back and forth sounds like a logistical nightmare! “The Hall of Justice is not a single, real-world location, but a fictional headquarters for the Justice League that has appeared in different DC Comics continuities and adaptations, often depicted in Washington D.C., and serving as a public-facing base for the team.” That’s what came back when I Googled, “Where is the Hall of Justice?” Oh, it’s not real, Google? Ever heard of a spoiler alert? I guess it makes sense that it’s in Washington D.C., but if it is, I would think that the Super Friends/Justice League would have caught Lindsey Graham soliciting male sex workers a lot more than they let on. Rumor has it that, back in the day, people thought it was weird that Bruce Wayne lived all alone in that big mansion and people thought he was gay because he didn’t have a wife. So the comics introduced the character of Dick Grayson/Robin. There’s a lot to unpack here. First, having an adult man who is almost militant about health and fitness invite a younger man to come and live in his giant mansion is not how you dispel gay rumors. That is what you do if you want to help create gay rumors. And the guy’s name was “Dick?” Was “Anal Andrew” already copywritten? The truth is that Robin was introduced to help the Batman comics appeal to a younger audience and to lighten the tone of the comics. I guess in 1940, when Robin was introduced, young people were very interested in living with someone twice their age. I think they called it “counter culture.” In those days, kids started smoking when they were eight years old, so let’s all just agree to disagree. Psychologist Fredric Wertham wrote an anti-comics book in 1950 called, *Seduction of the Innocent*, and he’s the one that accused Batman and Robin of being romantically involved. I think it’s evident who is gay, Mr. Wertham and it’s not Batman or Robin. Also, the name of your book is gross. I wonder if anyone has written a book about how fucking weird it is that an adult would get so concerned about whether a drawing was interested in sleeping with another drawing that identified as the same gender. Someone could also write a book about all the different Batmans throughout pop culture. They could, but they could also just read this essay because that’s what I’m doing. It’s a relatively quick read and then whoever was going to write the book could instead write a book about whether the Wonder Twins powers are lame or cool or they could even write a book about what to do to get everyone to just fucking knock it off for once.\* - **Adam West (*Batman*, 1966-1968)** This is the campy version of Batman that I mentioned earlier. He didn’t have nipples on his suit, but he did have eyebrows drawn on his cowl, which is actually sort of fierce. It’s the kind of thing a rich old lady who lives on the Upper East Side in Manhattan would do and everyone would be able to tell they were fake, but she wouldn’t care and if she found out who was gossiping about it, she’d have them disinvited to the Met Ball. I don’t think Adam West’s Batman would be that petty, but I do think he’d find something in his utility belt called, “Bat Basic Bitch Spray” and he’d use it to make them wear clothes exclusively purchased with Kohl’s Cash. This Batman was also a fan of words like “Bang!” and “Pow!” and he didn’t think dancing in public compromised your masculinity. - **Micheal Keaton (*Batman*, 1989; *Batman Returns*, 1992; *The Flash*, 2023)** People had a lot of opinions about Michal Keaton, who was mostly known for his comedic acting, being cast as Batman. Well thank god the internet didn’t exist back then because there would have been too many Reddit threads dedicated to the subject and, looking back, those people would feel like assholes because now we all know that they were wrong. Michael Keaton was an outstanding Batman who proved very capable of holding his own against Jack Nicholson’s Joker. This is probably an unpopular opinion, but I prefer *Batman Returns* over *Batman*. *Batman Returns* is just more fun and it’s got Michelle Pfeiffer’s Catwoman, plus Paul Ruebens plays The Penguin’s dad at the beginning of the movie. Michael Keaton would have come back and played the role again in the third movie, but didn’t want to because Tim Burton wasn’t directing. He’s loyal in movies and in real life! - **Val Kilmer (*Batman Forever*, 1995)** This movie shifted the character of Batman back into campier territory, as evidenced by the inclusion of Jim Carrey’s hijinks. I still liked the movie though – it seemed like people were having a good time. It just seemed like that though because Jim Carrey and Tommy Lee Jones did not get along on set and neither did Val Kilmer and the director, Joel Schumacher. Jim Carrey and Tommy Lee Jones didn’t get along for the same reason a fourth grader full of sugar and your old man neighbor don’t get along. As far as Val Kilmer and Joel Schumacher, it turns out that Val Kilmer was trying to use method acting to play Batman and that made him a real pain in the ass to be around and even led to them having a shoving match. Can you imagine? Batman shoving a non-criminal? I don’t understand the question and I refuse to respond to it. - **George Clooney (*Batman and Robin*, 1997)** I rewatched this movie recently and it’s not as bad as I remember it, but it’s still pretty bad. Mostly that’s because of all the puns and double entendres that Uma Thurman and Arnold Schwarzenegger had to say. I like the character of Poison Ivy, but it seems unlikely that someone would be that horny all of the time. This is also the movie that introduced nipples on the Batsuit and I feel the same way about them as I feel about Underwear Night at The Toolshed: I would not have made the suggestion, but I’m perfectly fine that this exists. I will say that it feels like George Clooney is just being George Clooney in this movie, that he’s not even really acting. I think that might have worked in his favor though because, at the time, George Clooney and Bruce Wayne were more or less the same guy. - **Christian Bale (*Batman Begins*, 2005; *The Dark Knight*, 2008; *The Dark Knight Rises*, 2012)** Christian Bale shepherded in Batman’s gritty era that we’re still in today. His choice to make Batman’s voice sound like a garbage disposal who just learned English could have gone poorly, but it worked out. Christian Bale is known for his method acting too and, unlike Val Kilmer, it didn’t get him in trouble with the director. He did get some unwelcome public scrutiny after audio leaked of him screaming at a cinematographer who accidentally walked into a scene during filming on *The Dark Knight*. I guess playing a fictional vigilante really gets these actors juiced up about shit. - **Honorable Mentions: Ben Affleck (*Batman vs. Superman: Dawn of Justice*, 2016; *Justice League*, 2017) and Robert Pattinson (*The Batman*, 2022)** I had the hots for Ben Affleck for a while a few years ago so I was pretty jazzed when they cast him as Batman. When they did cast him though, he was told to not go on the internet and read people’s reactions, which seems a little like asking someone to marry you and then leaving before they answer. It’s feedback you should consider! I do not have the hots for Robert Pattinson and I think that’s fine because I don’t believe he has the hots for me. His Batman movie was so bleak though. I was half expecting them to give Alfred shingles. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “Our scars can destroy us, but if we survive them, they can transform us.” \-Robert Pattinson as Batman, either giving someone a pep talk or trying to sell someone a case of Proactiv. *\*For anyone reading this, if you have the capabilities, I’m BEGGING you to write this book.* **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/fuzzy-memories-podcast/)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "Before the Rain,” Betty Stanton URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-before-the-rain-betty-stanton/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T16:11:35.000Z Betty Stanton (she/her) is a Pushcart nominated writer who lives and works in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in various journals and collections and has been included in various anthologies. She received her MFA from The University of Texas - El Paso and holds a doctorate in Educational Leadership. She is currently on the editorial board of Ivo Review. @[fadingbetty.bsky.social](http://fadingbetty.bsky.social/?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *Today’s episode: "Before the Rain," by Betty Stanton. Read by the author.* Penance They knew thirst before he came. It had been forty days since the last rain, but the dust in this stretch of nowhere had memory longer than that. Water hadn’t pooled in the riverbed since spring. The well clanged dry when the buckets dropped. Chickens lay still in their pens, heads tilted as if listening for something. The horses no longer whinnied. They just watched the horizon, eyes rimmed white. When he rode in, no one saw the horse. They only saw the way the light bent around him, how the air grew heavier like something exhaled from a dirty lung. Like breath held too long. The dust in his tracks rose behind him but didn’t settle. It spun in the light, dimming the sun. At first, they thought he was just another drifter - cracked boots, coat too long for the heat, hat pulled low enough to shadow the fact that he had no eyes. Just a bone-white stare, dry as the riverbed. He didn’t speak, not at first. He stood by the well and listened. It was the preacher who broke first. A man of long-winded sermons and red-knuckled morality. He came striding across the square like a man on fire with God’s own righteousness. “You there,” he called. “You come to ask or to offer?” The rider didn’t move. The preacher’s voice faltered just slightly. “This town’s no place for beggars or ghosts. We’ve paid for our sins. There’s no judgment left to pass.” Still nothing. The preacher got closer, reaching for his cross like a weapon. “You got business, you speak it. Or you get gone.” The rider finally turned. Just a fraction. Just enough. The preacher dropped to his knees. His tongue withered in his mouth, a slug salted and dying. He tried to pray. Nothing came out but dust. After that, no one else tried to talk. When the rider spoke, he didn’t ask for water or shelter. He asked for names. They gave him one. Elias Carter. A man who’d fled town with another man’s wife. The rider nodded. Sat by the well. Waited. The next morning, someone found Elias Carter’s name carved into the church’s side. A handprint next to it - not bloody, just dry, as if it had been pressed there by wind. By noon, the milk had turned to chalk in the buckets. By dusk, even the cacti wilted. They gave him another name. Thomas Hay. He’d been hanged years ago for a crime no one could quite remember the facts of, just that it had been bad enough to make the sheriff cry. The wind kicked up around the well. Children stopped remembering their mothers’ names. The mayor met with the elders. “We give him what he asks,” he said. “Give him living names. Then he’ll go.” Mrs. Talbot, the blacksmith’s widow, spat at his feet. “You think he’s here for them or us?” So they gave him another name. Daniel Finch. Buried outside the fence. Daniel had drunk himself to death during the last bad winter. The rider tilted his head, like he recognized the name. That night, the town dogs lay down and did not get up again. The droplets left in the well turned to ash. When the fourth name was given, the wind began to sing. Not music - just the sound of something trying to remember how to cry. The rider was not hungry. Not thirsty. He didn’t even seem to be angry. He was waiting, and they knew it. Somewhere between sin and silence, they had written the names he hunted themselves. On tongues. On prayers. On fenceposts and courthouse walls. Their guilt had weight, they decided, and he was the weight come to balance those scales. On the sixth day, a child pointed to him and said “That’s what dying looks like.” Her mother slapped her silent. By the seventh day, no one spoke at all. He stood beside the well, still as a ruin. Desire Before the rider came, there was Elijah and there was Caleb. They weren’t brothers, though people said they were. Said it to protect them. Said it to make sense of how the two boys could spend so much time together - hunting jackrabbits, mending fences, sleeping out past the reaches of town where stars came close enough to burn your skin. Elijah had a laugh that could split a storm cloud. Caleb had a scar beneath his left eye from a horse that had once thrown him clean off. They were made for each other in the way lightning was made for dry plains - inevitable, dangerous, divine. In the dry season two years before the rider came, they vanished together for four days. Took the last of the good whiskey and a stolen mule and set out toward the old silver canyon. When they came back, Elijah’s shirt was torn and Caleb had a wound across his neck that didn’t come from any rockfall. They didn’t say where they’d been, but Elijah stopped coming to church and Caleb wouldn’t meet his eyes. After a month, Caleb married Mercy Fallow. After two months, Elijah left town with only a saddlebag and a dented tin cup. The saloon girl said she heard him crying into his own shirt the night before he left, muttering something about mouths that never stayed closed and hands that never stopped shaking. On the eighth day, Caleb was the first to offer a name. He said it too fast. Like it had been waiting. Like it had been sharpened. Elijah Quinn. The rider did not move. Just let the name hang in the dust like a low branch over water. It wasn’t until the next morning that Caleb found the message carved in the tin of his water basin. That was not yours to give. Mercy left the next day and took their son. Caleb stayed. He had to. That night, the town forgot how to sing. Caleb stood on the edge of town with dust filling his mouth and looked toward the canyon. Once, he’d wanted to die for what he felt. Then he’d wanted to live. Now, he just wanted to be remembered right - not for who he married, or what name he gave, but for the time he held Elijah under the stars and thought maybe the world had been made for them. The rider never asked Caleb for his own name, but Caleb gave it anyway. When he did, the wind stopped. The dust fell still and the well whispered a name no one spoke aloud anymore. A name shaped like a prayer and buried like a bone. The rider didn’t judge him. He only turned and faced the horizon. That was worse. Inheritance The boy had a cough before the drought started. Just a dry little thing in the night. Nothing to worry about, his father said. Just dust in the throat. The dust stayed to become a sea. It got into the corn first. Then the pigs. Then the walls of the house. His mother tried to keep it out with damp cloth pressed to the sills, but the cloth went dry too fast. She stopped humming when she swept. The broom raised more dust than it caught. His father had a way of standing with his fists closed - even when he wasn’t angry. The boy learned to listen for the sound of his boots before he came through the door. Learned to tell whether supper would be smiles, or silence, or fury. Some nights, the boy dreamed of rain thick like honey. In his dreams, he drank until his belly swelled, but when he woke, the cough was still there. He coughed until his throat bled. He coughed until his father hit the wall and told him to shut his goddamn mouth before he made it worse. Thirst runs in bloodlines. His mother whispered that once. She said it like the memory of a curse, quiet and forbidden. The rider had a name once. Of course he did. No one speaks it now. Maybe the desert took it, or the rider buried it himself. He was young once. He was someone’s son. Someone’s failure. Someone’s secret. Maybe it was the thirst that hollowed him out, or maybe it was the name he carried - his father’s name - said too many times with fists or belt buckles, until he no longer wanted it. Maybe the thirst took pity on him. The rider doesn’t remember the sound of his own voice, but he remembers the smell of whiskey sweat and the way his mother whispered prayers into the fire. He remembers the word sorry shouted through a door that wouldn’t open. He remembers being told to fetch water from a well that had already run dry. That’s what inheritance is, in places like this. You’re sent out with a name in your mouth and no map. You’re told to find water. You’re told not to come back empty. And if you do? Well. Some boys die. Others learn to listen. Somewhere in the dust of his coat, the rider still carries that name. Pressed flat like a flower in a book. Forgotten, but not gone. When he came to this town, he heard it again - not the name itself, but the shape of it. The cruelty passed down from father to son. The way some men’s mouths are too dry to say I was wrong. He watched a father slap his boy in the street coughing. The rider sat by the well and remembered the hand that taught him how to draw blood before he learned to write, and he waited. On the ninth night the boy crept from his home and brought him a folded note. My father’s name is Levi Cray. Please don’t take mine. The rider read it, then folded it again and tucked it into the dust of his coat. When morning came, Levi’s name was on the wall of the church. Dust knows what you give up to break the cycle. Thirst runs in bloodlines. Judgment The boy who had swallowed his own tongue died on the tenth day. He hadn’t spoken since the preacher died in the street, hadn’t eaten since the dogs didn’t get up again. His mother rocked him in her arms like he was still warm, like she could wring life back into him by crying out his name to the wind enough times. They buried him in dust because the ground was too hard for digging. By then, the townsfolk had stopped whispering. They stood out in the street, watching the rider beside the well, their lips cracked and bleeding. A whole town of people trying not to speak, not to breathe too hard, not to draw attention. Not to give him another name. But he wasn’t watching them anymore. He was listening. You can hear guilt in silence, if you listen long enough. It echoes like an empty cup. The rider tilted his head slightly, as if straining to catch a sound just out of reach. A name trying to say itself. The mayor was the first to break. “My name,” he said, voice rasping like rope. “Is Jamison Murphy. Take my name. Let the others be.” The rider didn’t move. Then came Mrs. Talbot, her hair missing in chunks from where she had torn it out. “I stole water,” she said. “From the chapel. I said it was for the baby. It wasn’t. I drank it before the baby died.” The saloon girl followed, then the schoolteacher. Names rose into the air like smoke. Some confessed sins. Some only gave names. The rider never asked for the difference. And when the sun dipped low enough to set the dust on fire, one final figure stepped forward. The sheriff. He used to be the strongest man anyone here had ever seen – jaw like split granite and a body built by years of the hard desert sun. He wore his badge like a scar. He was a man who was used to silence, accustomed to watching things die slowly. Today, he was shaking. “I gave him up,” he said. No one asked who. “I gave him up to save myself. Thought maybe the desert would take him instead of me.” He looked at the rider then, really looked, and for a moment there was a flicker - a momentary narrowing of distance. Like recognition. Like memory. “I see you now,” the sheriff whispered. The rider stepped forward. One step. That was all. The sheriff dropped to his knees. Dust filled his eyes. Closed his throat. Then it was gone. When he looked up, the rider was gone. Then the sky cracked and opened in rain. They did not cheer when the water came. It fell slow, at first, like it had forgotten how. Just a hush against rooftops, a soft tapping on the tin over the church. Then louder. Heavier. Sheets of it, thick as blood and cold as truth. They let it wash them where they stood, eyes closed, mouths shut. A kind of prayer. By morning, no one remembered the rider’s face, only the shape of his absence. The boy’s mother planted rosemary beside the well. A new preacher came. The sheriff never spoke again. ### Taylor Swift Truths URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-taylor-swift-truths/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T15:13:30.000Z I have mixed feelings about Taylor Swift. And when I use the phrase “mixed feelings,” I don’t mean it the same way as most people mean it when they say, “mixed feelings” (Because I’m special and unique!). I am special and unique, but that’s more of a medical/scientific discussion. When I use the term “mixed feelings” in regard to Taylor Swift, I mean that I’m impressed with not only the level of success that she’s managed to achieve, but also that she’s been able to maintain that level of success for years. I also think that she’s been able to put up with SO MUCH dumb bullshit over the years and do it mostly with grace and dignity. And she’s talented. I wouldn’t call myself a Swiftie by any means, but she knows how to write a song and how to put on a show. Do those things cumulatively add up to mixed feelings? Am I doing the language math correctly? I would argue that these are mixed feelings, just not a mix of good and bad feelings. They’re all pretty positive feelings, but together they form a mix. It’s feelings cake! Years ago, about the time Taylor Swift was starting to transition from just a regular country/pop star to THE TAYLOR SWIFT, some straight man on my Facebook feed posted a status update letting us all know that he didn’t really get what all the hype was about. I took some time to look around Facebook and try to figure out who the fuck asked him if he could explain what all the hype was about, but I didn’t find anything. I really wanted to know! I didn’t know anyone personally that was on the edge of their seat, waiting for this mediocre gentleman to weigh in on the phenomenon that is Taylor Swift, but there’s a lot of people out there that I don’t know. If I was a better reporter, I’d follow up with that man and see what he thinks of Taylor Swift today, but I feel like doing that (aka asking for his opinion) would make me part of the problem. So now I’m just sitting here wondering what that man thinks of Taylor Swift! Just kidding – I’m actually thinking about mashed potatoes. Another time on Facebook (Should I have made this column about just things I’ve seen on Facebook?), somebody’s mom posted a rant about Taylor Swift after her song, “Look What You Made Me Do,” was released. It was some long-winded bullshit about how that song suggested that other people were responsible for Taylor Swift’s actions and this mom wondered how she was going to explain that to her child? Listen – if you don’t want to explain shit to your kids, don’t have them. I don’t have any children, but from what I understand, they ask a fuckton of questions and I have to believe that most of them are more difficult to answer than, “What do the lyrics in ‘Look What You Made Me Do’ mean?” If you can answer, “Why doesn’t dad live here anymore?” then you can tell Junior that what Taylor Swift meant was, “I didn’t used to be a bitch, but life happens and now I’m all wound up and you’re about to suffer the consequences.” To be fair, I don’t think this woman really understood what the lyrics to that song meant. She seemed slow and angry, like she was trying to bounce back from a discount colonoscopy she’d had earlier that day. Taylor Swift is a very talented songwriter, but I wouldn’t say that most of her lyrics are difficult to unpack. And you know what? That’s fine! Not all song lyrics need to take three weeks and two dictionaries to decipher. We have Bob Dylan for those kinds of lyrics. Or Leonard Cohen, if you’re nasty. I can’t write a song, but I can certainly write a list. The list below is one I wrote and it consists of things that people bitch about when it comes to Taylor Swift. If she wants to take this list and write a song about it, I would love to share that experience (and those songwriting royalties) with her. - **Shock at her own success:** This isn’t a thing these days, but Taylor Swift used to do this thing where, when she won an award, she’d look really shocked. As you know, girlfriend wins a lot of awards, so after a while people started suggesting that it was an act and that she really wasn’t all that surprised. But you know what? If the look on her face when she won an award looked like, “Yeah, I knew I was going to win. I’m pretty great, better than you, for sure,” people would have bitched about that too. I guess if someone is going to bitch about you, it’s better that they bitch that you’re trying not to seem cocky than bitching that you seem too cocky. But really, fuck those people. If you’ve earned the right to be proud of your accomplishments, then be proud of them. Unless your only accomplishment is bitching about women on the internet. That’s not something you should be proud of. - **Being overrated and overexposed:** As I mentioned earlier in this essay, appointing yourself as someone who needs to weigh in on the spectacle that is Taylor Swift is not something that the world needs right now. Per Burt Bacharach, what the world needs now is love, you asshole. Your rating of Taylor Swift, or any other public figure for that matter, doesn’t need to match anyone else’s, therefore negating the idea of one’s rating being too high. It’s a sliding scale, you sonofabitch! As far as her being overexposed, that’s not really her fault. Paparazzi follow her around all the time and the media reports on everything she does. If your worst problem is feeling like they show her on TV too much when she attends a Kansas City Chiefs game, then you’re doing pretty good. - **She’s got a victim persona:** My perception has never been that she’s got a victim persona, but the internet says it’s a thing. I wonder if this has anything to do with the Kanye West incident from the 2009 MTV Video Music Awards. You know that time that a grown man bitched about a woman succeeding, but he did it in person instead of in the comments section. He’s so brave! No, sorry. I didn’t mean “so brave.” I meant “a misogynist.” Then after they’d made up, Kim Kardashian secretly recorded her agreeing to let Kanye West call Taylor Swift a bitch in a song (or something like that – I’m not going to go look it up because I think it’s gross). Problem is, he didn’t tell her he was going to call her that. He just said he was going to use her name. All that being said, I don’t think Taylor Swift is anyone’s victim. But I think Kanye West may know a thing or two about a victim persona. - **Her carbon footprint is too large:** This idea is mostly based on the fact that she has a private jet. What is she supposed to do? Join the Delta SkyMiles® program? She can’t exactly stroll through the Rapid City Regional Airport, can she? If she did that, the carbon footprint of all the people rushing to the airport to try and see her would be just as much or more as using a private jet. Also, if you’ve ever driven around a Target parking lot, waiting for a parking spot to open up that’s closer to the front door so you have to walk less, you’ve officially disqualified yourself from ever complaining about someone else’s carbon footprint. - **Her political opinions:** You know who has a problem with Taylor Swift sharing her political opinions? People who don’t share the same political opinions as her. And they’re not exactly approaching the situation with an objective attitude (or for embodying the idea that knowledge is power). An American who also happens to be a famous person has the same right to share their political opinion as any other American. Oh, you don’t agree with their political opinion? OK. That’s all. It’s fine that you don’t agree with it. Why would there be a discussion beyond that? If you’ve purchased flags or bumper stickers or hats or koozies or a Bible or tinted moisturizer that is several shades off from your actual skin tone whose proceeds go to support our current administration and you’ve showcased any of those items at your home or on your car or on your person, then, like that lazy turd making laps around the Target parking lot, you have disqualified yourself from complaining about anyone else sharing their political opinion. You’ve probably also disqualified yourself from anyone assuming you’re “a reader.” ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** "People throw rocks at things that shine." –-Taylor Swift, coming up with a new way to tell someone to kiss her entire ass. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "Dark Earth,” Sarah L. Parris URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-dark-earth-sarah-l-parris/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T16:07:38.000Z Sarah Parris writes short speculative and fantasy fiction. She is also an instructor of English and Creative Writing, which she believes is the best job ever. Sarah lives in Missouri with her wife and cats. In her free time, Sarah can often be found playing Dungeons & Dragons. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *Today’s episode: "Dark Earth," by Sarah Parris. Read by the Midwest Weird team.* The moon was larger than it had ever been the night the Earth split apart. Our shadows have never been the same. Mine appears viscous and fluid, stretched out before me. It shifts the way water does in oil. Some have barely any shadows at all. My mother’s is thin, hardly noticeable even in harsh daylight. The saying used to be that when someone looked drained, they were a shadow of themselves, or perhaps that they had shadows beneath their eyes. No one uses those anymore – not since we noticed that sometimes in the sky, we can see another dark shape between the stars somewhat the size of the moon. NASA hasn’t confirmed any suspicions, except to say that there is a celestial body there with the density and mass to suggest a planet. The rest is classified, or so they say. I think they’re too afraid to look. I know I am. I don’t glance at the sky anymore. Not out car windows, or in puddles, or in the reflections of storefronts or sunglasses. My heart pounds fast enough when I catch sight of the shadow that isn’t quite mine. But I can’t avoid looking up and looking down. A girl’s gotta live. I hand a paper cup of coffee across the counter to an older woman in a pink coat. The charm of my bracelet dangles near the countertop but my shadow doesn’t follow, shifting instead like shade at the bottom of a swimming pool, wavelike, darker beneath my fingers and lighter beneath my palm. I smile at the woman and wish her a nice day. Her shadow is pooled in the slope of her shoulders on the floor. The shadow of the man behind her lies across the linoleum in the opposite direction, though the light source is the same. The darkest part is his head. Outside, the shadows of light poles and mailboxes run crooked across the sidewalk, all at angles to each other. I know tomorrow the angles will be different. I ask the man for his order. At home, my parents watch the news every night. A new hobby. Before, they would binge old sci-fi shows after dinner, dad with a Moscow mule in one hand, mom with a pile of yarn and a cat on her lap, crochet needle twisting endlessly between her fingers. They were in the middle of *Quantum Leap* last I saw, and the original *Battlestar Galactica* before that. Now they watch wide-eyed and awestruck at the ludicrous accusations politicians make against anyone they can think of – gays, scientists, NASA, Muslims, liberals, Obama, Satanists, China, Russia, Satan himself, God, Jeff Bezos. “They’re nuts!” Dad used to say emphatically about people he couldn’t understand. “She’s absolutely, totally nuts!” he once exclaimed about Sarah Palin. Now he mutters, “The world is fucked,” beneath the cheery jingle of a yogurt commercial and hardly dares to breathe. His shadow, like everyone else’s, is smaller than it used to be, but unlike everyone else’s, it doesn’t even try to imitate his form, and instead follows him around as a small circle, like a soccer ball. When I pass by the living room, it lays at his side like a cat. On his other side Patches, the tortoiseshell calico, is curled against him. For a moment they look identical. “Hi, hon!” Mom says from the chair. “How was work?” The ten o’clock news has just ended and on TV John Oliver cracks a joke about Putin, but in his eyes, I can see his heart racing. There are no more distractions. In my room, I boot up Steam and try to lose myself in a game where I’ve set the shadow rendering to *High*. The next week, Japan makes an international announcement that the mass in the sky is indeed another Earth. Or rather, a Dark Earth, made up of our shadows. “It really does make you think of an anime,” says lead researcher Maruko Tokugawa. When the news breaks, news outlets can’t help making ‘dark side of the moon’ puns. There is still no explanation as to why the shadows no longer obey the laws of light or how only parts of them could be taken, but we are assured research is being done. Rumors fly that they aren’t our shadows at all, but creatures or aliens that exist in shadow form and have latched onto us. Maybe they’re waiting to strike or maybe they’re slowly killing us already and we can’t tell yet. Riots are everywhere as people scream about the end of the world. A veritable army of 4chan-ers and Redditors organize a storm on Area 51, guns and all. Most of them are killed and the rest arrested when the U.S. Army unexpectedly streams out of the compound to defend government territory. I’m pouring steamed milk into a cappuccino when I hear the news. I wish I could be phased. A sick, hard lump forms in my stomach like an olive pit, and I can’t help agreeing with my dad. “The world is fucked.” Across the counter, the old woman in the pink coat agrees. “But it’s always been fucked, dear. It’s just everyone can see it now.” Her shadow is pooled in her arms today. Behind her, a man’s shadow runs perpendicular to it, though the light source is the same. The darkest part is pooled in his chest. I pass the coffee to her over the counter. The charm of my bracelet sways near the surface, but my shadow doesn’t follow. The darkest part is directly beneath my palm. Psychics claim to be able to read your shadow like an aura or a lifeline. They claim it’s a chakra thing, or a zodiac thing, or a psyche thing. One tells me I’m afraid of what’s to come. Another tells me I’ll be happier if I stop thinking so much. My therapist agrees and prescribes me fluoxetine, which I don’t fill. At home, Mom greets me the same way she does every day. “Hi, hon! How was work?” She’s cooking dinner. Her shadow hovers behind her, intersecting with mine, which is in front of me. I can barely see the parts that aren’t touching mine, but I can tell it’s darkest at her feet today. I wonder what the psychics would say about that. I tell her about Area 51 and she tells me that Brexit proceedings have been put on hold indefinitely, and something else about the UN. I’m not listening because I’m watching the shadows of the ceiling fan blades move in different directions from each other, creating a dizzying pattern across my and Mom’s overlapping shadows. Somehow, I feel closer to her, as if we’re sharing a secret. Three days later a headline runs reading, ‘Florida Man Arrested After Stealing Every Lightbulb From Lowes, Shooting Out 17 Street Lights, And Crashing Car into Utility Billing Office.’ When the officers cuff him, he feverishly explains that without light there would be no shadows left to worry about. Drugs are found in his car. Go figure. A forest fire breaks out in Yellowstone, darkening the surrounding skies. It garners approximately ten seconds of news coverage before the topic shifts to international discussions about the global state of emergency. More and more theories pop up about the Dark Earth, and the political hearings are endless. A team of world-renowned astrophysicists and mathematicians have formed a task force and every telescope, satellite, and sensor on Earth is pointed at the shadow world in the sky. The readings stream in, but they are close to unintelligible. The greatest minds in the world are baffled. Gun violence and church attendance rates are at an all-time high. Mom begs me to quit my job, but I refuse to let hysteria dictate how I spend my time. Across town someone blows up the DMV with firecrackers in a display of displeasure with the government. As I hand a coffee over the counter to the old woman in the pink coat, I can’t help wondering why they didn’t target city hall three streets over. The charm of my bracelet scrapes against the countertop as it swings but my shadow doesn’t follow it. Today it is darkest beneath my elbow. Outside the streetlights shine warmly in the cold rain and the shadows of the drops on the windows are darker than they should be. A month later, North Korea fires a nuke at the Dark Earth. No one can quite figure why, but apparently the hope is that the shadows will come back if the thing is exploded. NASA does not support this hypothesis but remains carefully neutral over the whole thing. As we watch the news and the sky and wait for something to happen, I can’t help but notice the moon is the biggest it’s ever been. When the bomb detonates there is no need for a news anchor in a red blazer to urge us to take cover. The Earth shakes under our feet and I hear Dad, crouched beneath the dining table, utter his favorite line while clutching a Moscow mule. Beside him, his shadow wriggles in the light and when I look again, it’s the size of a tennis ball. *Sarah Parris writes short speculative and fantasy fiction. She is also an instructor of English and Creative Writing, which she believes is the best job ever. Sarah lives in Missouri with her wife and cats. In her free time, Sarah can often be found playing Dungeons & Dragons.* ### All About Anaconda URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-all-about-anaconda/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T15:11:26.000Z Do you remember that time someone asked Mariah Carey about Jennifer Lopez and Mariah Carey responded with, “I don’t know her”? All due respect to Ms. Lopez, but that is some top tier shade right there. In a move very out of character for me, I will not follow Mariah Carey’s lead and I will admit that I do know Jennifer Lopez. I don’t know her personally, but I’m familiar with her career and I would like to spend the next few minutes discussing one of the films from said career. The year was 1997\. Jennifer Lopez’s run on *In Living Color* had wrapped up. She’d appeared in a handful of movies, including *Money Train* and *Selena*. But then in April of 1997, *Anaconda* was released and I think it might be my favorite Jennifer Lopez movie. It’s not my favorite because it’s a good movie (it’s not a good movie). It’s not my favorite because she delivers a stellar performance (she does not deliver a stellar performance). It’s my favorite Jennifer Lopez movie because it’s very dumb and has bad special effects, but it’s also very funny. I don’t think the filmmakers meant for it to be funny, but a gift is a gift. The plot of the movie isn’t complicated, which is one of the many things working in its favor. Jennifer Lopez is part of a National Geographic documentary film crew that is exploring the Brazilian rainforest, looking for an elusive tribe of people that live there (maybe they live there because they don’t want to be found, Jennifer Lopez). Shortly after the film crew begins their journey, they encounter Paul, played by noted skeezeball Jon Voight, who is stranded (or so he says) and they take him onboard their boat. They eventually find out that they’ve been setup and that Paul is really a snake hunter and he’s looking for the legendary anaconda – the biggest snake in all of the rainforest. If I had a nickel… I don’t want to spoil the movie if you haven’t seen it, but I will tell you that it is disappointingly free from any trouser snake jokes. I would have expected at least three, but there isn’t even one. What the movie does have is Ice Cube and a young Owen Wilson in supporting roles. In 2022 Jennifer Lopez appeared with Owen Wilson in another movie, *Marry Me*. That’s the movie that motivated me to buy an ad-free subscription to the Peacock streaming service because I got so sick of having to watch commercials for *Marry Me* when I was trying to watch episodes of the Real Housewives. I bet that was Peacock’s plan all along. I don’t know anyone who has seen *Marry Me*, so who knows if it’s even a real movie. Back to *Anaconda.* If you’re pressed for time, you could probably skip the first half of the movie. The only thing you see the snake kill in the first half of the movie is a panther, which is OK, but that’s all. The snake did squeeze the panther so hard that the panther’s eye popped out, which was a nice touch, but it’s still not as good as seeing it eat the actor listed eighth in the credits. Maybe the most interesting thing about the 1997 film *Anaconda* is the fact that they’ve (kind of) remade it for 2025\. You’ve probably seen the trailer by now, but for those who haven’t, the 2025 version stars Paul Rudd and Jack Black and in the movie, they decide to remake *Anaconda* and then when they’re making the movie, a real snake in the jungle starts pursuing them. It’s the *Tropic Thunder* of snake movies, which is something we desperately need right now. In honor of the new *Anaconda*, I’d like to share with you my list of things from the original version of the film that probably won’t make it into the remake. But it would be kind of cool if they did because if it’s not broken, don’t fix it. But if they do insist on fixing it, I hope they do it with better CGI. - **Jon Voight’s accent:** Whenever Jon Voight’s character speaks, it sounds like the director told him to “sound like someone who lives near the equator.” It’s not really specific to one country or region, but that’s about as close as you can get to determining where this person grew up. I wonder if he’s from the same place where Alec Baldwin’s wife is from, aka Connecticut. She sometimes has an accent, so maybe they went to high school together. The accent is distracting, even more so when it’s coming out of Jon Voight’s very Caucasian face. Maybe this where they got the idea for Jar Jar Binks accent in *The Phantom Menace*. - **The first half of the movie:** I mentioned earlier that not much happens in the first half of the movie, but there are a couple of things worth bringing up. First, Owen Wilson’s character starts smoking a cigarette for some reason. I mean, I guess people smoked in the 90s, but here it just kind of popped up out of the blue for no reason. It made about as much sense as if he’d sat down and pulled out some Legos or starting trimming his toenails. Also, at one point, Jon Voight’s character finds a pile of powder and tells everyone that it’s the powder of human bones. Sure, Jan. - **Noisy snakes:** I’ll admit, I’ve never been killed by a snake. But if I had, I don’t think it would be as noisy as the snakes in this movie. I understand that, as a viewer, I would also think it was weird if it was completely silent when the snake was killing people. But this movie makes it sound like it’s noisier than someone beating the shit out of a pinata at a child’s birthday party while the party guests cheer them on. If one of these snakes were going to kill you in a city they’d have to get a permit so they wouldn’t get ticketed for breaking a noise ordinance. And that makes me wonder if, when a snake goes in to get a noise permit because they’re going to kill someone, does the person working at the noise permit desk have to report that to animal control? Like, are they a mandatory reporter for pending snake murder? - **Jon Voight’s thighs:** Yes, I understand that you don’t want to hear about Jon Voight’s thighs. I can assure you, I don’t really want to talk about them, but there’s no way we can get out of this without me mentioning them. At one point in the film, after the documentary crew has realized that the snake hunter is bad news, they tie him up on the boat. Most of the film crew goes off into the jungle to look for fuel for the boat (or something like that) and he’s left alone with one girl who showed part of her boob earlier so you know she’s not going to make it to the end credits. Anyway, Jon Voight tricks her into coming too close to him and then he uses his thighs and squeezes her head/neck area and kills her. For him, I think it was a tribute to the anaconda he’s hunting because they squeeze people to death too. I thought it had a real “pick me” vibe that seemed kind of desperate. Just be yourself Jon Voight! If that’s not good enough for the snake, then it was never meant to be. - **That ending:** By the end of the movie, Jennifer Lopez, Ice Cube and Jon Voight are in some sort of abandoned jungle factory building and Jon Voight is using the other two as bait to try and capture an even bigger snake because Jennifer Lopez went and killed the other snake that Jon Voight was chasing after. As you might expect, the bigger snake shows up and eats Jon Voight, which is all fine and good, but you know how it is when giant snakes eat people – they have to make a big production out of it. So after the snake eats Jon Voight, the snake regurgitates him right in front of Jennifer Lopez and the corpse of Jon Voight winks at Jennifer Lopez before collapsing. This is a weird time to have a diva-off, but OK. Then Ice Cube sets the snake on fire, but the snake continues to chase Jennifer Lopez. I think it’s because snakes are cold blooded? Probably not, but if I was the snake and someone set me on fire, I think I’d address that before I tried to eat Jennifer Lopez. This must be where the saying “hindsight is 20/20” came from. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “Is it just me or does the jungle make you really, really horny?” \-Gary (Owen Wilson) who already knows the answer to that question but is trying to live up to his reputation as the boat perv. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "the oven of america,” Gabriella Fryer URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-the-oven-of-america-gabriella-fryer/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T16:04:27.000Z Gabriella Fryer is a mother, wife, and writer located in New England, but she was born and raised all over the Midwest. She started her family in Illinois, and finds her writing often starts or ends in its familiar landscapes. Gabriella enjoys writing poetry, short fiction, essays, and creative nonfiction about magic, food, ecology, queerness, and the nonhuman.\` Her chapbook, Muted Red, was published by Bottlecap Press and her creative writing can also be found at Gramarye, Crow & Cross Keys, 12 Willows Press, and Shemom Poetry Zine, among others. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *Today’s episode: “the oven of America," by Gabriella Fryer. Read by the author.* I rub my body down with salt. I have to do this at least once per week (but preferably every night), or I can’t breathe properly and my ligaments and tendons start to break down. In this way, I am always on the brink of deconstruction– like the deconstructed duck tamale I used to get from this restaurant back home. It was once a duck and once a tamale and now it is neither; I became less human with every bite. So, I soak myself in bath salts, coat myself in salty lotion, breathe in briny candles, and eat popcorn with “too much” cheese by the light of my pink lamp. It is slowly losing itself to my dresser and I let blood soak through my clothes and coat my thighs. I love that you’re not afraid of me in these moments– plus, it's a great lubricant. We do this in the name of science! I was born in the oven of America. I know every region will insist it is the most american part of America. But we bake apple pie. And put peanut butter in basically everything, like scotcharoos and puppy chow. We have Chicago and Abraham Lincoln and tornados. We built our megafarms on the corpses of bison and the prairie. Billboards tell me I will burn in hell. Did you know that babies have fingernails at just 12 weeks? You would if you drove Interstate 74. When I was a child in the midwest I was obsessed with ancient Egypt and mummification. We eat a lot of fried foods– this is an example of a true stereotype. I like to dip my fried foods in ranch dressing because that just makes sense. I think I am preserving myself from the inside out– saving my heartland. I think of my stillborn brother’s tiny body– he haunts me because he never ate fried foods. I am afraid of large creatures in aquariums. I have a recurring dream that I am in a swimming pool so immense that I can’t see the ends of it anywhere. I can’t see the huge creatures in the pool but I can sense them. Have you ever had a dream like this? My youngest daughter slips out of my grasp while I half drown in the waves– waves growing larger and larger with each subterranean movement. I feel their power wash over my muscular thighs. I have a dream my eldest daughter wants to drown herself in our pool. She prepares a sleeping bag to keep her weighed down. I keep her distracted long enough that she forgets about the heaviness of life. When I went to summer camp– that year my mom worked at a YMCA in Indiana– I swam every day and was never afraid of drowning or if the chemicals in the pool would turn my hair green. I wore sunscreen in the morning and surely sweated it off by noon but I didn’t worry either about skin cancer or wrinkles. My hair turned bright blonde and my skin grew freckled. I ran through the woods playing capture the flag. A boy says he has a crush on me and I loved him in the way that girls love boys that have crushes on them. I ate McDonald’s cheeseburgers and fries and so much ketchup every evening on the drive home. I worry about leaving people unloved and loving people too hard– this is the crux of the midwestern goodbye. Although I am loyal and fierce– I am not so many things. But somehow, all that salt seems to keep my negation and abjection in the vague shape of a human. I coat my skin in flour and consume large quantities of sugar and spice to make myself more feminine. And eggs, for protein and fat. I do this and still, I am a breaker of things, a breaker of people– when I run away, I leave a wake of disgrace. I am that tornado that flattened my parent’s house. This makes my love raw and patriotic: I want to consume you and be consumed. I will run away from you so I can run back to you. I will say “cows!” when we drive to your hometown and you will swerve into the ditch. I’ll collect all your ribs and pieces, arrange them– just so– on my baking sheet, and slide you into my oven. I can do these things because I was raised to. I took my bloody meat and left a trail of colloquialisms all the way to New England. ope! Jeet? Yeah no– no yeah– no yeah no. I never noticed my accent until I moved away (this is the way accents work). Now, all I hear are my nasally vowels and weird r’s. Out here, away from home, the sound of my voice is distinct and echoing– I have become a strange kind of siren– transplanted from my flat corn fields into this watery landscape. There are no cows here. I fear I am losing momentum– becoming more like that big fish in the Shedd Aquarium that you stop and point to with your oily fingers. There’s salt– but the cost of keeping my shape is inflated. There is more water beyond this pool but nothing to keep me: your favorite flower, a deer waiting to be shot. There are fields covered with mile after mile of pine trees. If this land were a fox, I’d run as fast as I can. You cannot keep me from my american wasteland. *Gabriella Fryer is a mother, wife, and writer located in New England, but she was born and raised all over the Midwest. She started her family in Illinois, and finds her writing often starts or ends in its familiar landscapes. Gabriella enjoys writing poetry, short fiction, essays, and creative nonfiction about magic, food, ecology, queerness, and the nonhuman.\` Her chapbook, Muted Red, was published by Bottlecap Press and her creative writing can also be found at Gramarye, Crow & Cross Keys, 12 Willows Press, and Shemom Poetry Zine, among others.* ### Thinking about Travolta URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-thinking-about-travolta/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T15:09:34.000Z I know what you’re thinking because I’m thinking it too: what is John Travolta up to these days? Maybe you weren’t thinking that, but I was and I don’t really know why. He hasn’t had any movies come out lately. He hasn’t acted odd on any talk shows lately. He hasn’t even introduced any performers with a name he made up on the spot lately. Maybe I was thinking of John Travolta because I was recently in an airport and he’s a pilot. Or maybe it was because when I was in that airport, I saw a questionable hair system. Dealer’s choice, I guess. For whatever reason, I’ve been thinking about John Travolta and I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s a weird guy. Don’t get me wrong – being weird is perfectly fine. Weirdos make the world an interesting place. Weirdos make life better. Weirdos should be celebrated! All that being said, John Travolta is strange person and as he’s gotten older, he’s tried to hide it less and less, and I think that’s fantastic. As someone who spent a considerable amount of time in the closet, I can assure you that trying to be something that you’re not is a difficult burden to carry and it’s bad for your complexion. It feels like John Travolta has made some considerable strides in coming out of the weirdo closet, but I think maybe he’s a good example of how it’s possible to be in more than one closet at the same time, like some kind of magical coat hanger. I don’t know if John Travolta is non-straight and I don’t need to know. I just want him to enjoy his life as much as possible without hurting anybody else. I think the Scientology stuff that he’s involved in is hurting some folks, but the maybe not straight thing is his own internet browser history to clear. I referenced this before, but do you remember at the Academy Awards in 2014 when he was introducing Idina Menzel, who was there to sing, “Let It Go,” from *Frozen*, and instead of saying her actual name, which surely must have been on the teleprompter that he was reading, he introduced her as, “…the wickedly talented Adele Dezeem.” I remember seeing that and wondering if he knew how to read. And not like in the way drag queens read each other, but in the way that they teach you in kindergarten. Is it possible that he only knows some of the sounds letters make and has been guessing at the rest for all these years? Maybe his eyes stopped working for a moment. Maybe the weird men’s neckpiece that he was wearing instead of a bow tie was on too tight (actually – he wore that the following year when he and Menzel presented together). Or maybe someone used the wrong wig glue and he was being sabotaged by his own hair system. Whatever it was, Idina Menzel, god bless her, came out and sang that song like that absolutely bonkers introduction had never happened. To be clear, I don’t have any concrete proof that John Travolta wore a hair piece for years, but I do have eyes and I can see imported human hair just as well as the next person. But I don’t think the imported human hair makes him weird. People use hair enhancement pieces all the time! I do have some questions about his glam team that they think those hair systems they put him in were convincing. I’d like a 10-minute Zoom call with those people at their earliest convenience. Not only is John Travolta a mostly lovable weirdo, he’s also an actor who is sometimes a movie star, depending on what part of the last 40 years that you’re thinking about. He’s had more career highs and lows than just about anyone you can think of and I’ve got a list of my favorite Travolta movies/strangest Travolta choices below. Let’s break out that freak flag and treat it like the car at the end of *Grease*: flying high in the sky! - *Battlefield Earth* (2000) – This movie was partly based on a novel by Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard. I don’t know what the “L” stands for. Maybe Larry? But why would you hide the “Larry” and go with “Ron” instead? That feels like a real lateral move if you ask me. The Larrys and Rons of the world seem interchangeable in most cases. I believe we’d all be in the same situation if Kurt Russell had starred in *Captain Larry* instead of starring in *Captain Ron*, but I digress. *Battlefield Earth* was a movie about space and there was some fighting and Travolta invested some of his own money in the movie and people really didn’t like it. He played someone named “Terl” who was a Psychlo and that begs the question: Huh? They referred to humans as “manimals” in the movie. I mean, that’s not only weird, it’s gross too. - *Carrie* (1976) – John Travolta played Billy in the first film adaptation of the Stephen King novel. He was one of the bullies, but he mostly just did what his asshole girlfriend told him to do. But even as a teen in the 70s, you’ve still got to take responsibility for your actions. Not to ruin the movie for you, but he did not survive. He wasn’t even one of the kids who Carrie took out during the prom. She went and found him and his asshole girlfriend after she burned down the prom! Carrie doesn’t like loose ends, which I bet would have made a devoted Scientologist. - *Moment by Moment* (1978) – Get ready, because this is going to blow your mind. *Moment by Moment* is a movie starring John Travolta and Lily Tomlin. In the film, Lily Tomlin plays Trisha, a Beverly Hills socialite who is lonely because her husband left her. He cheated on her a bunch before he left her, but she’s still lonely. I wished she could have heard, “It’s Not Right, But It’s OK,” by Whitney Houston. She would have felt very seen. Anyhow, John Travolta plays someone named “Strip” who is also a drifter and he becomes infatuated with Trisha and there is a scene in a hot tub and I’ve never seen less sexual chemistry between two people in my life. Salt and pepper shakers flirt more convincingly than these two! Anyway, it was written and directed by Lily Tomlin’s longtime partner, Jane Wagner, which really moves the WTF factor up a couple more notches. - *Two of a Kind* (1983) – I’m not talking about the short-lived Olsen twins TV show. A few years after *Grease*, John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John reunited for this movie and it makes you wonder if Rizzo was actually the reason that people liked *Grease*. In *Two of a Kind*, Olivia Newton-John is a bank teller and John Travolta is an inventor and God has decided that he’s had it with humankind and is going to destroy the Earth and it’s up to a group of angels to find two good souls to convince God the world is worth saving. Based on this movie alone, I would argue that our Lord and savior may have been right. - *Face/Off* (1997) – Do you remember those body swap movies from the late 80s? *Vice Versa* with Judge Rienhold and Fred Savage, and *Like Father, Like Son* with Dudley Moore and the morally skanky Kirk Cameron. This movie is kind of like those movies, but with more scenery chewing and all traces of enjoyment removed. In *Face/Off*, Nicolas Cage is a criminal and he’s planted a bomb that is going to blow up all of Los Angeles. To paraphrase *Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo* (as one does), “That’s one huge bomb!” John Travolta is an FBI agent that’s trying to find the bomb, but Nic Cage won’t tell him where it is. So, naturally, John Travolta’s FBI agent has someone surgically replace his face with Nic Cage’s face so he can go ask some of Nic Cage’s associates where the bomb is. In the meantime, they had to put John Travolta’s face somewhere, so they put it on Nic Cage and then he escaped custody and he’s out doing whatever he can get away with while wearing John Travolta’s face. This was a hit film and that fact is maybe the weirdest thing John Travolta has ever been associated with. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “You can’t stop my happiness, ‘cause I like the way I am. And you just can’t stop my knife and fork when I see a Christmas ham.” \-John Travolta as Edna Turnblad in *Hairspray*, known champion of weirdos and ham **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### “The Move Out from Marbury Drive,” Shiv Majmudar URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-the-move-out-from-marbury-drive-shiv-majmudar/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T16:01:32.000Z Shiv Majmudar has published fiction in the Alabama Literary Review. His stories have been recognized by the Writers of the Future Contest. A senior at Olentangy Orange High School, he lives in Westerville, Ohio. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *Today’s episode: “The Move Out from Marbury Drive,” by Shiv Majmudar. Read by the Midwest Weird team.* I will tell you what I saw last time I visited my parents’ house, but you must promise me one thing first. Don’t ever say I’m lying to you. If you’re afraid of being lied to, I can assure you that you won’t find that here. Your loved ones, your friends, your family – these people lie to you more than I ever would. You lie to others more than you’d like to admit. You lie to yourself as well. But I didn’t write to lie. Don’t ever accuse me of not telling the truth. Because your life contains more deceit than these pages, and it’s not even close. Okay, we’ve got that out of the way. I’m not lying to you. Good? But before we move forward, let’s clear up something else. I’m not trying to scare you. If you read on, you may think I am, but I swear on my life that I’m not. Again, I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to tell the truth. Anyways, back to my parents’ house. My childhood home on Marbury Drive. It was the third time after I went back after my mom died. She had breast cancer. They gave her enough morphine and sedatives to calm down a whole ward of women, but needless to say she went out relatively painlessly. She had come from India in the 80s after marrying my father. She raised me while being a doctor. My mother was a feel-good immigrant story turned into a person. Which is to say that when I visited their house for the last time, I hadn’t expected to come out questioning my sanity. Again, I’m not lying to you. Perhaps the more I say it, the more dishonest I come across. There’s nothing louder than someone trying not to make a sound. But I would never lie to you. Your own friends have told you more lies than I have so far. Have you ever tried to trust someone? It’s a dangerous business, like standing on a frozen lake in the dead of winter. Either the ice holds up or it doesn’t. Your fate depends on it. My mother died on the 3rd of September. It had been coming for a long time, so I had done my best to brace for it. It was hardly a shock. I was down at a CVS searching for protein bars and ear plugs when the phone rang. It was my sister’s turn to hold watch over at the hospital, and she informed me in a soft, broken voice that mom was dead. By the time I arrived, the family had placed holy water on her lips, and someone was coming to take care of the body. Another truth: I did not cry. I had done my crying beforehand, on quiet afternoons at our suburban Cleveland home. My father was still alive, but weak and frail. My sister’s family took him in. I have an apartment to myself near Chicago, with no wife or children to speak of. But I had relocated to Northeast Ohio for the time being, mainly because it was part of my responsibility to prepare the house for sale. That involved taking out all the dusty furniture and old wedding cassette tapes, heavy suitcases that went on India trips every winter, and the rest of the ancient stuff that made you feel hollow and wistful inside. I stripped my old room bare, taking down the shelves with biology textbooks from high school, old track medals, my box of baseball cards and the rest. I rolled up my tattered Kobe Bryant poster and put it with the rest of the keepsakes. Kobe was dead, along with this house. To say this was a depressing task was an understatement. Visiting this house was like visiting a grave. Still no lies. I haven’t got to the strange part yet but notice that. No lies yet. It was late September. Two and a half weeks after my mother died, I was in the house again. It wasn’t my choice. I never wanted to be in that house. It’s my childhood home, but life has gone out of it. Ever since mom got sick, every visit to our old house is against my will. After nearly four decades, a lot of junk can accumulate in a small space. Ours was a fair-sized, middle-class home. A good area with good schools and good lawns and good neighbors. I kept the curtains drawn. I wanted to hire someone to haul everything away, but that was against my father’s wishes. There are valuable things in there, he said. Things that mean a lot to me. Promise me you’ll look through it and find things to keep. It was out of my power to object. He was in grief like the rest of us, and if the way he coped was by saving every last photo of my mom in that old house, so be it. I took out dusty photo albums and our rotary phone. I scavenged the house for every goddamn antique I could get my hands on. It was the least I could do. My sister was the one taking in my father for the rest of his life, and I had been out in Chicago for most of mom’s illness. I had even been absent from the room when she died. I’d lie and tell you I wasn’t there for a lot of it because of work, but that wasn’t true. I stayed in Chicago because coming back was like ducking into a room full of smoke. Being as far away as possible for my dying mother was the only way to get a breath of fresh air. And since I’ve sworn not to lie to you, I’ll add one more thing. When she died, I was not at CVS to get anything I needed. I had plenty of proteins bars in my overnight bag. I left to escape the heavy dark fog that obscured everything in that hospital room. I left because being with my mom was suffocating. I left to breathe again. It sounds selfish, but that’s the truth. My sister was there when she died. She’s taken the responsibility of caring for my father, and that’s not the only duty she’s fulfilled. She became a doctor, married Indian, had babies, and was everything my parents could’ve wished for. A child who tolerated the heavy, cloying smoke of sadness. A child who shouldered her responsibilities like an adult. Me? I was single, currently unemployed, and childless. It was fair that I helped with something. So I went into our dead house without complaint. It was a warm, sunny afternoon. I pulled my car into the driveway and sighed. Two weeks of rummaging can do a number on your soul. The garage had four boxes in it. Two were for junk, and two were for keepsakes. The junk ones were quite full – by the time I was done with this slow, torturous process, we’d need a third. The keepsake boxes were photo albums and lamps, my mother’s old saris and my sister’s high school yearbook. I’ll be honest and confide in you that I didn’t see a need to keep any of it. These were just objects, made of plastic or paper. I didn’t care what my family saw in them. They were empty, soulless artifacts to me. It sounds heartless, but I told you I don’t write to lie. I punched the code in the garage, and it rattled open. Cobwebs adorned the hinges and corners of the dusty place that had once housed our Honda Civic. Various gardening items that had belonged to my mother sat muddy and unattended on the shelves. Ant and wasp killer, weed spray, bug repellent and so on. The lawnmower wore a garland of cobwebs and hadn’t been used since my father’s knee got messed up a few years back. The trashcan stood right by the mower, the city emblem on its side. We had blue trashcans. I hadn’t remembered until now. On a wooden shelf to the left of the garage was the sporting equipment. Very little of this had been used in the past decade since I moved out, and my sister’s children aren’t old enough to play with these things yet. A dusty frisbee with a Zyrtec label sat glumly next to a basketball. My basketball, I thought, from the days when I thought I had a chance of going pro. How old was I then? Ten? Eleven? A short, skinny brown kid with subpar shooting form, practicing on a driveway hoop that had since been sold. I picked up the ball and tried to dribble. It was flat, socking against the floor with a hollow flunk. It left a fine layer of cobwebs on my hands. My basketball had no life left in it. How many other things were lost? Next to the basketball was an unopened can of tennis balls, and near the lawnmower on the other side of the garage were a few tennis rackets. My sister played tennis in high school. We were moved from those days against our will. My mom in the kitchen, fussing over a pot of dal while my sister and I hunched over books at the table. A small family of four living the American Dream. Time had plucked us from that place and put us into this new, unfamiliar world. Mom was dead. And this house was a shitty, cobwebby old place that no one wanted to buy. I entered the house from the garage. I took my shoes off based on habit. Only a stranger would walk in this house without going barefoot. My socks grew black with dust. I walked across our old living room, treading carefully on the atrocious brown carpet that we had never bothered to change. The place was barren. Most of the desolation was my doing. The pictures were gone. Our living room had a swing that was bolted into the wall. The small pillows on each end were gone, but the rest of it was intact. Whoever wanted to buy this house – if someone did want it – would be gifted with a piece of fine Indic wood carving. Of course, no one had sat on the swing in quite some time. In the past, we had. Guests loved it. My father used to rock me to sleep on it when I was young. But it had lived enough. It was another dusty piece of furniture suspended on creaky hinges. But since there was no other place to sit, I used it. All the couches had been moved out a week ago. Same with all the chairs and the beds. The house was a bit stuffy because we no longer ran the AC. And without my mother, the place hadn’t been cleaned in about three months. Clouds of dust hovered over every surface like a swarm of mosquitoes. Another truth, before we go further. I already wanted to leave. Maybe it was the heat or the dust or just the overall decay of the place, but I wanted out. It was as if the room was full of toxic fumes. I wanted to breathe in the crisp fall air and leave my old house to crumble in the dust. But I had run away from my family before, and I wasn’t going to do it again. Hadn’t I been outdoors for my whole life? I had to do my time behind bars, too. That was called being dutiful. I went upstairs. Ahead of me were three doors. One led to the master bedroom, which had belonged to my parents. The other was my sister’s. My humble abode was next door. I clutched the golden knob (which had since developed patches of gray where the paint flaked off) and went inside. My room. Completely bare, it looked a lot more spacious than it had when I was younger. The desk which I had done my schoolwork on was now at some Cleveland junkyard, and the rusty Transformers that I don’t remember the names of were at my sister’s house. There was just the bed. A bare mattress lay on it. The faux gold bedframe (also flaking away) supported its grimy weight. My bedside table was gone. My closet was half-open, forgotten and bare. It had a folding door. I opened it. . . and found cobwebs and dust. My old clothes were long gone. The air inside was cold and stale and smelled of rotting wood. Had my mother been buried, this is what her coffin would have smelled like. But her wish was to be consumed by fire. I didn’t know which unsettled me more. The junk haulers would be here tomorrow to pick up the things that were too heavy for one guy. The beds, namely, and the couches in the garage. A friend of mine named Patrick Martin had offered to help. He lived down the street, and I used to go over to his place to play Nintendo. He helped me haul the couches into the garage and a few other things before I sent him away. Thanks man, but I’ve got it, I told him, wishing silently for him to go. He offered me a beer and a pizza dinner at his place, but I refused. I wanted to be alone. Partly because I felt I deserved to be alone here. I had left my parents alone, my family alone. I had deserted them for a high-rise apartment and no kids, which I thought was the perfect lifestyle until my company let me go. Now I knew what it was like. Being alone is having no one to depend on, but also having no one to depend on you. This was the least I could do. Clean out the house, say a forgotten prayer in Sanskrit one last time in honor of my mother, and say goodbye. Which was a lot harder than anyone could imagine. I visited my sister’s room. The walls were painted a light pink, and the bed was the only thing remaining. I wasn’t doing anything productive at this point. I peeked inside the closet and recoiled from the same dead stench. We’d be lucky if anyone bought this house. It was musty, old, and you could tell that an Indian family had lived in it. My mother’s cooking was strong and seeped into the bones and blood of this house. It wouldn’t be politically correct to refuse a house because it smelled like masala, but I knew it would go through people’s minds. Worse was the fact that the house was just plain old. It smelled like mothballs and old cooking. I wished I felt nostalgic for it. But it only made me feel empty. By the way, I haven’t lied to you yet. Don’t ever say that I’m telling a lie. I’ve admitted that my childhood home stinks and that I don’t want anything to do with it. What’s worse to put on paper? A murder confession would be better, almost. I’m supposed to be sentimental, but I don’t feel any of that. I walked into my parents’ room and felt a tremor of unease shake my body. My father’s old recliner was here, along with the stripped bed that no one would sleep in again. The master bedroom had been by far the most cluttered, and in retrospect Patrick Martin was quite helpful. I shouldn’t have turned him down on pizza and beer. I don’t know if anyone will want to share a meal with me for a long time. My parents kept a small shrine in the corner of the bedroom. I hadn’t touched it yet. I figured that my father would want to keep it. It was a simple thing – a laminated Durga with an ivory statue of Ganesh at its base. My mother was more religious out of the two of them. She kept this corner of the room sacred. I didn’t want to deface it. It felt crude to dump everything in a box and ship it to my father. So I let it be. Besides, I had no right to hold the Gods in my own hands. I was not theirs, and they were not mine. It was best to let some movers place the shrine in a box marked fragile and send it across the country to my sister’s home. That way my father could die with the same gods his wife had worshipped. But I didn’t deserve to take part in that journey. Meanwhile, downstairs, there was work to be done. I fled from the master bedroom without looking back. Only a few things remained. I planned to give mom’s pots and pans to my sister. She would actually have some use for them, anyway. I never learned the art of cooking. My mother grew up in a simpler time, when women cooked for men and let them eat first. But everything she did was done with love. I took the various cookers and pans from the cupboards and divided them up among cushioned Home Depot cardboard boxes. When this task was done, I duct taped them shut and wrote on the front in black Sharpie: Mom’s Cooking Stuff. I took the boxes to the living room one by one and arranged for them to be taken to my sister. A little sweaty and out of breath, I collapsed on the swing and stared at my work. I was thinking about how much my sister would love to have this when the knocking started. Listen to me. You think you can sense a lie when it comes near you, right? You trust the bad feeling in your gut and the cold fingers caressing your spine, and you run away. You think your senses will always save you from falsehood and terror. But you are dead wrong. I haven’t lied to you yet. Why do it now? Why, when I put myself through this again for you? There are voices telling you to quit listening to me, voices telling you I’m making things up for attention or fame. They are lying to you. I am not. I will tell you what I saw the last night I stayed at my parents’ house. If I lie, I don’t know if I can live with myself. I knew the knocking didn’t come from the front door. It was too distant. Had there been someone at the front door, the sound would have been louder. But it wasn’t. It had the faint quality of sounds in dreams. The way a scream from a nightmare can ring in your ears a few seconds after you wake up, the knocking persisted. I did not move. I made sure not to make a sound. I needed to get out of the house, it seemed. Spending too much time in the dust and gloom could mess you up. In the moments after I heard the knocking, my will broke. I decided it was about time that I took a break from this house. I deserved a reward for visiting this decrepit shack after all these years. This was the place where we had prospered, true, but it was also the place where my mother had withered and rotted. How many afternoons had she spent here, a skeleton woman wrapped in shawls? Too many. She shouldn’t have been confined to this crypt. And neither should I. I strode towards the front door. My hand was on the knob when I heard it again. My legs lost their strength. The knocking was louder, and this time, I could tell where it came from. Upstairs, no doubt. In one of the bedrooms, those cold places stripped bare and forgotten. The knocking came from there. I wish I could tell you I knew better. Part of me did. But when my father had fallen down the basement stairs and twisted his ankle at my sister’s house, the way he let her know he was hurt was by banging on the wall. They heard him screaming, too, but their dog picked up on the knocking before they heard him. They got him to the ER in time. My sister wasn’t a perfect person, and no one could be. But she answered calls whenever you needed her to. She paid attention to every sound. She would have gone up there. It was probably something broken, I reasoned, or maybe the air conditioning was acting up. I went up there because I had to. I went up there because I hadn’t been in the room when my mom had died. I went up because apparently, this house wasn’t done with me yet. It was calling me back. Begging for me to come back. Grabbing at my ankles as I tried to run away, because it knew that I had abandoned it before, and I wasn’t going to abandon it again. The railing was cold. My throat went dry and sticky. The knocking was violent, uneven, thunderous. It reminded me of someone choking, the way they heave and cough when trying to dislodge the object. Spasms of noise from elsewhere, the cry of a constricted throat. It came from my room. I pushed open the door. It opened soundlessly. My eyes went to the closet, then to the bare corners of the room. . . before hooking themselves to the bed. Sometimes the worst things are in the center, as opposed to the corners. Do not lose faith in me here, please. I have not lied to you. It will be that way forever. I said before that if I lied, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. There is no greater truth than that, I swear. No greater truth. On the bed was me. At first, I thought it was my corpse. It looked the part, anyway. The skin was loose and baggy, stretched thin over bulging broken veins and frail bones. I could tell it was me by my skin. Even in death, it still had the same brown color. . . although now it was mottled and patchy, looking the way the skin does on a cup of chai. My body was supine on my old bed. Had it been given the curse of sight, it would have seen only the ceiling I had slept under during my childhood. The hands were skeletal, withering and decaying. The feet were calloused, the toes curled. The room smelled like my mother had in her final days. I had tried not to wrinkle my nose as I sat by her hospital bed, tried not to taste the bile collecting in my throat. I prayed she was sleeping when things were this way. Hopefully she didn’t have to endure the tight cocoon of death, feeling its embrace on her skin. Hopefully she never felt what I felt now. Had this only been a corpse, things would be slightly less fraught in my head. But the house wasn’t done with me. I was getting ready to turn and bolt into the afternoon sunlight when the body raised its head. Come here, it rasped. I did not move. Come here. Suddenly, the door slammed behind me. The lock clicked shut. I rattled the knob, but it did not open. The body raised his hand, and I froze. But my old clone did not raise its hand against me. Instead, it reached over the golden bedpost and banged on the wall behind the bed three times. I shuddered. It had wanted to see me for all this time. I shambled over. I stood by the bed. My features were elongated in age. My eyes were cloudy and bloodshot. My hair was wispy and burned gold in the afternoon sunlight. My face was sunken, hollow, and when it opened its mouth to speak again, I saw no teeth. Do you see a shard of glass before you? I looked and saw a crescent-shaped sickle of glass on the mattress. I realized in hindsight that a chunk of the window was missing. When did it do that? Take it and cut my throat. “Why?” Because it is time. “But I can’t.” I will guide your hand. He reached out and touched me. He nudged my hand towards the shard. It shook, but he held it steady, leading me to his fleshy, soft throat. When I didn’t dig the blade in as quickly as he wanted, he pressed my hand down into his flesh. He gasped and made a choking sound when I drew the blade across his throat. Blood poured out of the wound in a gushing stream. His bedclothes and the mattress became stained red. He held my hand until the end, until I had ended his life. The gash on his throat was a long, toothless smile. His hands were as cold as ever. My dead body lay before me. The house was silent for a long time. Satisfied, perhaps. For now. The shard of glass left my hand in those long moments after. My hands were slick with blood. I hobbled over to the bathroom and washed them in our sink for the last time. I stood beneath the doorframe. From a distance, the wound on the neck looked like a red ribbon. The same way the bedclothes they gave at the hospital looked like funeral whites on my mother. It’s funny, the way horrific things look nice from far away. Like our house, for instance. No lies anywhere here. Only truth. I’ve told you what I saw. Perhaps you believe me, perhaps you don’t. It doesn’t matter. The house kept me all the same. Maybe it wanted to show me a preview of my death. Maybe that’s why it brought me back. But who knows. All I can tell is that I died alone in that house. The house got all of us in the end. Dad, weak and feeble, brooding over his dead wife’s old photos. My sister, learning to cook with her old pans. Mom, a mere cup of ashes. And me, stuck in my childhood room with my dead body. The blood dried on the mattress and carpet. I mourned myself because I could mourn no one else. One last truth: the house was rather peaceful. Towards the end, I wanted to stay. But I didn’t want to be there at sundown. I left through the front door and watched as the garage door rattled shut. My old bedroom window reflected the last of the day’s light. I got in my car and drove down Marbury Drive. I must confess that I did not look back. Not even a quick glance. I kept my eyes on the road and drove away. But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten our house. Nor has it forgotten me, I fear. *Shiv Majmudar has published fiction in the Alabama Literary Review. His stories have been recognized by the Writers of the Future Contest. A senior at Olentangy Orange High School, he lives in Westerville, Ohio.* ### Movies with Friends URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-movies-with-friends/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T15:07:38.000Z I was once at a BBQ and the TV show *Friends* came up in conversation. One of the hosts of the BBQ made a remark about the lack of diversity within the show’s cast. First, that’s a fair point. The cast of the show was not diverse, something the cast and creators have acknowledged in the years since the show aired. Second, the person who made the remark was hosting a BBQ with an invite list of exclusively white, gay men that were all roughly the same age. While the guest list would make a youth pastor really anxious, it also disqualifies you from credibly criticizing the lack of diversity in the cast of a television show from more than 25 years ago. That memory made me think of two things: BBQ and the cast of *Friends*. Since it’s 10:30 in the morning, I should probably hold off on the BBQ for at least a couple more hours. Instead, I’ll spend some time thinking about the cast of *Friends* and their movie careers. When that show was at the height of its popularity, I bet the six main cast members were sent hundreds of movie scripts and I bet most of those movie scripts were terrible. I mean, some of the movies they ended up making were pretty bad and I’d assume that the scripts they turned down must have been worse. Do you remember *Almost Heroes*, starring Matthew Perry and Chris Farley? They played two bumbling explorers racing across the western frontier, hoping to beat Lewis and Clark to the Pacific Ocean. I know what you’re thinking: “These two actors are no longer with us. They let their demons get the best of them and now you’re using their names in joke that’s not even funny.” I know it sounds made up, but it’s a real movie. Eugene Levy was in it! If there’s one thing I remember about 1997, it’s that everywhere I went, all I heard people talking about was how they were sick of waiting for Hollywood to put out a Lewis and Clark comedy. Matt LeBlanc co-starred in a baseball movie with a chimpanzee called *Ed*. Matt LeBlanc was the pitcher and the chimpanzee played third base. If you stop reading now to go and watch the movie, I’d understand. It sounds like the perfect film! It’s not streaming anywhere (I assume because of communism), but you can rent it on Apple TV. But I hope you don’t because I’m being really sarcastic. The guy who wrote the screenplay also directed the film, *Ace Ventura: Pet Detective Jr.* which is the kind of information that makes me never want to leave the house again. Speaking of Ace Ventura, did you know that Courteney Cox was in the original *Ace Ventura: Pet Detective*? If you ever want to feel like you’re being threatened to laugh, this is the movie for you. Couple that with the highly problematic ending and I imagine it’s a film that Courteney Cox would rather you forget. But what I won’t and can’t forget is this list of movies from the cast of *Friends*. Am I basic for making this list? Yeah, probably. Are you basic for reading it? That’s between you and your deity of choice. How you doin? I’ll be doing better when I get my hands on that BBQ a little later. *Apologies to David Schwimmer for I have never seen a movie that he is in. He’s never seen a movie that I’m in either, so it’s something we have in common.* - Jennifer Aniston, *Office Space*: Agreeing to be in a film where one of the other characters is named “Michael Bolton” is a gutsy move. It’s the kind of thing that could go south pretty quickly, but I’m glad it didn’t. In the film, Jennifer Aniston plays a waitress at a TGI Friday’s-like establishment and she just barely gives a shit up until she no longer gives a shit at all and lets her boss know exactly what she thinks about his feedback on the amount of flair she’s currently sporting. It makes me wonder if the wait staff at TGI Friday’s were flattered or offended. Two emotions I bet they’re not allowed to show at work. - Courteney Cox, *Scream*: I wonder what went through Courteney Cox’s head when they offered her a part in a horror movie where she played one of the few adults with a bunch of actors, who were roughly the same age as her, playing teenagers. Maybe she was busy cashing checks and didn’t care. She met her future husband on the set of this movie and she’s the only cast member whose appeared in every *Scream* movie to date. She also set a girl on fire in *Scream 5* (which was also named just *Scream* with no number), and that girl went on to win an Academy Award. Women supporting women! - Lisa Kudrow, *Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion*: People say that Lisa Kudrow was basically playing Phoebe Buffay in this movie and that is an unfounded criticism. Phoebe was a hippy who grew up on the streets of New York. Michele Weinberger was a ding-a-ling, valley girl who grew up in Arizona. They couldn’t have been more different! Well, they did look an awful lot alike. Anyway, Lisa Kudrow deserves all the acting awards in the world for memorizing the formula for glue and reciting it on camera, all the while reminding Romy that haters are gonna hate. - Matt LeBlanc, *Charlie’s Angels:* I know he’s in this movie for about 10 minutes, but it’s not like Matt LeBlanc made a lot of great films. There’s the aforementioned *Ed*, the *Lost In Space* update and this. I never saw the *Lost In Space* movie because I’m a big fan of knowing where I am on Earth. In *Charlie’s Angels* he played Lucy Liu’s clueless actor boyfriend, Jason Gibbons. And while I was able to differentiate between Phoebe and Michele just a moment ago, no such luck here. Joey Tribiani and Jason Gibbons could very well be twins separated at birth. - Matthew Perry, *Fools Rush In* – Before this movie, I didn’t realize that there was such a job as someone who develops new casinos in Las Vegas. I mean, I guess I knew they don’t develop themselves. Anyway, Matthew Perry plays “Alex” and he has sex with Salma Hayek and she gets pregnant. They decide to get married and then later fall in love. You see how they did everything backwards? FUN! What will they come up with next? I wouldn’t say that this movie made me believe that someone that looks like Salma Hayek would sleep with someone that looks like Matthew Perry, but it did make me question how close Las Vegas is to the Grand Canyon. It’s not that far! ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “You’re as cute as me. You are! In some cultures, maybe cuter.” \-Michele Weinberger, perhaps comforting David Schwimmer about his movie career. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### “How To Survive Being Brought to Church by Your Grandparents,” Ryan Van Ells URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-how-to-survive-being-brought-to-church/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T15:57:16.000Z Ryan Van Ells (he/him) is a queer lawyer and author of dark fiction from Milwaukee, WI. His work has appeared in State of Matter, Tiny Terrors and Drabbledark III. He is an affiliate member of the HWA. You can find him at [ryanvanellsauthor.wordpress.com](http://ryanvanellsauthor.wordpress.com/?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com). Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *Today’s episode: “How To Survive Being Brought to Church by Your Grandparents,” by Ryan Van Ells. Read by the Midwest Weird team.* 1. Get up early. Church starts earlier than you’d believe and you’re expected to look nice. 2. Speaking of looking nice, wear something formal. Not nice, formal. Because the dress you bought for Archie Chester’s party last year is nice, but not formal church nice and if you try to wear it you’ll end up in one of your grandmother’s old dresses that looks like it was made from a flour sack. 3. When you get complimented on said flour sack, smile and say thank you. Do not, I repeat do not, say “thank you I’m looking forward to being baked into a cake,” because your grandfather will hit you upside the head for having a “smart mouth” and the person you’re talking to will walk away open-mouthed and sputtering like a dying fish. Which you don’t know because you go fishing, but because your cat got curious in your brother’s room one afternoon. Was it your fault he left the door and the tank lid open? Are you supposed to keep track of your cat all the time? It’s a cat! And now you have to spend the rest of the summer at your grandparents’. 4. Don’t scoff every time you’re expected to say “and also with you” even if it’s getting ridiculous. 5. If you need a break, whisper to your grandmother that you’re going to go to the bathroom. Do this during the latin part because then she won’t feel like she’s missing anything. 6. When you leave to go to the bathroom and find a strange old door warped into a shape that says *open me, I’m full of secrets* do not open the door. Do not slip inside and slide it shut behind you without looking where it goes. Do not fumble around in the dark for a lightswitch, especially along the wall, because there isn’t one. There’s one of those old-fashioned strings hanging in the air and if you hadn’t knocked into it and screamed you wouldn’t have found it. 7. Upon pulling the string, you’ll want to scream. It’s okay if you do, nobody outside the door can you hear you anyway, it’s just that nothing inside the door is worth screaming about. The jumbled mass of corpses is actually a pile of mannequin parts. The chalk pentagram with black candles is, well it’s a chalk pentagram with black candles but it should be harmless. Why a Catholic chuch has a strange room filled with mannequin parts and a pentagram is a good question. I don’t know. The room will be bigger than you thought, with a spooky red lighting that might be scary. But don’t worry, it’s a church. What’s the worst that can happen? 8. You should definitely not search through the cardboard boxes along the wall, no matter how much it looks like there’s a body in them. There are just wigs. For the mannequins, presumably.Pay attention to this next part. I know, I know, you’ve been paying attention. Well, seriously, pay attention. And if you have been, good job, but this is the important part. I don’t want to hear any whining about how it’s not fair that everyone else can slack off until this part because you’ve been paying such good attention. You want a gold star? Fine, you can have it. Now seriously. Pay attention. 9. There’s going to be humming and chanting from outside the door. It will sound more ominous than the singing they were doing before, which is positively cheery by comparison. Seriously, like having been bored to death by the Beach Boys and then falling into the mosh pit at a black metal concert. You might even like black metal, but you have to admit, the change would spook you. When the chanting starts you should not move closer to the door to hear it better. I promise, it’s not that interesting. 10. Lock the door. If there’s not a lock, barricade it with the mannequins and boxes of wigs. Whatever you do, don’t stand stunned when it swings open and people who look like your grandparents but not, look in on you with old-timey pilgrim clothes, anger plastered over their faces worse than when you took grandpa’s Harley for a joyride at 15\. If this happens, don’t call them grandma or grandpa. They won’t know. In fact, they’ll be more scared. Which means it’s more likely that the next part happens. 11. When more people in pilgrim clothes start to pile into the impossibly large room, which you now realize doesn’t have mannequins or wigs, just the pentagram you’re standing right in the middle of, you need to run. I know, there’s a lot of them and where are you going to run to? But you have to try, because there’s only going to be more and if you don’t, they’re going to catch you and call your “marked skin” satanic as if you weren’t embarrassed enough by Kelly’s first attempt at a stick and poke on your left breast no matter if you acted proud of being an early test subject of a great artist, the skin would be worth something someday. Then they’ll gag your mouth so you can’t explain that your clothes aren’t witch-garb, they’re just from the future. 12. There’s not much you can do at this point. 13. You can try and thrash and scream and kick, but the old pilgrims are impressively strong. Probably all that farming and actual hard labor they had to do that you never did. That you were supposed to do on grandpa’s farm this summer. 14. The sky will be bright and blue and clear when they put you on the pyre. You thought that people would burn witches at night, but maybe that’s a movie thing. Guess it makes sense. 15. When you’re tied to the stake, you have a lot of options. Cursing. Screaming. Spitting. Making some vague predictions of the future that might come true so they all at least feel scared in their beds for the rest of their lives for what they did to you. You can pray too. I did. First time in my life I actually prayed. Not that it did me much good, I tried the “our father who art in heaven” one but kept forgetting the words. They seem to think this is you repenting. It makes them smile. They still burn you though. 16. When you wake up passed out in the same pentagram but this time with the mannequins and wigs again, don’t worry. Time hasn’t passed that fast. It’s still believable that you were in the bathroom and it actually looks like you passed a really bad shit so in some ways, score. Hurry out to the pews with your grandparents and spend the rest of the summer with your head low and pretending to like church. Not because you believe in god or you’ve seen the light, if anything it’s the opposite. But because when you leave, the mysterious door is gone and you don’t want to give them a reason to think you’re on drugs. And honestly, they’re not as bad as they could be. *Ryan Van Ells (he/him) is a queer lawyer and author of dark fiction from Milwaukee, WI. His work has appeared in State of Matter, Tiny Terrors and Drabbledark III. He is an affiliate member of the HWA. You can find him at* [*ryanvanellsauthor.wordpress.com*](http://ryanvanellsauthor.wordpress.com/?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* ### Right and Wrong URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-right-and-wrong/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T15:02:41.000Z My husband and I were at the farmers market once and we got stopped by a couple of young men that had a religious agenda that they wanted to force on us. I would have just kept walking, but my husband is kinder and more patient (aka gullible) and let them do their spiel. There were two of them, but only one was talking. The other one looked like he’d rather be doing anything – giving a cat a bath, math homework, listening to a presentation on consent – other than watching his associate give his deeply problematic take on how Jesus should be running our lives. For a while, I thought it would be easier to just let this guy finish than to tell him he’s missed the mark (something I learned from dating in my 20s). But when he told us that having the thought, “I’m so angry with that person, I could kill them,” is just as much of a sin in Jesus’s eyes as actually killing someone, I had to put myself in timeout. And by “timeout,” I mean I walked a few feet away and sat on a bench, looking as bored and annoyed as possible, because I would not be helping anyone by letting this person go on thinking the nonsense coming out of their mouth was anything other than the gibberish of someone who doesn’t realize they’re in a cult. The whole episode took probably 20 minutes, but it felt like it took a month. No one’s minds were changed and that guy probably spent the rest of the day having hallucinations about someday becoming the fourth wise man. But it also made me think about the idea of having a very strict idea of right and wrong. Some people apply that same strict idea of right and wrong to telling the truth. I would argue that you should tell the truth whenever possible, but I also believe that telling a lie is sometimes bad. The level of bad, though, can vary a lot. A few days ago, I ordered some tacos at a food truck. When they asked me my name so they knew what to shout when the tacos were ready, I told them my name, “Heath.” The person responded with, “Keith?” and I said, “sure.” Was that a lie? It was. Was it also easier than having to repeat my name three more times while getting louder each time? Yes. Is that lie just as bad as telling a police officer that you didn’t burn down an orphanage that you did, in fact, set ablaze? It is not. But what about famous people? They tell lies all the time in order to maintain their image and they are often very, very stupid lies. The kind of lies that, once exposed, make me wonder how in the world they thought they were going to get away with it. Take Milli Vanilli for example. Did they really think that no one was ever going to find out that they weren’t really singing? There are so many people involved with putting on a concert or even performing just one song in front of thousands of people. And they thought that the people who had to make sure the mics were dead or hit “play” on the vocal track were never going to have too much beer some night and tell their friends? Obviously, we all know how that worked out, but what about some of the other, possibly even dumber lies that celebrities have told? This is by no means an exhaustive list. I’m sure some famous person has told a couple of stupid and obvious lies since you started reading this. I’ve got some top choices for celebrity lies below and if you don’t think they’re as dumb as I do, then my name isn’t Keith. - **Jennifer Lopez cancels her 2024 summer tour.** Remember in early 2024 when Jennifer Lopez put out an album and then made a movie-length music video that included each song on the album and she paid for it all with her own money and then the public collectively said, “no thank you,” and slowly backed away? That was brutal, but then she also scheduled a big summer tour. When she cancelled the tour, she said it was so she could, “take time off to be with her children, family and close friends.” That’s not why she cancelled the tour! She cancelled it because tickets weren’t selling. If you’re trying to sell tickets to the public and the public isn’t buying the tickets, I think it’s safe to assume that the public knows that tickets aren’t being sold. She should have just told the truth: tickets aren’t selling and she needed time to make a plan to get out of that Ben Affleck marriage. - **Robert Pattinson said he saw a clown die.** I forget how many *Twilight* movies there were. 5? 13? 27? It probably doesn’t matter, I just know there were a lot. I also know that every time a new *Twilight* movie came out, Robert Pattinson and the rest of the stars of the movie would have to go out and do press to promote the film. In 2011, Robert Pattinson was on *The Today Show*, being interviewed by a pre-sex scandal Matt Lauer, and he told Lauer that, when he was a child, he saw a clown die in a car explosion. Turns out that Robert was so tired of answering the same questions, he just decided that he’d throw in an outlandish lie every once in a while to keep things interesting. A clown’s demise and a full acknowledgement of a lie that made perfect sense? No notes. - **Hilaria Baldwin pretended to be Spanish.** Alec Baldwin’s much younger wife, and Massachusetts native, decided that 2021 was the perfect time to lead people to believe that she was Spanish. What a weird way to step back into the world after a pandemic. She would use a Spanish accent from time to time and once, she even said that she forgot the English word for “cucumber” in a cooking video that was posted online. I get the sense that being married to Alec Baldwin would be challenging, but not challenging enough that it would make you want to tell everyone you’re from Spain when you aren’t. When asked, Hilaria would chalk this all up to “cultural fluidity,” which is the same excuse I use when I order chicken fingers at a Peruvian restaurant. - **When *And Just Like That* said that they meant the last episode of season three to be the conclusion of the reboot.** I know you’re reading this on the internet and I’m certainly not dumb enough to think that I can convince anyone on the internet that *And Just Like That* wasn’t that bad. You and I both know that the internet hated that show and you and I both know that’s why the creators decided to stop making it. They didn’t stop it because they thought an episode that included a clogged toilet would be the perfect way to say goodbye to Carrie Bradshaw. They stopped because they probably got tired of everyone bitching about it all the time, which is a perfectly good reason to stop making something. - **Lori Loughlin, Felicity Huffman and the college admissions scandal.** Do you think that Lori Loughlin and Felicity Huffman’s kids even gave a shit where they went to college? Those kids were never going to have to work real jobs once they were done with school. If they just needed something to do to kill time for four years, they could have gone to any school they wanted to. Why go to all the trouble to get your kid into USC when they probably would have been perfectly happy going anyplace where they could get a single dorm room? Did Lori and Felicity do it because they thought the public cared about where their kids went to school? I didn’t know either of them had children before this whole thing came out. I was more disappointed about that than I was about them lying to get their kids into college. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on.” – Winston Churchill, who apparently thinks the truth is just Donald Duck-ing it whenever possible. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "Bruno and His Classmates" by Sophie Anne Hinkson URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-bruno-and-his-classmates-by-sophie-anne-hinkson/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T15:54:21.000Z Sophie Ann Hinkson relocated to Chicago from Paris a few years ago. In France, she worked as a bookseller and journalist for a literary magazine and radio station. She is now teaching ESL and French at various colleges in Chicago. She holds an MA in Modern Literature from France and is currently an MFA candidate in Creative Writing at UC Riverside’s Low Residency Program. She lives in Chicago with her husband, one cat, and six pet rats. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *Today’s episode: “Bruno and His Classmates,” by Sophie Anne Hinkson. Read by the Midwest Weird team.* Bruno was in class when he died. It happened at the end of the second morning period, a few minutes before lunch break. Deirdre, the substitute teacher wasn’t really thinking about anything, immersed in the cottony acoustic created by the fresh fallen snow. The absence of sound had found its way inside, through the cracks of the elementary school’s old stoney walls, giving Deirdre’s classroom a peaceful atmosphere. That might be the reason why Bruno decided to let go. Nobody saw him take his last breath, as he was resting his head on the flat surface of his student desk. The middle-schoolers were working on their math problems, the teacher was looking outside. At some point, Deirdre wondered if she would finally meet somebody on this weird island. Meanwhile, Bruno’s face was stopped on his final appearance, not his best look, since his mouth and eyes remained half opened, as if he would eternally fall asleep. His nose was dirty, too, but that’s not the first thing that Deirdre noticed. She hardly held back her shriek, and walked towards him. His forehead was way too cold, and she couldn’t find any pulse. It seemed to her that she heard the snow shovel scrapping the ground outside, which was very unlikely, which made her realize she’d have to announce the death of a child to people she didn’t know, people who had never been in her classroom with the kids, people who would just see that the death of a child happened under her surveillance. Now, it was clear, Bruno was gone, and everybody in the room was looking at him with curiosity, as if he was a new type of human being, looking slightly different because of his immobility, and also the apple-green mucus coming out of his nostrils. ⁕ Deirdre had never subbed in an elementary school before, but she needed money. The divorce had been hard on her. Two years had passed, and she was still not financially stable. Every gig was good to get, every few dollars per hour, which was essentially how she had been paid all her life. Contingent labor. You’re free, but you’re also free to find a decent health coverage deal and figure out how many hours you need to work to put food on your table. That’s maybe what she regretted the most in her husband’s departure: his good health insurance, and the regular salary that would come even in the summer, when school is out. When he left to go with the bowling lady, he took his privileges with him, and suddenly, Deirdre couldn’t afford a cleaning at her regular dentist. She had to go to a clinic in the north of the city, but once on the dental chair, she ran away because the place was dirty and depressing. This was Deirdre’s wake-up call. Something had to change, or end, in this situation. She didn’t know exactly what, which was fine. Sometimes, you don’t get all the answers all at once. The only certain thing was the necessity to make more dough. The two-week replacement she found was a good deal: well paid, and it would take her out of the city at the time she hated the most: the end of the year. With a little luck, when she would come back from the gig, she would tell her family that she got the flu, or something worse, and she couldn’t travel and get the risk of getting the elderly ones sick. She was too freshly divorced to confront them, especially her sister showing the new-born of the year and her mother faking kindness until boozy eggnogs made her comeback to her true self. They would judge her harshly for being alone at her age. Her cousin Cristina would take her out to smoke a cig, and whisper to maybe think of changing her first name, or to at least have a nickname for dating apps. Next year, everything would be different. She would bring somebody to her tribe, as certain as her ex-husband was dating a blonde bitch with horse teeth. The elementary school was on Lincoln Island, an island!, five hours away by car from her. This was a private school, with only one class gathering second and third graders. The person who recruited her said it might be very cold, but Deirdre had spent her entire life in the Midwest. She knew. At the beginning of the adventure, she was thrilled. The ferry – a ferry!- made her feel free and empowered and she frenetically took notes of all her new ideas on her phone app. But the way Bruno’s dead hand felt against her warm skin put back this happy memory in the most remote place of her brain. She didn’t know what would happen next. She had to say something to the children, patiently waiting, their seven pairs of eyes riveted on her back. She turned to look at them and tried to imagine they were not really them, simply very realistic dolls. It worked. You don’t look completely human when somebody else, a grown-up, decides on your hairstyle. They had read the story of the old badger a few days ago, so she started to talk about this, avoiding brutal words that would traumatize them forever, but Melissa erupted. “Bruno is dead!” No shit, Sherlock, she almost replied. Instead, she grabbed her phone and called the principal. ⁕ Deirdre wasn’t expecting to be seduced by a small town. A little heart now appeared on her Google Maps, showing her location right in the middle of the second largest of the Great Lakes. This truly made her feel far away from the civilization, maybe even more than the rare colorful houses she spotted during her walks. It wasn’t too exotic, people had the same trucks and jeeps she saw in her big city. The change of scene happened because of small things, like the Swedish restaurant sandwiched between a gift shop - closed until May - and a dive bar. George Washington Elementary School was far from the center, but close to where she lived. Her employer housed her in a fully equipped cabin. There was a wooden church next door. Yes, a curiosity, a souvenir of old times in Europe that she loved to look at while sipping on her large matcha latte prepared in the comfort of her new house. Not too gloomy for a Sunday, she thought, looking at the snow falling like powder sugar on the church dragonhead gargoyle. These flakes looked so lazy, floating like these, taking their time to land on a surface and melt. It snowed differently where she came from. When Deidre bit into her cookie, she felt something hard under her teeth, like a little stone. She spit the culprit into her palm, and went to check herself in the mirror. The edge of one of her front teeth was sharper. She started her work at the George Washington Elementary School the next day. The young students seemed interested in her, and listened carefully to her instructions before completing their assignments. They seemed a little shy, but who’s not their first time meeting someone? Plus, living in isolation like this was certainly challenging for these kids, and it would get even worse when they’d become teens, young adults… What did their parents think? She sent her teaching report thirty minutes after the end of her first day. She got a notification saying the principal had “liked” her email. Deirdre had decided to not contact the teacher she was replacing because she supposed she was sick or had something complicated enough that prevented her from going to work. Plus, her lesson plans were clear and very thorough, and she had no questions to ask. Everything was good, except, she felt a little lonely. When she locked her classroom door, crossed the empty hall and stopped on the school threshold, she realized she hadn’t seen any other adult. The thrill of having a new job gradually faded, revealing the mundane problems of teaching. Links in the lesson plans were broken, the cable to connect her laptop disappeared – she could swear it was here yesterday! – and one kid showed up late, which weirdly upset her. She looked through the window to see if the person who had dropped her student was still here, but she saw no one. She decided to take the kids to church. Elisa, Bruno, Jacob, Sherry, Rocio, Cameron, Shelly and Melissa, they all bundled up before walking to the wooden edifice. She had them sit on the pews and pray. She sat, but while they bent their head and closed their eyes, she looked at the wooden wall and the holy paintings with curiosity. The place smelled like the lodge in a pricy resort where her ex took her every vacation they had in common. The little problems she had with technology irritated her more than usual because there was nobody on site to help. It stressed her out to rely only on herself. Also, she wondered what the kids thought of her. Because the lesson plan was unclear, it took her ten minutes to access the audio for the Spanish lesson. Maybe the kids thought she was a failure. One morning, because he was lying on his side, she thought the classroom rabbit had died. Luckily, his little nose was still twitching. But he looked too thin, and his brown fur was sparse. She wished she had somebody to contact, in case something happened during her class, rabbit-wise or not. During her break, she tried the phone number included in the principal’s signature email, sent to welcome her to Lincoln Island. She left a voicemail. She then sent an email to the administrative assistant person – the same one that gave her the schedule - and she replied right away, which reassured Deirdre. She printed the list of emergency contacts she’d given her, and when she returned to her laptop, her mailbox said INBOX (1). It was the admin girl again, telling her she would get paid at the end of the week, and asking her if she could sub a little longer, until the Christmas break. She ended her missive saying parents were raving about her, and the principal would meet with her before the holidays to offer her a regular position starting in the middle of next year. Deirdre felt like she could fly over the lake, to come back home, and announce to her mom, her sister, and her ex-husband that her time was finally happening. The next day, the weather got much colder. She struggled to open her classroom door, maybe because she was carrying a big box of donuts to share with her class. She had to put it on the floor, and take out her gloves. Inside, somebody was waiting for her. Bruno, sitting at his usual place. Deirdre screamed, “What have you done?”. That’s the very first thing that came out of her mouth, but what she really meant was “What are you doing here?”. The kid had visibly spent the night here. The door was locked from the outside, and she was the only one to have the keys. Bruno put down the comic book he was reading, visibly annoyed to come back to this reality. He shrugged. How did that happen? How did she manage to lock him inside the classroom? Was it because she was distracted after the full-time job offer? Has she done that on purpose, because it was easier to stay stuck in her misery than to face a bright future? And this damned kid, what did he do? Why didn’t he call someone? Deirdre wiped her anxious tears when Melissa showed up. Don’t show the beast you’re hurt. Also, there was a tiny chance she could still have a normal day after that. Bruno didn’t seem traumatized, or even cold. He had added wood to the stove, and she noticed that he had given his green mittens to the rabbit who was comfortably installed on them. ⁕ An entire week passed. Deirdre and the eight students made oatmeal raisin cookies, researched where animals live, and studied the history around their church. Then, Bruno died. ⁕ *Désiré,* *It’s me again. I’ll try an email since you won’t answer the phone.* *I’m aware we’re not supposed to talk. I know. Restraining order. Something weird is happening to me. I’m subbing on Lincoln Island, in an elementary school, and they’re super cool, they even offered me a full-time position, except a kid died in my class, this morning, yes, he died and I feel like I’m going insane.* *It looked like a seizure at first, but he also had something disgusting coming out of basically everything single hole on his face, nose, mouth, ears, eyes, everything, and it stunk very bad. So I’m wearing a mask now, and I gave some to the kids, too, but they’re too large for them and they keep falling so we’re going to give up on that.* *I moved his body outside of the classroom and called the principal. They sent somebody, a man. He talked through the door, he gave me instructions. I told the kids it was a seizure, like his brain had stopped working, and I didn’t mention a virus or anything. I took them outside, and thank God it is not too cold because we ate on the school’s stairs. I feel so bad. I had them eat their little sandwiches in the cold, but I’m so afraid to catch something serious. They have their whole life ahead of them, and I’m sure their parents have good insurance. I can’t afford to go to the hospital right now, my life will get better with the full-time they’re offering me, but in the meantime, I have to clench my teeth and protect myself. I had an email from the principal shortly after it happened. There was nothing in Bruno’s medical file, so they basically don’t know what happened. He told me I wouldn’t be in trouble, and that I should just go on with the instruction. I’ll do it. Plus, the children are not traumatized – what do they understand at that age? – and I even think that it brought us closer to each other. Melissa, one of them, came to give me a hug a few minutes ago. I’m happy to move on. I just wonder if it’s right. I’m so angry at the principal for abandoning me in this. Plus, he’s supposed to be the principal of a school but there were a lot of spelling errors in his email. My sister thinks I should come back but I don’t really have anything that makes me want to come back. I’m not attacking you, Désiré! But you know me, better than I do myself, so what should I do? Do you think it’s okay if I stay? Please answer me, and don’t tell your lawyer I contacted you.* *Hi to your beautiful Betsy,* *Didi* ⁕ Deirdre gradually calmed down, in part because she didn’t get sick. Taking the class rabbit to her cabin seemed to be a good idea. It helped her reduce her stress. She took care of him, cleaned his fur with a damp cloth and fed him well. She even let him roam on the floor. At school, even if everything looked good, she never felt at peace again. She was afraid another kid would drop dead. Maybe the kid had an infection. Maybe it was in the food. Maybe he showed signs that Deirdre ignored. She wasn’t really a substitute anymore since she had to design more lesson plans. That put pressure on her and made her doubt. She wondered if she was explaining things correctly. When she saw kids chatting, she got worried they didn’t think the class was interesting, or even that she was weird. She grew terrified of Melissa. She was a tween, a judgy one. When Elisa brought a little brother to the class, William, she didn’t say hi. He was here to show his wobbling tooth. Little Bill was in pain, and he was crying a lot. Deirdre decided she would give a little help to his body to get rid of baby stuff. Deirdre used her fingers as a pair of dental pliers but the blood that kept coming out from the hole at the root of the tooth made it very slippery. Swallow, she said, and the kid obeyed. She put her free hand on the kid’s shoulder and pulled. When the tooth came out, everybody cheered. Except Melissa, too busy doing doodles inside the class textbook – Gosh, Meli, that is forbidden! Maybe she was jealous of Elisa. Deirdre never got any answer from Désiré. Which was okay. Caressing the rabbit while watching black and white movies in her little cabin in the woods calmed her down. For now. She also took long walks to record sounds for her new project. She would call the track “Bruno”. She had noticed the little music of the waves hitting parked rental boats, abrupt like dagger stabs. The thin ice cracking happening at different moments and places on the frozen lake also created a melody invariably followed by the woosh of the foam bubbles. She wouldn’t have to work too much on it, it already sounded like a dirge. While wandering in nature, she kept thinking about her students, without wanting it. These kids behaved so well it made her suspicious. They regularly raised their hand to answer her questions and there was always one volunteer to help her clean the classroom, even after two weeks together. She didn’t have a lot of experience with kids, but she was sure of one thing: they didn’t react like normal ones. Luckily, she didn’t feel too traumatized by the passing of Bruno. He quickly became the dead kid, who had passed during her class, a story she would later tell people – but not a shrink, because she couldn’t afford therapy. Going to see Jesus didn’t cost a thing, so she spent long hours in church. For the first time, she felt the need to pray, and speak to her Creator, who replied, Keep faith, Didi. Soon, you’ll have good health insurance. Even when they were not having a conversation, she spent long hours in Stavkirke, “stave church” in Norwegian, built after an 1150 model. Outside, she admired the steeple that the volunteers had helped to build, and inside, she knocked on the thick pillars, put her ear against the walls to see if she could hear anything. Even the walls were made of paper, there was nothing to hear. She was in the middle of a forest. Everything was silent in this wooden tomb. At dusk, on her way back home, she saw a man with a red winter coat and a hunter hat. She waved at him. He didn’t reply. Seeing him made her go out to the dive bar. She vaguely flirted with a gentleman in a polo shirt named Dan. He asked her if she was the one taking care of Karine’s students. He gave her his number. They stood outside the bar to look at the sky. She had never seen so many stars in her life. A myriad of little white dots, milky stains on a dark tablecloth, with a vaguely artistic shape. Within her mind blurred by all the beers she’d had, she wanted to see a meaning in this constellation. A sign, the necessary little push she needed to go on with her life. She got nothing from the sky, but got Dan’s hand on her waist. She let him do it, and press once, then twice, before pushing him back. She didn’t dare to look at him, but she didn’t have to be a genius to know he felt offended. After she took the last puff of her cigarette, he said: “This bad habit will kill you, if nothing else comes before.” Deirdre started her Monday in a terrible mood, certainly feeling that this new week would bring a new death, and a resurrection. She was worried. The administrative girl hadn’t responded to her emails asking about the next steps. She didn’t know if she would sign a contract, or when she would start. She would need to relocate, so she obviously needed guidance. She hadn’t contacted the principal, not yet. One night, she couldn’t sleep because she didn’t know what would happen with her life. Maybe they had given her a fake offer. She would never have this full-time. And this was the last time she would have a chance like that, because she was too old. Everything seemed so strange. Maybe too strange for a teaching life. Maybe this wasn’t a normal school. Maybe she was inside an experiment. Maybe the kids had been instructed to manipulate her. Maybe this was all a joke, designed to see how long she would last, isolated like this. The rabbit had stopped eating, so Deirdre brought her back to the classroom, thinking the company of the children would motivate him to stay alive a little longer. But before recess, Melissa, who was done with her exercises, went to pet her. Deirdre saw the tween raise her hand. She first thought that she wanted to share how the rabbit had put his head in her hand, because Melissa was blessed and only great and special things happened to her. Deirdre couldn’t really read her face, though. Was it pride? When her teacher told her to she announced to her classmates that Bunny was dead. She was right. Nobody seemed surprised, and Melissa, definitely more skilled as a peacemaker than her teacher, insisted on the normality of this death. It wasn’t like Bruno, who was so young, and who had something that went extremely wrong in his body. Bunny was old, he had a good run and was just too fed up to keep living. Deirdre ended her class earlier, and saw the kids go to the back of the building where their parents would show up. She didn’t wait to see if they did. She never had, and she wouldn’t start today. She threw the dead rabbit into the recycling bin. At home, she found an envelope full of cash in her backpack. It was the exact amount for a full week of teaching. She previously had a deposit from the school, last time. What did it mean? Were they done with her? She didn’t sleep that night. She thought of Melissa. She texted her sister to let her know about the cash, and how she thought something was orchestrated to drive her nuts. Sis responded with the offer to help her, and maybe pick her up on Friday night, after her work, to bring her back home. Deirdre declined. She shivered when she passed her classroom door the next day. There were eight kids, all smiling, including Bruno, filling the seat that had stayed empty for a dozen days. She decided to say nothing, because she wouldn’t give these little monsters what they wanted. She assigned them hard exercises and she felt very happy when Melissa started to cry because the instructions were too complicated to understand. During class, she kept glancing at Bruno. There was nothing to see. Just a kid. A big head on a tiny body. Dirty fingernails and eyes moving fast like hummingbirds. When he started to chat with Jacob, she came closer to them. She thought the two boys were speaking in a foreign language, something guttural and ancient. But she remembered that they had their codes, their world that she wasn’t a part of. Deirdre checked if Bruno had finished his exercises. He was struggling, like the others. She stayed next to him, her eyes inspecting his nostrils, his ears. Nothing. No foul smell either. She put her hand on his forehead. He didn’t seem surprised. Of course not. He knew she was freaking out, and deep inside him, he loved it. Without the rabbit, Deirdre felt extremely alone. She also felt clear-sighted. This teaching gig was coming to an end, and it was better that way. The children got her. They felt her vulnerability and they had used it against her, with the complicity of the school and the parents. It was always the same story, right? The world loved to squeeze Didi, so fragile, so kind, to see what would come out of her, of all her pains, all her humiliations. It happened every time she dropped her guard. People were animals sucking on her wounds, always looking for more delicious blood. Her husband did it, turning her into her doormat that would accept to fuck girls just to let him do his dirty videos. Her sister asphyxiated her with a successful life, and her mother with lists of all the different ways Deirdre had disappointed her. She got bullied at school; she got bullied in life. Simple. Didi was a victim. Deirdre gave herself another chance to act normal, just one more time. She doubled the number of pills she usually took, ate an entire bucket of ice cream and decided at 1 am to put a frozen family-size pizza in the oven. She took 3 more pills after her feast and fell asleep in her armchair. She dreamed of an arch made of stones, with its foundation buried deep in the snow. A cardinal went to stop on top of it, which woke her up, or maybe it was the pain in her stomach. It was almost time to go to school. Melissa ran into her with a bouquet of flowers. They were red, because red was her teacher’s hair color, and also her own favorite color, the one from her Minnie pencil case. She giggled when her teacher asked her if she had visited another season to find such beautiful and scented roses, and Melissa replied “Only in a dream I had last night!” which seemed to satisfy Deirdre. Deirdre decided to end this school day on a French lesson, to make these little motherfuckers suffer. She turned her back on them, and started to write vocabulary on the blackboard. Words the kids would not understand, like traitor, pain, or death penalty – traître, souffrance, peine de mort – that they would have to use to write sentences. She called out Bruno, and ordered him to go stand in the corner, facing the wall, for no reason at all. She came back to her task on her board, but a loud fart stopped her. She turned her head, and behind her, the children were all looking at her. Rocio and her pouting lips, Sherry with her fat nose that would need a lot of surgery to be corrected, and Shelly and his front teeth coming out of her mouth. They looked so ugly this class looked like a freakshow. That’s right, freaks kept on an island to not scare people on the continent. Somebody farted again, louder if possible, and this time, the children laughed. The disgusting sounds continued, as the class hilarity. It was Bruno. He was the only one not laughing. His cheeks were red, and he looked deeply sorry - but who knows if it wasn’t fake? At this point, Deirdre knew what to do. She thought of her divorce, her job as “contingent labor” and this proliferation of gas that reminded her how sickening bodies were. She took the time to erase the French words on the board, cleaned her desk, and turned off her computer. She told her students to stand two-by-two, and get out. They didn’t have to take their coats, winter hats or gloves. They didn’t need all of that where they were going. As she was saying that, she passed on a fur coat, the one she had bought in the prevision of her stay on Lincoln Island. They walked to the church, and because it was too late, she had to use her key to open the door. She had the seven children and the resurrected demon enter, and she closed the heavy wooden door behind them. Locked it. Then, she went to her cabin to take the material stored in her attic. She came back to the church. The fire started strong with the paper. She brought some wood she used in her chimney, and soon, flames ran up the church’s wooden structure. She heard bangs on the door and children weeping, and she left, coming back to her cabin. Deirdre thought of absolutely nothing, at peace, feeling exactly like the moment before she discovered Bruno had died in her class. She didn’t go inside, but got behind her little house, where the old well was. She touched its cold stones, sat on the edge, turned her legs in the direction of the pitch-black hole. She said, “Fire for them, water for me.” And then, she jumped. *Sophie Ann Hinkson relocated to Chicago from Paris a few years ago. In France, she worked as a bookseller and journalist for a literary magazine and radio station. She is now teaching ESL and French at various colleges in Chicago. She holds an MA in Modern Literature from France and is currently an MFA candidate in Creative Writing at UC Riverside’s Low Residency Program. She lives in Chicago with her husband, one cat, and six pet rats.* ### Worst SNL Hosts URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-worst-snl-hosts/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T15:01:01.000Z We’ve all heard the saying, “every pot has its lid.” Sure, it doesn’t have the same cache that “Shontay, you stay," or "You are NOT the father!” has, but it’s a valuable concept nonetheless. The saying has been applied to thousands of scenarios – everything from finding the person you want to spend the rest of your life with to finding the right outfit that says both, “I read a lot of books,” and “Those charges were dropped.” It also applies to a job that most of us will never have the chance to do and that’s host *Saturday Night Live*. I would venture to guess that most people probably don’t want to host *Saturday Night Live* though, which is good because if you take the number of people that don’t want to host *Saturday Night Live* and triple it, now you’re getting into the territory of how many people aren’t capable of hosting *Saturday Night Live*. To be clear, I don’t think hosting *Saturday Night Live* is the most important job there is. It’s probably not even in the top 100 most important jobs. I would guess that it’s somewhere between “WalMart greeter” and “bathroom attendant” on the list. All three of those jobs are things that have brought us all great joy at times and great sorrow at others. Shout out to the bathroom attendant at Harry Carey’s restaurant in Chicago in the summer of 1998\. Sorry for being so weirded out. That’s definitely on me! But to get back to the pots and lids of it all, usually when someone is bad at hosting *Saturday Night Live*, it's often because they’re not an actor or comedian. There’s lots of athletes that have hosted that show and did not do a good job. But, how many cast members from *Saturday Night Live* would do well playing football or riding a bike? Actually, I bet most of them can probably ride a bike, but maybe they wouldn’t be as fast as Lance Armstrong, who hosted the show in 2005\. But to be fair, he was on drugs for a lot of the time he was riding his bike and it’s not unheard of for someone on the *SNL* cast to enjoy a drug or two from time to time. And what makes a good *Saturday Night Live* host anyway? I think the most important thing is enthusiasm. If the person hosting wants to host and wants to put on a good show, that’s going to come through in their performance. Being able to read cue cards helps a lot. The ability to not only possess, but also project, joy comes in handy too. These are all big parts of the reason why when *SNL* inexplicably had D\*nald Tr\*mp and El\*n M\*sk host, it was a huge failure both times. I’d rather watch a cat get a root canal than watch those two “people” do anything. And can you imagine what it must have been like to be on the writing staff or on the cast for those two shows? It would be like doing PR for the Catholic Church. Doing your job well just makes you part of the problem! And it is in that spirit that I give you my list of five of the worst *Saturday Night Live* hosts that I can recall. I could have made a list of five of the best hosts, but people are always talking about the good hosts. Some of you have forgotten about these goons and we need to fix that. - **Nancy Kerrigan, 1994 –** This is a primary example of how being a leader in one field doesn’t mean you’re going to be a leader in another. One could argue that a figure skating performance includes a certain amount of acting and projecting emotions. Maybe Nancy Kerrigan could only do that when she was moving at a high rate of speed. But when she was standing still, the only emotion she projected was, “Haven’t I been through enough?” And to answer that question: Yes, she had been through enough. Getting clubbed by a couple of dumdums was certainly awful, but at least it wasn’t 90 minutes long. - **Michael Phelps, 2008** – Do you remember those video packages they always show at the Olympics, right before a big race? The ones where they talk about how an athlete has worked their whole life for this moment and they made huge sacrifices and had a laser focus on their goals? Someone in the sports department at NBC had to make about two dozen of those for Michael Phelps during the course of his Olympics career and it never dawned on anyone that maybe someone who worked so hard that it was almost an obsession might not be able to turn it down a few notches to goof around in front of a few million television viewers? It was probably also weird for him to have that many clothes on all at the same time, which couldn’t have helped. - **Paris Hilton, 2005** – Listen. Paris Hilton got a raw deal back in the day. She’s an entire human being and we treated her like shit. The internet passed around her sex tape. We all talked about how dumb we thought she was. People thought she was stuck up. So why did *Saturday Night Live* even want her to host the show? I suppose it was because so many people paid so much attention to her, but people pay a lot of attention to toilet paper (just ask the pandemic!), but that doesn’t mean toilet paper should host *Saturday Night Live*. But I think she’d probably agree that she did not do an exemplary job hosting *SNL*, although I bet she wouldn’t care for being compared to toilet paper. - **Andrew Dice Clay, 1990** – I mostly remember this episode because one of the SNL cast members, Nora Dunn, refused to appear on the show the week that Andrew Dice Clay hosted because she found the material in his stand-up act to be misogynistic. I was still pretty young back then, but even then it made the show way less fun to watch, knowing that the host had basically driven one of the cast members away. And that’s the only thing I remember from the whole episode, which is probably a solid indicator of how good an episode it was. - **January Jones, 2009** – As someone who is an actress, I thought it was really surprising how uncomfortable January Jones seemed to be when she hosted. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought that there was someone just off camera with a gun pointed at her, threatening her to stay. I understand that dramatic acting and comedic acting are two different skill sets, but I would bet that it was less awkward when JD Vance got caught with that couch than this episode of TV was. In her defense, there was a whole sketch where she had to play Grace Kelly with chronic flatulence on the set of *Rear Window*. Can I please see the list of sketch ideas that didn’t make it on air? There must have been some doozies on that list if this one made it through. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.” \-Stuart Smalley/Al Franken speaking at the SNL Host Survivors support group. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### Movie Behavior URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-movie-behavior/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T14:54:16.000Z I love going to the movies. Well, most of the time I love going to the movies. The thing about going to the movies is that there’s usually other people there and that means it’s a real crapshoot whether those people are going to behave themselves or act like a mildly inconvenienced Real Housewife who’s on her third chardonnay (aka a loud distraction who’s primary responsibility is to deny some questionable cosmetic surgery choices that made like Christopher Columbus and didn’t settle right). But one of the good things about the movies is that it’s dark, so you don’t have to think about anyone’s botched eyelift. Why hasn’t anyone ever mentioned that in an Oscar acceptance speech? That’s not a rhetorical question. I demand answers! I once bought a ticket to the *Aquaman* sequel because I had the day off from work and figured I liked the first movie well enough, I might as well see this one too. I arrived at the theater a few minutes early and took my seat in the back row like the good patriot that I am. Then some young people came in. They were talking and taking selfies and probably arguing about pronouns, as young people do, and it was almost like I had a premonition like the people at the beginning of a *Final Destination* movie. I was just certain that this was going to continue for the entire movie, so I got up and left. I think Jason Momoa is great. I saw him in a restaurant once outside of Joshua Tree National Park and my friend wouldn’t let us talk to him because he thought that would be embarrassing. I don’t think Jason Momoa is great enough, though, for me to sit and listen to some turds carry on for a whole movie. My birthday is on 9/11! I’ve been through enough! Last summer, I attend the reboot/sequel/requel of *I Know What You Did Last Summer* and I bring this up not to make you further question my taste in film, but to offer an example of poor movie theater behavior from a group I normally hold in very high regard: lesbians of a certain age. In my experience, lesbians have always excelled in the field of identifying a goal and achieving it. In this case, the goal was watching a movie. But these gals not only failed to achieve the goal, they came in dead last compared to me and the other nine people that were watching the movie. Do you want to know why? Texting. They texted through the whole movie. Who were they texting? I don’t know. Were they texting each other? Possibly. Should they have spent their afternoon sitting at home and texting instead of coming to the movies and being a huge distraction while Jennifer Love Hewitt is trying to scare the bejesus out of us? Absolutely. Anyway, I bring all this all up today for two reasons. First, I would like to make like Gandhi up in this clerb and be the change I’d like to see in the world. In other words, if I bitch enough about the way people act at the movies, then maybe people will stop acting that way. Second, and this one is probably a lot more obvious: I’m going to list five movie theater snacks and which city they’d choose to host their bachelorette party, were they to have one. OBVIOUSLY. - **Popcorn: Las Vegas** – Popcorn knows that it is the most expected movie theater snack and it should come as no surprise to anyone that it’s probably going to pick the most expected bachelorette party destination. Or maybe they picked it because sex work is legal there and popcorn wants to get freaky with someone before they lock it down. Popcorn is so mysterious! Or maybe popcorn is using sex to heal past trauma. Either way, popcorn’s friends are on the hook for plane tickets and hotel rooms and they know damn well that however much that costs is still cheaper than telling popcorn they’re can’t make it. Popcorn *never* forgets. - **Raisinets: Palm Springs** – Only a raisin disguised as candy would think it was a good idea to take a bunch of their single friends to Palm Springs and bother the local homosexuals for a long weekend. The people of Palm Springs moved there to get away from bachelorette parties and the people who host them! Take your group into Quadz and see what happens. Those gents will take one look at you and your penis straws and serve up a single round of White Claws before asking you to get the hell out. - **Peanut M&M’s: Austin** – Of course Peanut M&M’s would choose Austin. It’s a solid destination for a solid movie theater snack. Much like the very dependable Peanut M&M’s, Austin has the constitution to put up with the shenanigans of a group of people that probably don’t like each other all that much for two or three days. They’ve seen worse and lived to tell the tale. They also like to keep it weird, so they’re probably going to give the bachelorette party some slack when it comes to questionable behavior. To most of us, vomiting in someone’s landscaping might be rude, but I bet the people of Austin would find that endearingly peculiar. - **Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups: Cabo San Lucas** – This is a match made in heaven because you’re both too much. I enjoy a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, but at the movies? No, thank you. I need to be able to see what’s happening when I’m eating a peanut butter cup. I don’t want to end up with chocolate all over my blouse and not find out about it until I leave the theater at the end of the movie. Also, making someone leave the country because you decided to get married is some top-tier bullshit. Passports should only come into play when it’s voluntary or you’re evading the authorities. - **Licorice: Newark** – I know this is a controversial opinion, but I do not care for licorice. I once heard it described as “congealed cough syrup,” and I suppose that’s fine if you’ve got a cough. But if licorice is cough syrup and you’re eating it when you’re not sick, are you abusing drugs? It’s hard for me to say, but I think that’s something you should discuss with your personal physician. Also, Newark is a perfectly fine city and I’m sure there’s lot of fun things to do there (it’s the home of the “Italian Hot Dog,” which is something I thought you did to someone, not something that you ate). But do you really want to tell everyone that’s where you had your bachelorette party? It’s almost as bad as telling someone you’re going to rehab because of a cough syrup addiction you developed via licorice consumption. To quote Parker Posey’s character in The White Lotus, “Piper, no!” ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “A wise man speaks because he has something to say. A fool speaks because he has to say something.” \-Plato, who would just shit himself if he knew about all these men with podcasts **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### Season 2: Greatest Hits URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/fuzzy-memories-podcast-season-2-greatest-hits/ Last updated: 2026-07-23T14:10:49.000Z Another season in the books! And let's just say... it was epic. Laughs were had. Gasps were gasped. And Heath always made Erin choke on her drink. Here's some of our favorites: - [1980: Pac-Man, Xanadu, and Superholes](https://youtu.be/uKzVBijXouM?si=znJJpY%5Ff6TYwdjiq&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [1981: Mommie Dearest, Dynasty, and Bette Davis Eyes](https://youtu.be/eKCmE2AWn-4?si=7mOFPKf%5F5q99xImS&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [1983: Cujo, Moose Murders, and Jaws 3D](https://youtu.be/QeqRXOgCwJk?si=r3fu-dNJb1XSjxtx&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [1986: Highlander, Hands Across America, and An American Tail](https://youtu.be/QWFcPsE6BM8?si=5Yo0N6xjiAXxQhNA&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [1988: Sexpot Preachers and Sewer Phantoms](https://youtu.be/bKw7ho-c8I0?si=qpSDJczmQ6riXRh4&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [1993: The X-Files, Falling Down and Snow](https://youtu.be/5owqEKArfoc?si=3nZ2bB-qNEnHna2U&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [1998: Furby, Jack Frost, and Schweddy Surprises](https://youtu.be/Hl98btkOPMY?si=6BZw9%5FPaZFwQszj3&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) *Fuzzy Memories is the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. Three latchkey kids who made it out alive break down everything from Madonna and Masters of the Universe to Twin Peaks and Titanic. Join us to celebrate the hits, the misses and the misfits of the weirdest decades.* ### Covers We Didn't Need URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-covers-we-didnt-need/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T14:48:46.000Z Have you ever heard someone say, “I needed that like I needed a hole in the head”? The first thing I think of when I hear this is that person was probably alive during the Great Depression and has a no-nonsense haircut. The second thing I think of is whether the person who said that really means “another hole in the head,” because technically, we already have five holes in our head – seven if you count your eyes. That statement must really get my gears going because the third thing that it makes me thing of is the long list of cover songs that don’t need to exist. I’ve got a list of five covers that I find particularly troubling down below (I mean the list is down below, not that they cause me troubles down below), but before we get to that, there are three songs that have been covered too many times and we need to band together as one and go full [Susan Powter and stop the insanity](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZjfB4qDx3RM&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com). I say that figuratively because, if you take a look around, you’ll see that banding together as one isn’t exactly something that Americans excel at. We’re better at moderating our sugar intake than we are at banding together and the average American ingests about three pounds of sugar a day. If you’ve ever heard “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana and thought you could do it better, you need to go take a cold shower. The cold shower isn’t going to help anything, but it will be an unpleasant experience and that’s the kind of thing a person like you deserves. Yes, I understand that Kurt Cobain is no longer with us so it will never be performed live by the original Nirvana again. That’s it. That’s the end of the conversation. We just need to get used to the fact that we’ll have to listen to the versions that Nirvana recorded and be fine with it. It doesn’t mean that Miley Cyrus should go do a cover of the song (something she actually did) because that will make everyone feel better about Kurt Cobain being gone. It means that Miley Cyrus should do a crossword puzzle or watch an episode of *The Rachel Maddow Show* and we’ll actually be better off. Have you ever heard “Imagine” by John Lennon? It’s a pretty great song, right? Maybe one of the greatest of all time! You know what’s not as great? Every cover of the song. Avril Lavigne did a cover of this song and I want to know why our emergency management system allowed that to happen. If Avril Lavigne covering John Lennon doesn’t trigger a code red, what does? This should be treated with the same level of alarm as if a meteor is careening towards Earth or Beyonce tickets have gone on sale. Do you remember at the start of the pandemic when Gal Gadot lead a bunch of actors in a sing-along of “Imagine?” I like Gal Gadot just fine and she’ll always be my Wonder Woman, and I’m certain she had good intentions, but WWYTGG (what were you thinking, Gal Gadot)? That was pretty cringy, like when your coworker shows you a video of their awkward teen delivering an overly --ambitious and exceptionally-under-rehearsed promposal. GG and friends didn’t give me hope for better days. They made me sweat through my shirt and left me damp and alone. As a devout worshipper at the Church of the Redeemer of Mariah Carey, I pray to Mimi herself everyday and I ask that none of us are subjected to overhead lighting, no one takes a photo of anyone from their bad side and that we’ve seen the last of the covers of “All I Want For Christmas Is You.” As one of the songwriters on AIWFCIY, Mariah Carey gets a check every time someone does a cover and I appreciate that it continues to fund the lifestyle that she deserves. HOWEVER, the idea that anyone would record that song and try to make it their own is tantamount to trying to rebrand the Fourth of July as a holiday to celebrate soups and stews. The worst offenders are the ones who do a slowed down take. What’s next? Are you going to sing a maudlin version of “Happy Birthday” to prove you have range as an artist? You’re so complex and interesting! I don’t think that’s true, but I know how to tell you what you want to hear. Not everyone can cover songs like Kelly Clarkson can and here are five more examples that express that fact in ways that you don’t want to hear. “Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting” Nickelback and Kid Rock – I want to know who’s idea it was to put these two acts together. That’s not a rhetorical question. If you know, please email me at [audiologicalassualt@thisisgross.gov](mailto:audiologicalassualt@thisisgross.gov). Not since someone dropped some Mentos into a two-liter bottle of Coke has there been a bigger mess. Unlike Mentos and Coke, these two are bad enough on their own. This track appeared on the soundtrack to *Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle*, a film I was pretty jazzed to see but left me feeling like my Door Dash driver dropped off someone else’s order of Kaopectate instead of my mozzarella sticks. I can’t blame this song for how things turned out with that movie, but it certainly didn’t help the situation. In fact, I think the only thing that Nickelback or Kid Rock has ever helped is filling out the police lineup for a suspected pervert. “The Star-Spangled Banner” Fergie – I know lots of people sing the national anthem and I’m not sure if all of those are really considered covers, but I’ve decided this version is a cover if for no other reason than the fact that it has taken on a life of its own. Not many people would think to do a deeply horny version of the national anthem, so let’s give Fergie credit for thinking outside the box. Fergie performed this before the NBA All-Star game in 2018\. You know you’re in new national anthem territory when the camera shows basketball players trying to keep a straight face during the performance. This happened over seven years ago and I’m still going on and on about it, so I guess she did something right. I mean, you’ll have to pull up the footage and point out to me what she did during this performance that was “right,” but I can make time for that if you can. “My Prerogative” Britney Spears – There was this thing in the aughts where, when artists would put out a greatest hits album, they’d include a cover song so people had at least one new track to listen to along with all the other stuff that they probably already owned. When Britney Spears put out her greatest hits CD in 2004, she included a cover of Bobby Brown’s “My Prerogative.” I think this was maybe the 19th song that she released to let everyone know that she was now a grown woman and she was going to make her own decisions. I love Britney as much as the next homosexual, but if this was one of the decisions you wanted to make for yourself, I start to wonder if you’re making the right decision. Is this what gave her dad the idea for the conservatorship? Maybe. Does it justify the conservatorship? Absolutely not. Is Britney not a girl, but not yet a woman? My prerogative is, it’s not for me to say. “Heroes” The Wallflowers – Do you remember The Wallflowers? They’re the band that was fronted by Bob Dylan’s son, Jacob. They were very popular in 1997 and they really had that whole, “I’m so indifferent about EVERYTHING,” vibe down pat. They had a couple of big hits and then someone asked them to record a cover of “Heroes” by David Bowie for the soundtrack to the 1998 remake of *Godzilla*. Remakes on remakes, as they say. Even after all this time, it’s hard to tell which one was received more poorly: the remake of the song or the remake of the film. In retrospect, we maybe should have seen this coming since the song is about two lovers who risk death to be together in Berlin during the Cold War and the movie’s tagline was “Size matters.” To paraphrase the Target Lady, “It’s not a match!” “Papa Don’t Preach” Kelly Osbourne – *The Osbournes* ushered in a new era of reality TV that featured a peek behind the curtain at the lives of celebrities. To the surprise of everyone, including Ozzy Osbourne (who was maybe the most surprised) the MTV show turned out to be an enormous hit. As they say, with the good, comes the bad. In this case, “the bad” is Ozzy’s daughter Kelly’s cover of the Madonna classic, “Papa Don’t Preach.” This was clearly a cash grab from the jump as some producer somewhere was very much trying to make a quick buck off a song that seemingly referenced the relationship between Kelly and her father, even though the song is about teen pregnancy and Kelly Osbourne was barely a teen (definitely not a teen living a typical life) and absolutely not pregnant when she recorded the song. Madonna wasn’t pregnant when she recorded it either, but she also wasn’t starring as “herself” on a reality show. And while Madonna isn’t one of the all-time great vocalists, Kelly Osbourne makes her sound like an Aretha Franklin/Celine Dion shooter with a Whitney Houston chaser. I'll leave you with this: “Papa, I know you're going to be upset.” – our fathers, collectively, at the mere mention of any of these covers. *Heath Smith is a special pop culture contributor to Midwest Weird. Read his column,* [*Donzerly Light*](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/donzerly-light/)*, and get it direct to your inbox when you sign up. Heath is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tag/fuzzy-memories-podcast/)*, the 80s and 90s pop culture podcast.* *We’ve reached the end of Season 2! We’ll be back this fall with more weird stories.* *If you like what you hear, subscribe, like and review the show.* *And if you want your fiction or nonfiction to appear on Midwest Weird, send us your work!* *Thanks for joining us. And stay weird.* ### "How to Grow a House," LL Kelly URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-how-to-grow-a-house-ll-kelly/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T15:44:43.000Z LL Kelly currently lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota with her family. When not writing (or reading), she can be found working on new tricks with her dog, crafting, or gardening. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *Today’s episode: “How to Grow a House" by LL Kelly. Read by the author.* How to Grow a House (For Beginners) So you’ve decided to grow your own house – congratulations! You’re about to embark on a beautiful and fulfilling project. Growing a house can also be challenging though; it’s not like they can grow themselves! Follow our guide for beginners to get a great foundation of knowledge on what a house needs, how it grows, and what to expect. Where to start? It’s important to start with style! When you are searching for your house seed, you will discover that much like apples there are dozens of different house varieties. Do you want a rambler? A cottage? MCM? Tudor? Farmhouse? If you’re not sure what those are, you’ll definitely want to start with our How to Identify House Varieties (for Beginners) book and come back to this step afterward. While you’ll absolutely be able to adjust the details of your home down the line, major style changes can be difficult if not impossible to implement due to the massive internal structural needs. It is much, much easier if you select a variety you like and stick with it: both you and your house will be much happier together if you don’t have to put it through major reconstructive surgery down the line. Keep in mind as well that a house is not mature enough for reconstruction/structural changes for at least a decade after it reaches its final stage of maturation. (More on this in the section on House Life Cycles.) Once you have selected a style, then it is simply a matter of finding a seedbearer nearby that matches the style you’ve chosen. Your state will have a list of licensed seedbearers on their website or available through their Housing Department. Prices will vary based on both the variety and age of the parent house: just like people, houses have an ideal age range for reproduction. (That ideal range can be extended significantly if the house is meticulously cared for, so you may see some seedbearers listed as much older than expected. Make sure you see pictures or visit the house in question in person in order to confirm the health of the house.) The other important starting ingredient is space! You need to have a designated plot for your seed to grow in for at least the first five years – ideally the house’s permanent location. A house can be moved once it has emerged from the growth sack, but it is an incredibly challenging process to do successfully. (For more on moving a house, see the section on House Life Cycles.) The amount of space needed will depend on the variety you’ve selected. Consult with style guides and/or the seedbearer for details on how much space your selected variety will require to fully mature. Most houses require a minimum of ¼ acre, though there are miniature varieties available these days that fully mature on less. Again, refer to the needs of your selected variety. What to expect? - House Life Cycles Once you’ve purchased your seed and your space, you’re ready to start growing! We recommend planting the seed in the spring, though in more temperate/dry zones this matters less. The seed must be at least three feet/one meter down in the ground, so planting must be done when the ground is not frozen solid. The seed requires the most attention in the first three to six months, so it is easiest to care for it when weather patterns are not keeping everyone inside. Plant your seed in the center of where you want your house to be – seeds grow in every direction, and if they run into a block it could severely stunt the growth and lead to a misshapen house. We also recommend planting some of your seed’s necessary supplies with it: specifically, sawdust and concrete powder. This will ensure your seed starts growing immediately. Essentially, you’re providing a type of nutrition, which the seed absorbs and reconfigures into the structures it needs to grow. Once in the ground, house seeds require a steady application of various materials. Depending on the style of house you’ve selected, your seed may require more or less of a specific material. For example, if you choose some MCM styles, your seed will need much more sand than a cottage style. A log cabin style home will require more sawdust, some Colonial styles will require more brick, and Tudors would require both. Refer to the seed packet you received from your seedbearer for information on what supplies your seed needs (and when – see below for more information on timing). For the first 3-6 months, you won’t see much change in your land where you planted your seed. That is normal! Don’t panic! If the supplies you are providing are being absorbed at a regular rate, then your seed is growing, even if you can’t see it. Remember, houses need to grow below ground as well as above! Your seed is starting to build its foundation during this time. This is called the germination period. As this period of growth comes to an end you will start to see a mound rising as the house seed continues to grow and expand. You do \*not\* need to climb the mound in order to continue providing materials to your seed – placing it anywhere on top of the mound will do, and your seed will still be able to absorb and redistribute those materials as needed. The germination period ends when the seedling breaks through the crust of the earth and is visible. Once you are able to see something protruding from the earth, don’t worry about what it does or does not look like. It won’t look like a house yet! It’s still a baby, still growing and building and creating. What you’re able to see is the growth sack, which encloses your house seedling like butterfly’s chrysalis both above- AND below-ground. The growth sack ensures that the seedling is still able to redistribute supplies to where they are needed, regardless of where they are placed around the sack’s outer edges. During this time, all you need to do is make sure the pile of supplies is touching the exterior of the sack, and they will be absorbed. This is called the seedling period. *Footnote: we recommend placing your material piles in a different location along the exterior each day whenever possible. There is some evidence that if the materials are always left in the same location, the seedling will grow more in that direction than the others, which can lead to warping and structural weaknesses later in the house’s life.* Some supplies are used at specific times in the seed’s growth, others are used consistently throughout. For example, as your house seedling gets larger, it will start to need more metals for electrical needs and insulation for, well, insulating! Later in the seedling stage is when most houses want sand as well, as the varieties with fewer windows will not start shaping those until later in their growth period. There are multiple options for managing the varying material needs of your house: generally the information from your seedbearer’s packet will include a rough timeline of when specialty supplies will be needed. As your house continues to grow, the growth sack will become more and more transparent. This is normal, and a sign that your house is growing healthy and strong. Eventually, the sack will become transparent enough for you to see the general shape of a house inside, and corners will start to really stretch out of the sack. Note: If you need to move your house seedling from the spot initially planted to a different permanent location, it should be done when the corners become visible but before you can clearly see through the skin of the sack. The reason for this timing is twofold: first, your house has not fully rooted to the ground, so it will be easier to pull up at this stage. Second, your house is grown and stable enough to be moved, but still contained in the growth sack to protect it from any potential bumps and bruises. It is imperative that the move not be done too late: if the growth sack has started to dry, it could rupture during the moving process, and your premature house may experience difficulties immediately or later in its life. Moving a house at any time in its life is an incredibly delicate and challenging task best left to professionals. At the end of the seedling stage, the growth sack will begin to dry out and eventually the corners of the house will poke through it. Do NOT pick at the sack or the corners – premature popping can cause serious issues for your house. It will emerge on its own time, and the growth sack will slough off naturally within a week or two of the initial puncture. There is nothing you need to do at this time but give your house space and time as it takes its first breath of fresh air: additional materials are no longer needed at this point, and the growth sack will be absorbed into the roots of the house shortly after it falls to the ground. Once your house has fully reintegrated the growth sack, it’s time to move in! Many houses will quite literally open their front door the moment they’re settled, so if the door is open you can enter the building. Your house is officially mature! It is very important to introduce yourself when you enter your new house for the first time, especially with newborns. Older houses who have seen multiple families come and go understand what is happening and tend to adjust very quickly, but a brand new house will require some extra care. Introduce yourself both out loud and via touch, any place you would expect a hand to sit. The dual greeting will help solidify a positive relationship with your house as you present yourself as a friendly being in the house’s space. If there are strong negative feelings in you or your family, we would recommend introducing yourself on a different day, as houses are incredibly empathetic and our psychological connections can influence first impressions, even unconsciously. You will know when the house is “saying hi” back to you. There is no one way that houses greet humans, but it has always been blatantly obvious. Sometimes it’s a low groan, sometimes it’s a waving cupboard, sometimes it’s a knocking in the walls – sometimes it’s even as obvious as a changing wall color. You will know it when you see it! Once the house has greeted you back, you can begin moving your stuff in if desired. However, many people take this opportunity to evaluate the natural growth of the house – the layout, the colors, etc – and determine if anything needs to change in order for it to function as their homebase. Keep in mind that a young house cannot make major changes, let alone many or quickly, so any change at this point would have to be a “need”, not a “want”. Also keep in mind that your house wants your approval: you’re its first tenant, its first family, and its first experience with the world at large. A minor change here or there – say, moving the back door from one corner of the room to another – won’t affect your house much, but asking it to completely reshape itself immediately would be quite the blow to the confidence. *Footnote: Metaphorically speaking. Scientists are unsure if houses experience confidence as humans do, or a number of other emotions, but there has been enough evidence of the negative impact of immediate changes to suggest there is something going on internally.* Additionally, any structural changes will take time and prevent you from being able to move into your new house, which most people do not want to delay further. Coloring or minor styling changes can usually be implemented even as you move in, as the house doesn’t need to rebuild anything necessarily, just recolor or reshape slightly, but keep in mind the number of requested changes will directly impact how long it takes the house to implement those changes. Lastly, there are some renovations that a brand new house simply is not capable of implementing. These seem to mostly be major renovations, things that would completely change the house in some way or another. If you’re unsure if your house is too young for a renovation, assume it is until you talk to a housing expert. Additions, expansions, and structural changes should not be attempted before the house reaches 10 years old, at minimum. So, keep your initial evaluation to the absolute basics, absolute needs, and be specific with the house about what you want to change. Don’t forget to include the ‘why,’ too! Studies have shown that tenants who explain the reasoning behind their requests typically get a better final result AND have a more interactive relationship with their house. A house can typically handle 3-4 minor changes per year, or 1-2 major changes. For major changes, especially major structural changes like additions, you will need to provide your house with supplies and materials again. After all, it can’t build a whole new room if it doesn’t have the supplies to do so! A house is not like a plant; it will not automatically constantly grow in size throughout its life. If you would like to change the size of your house, you will need to help it achieve that change by providing the necessary materials (at bare minimum). Now, if you’re hoping to recolor the entire interior of your house, for example, you can absolutely do some actual painting yourself! Houses thrive on the energy of a tenant implementing changes by hand: we recommend doing this at least once in your house so you can experience the difference. Some people call it a glow, some call it pure joy – whatever it is, you will be able to feel your house’s gratitude without question. Houses thrive on energy in general, any energy at all: whether it’s kids having a birthday party or adults having a game night, the energy of living, of experiencing life, is what will keep your house happy and healthy now that it is mature. Keep in mind that there are dozens of different ways to provide energy, so even an introvert will have no problem keeping their house happy. If you love your house, your house will love you back. *Footnote: This is why houses will only die if they are left abandoned for a long period of time: it takes months or years for them to pass away, and even then scientists are fairly sure that most houses slip into a hibernation before or rather than actually dying, as many have been brought back to life by judicious manual renovations and incredibly active tenants.* As your house matures, it will start to participate in annual house reproductive cycles. In the winter months, houses release something vaguely similar to pollen into the air. *Footnote: There is a hypothesis that winter is the chosen time for this release because it creates less confusion and competition with tree and other plant pollens. Not that houses and trees even COULD cross-pollinate, but less particles and leaves in the air in general means that the house-pollen can travel farther and more effectively.* Some houses will experience glimmers of light during the release of their pollen. These typically occur along the edges of rooflines and trim, where the pollen is blown out into the air. Colors, speed of the flicker, and even size can vary wildly – even within similar house varieties! There is no right or wrong way for these lights to appear, so don’t worry or panic, and just enjoy the show. In the spring, you will find objects almost like icicles hanging from your house’s roofline: depending on your climate they may indeed be icicles, but some are most certainly seedpods! You’ll be able to tell the difference visually upon close inspection: seed pods contain an almost rectangular dark spot somewhere within them, whereas icicles are usually clear from root to tip. Of course, icicles will also melt when in hand, and taste like water, but we don’t recommend plucking or licking anything hanging off your roof to determine what it is. If it is a seedpod, it will taste like sawdust or stone (depending on the variety), and if it’s an icicle it may have contaminants from rain or snow or other airborne chemicals – and nobody wants to lick either of those! If you’re unable to get close enough to spot the rectangular seed within, you can usually determine which are seedpods by mid-spring, as the icicles will be melting down and the seedpods will continue to grow in size. Seedpods will also retain a somewhat square or rounded end, rather than tapering to a sharp point like icicles do. For young houses (less than 15-20 years old), the seeds being produced are usually weak and unviable. This is why seedbearers of those ages typically are not seen on the market: they simply haven’t fully matured yet. Many people call this the “teenage years” of a house, since it is considered both fully grown and yet not fully matured at the same time. Thankfully, houses do not seem to go through the sullen phase many human teenagers do! Regardless, the seedpods will naturally fall off the house at the end of spring/beginning of summer and be reabsorbed where they fall. At this point even in your house’s first reproductive cycle, the foundation of the house extends deep in the soil like roots, and renovation materials and seedpods alike only need to be within the shadow of the house in order to be absorbed by it. If you have a pile of wood for bonfires, for example, or other materials you need to store nearby that are \*not\* for the house, make sure you explain that to the house before leaving the pile unattended. Very young (less than 5 years old) houses especially can struggle with this, so we recommend storing important/expensive raw material in a garage, container, or elsewhere for the first few years, just in case. As a house ages, their seeds will become stronger and healthier each year until they are fully viable. Some varieties also increase in size somewhat! At 20 years old, your house is fully mature on all fronts: ● Any seeds produced would be viable and capable of growing a fully functional new house. ● The psychoempathetic communication skills are fully developed, allowing tenant and house to have simple but complete conversations. ● The construction skills are fully developed, allowing the house to take on any major renovation given the appropriate materials and enough time. Eventually, any house will start showing signs of age. Typically around 50 years old is when houses start to struggle with construction skills and need more manual assistance. This is completely normal, and typically very minor. Major projects may simply take a little bit longer than they used to, or the house may only be able to work on one project at a time. Again, manual assistance can make a huge difference in the energy of your house, so if you feel your house is flagging, we would definitely recommend taking on a few projects yourself to boost it. Reproduction begins to slow around 75 years old as well: viable seeds are still produced, there are simply fewer of them. Extremely old houses have even been known to skip a few years, only to bounce back with new, healthy seeds again. As far as we can tell with current information, houses will stop producing seeds by the time they hit 150 years old, but that number could vary depending on the care and variety of the house in question. Interestingly, even as construction and reproductive skills begin to wane, communication skills continue to increase. No house has ever developed a mouth and spoken to humans – they’re just not \*built\* that way! – but the psychoepathetic communication with tenants, especially long-term tenants, becomes almost completely telepathic and integrated with day to day existence for the humans. Houses have alerted their humans to attempted burglaries and medical emergencies even as the humans slept, because their communication and connection was so strong and clear. Humans have dreamt of putting out a fire, only to wake and learn that the house had put out the fireplace after it misbehaved the night before. Recent studies even suggest that houses have been known to repel or attract new tenants during their tour, essentially deciding for themselves who will be their next resident. Very, very rarely, a house will discuss end of life with its tenant. This is typically due to age or injury, and each conversation is wildly unique. Housing experts can help a tenant whose house has requested information or aid on this topic. Abandonment of a house in that situation is a crime punishable by fines and/or jail time. *Footnote: This was established by an incredibly controversial court case in which the defendant argued that houses were like plants and therefore did not need “end of life care” like a pet or person would. Thankfully, ample evidence had been collected at that point of the consciousness of houses, and therefore they were granted sentient status. Houses may have co-evolved with humans somewhat like dogs did, but their ability to recognize their own lives (even if it takes a few decades) put them in a whole new category. Controversy still abounds around our “use” of houses, despite the fact that they cannot seed or grow without human aid.* Congratulations! You are officially ready to grow your own house. You have an amazing journey ahead of you, so get to it! That house isn’t going to grow itself! If you want to learn more about houses – their co-evolution with humans, our written history, legal battles, famous houses, etc – check out our Intermediate Books! ● Houses and Humans: a History ● Framed: The Biology of Houses ● Have I Been Here Before? Famous Houses of Film ● Haunted Houses: Infamous Crimes, Criminals, & the Houses that Remember Them Still *LL Kelly currently lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota with her family. When not writing (or reading), she can be found working on new tricks with her dog, crafting, or gardening.* ### Three Shorts by Mathew Serback URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-three-shorts-by-mathew-serback/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T15:40:26.000Z Mathew Serback is a re-educated goblin from the lower west side of Cleveland, OH, whose art and writing delve into the complexities of trauma, identity, and societal dissonance. Through his [YouTube channel](https://www.youtube.com/@serbackmat?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com), he shares his creative journey, posting audio-visual poems and stories, including the popular documentary What to Do When Surviving Violence. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *Today’s episode: Three short works by Mathew Serback. Read by the author.* **AOL CHATROOMS** age sex location load web page text text impatience text text persuasion chatting chatting r u naked change the conversation change the stations here is the demonstration r u naked sure nudity is new to me there is brutality in beauty there is no morality in routine no morality in losing your age sex location it is innocence it is stolen youth there is poison in the prayers of the rebuked the noise carries the chosen swears of the confused the void is scary but hold onto the cherry and choose the bruises of the weary do not be so barbaric sabretooth for even you are prey depending on what you are praying to **Y2K HELL** they promised death everyone in between everything crashing common sense modern tech bottlenecks when living in hell do not be concerned with living well the mission is resistance persistence helps along with a wishlist of riches to sell imagine living in hell imagine hearing you are going to finally make bail imagine jonah climbed out of the whale james ate his way through a giant peach sweet even more emails to sell appreciate the existence of hate resist resist with all your strength no one said it would be easy they said it would be great a dial-up defiles your wiles and leaves you to fate you no longer need you see you have the internet **@ THE MONSTER TRUCK RALLY** you are my engine my crash my must spectators trust the show we glide wavy into the pirouette watch your step the roar is more than the spin spin the wheel until it stops crushed in the crater the colossus of metal focus herodotus the engine sounds obnoxious flies like a rocket dies like a locust spectators crash beneath the block beneath the weight we fall into the pirouette the promised innocence is crushed by the engine the grease the noise the trick the choice the monster truck burns out flames lick the dust modest pirouettes are still proud pirouettes motor oil engine breath engineers cheaters death spectators cheer for the colossus who knows only how to crush into angels dust memories fade to picture frames the beauty of the crash the pirouette the speed the engine’s song crashed out glissades into payday shocked to awe the spectators start their engines *Mathew Serback is a re-educated goblin from the lower west side of Cleveland, OH, whose art and writing delve into the complexities of trauma, identity, and societal dissonance. Through his* [*YouTube channel*](https://www.youtube.com/@serbackmat?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*, he shares his creative journey, posting audio-visual poems and stories, including the popular documentary What to Do When Surviving Violence.* ### Boy Bands URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-boy-bands/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T14:59:34.000Z Boy bands are a young man’s game and, as a noted young person, I’d like to be the first person to welcome you to this essay about boy bands and the nonsense that comes to mind when I’m thinking about them. You might find yourself wondering how often I think about boy bands. I’m happy to report that I think about boy bands an average amount of time – no more than three or four hours a day. Just a normal, healthy amount of my waking hours. I’ve noticed that most fans of boy bands tend to identify as female. I don’t think boy bands necessarily appeal to females more, but I do think that males are afraid to openly like boy bands. It’s like how men are afraid to show emotion or let women have autonomy over their bodies. I wonder if men think that liking boy bands would lead to believing that a woman should be able to make her own decisions regarding healthcare and her body. And then where would we be? We’d all just be walking around, letting women lead their lives, unencumbered by the opinion of some dipshit that was born in the 1800s and looks like a constipated turtle. To be fair, I’m just assuming that Mitch McConnell was born in the 1800s. I am not assuming he looks like a constipated turtle. There are thousands of hours of footage and millions of photographs that uphold that observation. A few months ago, I watched the *Saturday Night Live* 50th anniversary concert. The Backstreet Boys performed on the show and I found out two things that night: the Backstreet Boys are eerily well-preserved and Jon Hamm fucking LOVES “I Want It That Way.” Dude was totally rocking out. A lesser man wouldn’t have felt as comfortable singing along to that song in the same room as Steven Spielberg and … checks notes … Jelly Roll. That’s the kind of thing that restores a sliver of faith that I have in men, but as you might expect, it lasted for about 19 seconds until I got a news alert that the president decided to close an orphanage because those kids had been freeloading long enough. I’m paraphrasing, but you get what I mean. I know she’s not a boy band, but Cher also performed at that SNL50 concert and let me tell you, I’ve never seen another person enjoying themselves as much as Kevin Costner was enjoying that performance. Next time you need a shot of dopamine, go watch a clip of Kevin Costner watching Cher. They may be older than your parents, but that clip will make you feel 5% more confident that everything will be OK (and when you add that extra 5%, that means the average person feels about 9% sure that everything will be OK, which is pretty good these days, all things considered). We’ve all got our hopes and dreams. One of my hopes and/or dreams (Is this one of those geographical nomenclature things where it’s called a hope in the south and a dream in the north? Like “pop” and “soda?” Or “racism” and “heritage?”) is that one day we’ll all be able to openly love our boy bands with the kind of fervor and enthusiasm usually reserved for finding out that weekend socializing plans have been cancelled. I’ve got other hopes and dreams too, mostly just about treating people well and everyone just chilling the fuck out, but one thing at I time, I suppose. Like any good boy band, my roster only has room for five (or four, or – god forbid – three). They’re not all going to make it to the boy band hall of fame, but they’ve at least made it to Donzerly Light, and so have you. And why are they here? To paraphrase the Backstreet Boys, I’m about to “tell *you* why!” - **Boyz II Men** – Historically, I wouldn’t really consider Boyz II Men a boy band, but I guess they’ve got the word “boy” right in the title. I don’t know why I wouldn’t consider them a boy band, other than the fact that they don’t perform a lot of choreography. Ironically, that is not why I don’t consider Nirvana a boy band. Would any of this stand up in a court of law? We’ll probably never know. Anyhow, I saw Boyz II Men in concert about five years ago and they had to open and close the show with “Motownphilly,” because that’s their only popular song that is also upbeat. That’s not a criticism, just an observation. I’ve also observed that Boyz II Men are always going through something with the ladies in their lives. It’s nice to be able to turn to friends to talk about the stuff you’re going through, but I applaud Boyz II Men’s ability to coordinate both making love to their partners and asking their partners to take them back after a disagreement. Is that like when women who live in the same dorm have their menstrual cycles sync up? I believe it is! #science - **New Kids on the Block** – I know New Kids on the Block weren’t the first boy band by any stretch of the imagination, but they probably deserve credit for redefining what it meant to be a boy band in the modern era. I’m referring to the late 80s and early 90s as “the modern era” here, so I’m using the term rather loosely (which makes me think of your mother). I give them credit for redefining what it meant to be a boy band because New Kids fans took their admiration to a level we pop culture fans hadn’t seen in quite a while. I’ll probably get shot down by a drone for this next sentence, but at the time, the way fans reacted to The Beatles was probably the closest comparison to how New Kids fans got so keyed up. Did you know that the New Kids had their own cartoon? They also had something the internet is calling “fashion figures,” but I think those are just dolls and I’m not sure who is willing to buy a New Kids “fashion figure,” but draws the line at buying a New Kids “doll.” Different strokes for different folks, I guess. New Kids on the Block still go on tour and make a lot of money doing so. They even have New Kids cruises, which sound like a full nightmare to me, but bon voyage to you and yours. If I’m ever trapped at sea with Donnie Wahlberg, know that MISTAKES WERE MADE. I’ll never forget when they tried to rebrand themselves as NKOTB so they would seem more mature. I think I would have just suggested that they tuck their shirts in. - **Menudo** – Did you know that, in addition to being a boy band, “menudo” is also a traditional Mexican soup made with cow’s stomach and a red chili pepper base? Menudo is good source of vitamin B12, zinc and Ricky Martin! Menudo (the boy band) has been around for almost 50 years and has had more than 39 members, mostly because their creep management team kept kicking kids out of the group when they were “too old,” aka 16\. I can see kicking someone out of middle school because they’re 16 and that’s too old, but if someone is making that a habit and they’re not the school superintendent, it’s time to call Chris Hansen and the team from *To Catch a Predator*. In 2022, television’s AC Slater, Mario Lopez, launched a reboot of Menudo with auditions around the country and online. Everyone’s still 16 or younger, but I suppose if you’re 25 and you’re signing up for the Menudo reboot, that’s probably a red flag in and of itself. - **LFO (Lite Funky Ones)** – This was one of those boy bands that only had three people in it and so they were immediately very sus to me. How can you fill up all the boy band archetypes if there are only three of you? Do you want one person to be both the funny one and the old one? That goes against all that I ever learned in physics class! This group had two hits that I remember: “Summer Girls” and “Girl on TV.” Here is a sampling of lyrics from “Summer Girls:” “Like *The Color Purple*, macaroni and cheese. Ruby red slippers and a bunch of trees. Call you up but what's the use? I like Kevin Bacon but I hate *Footloose*.” If you’re like me, you read that and asked aloud, “What the actual fuck?” and I am sorry but I do not have the information necessary to elaborate on any actual, literal or figurative fucks when it comes to those lyrics. Beyond the questionable prose, they also had a tendency to really over-sing in their songs and there was definitely a troubling tendency for this group of white performers to speak and sing in a manner that was made popular by black performers. I will admit that if they were just an average boy band, I might have forgotten them by now. So I guess thank goodness those lyrics were terrible and insane nonsense? I also feel compelled to mention that two of three members have died, which makes me assume that the surviving member is currently touring as the Lite Funky One. - **NSYNC** – I once purchased an NSYNC CD online because I was too embarrassed to go to the store and purchase it in person. That is not a comment on NSYNC, but it is a comment on the condition of my headspace in 2000 and it also supports my argument from paragraph two above. I would say that, of all the boy bands mentioned here today, this group had the most questionable hairstyles. They had that one guy that wore ski goggles as a headband to hold back his white boy dreads! That’s a lot of look for one person to handle and he was not successful. Hair tragedies aside, they did sell 2.4 million copies of the album *No Strings Attached* in its first week of release. That record stood for over 15 years until Adele came along and broke it without wearing even one dreadlock on her head. It was exciting a couple years ago when they reunited for that song from the third *Trolls* movie. But then I heard the song and it extinguished the excitement faster than someone yelling, “Joey Fatone” during lovemaking. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “She's been good to me and she deserves better than that.” Nick Lachey from the song “The Hardest Thing” by 98 Degrees, presumably apologizing to the listener of the song while he is singing it. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "Flood," Stephanie Frazee URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-flood-stephanie-frazee/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T15:37:22.000Z Stephanie Frazee's work is forthcoming from Variant Literature and has appeared in Marrow Magazine, Pithead Chapel, The Evergreen Review, Bayou Magazine, Juked, SmokeLong Quarterly, and elsewhere. She is online at [www.stephaniefrazee.com](http://www.stephaniefrazee.com/?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) and @[stephieosaurus.bsky.social](http://stephieosaurus.bsky.social/?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com). Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *Today’s episode: “Flood," by Stephanie Frazee. Read by the author.* We called the cat Jesus Christ, short for Jesus Christ what did that fucking piece of shitdo now. Her fluffy backside, anus exposed under a tail in flag-pole position, disappeared behind a chokeberry bush at the edge of our property. She had lost an eye in a fight last year and was now heavy with kittens but didn’t seem bothered by any of it. My mother was also pregnant, and she was bothered by it. She kept getting pregnant but not having the babies or more like, having them before they were babies, just bloody gray clumps in the toilet or bathwater or bedsheets, and by this one, she wasn’t even talking about it and no one asked her the questions about how she was feeling or was she excited or wasn’t she so blessed. Her stomach was huge but her face was caved-in and unsmiling and told people what they wanted to know. My stepfather hated Jesus Christ and hoped she’d go into the woods and die having her kittens so all the kittens would die too, because he didn’t work all day every day to feed a bunch of vermin, and now I worried over her all the time. I came out on the other side of the bushes. A large crow, feathers so black they seemed to suck up all the color around them, stood on the bank of the creek and stared at me with a shiny bead of an eye. I stared back until I was sure: it was Jesus Christ. She had a way of switching bodies if she wanted, which made me think both she could take care of herself and she’d only get herself into more trouble. The creek was running high and fast because of a terrible storm the night before, the kind of storm that shook the whole house. The ground was soggy. The crow flapped up and flew, in a bumbling sort of way. Somewhere nearby, the real crow must’ve found itself in Jesus Christ’s body, all fur, kittens, and no wings, trying to fly off to someplace better but stuck to the ground. The creek surged. Sticks and branches had gathered to cause a bottleneck the water strained against. The creek rushed and roared and said fuck this and flooded itself over the blockage and into the sedge. I stepped back as the water swelled. I stepped back again because it kept rising and then I was getting scraped by the bushes and running back to the house and the creek was not a creek anymore but an angry, overflowing river and the yard was a swamp, as if the water was coming up from the ground itself, and my foot sank into the mud. I tried pull myself free but got sucked deeper and I pulled until I felt the squelch of my foot coming out of the earth minus my shoe. I splashed through the yard to the house where the water was seeping through the floor and my mother was screaming from upstairs. The screams sounded like she was being ripped open, because she was. I could feel her screams in my bones and in my blood. And there was blood. She screamed at me to call someone, call anyone. She was so pale, which didn’t match her wailing. I picked up the phone. The line was dead, but I pretended to dial and I talked like someone could help us. Please come. She needs you. Baby’s on its way. Rain crashed against the roof, loud as a stampede. The water sloshed at the stairs. My mother moaned like a cow on its way to slaughter. The baby came out, alive this time. Greasy and blinking its puffy eyelids like, what the fuck is this shit? My mother was white as the part of the sheet without blood on it. I held the baby and waited for something to happen but all that happened was my mother cried, bled, slumped back against the pillow, and stopped crying. The only sound was jagged breath, rain, and the water lapping into the hallway. Jesus Christ wasn’t yelling at me to feed her or for someone to open a door. No tires on gravel or feet on the stairs or leather against skin. The baby wasn’t even crying. I held it awkwardly because it was still attached to my mother by the cord. But I couldn’t look at my mother after I felt her slump onto the pillow. I looked at the baby. It looked back at me with its mouth in a very serious line and its eyes hard as stones. Blood crawled across the sheets and touched my leg. The baby had a divot in the center of its chest the size of my fingerprint, so I placed my finger in it. The feathery flutter of a heart. Under the grease, its skin was gray as a corpse. The rain came in through the open window onto the oak chest where baby things had been untouched since I was little. The water had risen nearly all the way up the stairs. I knew Jesus Christ had flown off but her body had stayed down there, somewhere by the creek, with a crow inside it not knowing to climb the highest tree to get away from the water, and I didn’t know if she needed her body nearby to switch back or maybe she wouldn’t switch back maybe she’d just keep flying. The baby’s eyes didn’t look right; they looked like the pictures they showed us at church of babies conceived in sin. I’m sorry, I said, to the baby or maybe to myself. And then I nearly jumped out of my skin, because the closet doors parted, and there was Jesus Christ, nosing the doors open like nothing. She walked prissily across the wet carpet to the bed. Her belly swung. She tried to jump, but she was too heavy with all those kittens. I set the baby down next to my mother. Water seeped into my socked foot. Jesus Christ’s belly was damp. I rubbed the spot between her eyes that usually made her purr. But she didn’t purr. She scratched me, the little fucker. I dropped her onto the bed, and she reared back like she was going to pounce, ass shaking, tail flicking. She bared her teeth and hissed at the baby. The baby hissed back. I scrambled off the bed and into the water, which was up to my ankles. “You think he did this to her, but I did it. He could never. I did all of this, and everything before it.” The baby flipped over onto all fours, opened its mouth to reveal a set of teeth and set to biting its way free of the cord that tied it to my mother. I wanted to throw it out the window, watch it sink like a rock, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything. “I loved being inside her, making her sick and miserable, feeding off her blood, living in the perfect comfort of her body. I could have stayed inside her forever, but the chance to split her open, to destroy her from the inside out.” The baby shivered with ecstasy. His mouth was bloody from the cord, his gray skin glistened. He smiled a bloody-toothed smile at me, and I went cold. I could no longer look at him, or my mother’s pale body. It felt like he had won something in making me turn away, but it was all I could do. Jesus Christ stared at me, like she could see inside me. It hurt, the way she stared, with her single shining eye, like she expected something of me but I was useless. I closed my eyes and wished for something, so many things I wanted so badly I couldn’t put words to any of it. When I opened my eyes, I was on the bed. My heart was too fast. I felt heavy and low. My vision was a tunnel. I looked for Jesus Christ, but I saw myself. I saw the girl. My belly roiled with kittens. The girl looked at her mother and the baby, the wicked baby who was laughing. The ripe iron smell of blood flooded the air. I was so hungry. The girl reached for the baby. He tried to scuttle across the mother, but the girl caught him by the legs. He clawed at the mother, the sheets, the girl. He scratched, kicked, squirmed himself around and bit her wrist. He pulled away and licked his gray lips. “You’re next, you delicious little bitch.” She struggled to keep hold of him, possessed as he was by a strength so much greater than his size. “Maybe during one of your stepfather’s nighttime visits, he’ll leave you with me as a little gift.” She heaved him off the bed by his ankles and hurled him out the window. His screech echoed off my bones. The water was nearly up to the sill. The baby rose to the surface, bobbed with his little fists pounding, legs kicking. The girl slammed the window shut and got back onto the bed. She smoothed the hair from her mother’s forehead and brought a palmful of water to her lips. It streamed down her chin. I moved closer to the mother. There was a pulse, faint, deep within her. I licked blood from her leg. The water seeped into the mattress. But I was comforted by the repetition of licking, calmed by the taste of blood. The girl would take care of the water, she would take care of me. She always took care of things. Something, a little fist maybe, banged on the window. Water eased its way through the window frame. Lightning, thunder. The water kept rising and the banging grew quieter. I felt a twinge in my belly. Not all of the kittens would live. One of them was much stronger than the others. He would live even if it meant sacrificing his siblings to do so. I kept licking. I was hungry, and the blood was so satisfying. I began to purr. I couldn’t help myself. *Stephanie Frazee's work is forthcoming from Variant Literature and has appeared in Marrow Magazine, Pithead Chapel, The Evergreen Review, Bayou Magazine, Juked, SmokeLong Quarterly, and elsewhere. She is online at* [*www.stephaniefrazee.com*](http://www.stephaniefrazee.com/?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) *and @*[*stephieosaurus.bsky.social*](http://stephieosaurus.bsky.social/?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* ### TV Doctors URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tv-doctors/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T14:59:22.000Z The difference between real life and how real life is portrayed on television is vast. I’m not only referring to reality shows, but I do think that the average woman in her 50s shouts at her contemporaries while wearing an evening gown a lot less in real life than the Bravo TV network would have us believe. Real life is often unappealing and we need our TV shows to make things seem better than they are. That being said, a lot of TV shows take the exact opposite route and make life seem a lot worse than it is. *The Handmaid’s Tale*, for example, will be more depressing than real life for maybe another year or two until it just turns into real life. LOL – what a fun and sexy time for us! So the conclusion here is that when real life situations are presented on TV, we either want them to be portrayed as a lot better than real life or a lot worse. Maybe TVs know that the fastest way to get thrown out of a window is to show someone an accurate reflection of themselves. I’ve got mirrors and, in a pinch, the shinier side of aluminum foil for that, TV. Stay in your lane. Medical shows have consistently shown up in either the, “Aren’t hospitals fun!” category or the “I ran some tests and it turns out that tingling in your leg is from the 10,000 spiders that have been living inside it,” category. You know, equal but different. Needless to say, people enjoy visiting a TV doctor’s office way more than the real thing. You can tune into a TV doctor’s office and not find out that you’ve got six months to live. Real doctor’s offices can’t really compete with that. When I was a teenager, my mom noticed a lump in my neck that was about the size of a pea. She made a doctor’s appointment for me and I didn’t think much of it because I was a teenager and I wasn’t thinking much of anything and definitely not about what kind of diseases my neck was harboring. At the appointment, the doctor made me take my shirt off for reasons that were unclear to me because my neck was fully out of my shirt, as necks normally are when you’re wearing a “D.A.R.E.” t-shirt that was meant to be ironic (but I’m not sure it was because I was, in fact, not on drugs). He poked around for a couple minutes and then said, “It might be cancer. We’ll refer you to a specialist,” and then he left the room. For any doctors reading this, if this is something you do, you should stop because it makes breaking up with someone via Post-It Note seem like a humanitarian aid mission. One more doctor’s appointment and a few needles later and it turns out that I did not have cancer. I did, however, have a mild form of mononucleosis that I didn’t notice because I apparently just thought I was tired for a few weeks. That story arc would actually be a pretty good fit for a TV show about doctors. A little drama, someone is topless, a mystery to solve and then a happy ending. Considering that my current doctor conducts physical examinations from about five feet away and seems to subscribe to the philosophy that if you feel fine, you probably are fine, I think I’m going to chalk it up as a win because two medical professionals actually paid attention to me. But since we’ve established that TV doctors and their offices are more fun than the real thing, let’s get back to them. Specifically, let’s discuss the TV doctors (and a physician’s assistant) that are more than welcome to give me a second opinion. - **Dr. Michaela Quinn** (*Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman*) – A lady doctor in the old west? Was that even legal then? I choose to believe it was. All the best parts of the old west were because of women. Dr. Quinn. Sacajawea. Pocahontas. The Olsen Twins in *How the West was Fun*. I didn’t log much time on the couch watching Dr. Quinn, but my research indicates that she went by “Dr. Mike” and that the people in town weren’t thrilled that their doctor was a woman. Here’s an actual quote from the online description: “What's worse is that Dr. Mike is an outspoken humanitarian, supporting the minorities of Colorado Springs and having sympathy for barmaids (prostitutes).” She’s like a republican’s worst nightmare come to life! She also had three children, all with different fathers (and different mothers – they were orphans!). When Ghandi said, “Be the change you want to see I the world,” he was clearly talking about Dr. Quinn. - **Dr. Leo Spaceman** (pronounced spa-CHE-min, *30 Rock*) – If the people in the old west had a problem with Dr. Quinn because she was a woman, they probably would have been absolutely fine with this quack. Did you know that animal blood from meat keeps the human spine straight? Nobody knows that because it isn’t true, but Dr. Spacemen believes it anyway. He also believes that medicine is not a science so he’ll probably be the Surgeon General of the United States any minute now (if he’s not already). He definitely brings an added zestiness to the concept of a mediocre white man who possesses more confidence than he deserves or knows what to do with. I bet he wouldn’t even know what to do if you showed up at his office because you got a false positive pregnancy test result after eating too many knockoff-Cheetos that contain evaporated bull semen in the ingredient list. Actually, he might be the only person who would know what to do. - **Ron** (*St. Denis*) – “Who’s Ron?” you ask? Ron asked me the same question about you! Ron, as played by David Alan Grier, is just trying to get through the day and doesn’t need someone else asking a bunch of questions about him. “Who’s Ron?” “Where’s Ron?” “What’s Ron’s last name?” Ron apparently doesn’t have a last name and that puts him in one of two categories: Legendary Divas (Cher, Madonna) or Off The Grid for Unclear Reasons (Mrs. Claus, Robocop). Ron has seen it all and I feel like he would have been more than fine with just seeing about 35% of it. He’s seen sites and experienced things that he wanted no part of, but he’s still out there, fighting the good fight. Maybe it’s more accurate to say that he’s out there having a heated discussion with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. Even when he’s phoning it in, I’d still take his medical advice over Dr. Spaceman’s any day. - **Jeanie Boulet** (*ER*) – Jeanie Boulet is a physician’s assistant and I understand that the primary difference between a physician’s assistant and a doctor is that a physician’s assistant works under the supervision of a doctor and, when you think about it, the job title makes that pretty clear. When we first met Jeanie on *ER*, she was having an affair with the [heir to the Soul Glo dynasty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CIMSKmXWc6Q&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) (or at least the actor that played the heir to the Soul Glo dynasty). Her side piece, Dr. Peter Benton, was real persnickety – a quality that, according to an actual thing said to me by my mother, will make people think you’re gay. I think it is my deep and profound gayness that makes people believe I’m gay, but we’ll agree to disagree. No one thought Dr. Benton was gay, but they did wonder if he had contracted HIV, as Jeanie unknowingly did from her husband. Extramarital affairs are always pretty dicey business, but Jeanie’s husband was such a turd that they had to hire two different actors to play him. I don’t know which one she actually contracted HIV from, but I hope she brought that up in the divorce settlement and then she took him for every cent. - **Dr. Douglas “Doogie” Howser** (*Doogie Howser, M.D.*) – I can’t even tell you how much of a fit I would throw if I showed up at a doctor’s appointment and a 14-year-old came into the exam room and asked me how I was feeling. Even if I wasn’t at the doctor and a 14-year-old asked me that, I’d probably lock myself in my house for three days. Based on my experience with 14-year-olds, they don’t give a shit about how I’m feeling and if they ask me, I’m going to assume they want to rob me or they want me to buy them booze and I’m not going to willingly participate in either of those activities. I know most of the show depicts his life from the age of 16 on, but a 16-year-old doctor sounds slightly less absurd than a 14-year-old one. At least the 16-year-old could drive me home after the appointment if I needed a ride. Is that breaking the Hippocratic oath? Can someone under the age of 18 even be held accountable for oath stuff? If a minor breaks the Hippocratic oath, do their parents lose their medical license? This show has more questions than answers. There was an episode of this show that dealt with gang violence and I bet that has aged about as well as a kid who was thrust into adulthood at a too early age. At least we know that Dr. Howser can afford therapy on his doctor’s salary. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** "I have come to the conclusion that there are only two reasons for ever doing anything. One is love, the other is fear." —Sister Julienne, *Call the Midwife*, suggesting what must be a very strange relationship with the activity of taking out the garbage. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "Eviction Notice," Joshua Grasso URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-eviction-notice-joshua-grasso/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T15:34:29.000Z Joshua Grasso (he/him) is a professor of English at East Central University, where he’s taught since getting his PhD in 2006\. He teaches courses in writing, Shakespeare, world literature, and when he can, comic books. His works have appeared most recently in the anthology The Speculative Teachers Lounge, and magazines such as On Spec, Androids & Dragons, and Allegory. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.* *We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.* *Today’s episode: “Eviction Notice,” by Joshua Grasso. Read by the Midwest Weird team.* Freddy began his pre-dinner routine of vacuuming up the roaches that squirmed out of the cracks between the wall and the oven; anything over 350 and they came running. It was easy to catch the small ones that scurried out in blind, delirious circles, but eventually a real beast would pop out with wings and flailing antennae. Those were too big suck up with the mini-vac, so he would trap them in a glass and hurl them outside, where they would scurry off into the grass to join their displaced brethren. “All hail the patron saint of cockroaches,” Maia said, pushing past him with the laundry. “Hell, you know I can’t kill anything. My father, remember? He used to torture bugs, pull their legs off right in front of me. It fucked me up.” “How long till they start pulling *our* legs off?” she asked, fading away. “I mean, I did set those poison traps. Those at least kill them slowly, without, you know, bashing them to death or something. I’ll call the bug people again next week.” Maia didn’t respond, as he could hear her wrestling with the laundry machine. Something was wrong, since she kept opening and closing the washing machine door with increasing vigor. Freddy didn’t want to admit he had made a mistake with the house. After all, he was the one who pushed for it, even when Maia had misgivings, felt the kitchen was too small, the neighborhood too isolated. That everything felt ‘off’ somehow, especially the trees perched on every side of the house like watchdogs. He felt it too, but called it ‘cold feet’ after so many years of apartment living. Still, it was the best option for what they could afford, and their kids needed more room to grow, a yard to play in. The agent picked up on their indecision and said that it was a great “starter home,” suggesting—with a look at their children—that they were behind the curve. Besides, if they needed more room or if other kids came (*no pressure!),* they could always sell it for a tidy profit (*it’s a seller’s market!*) with no regrets. But could they? Things he had never noticed during their brief tour of the house became alarmingly apparent after the first three months. Patches of black mold that seemed to bloom after every shower. Delicate, spidery cracks in the ceiling that spun ever-widening webs. Vines that attached themselves to the side of the house with a sticky film that took minutes to wash off. Strange noises that would sometimes wake him up at night, though Maia never heard them. And of course all the roaches. But his kids didn’t see any of this; they just loved it. Tristan would get lost in the back yard, climbing the tall trees and hiding his figures in the dense undergrowth which defied even the most round-the-clock mowing. And Abby adored her room, which was larger than their entire bedroom in the old apartment. She had decorated it to the nines, taping Disney posters over almost every inch of the wall, though they would fall off every few days because of the humidity. Even now, if he just ignored the roaches and the washing machine and the leaky showerhead, he felt a glorious, deep-seated content. He had made it. A homeowner. A place for his kids to grow up. The life he had always promised Maia, when they were hustling in college and didn’t think they could scrounge up a future between them. “Great, now there’s mold on the laundry room ceiling,” Maia said, looking flushed. “Whenever my back is turned, a new spot creeps up—and I do mean *creeps.* Sometimes, I think it’s actually moving, crawling around up there.” “I think it’s just the climate,” he shrugged. “We’ll have to buy another dehumidifier. Especially for the kids’ rooms.” Maia shook her head and let it fall against his shoulder, sighing with mock exhaustion (or was it real?). He tousled her hair and kissed it, still in love with the smell of her, reminding her of their earliest days, the first time he leaned in close enough to kiss her. And just like then, she pulled away when he tried to nibble her ear. “Ugh, don’t—I’m a mess!” she said, with a laugh. “And you’re not much better, covered in roaches.” “It’s just growing pains, we’ll get through this. Every house has problems. It’s like a breaking-in period.” “But who’s going to break first?” she asked, shaking her head. # After dinner as Freddy was washing the dishes (the dishwasher didn’t work, naturally) he watched his neighbor weed-eating along their shared fence. The grass had already sprouted up through the cracks in the fence and seemed to be probing for weak spots. His neighbor was red-faced and sweating, his old college T-shirt already pit and grass-stained. Freddy knew he had mowed alongside the fence two or three days ago, and it hadn’t rained a drop since then. So why all the weeds? As he finished the final plate, Freddy turned off the water and decided to diagnose the problem with a beer. He made a gesture to Maia, who was busy with the kids at the table, scribbling and coloring. She gave him a quick nod, while leaning over Abby’s picture with a crayon. Once outside, he approached his neighbor, whose weed-eater seemed to have malfunctioned; he was struggling to open the spool retainer, though his fingers kept slipping off. “Hey, neighbor! Looks like you could use one,” Freddy asked, raising the can. “Huh? Oh, yeah, thanks,” he said, accepting it. “This damn thing. Every other time I use it, the feed stops advancing. And lookit, I’m only halfway done.” “It seems like we’re always mowing out here, and it’s barely even summer,” Freddy said, opening a can. “Is it always like this? Where I’m from, mowing is something you can almost forget to do.” “Yeah, well, welcome to hell,” he said, with a laugh. “I’ve lived all over the state, but nothing’s like here, this neighborhood. Grass won’t stop growing, even in winter. Damn bugs everywhere: ants, roaches, spiders. And the trees…guess you already know about them.” Freddy looked up at them suspiciously. *What about the trees?* He didn’t know a thing about them, other than the way they seemed to look down disapprovingly on their house and lives. His neighbor noticed Freddy’s blank expression and smirked, as if anxious to reveal a trade secret. “They move. Seriously, don’t laugh. They’re always moving, rustling, groaning. Even when there’s no wind, especially in the dead of night. I swear I’ve seen a few of them change positions, just a quarter of an inch this way or that. I don’t let my kids near ‘em, and I would keep yours well away from them, too.” Freddy didn’t know how to respond to this, so he merely gave a timid laugh, waiting for the punch line. His neighbor took another sip of his beer, letting the weed-eater rest against the fence, triumphant. “Er, anything else I should know?” Freddy asked. “Don’t drink the tap water. Not without one of those fancy water filtration systems...we got one installed a few years ago. It doesn’t taste right. A few kids got sick some years back. Not that anyone traced it back to the water, but still…I wouldn’t.” “Wait—the water’s contaminated?” “I only know what I was told by Harry, who lives a few houses down,” he said, with a lazy gesture. “His wife’s brother came down once, and didn’t like how the water tasted. He’s a scientist, works for the EPA. Anyway, he took samples of the water there, and even in a few other homes. Said it was off the charts bad. Like, ten times what the state allows.” “Jesus!” Freddy said, thinking of the water he used for his coffee this morning. “What, like nitrates or something?” “I don’t speak science,” he laughed. “But, I mean, that was a few years ago, and he reported it, and the state sent some people down to test the water themselves, install some purifiers, I don’t know what. We got a letter in the mail a while back. Said it was all under control.” “And you believe them?” “Like I said, I don’t drink the water directly,” he shrugged. Freddy must have turned stark-white, since his neighbor laughed and gave him a playful nudge. “Oh, don’t take it too hard; still beats living in the city,” the neighbor grimaced. “I should get back to it. But thanks for the beer. Oh...and you probably know about the local wildlife. Just keep inside after ten, and lock your doors. Some raccoons can open doors, and if you have dogs, don’t let them outside. The coyotes...well, they’re not shy about hopping fences.” # After they put the kids to bed, Freddy collapsed on the couch, the TV off, his phone discarded, and just stared into space. He felt wave after wave of stupidity suck him under. What the hell did he know about buying houses? What did either of them know about choosing a neighborhood or know about water quality and local wildlife? And now his kids were in danger. They were *all* in danger. “What’s eating you?” Maia said, plopping beside him. “You were like a space cadet all night. Is it work?” “Oh, no, I’m fine…it’s just, maybe we jumped the gun on this house? Or maybe I did. Maia…what if I fucked up?” “Oh, baby, I’m just blowing off steam,” she said, kissing his shoulder. “I know I complain, and it is a lot to handle at times, but really, I love it here. We all do. Don’t second-guess things like that. We came here for a reason.” “Will you stay up with me a bit tonight? To listen to those sounds I heard? And see if we can, I don’t know, hear anything else?” he asked. She just stared at him for a moment, her mouth on the edge of laughter, only to realize he wasn’t joking. Her eyes and face softened and she reached out to him, nodding slowly. “Oh, my poor Freddy, you really are worried, aren’t you? I’m telling you, it’s nothing; like you said, just cold feet. But yes, I’ll stay up with you all night, just like we used to, cramming for exams, writing papers. Remember that? And how you used to take away my laptop and hide it all around the apartment? Leaving me to come up with sneaky ways to make you reveal its location...? ” She leaned in and began kissing his neck, her hand sliding down his chest. He wanted to tell her he wasn’t in the mood (for once) and that they really needed to keep alert and pay attention, but that only lasted a few seconds. I mean, it was just a house. What was he so worried about? As long as they were here, together, their kids safely snoring upstairs, without a care in the world, far beyond the reach of the most intrepid raccoons and coyotes... Abby let out a terrible scream, an indistinct cry that was beyond language. They both shot up, staring at each other, waiting to see if she did it again, if it was just a bad dream. “Mommy!” she shrieked. Maia ran up the stairs and was taking them two at a time as Freddy stumbled after her. They barged into the room, which was glowing red from the night light; there Abby was framed in silhouette, sitting up, the covers bunched around her chest. Maia ran to her side and clutched her protectively, feeling her head, her face. Freddy froze a foot or two from the bed, looking around, half-expecting to come face to face with a coyote or something worse. “What, baby? What is it? What’s wrong?” Maia asked, kissing her cheek. “The walls…they’re moving,” she said, in a whisper. “Moving? Moving how?” “Just like back and forth. And all over.” Maia nudged her head at Freddy. He looked at the far wall, which was too dark to really see anything clearly. In fact, it looked darker than it should for some reason, particularly since he could see the door quite clearly. He walked slowly to the light switch and after a moment of hesitation, flipped it on. The walls were alive with spiders. Dozens of small, jet-black creatures crawling over one another, spiraling out over the ceiling. He could even see them inside the glass light fixture, their shadows enlarged against the floor, shimmering over Abby’s toys and bed. “Holy fuck!” Maia said, eyes wide. “Get her out of here! Downstairs!” he said. Maia scooped her up while Freddy backed out, his eyes fixed on the rapidly blacked-out ceiling. He slammed the door behind them and felt for the rail, steadying himself, ready to sink to his knees. “Tristan! Get Tristan!” she cried. It took him a half-second to remember who Tristan even was. Then he burst into action, stumbling down the hallway to Tristan’s room, where he found him sound asleep, his Solar System blanket pulled tight to his chin. Freddy stooped down to wake him up, trying to rouse him, when he felt something sharp against his neck. He flinched, grabbing blindly behind him, only to feel it against his nose and cheek. Water. He looked up, and could dimly make out raindrops falling all over his head, the sheets, the floor. “Daddy?” Tristan said, sitting up. “Why am I wet?” Freddy flailed for the desk lamp and after knocking it down twice, managed to turn it on. A gigantic swell of mold spread over the ceiling, bulging with moisture. Water seeped through the cracks and rained down on the room, creating small puddles in his shoes and an upturned Frisbee. He grabbed Tristan and pulled him out of bed, trying awkwardly to carry him to the door; he finally dropped him, because Tristan was squirming and screaming something he couldn’t understand. “What? What’s wrong?” he shouted. “Daddy! Frogs!” Freddy followed his son’s arm to the window, where every inch of the glass was covered with tiny pulsating frogs. He tried to understand how frogs that small, or any frogs, could have scaled the walls to his son’s second-story window. “Freddy!” Maia cried from downstairs. He took Tristan’s arm and hauled him downstairs, where they all collapsed in a pile on the couch, his wife sobbing, Abby rubbing her eyes, Tristan covering his head with a pillow. Freddy embraced Maia who eagerly dug her face into his chest, coughing. “Freddy, what the fuck? What’s happening?” “I don’t know…there must be a leak somewhere in the roof,” he said, dubiously. “And maybe there was a nest of spiders up there, and the leak washed them into her room, which explains why they were so disorientated, climbing all over the place.” “Did you see the frogs, mommy?” Tristan asked, his voice muffled. “Frogs? What frogs? There’s frogs?” “Just a few, probably fell off the trees or something. Look, why don’t you guys hunker down here tonight, try to get some sleep. I’ll go see what I can do upstairs.” “You’re going up there alone?” she asked, horrified. “Screw that, let’s just go to a hotel. We’ll come back in the morning.” It was a tempting thought, but Freddy tried to keep things in perspective. A leak, that’s all it was. Spiders in the attic. A few frogs. They were new homeowners, so it seemed much worse than it was. Probably everyone dealt with something like this eventually, especially in this state; his neighbor as good as said so. Besides, he was the father, the husband, and he had to occasionally act as such, even if he only had the vaguest notion of what the job entailed. “We’d have to get their clothes, anyway, so let me root around upstairs. Inspect the damage. I’ll bring down some stuff, anything else you want. Give me ten, twenty minutes. Just stay with the kids.” She nodded miserably and made him promise to be careful. He promised and turned to say something to the kids, but they were already half-asleep. Soon he would be, too, and this would all be a bad dream, a story to tell each other years from now, in another house, another life. He crept up the stairs and paused at the top, listening. He could still hear the water dripping in Tristan’s room, but nothing else, no sound of creeping spiders or croaking frogs. Maybe it had all been a trick of the light? Ten spiders could easily look like a hundred in the shadows. He would go inside and look at it calmly, not like a timid apartment-dweller but a seasoned suburbanite. Hand on the knob, he slowly opened the door and peered inside, his heart racing, feet poised to flee. The room was empty. Whatever spiders were here had fled into the cracks and corners, maybe even under the bed. After a minute or two he had sufficient courage to step inside and poke around. He moved bookshelves, dressers, the toy box, the bed. Not a single spider in sight. Freddy made a second and a third sweep before he convinced himself that the room was clean. He even opened drawers, taking a handful of clothes for Abby, without the expected jump-scare. With a sigh of relief, he went outside and walked more confidently to Tristan’s room, where even the frogs had dispersed. No spiders there, either, or anything to disturb the sleep of a seven year-old boy and his high-strung parents. Thank God. He snagged more clothes and held them to his nose, breathing in the rich, heady aroma of Spring Meadow Tide-pods. He was about to return downstairs and declare the upstairs safe for habitation when he heard a noise. Not one of the rumbling, creaking sounds he always heard at night around two in the morning. This one was different, and he felt in his gut, much worse. A low thrumming, almost a buzzing sound, but at the lowest frequencies. He tip-toed around the hallway trying to trace its origin, as it led away from the kids’ rooms and towards his own bedroom. “Freddy?” Maia called, from the bottom of the stairs. “Are you done yet?” “Almost. Just checking our room,” he called back. When he reached the door the sound intensified, though remained a steady, rumbling drone. Maybe they left a window open, and the wind was blowing through the screen, making it vibrate? He nudged open the door and felt for the light switch, which turned on and then made a terrific *pop*! Darkness swept over him. Still, the blinds were open and the light of the neighborhood was enough to mark out the bed and end table. He eased inside, ready to be assaulted by whatever parasite had crept through the walls or bled through the attic. The humming increased, vibrating through the floor like the roar of distant road work. But it didn’t sound mechanical in the same way. It sounded like scattered, muffled conversations in other rooms. He reached the bed and crept along the edges, looking at the walls and corners. Something was there, a large mass that became blacker the longer he looked. His foot kicked the castle night-light they used whenever Abby crawled into their bed with bad dreams. He knelt down and plugged it into the nearest socket, watching the turrets go pinkish-orange. The room took on a sinister glow, which seemed all the more menacing without Maia and Abby beside him. The ‘something’ became much clearer now, though he still couldn’t make sense of it. He wanted to say it looked like a gigantic hive, but for what, he couldn’t explain. It was too large even for a thousand wasps to construct, since it took up the entire wall and seemed to burrow through the ceiling as well. If anything, it reminded him of a brain, dark and bulbous, with veins shooting off in odd directions. But something was clearly busy inside, either burrowing deeper or trying to chew its way out; he couldn’t decide which one was worse. His first and most immediate impulse was to flee. Close the door and let Orkin (or the National Guard) deal with it in the morning. But he remained rooted to the spot, desperate to creep closer, to see if he could make out the whispering sounds within, and even to touch the surface just long enough to know what it was made from. He wasted several seconds torn between both impulses, until his fear began to dissolve into the background, like the scattered impressions of a dream in the morning. Freddy took a step closer. He began to feel like he was floating, and kept expecting his head to bump the ceiling; but whenever he looked up, it remained comfortably out of reach. Another step, and the humming dimmed, almost inviting him to touch it. He reached out. It felt papery, but rock-hard. Warm, like something that had recently come out of the oven, but already starting to cool. With his fingers pressed against it, he could feel faint movement inside, but not like crawling insects or nesting bees. Almost like a single being moving in the lethargy of sleep. Whatever it was, it was something real, something alive and invasive. Freddy heard Maia call out for him, venturing halfway up the stairs. He knew he had to go. If only he could just know for sure what was in there, what was growing—for surely, it must have been growing all this time—and what would eventually emerge? He remembered something Maia had said days ago as a joke, not serious at all: *with all the damn bugs and the rot it’s like this house is trying to give birth to something*. His eyes grew wide as he caressed the hive...or was it a womb? Could a house give birth and create its own inhabitants? And if it chose to evict them in favor these new tenants, what could they say or do to stop it? That’s really what a house was, after all: a desperate race to wall off the inevitable, to claim a space where nothing but humanity could grow. No grass, no bugs, no rot, no water, no wind, no earth. Just carpets and tile and dry walls and windows and flat-screen televisions. Nature was hermetically sealed off and confined to the sinks and the shower, and otherwise wiped clean with Clorox and Windex and Ortho Home Defense. But they were just buying time. Eventually Nature would win and reclaim its own. It would give birth over and over again until both houses and humanity were wiped clean from the earth. “Freddy! What’s wrong?” Maia shouted, now at the top of the stairs. “Where are you?” He understood now, they could never return, that they had already lost the war. He stumbled out into the hallway and fell against her, and would have tumbled straight to the floor if she hadn’t caught him. She steadied him against the banister and looked him over, wiping the hair out of his face, alarmed. “Are you okay? What happened?” “I made a mistake, we shouldn’t have come here…I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Come on, baby, you’re exhausted. We’ll figure this shit out in the morning.” He slumped against her and she eased him downstairs, where the kids were now sleeping on the couch, Tristan filling the room with snores. They each cradled one of the children in their arms and walked gingerly to the car. As they laid them in the back seat, buckling them in, Freddy took a last look at the house. The trees were much closer to the house, their branches overtaking the roof. Vines were snaking up both sides and crawling over the living room windows. And on the second floor, the bedroom window flickered a few times before going dark. “Freddy, get in already! I’ll drive. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He numbly obeyed, as a minute later they pulled out of the driveway and were barreling down Pleasant Ave. toward the intersection. As he gazed out the window, he saw other houses with car alarms going off, flashing eyes that darted away in the bushes, downed power lines. In one of the last yards a bearded man stared back at him, wearing only a light bathrobe, his mouth open, while cradling something in his arms. It looked like a dog or a cat, but could have just as easily been a child. He couldn’t tell, and he quickly turned away, staring straight ahead as they reached the stop sign. “Shit, I think I left the back door unlocked,” Maia said, panicked. “Should we go back?” Freddy started to laugh, but the sound died in his throat. He finally coughed up, “Honey...I think we’ve been evicted.” Her lips began forming “what?” when something moist smacked against the windshield, then scampered away. All around them, things were moving, groaning, shattering. He heard other cars starting up, their lights criss-crossing the cul de sac and picking out immense, shambling shadows. The question died on her lips. With a final look in the rear-view mirror she hit the gas. *Joshua Grasso (he/him) is a professor of English at East Central University, where he’s taught since getting his PhD in 2006\. He teaches courses in writing, Shakespeare, world literature, and when he can, comic books. His works have appeared most recently in the anthology The Speculative Teachers Lounge, and magazines such as On Spec, Androids & Dragons, and Allegory.* ### Live-Action Disney URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-live-action-disney/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T14:59:08.000Z There are some things I want to get off my chest. But since I can’t write an entire essay about how I think Instagram allowing people to add 20 photos to a post was the worst thing to happen to social media since extended family members and former high school classmates, I’m going to focus on something with a more robust chokehold on society: live action remakes of Disney cartoons. I know these movies make a lot of money for Disney and that’s why they keep making them. But the American people need to understand that we’re the reason that they keep making money. We’re part of the problem. We’re allowing this to continue to happen. Paying money to see a live action remake of a Disney cartoon is tantamount to dropping your child off at the kidnapper’s house so they don’t have to go out in the rain and/or have someone recognize them from a wanted poster hanging on a bulletin board in the post office. Did you realize that this has been going on for over 30 years? The very first live action remake of a Disney cartoon was *The Jungle Book* and it was released on Christmas Day in 1994\. The film received mixed reviews from critics, much like what I would expect the Virgin Mary’s Yelp review would have been after they made her pop out our lord and savior in a barn. “There was more hay and camels than I was expecting, and the bed was the floor, but it did have a roof. The check-in process wasn’t ideal. The shepherds stared a lot, but the wise men’s gifts were lovely.” But then they made ANOTHER live action version of *The Jungle Book* in 2016\. Aren’t there child labor laws about making Mowgli work that hard? *101 Dalmatians* with Glenn Close as Cruella de Vil came out a couple years later and after its sequel was embraced with the level of joy and enthusiasm normally reserved for a can of soup, Disney took a break from thrusting these remakes on the public. It felt a lot like when someone gives a gym membership as a gift three birthdays in a row and then they finally stop. Disney waited 10 years before they put out another one. So we know they can exercise restraint, but they’ve just chosen not to do so for the last 15 years. Neat. Counting the recent release of *Snow White*, that makes 20(!) live action Disney remakes that have been released since 2010\. There were five released in 2019 alone! Was that the catalyst for the COVID-19 pandemic? Did Disney place the blame on that bat in China just to keep people from asking what the fuck they were thinking when they decided to do a live action version *of Lady and the Tramp*? No one wants to see real life dogs eating spaghetti! You see a dog eating spaghetti in real life and you tell it to knock it off. You don’t hope it leads to a dog make out sesh that you can watch alone in the dark. Weirdos. So which Disney live action remakes really left their mark on my soul? Not many, because I’ve only seen four of them. But I will complain about them anyway! Someone needs to stand up to Disney and I’m probably not that person because they don’t know me from a can of paint, but I’m going to tell the internet about this problem and let them run with it. That’s never gone wrong in the past and I don’t know why it would now. - ***The Lion King* (2019)** – It’s wild that this is considered a live action remake when all of the animals in the film are CGI. I feel like that’s the same thing as saying a spreadsheet is alive. I know people put a lot of work into creating the CGI animals, but people put a lot of work into making spreadsheets too. I once went on a vacation with my husband and the families of several people that used to work with him at a language immersion camp (don’t ask) and someone made a spreadsheet so people would know what food to bring to the Airbnb. That person spent a lot of time on that spreadsheet and I kind of hated it, but I also know that it wasn’t the spreadsheet’s fault. My primary memory of this film is that we saw it at a drive-in movie theater. I guess that’s my whole review of the movie. I have not seen *Mufasa: The Lion King* because I don’t need to know every damn thing about these lions' lives. Have the lions ever asked any questions about my life? I’ve got stories, lions! And a lot of them are about vacationing with the families of people that used to work at a language immersion camp. - ***Mulan* (2020)** – As much as you try, you’re never going to top the sheer lunacy of hearing Donny Osmond sing “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” to a cartoon female who got into the Chinese army by wearing boy drag, but Disney forged ahead anyway. I’m not sure I would have remade *Mulan* today, just because it seems like it would be really easy to piss off lots of different people. Maybe they were trying to make up for casting a white man (Donny Osmond) as the voice of a Chinese character. How much more time would all of us have if we didn’t have to work to make up for Donny Osmond’s mistakes? My math comes out to three hours a week. They put this on Disney+ instead of in theaters because of the pandemic and it was controversial because you had to pay extra to watch it. I would have thought it was controversial for the “Don’t ask. Don’t tell.” -ness of it all and the lack of Chinese talent behind the camera, but you throw a premium surcharge at a Disney adult and you better gird your loins because You. Will. Hear. About. It. - ***Maleficent* (2014)** – At first I thought it was bullshit that Sleeping Beauty was passed over for the starring role in the live action version of her own story, but I guess she did sleep through a healthy chunk of the original movie. That is something I was jealous of when I watched this because a nap would have been better than trying to duck and weave to avoid Angie Jolie’s cheek bone prosthetics. This movie answers the age old question, “Maybe she’s born with it. Maybe it’s the patriarchy that turned her into an a-hole.” I think I would have been good to go without a sympathetic take on one of Disney’s cuntiest villains (that is a [compliment](https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/post/cerealmascots)). I think Disney underestimated how much people like Maleficent just because she was unapologetically evil. And she can turn into a dragon. I’d like to see Donny Osmond try that. - ***Beauty and the Beast* (2017)** – Again, why are we making a live action remake when one of the title characters is CGI throughout the entire movie? And this isn’t the first time I’ll say this (frankly, it’s not even the first time I’ve said it today), but it’s very evident that Angela Lansbury is not in our midst. But I guess if you can’t get Angie Lansbury, Emma Thompson is a suitable substitute. Recently, Josh Gad said that he “never once” played LeFou (Gaston’s…um…companion) as gay in this movie. Josh Gad sounds like me talking about myself in high school. Also, if I want to think LeFou is gay, what’s the big deal? LeFou isn’t real! It’s like if someone outed one of those Russian bots who are always fucking with the elderly on Facebook. Also, between Maleficent and the Beast, I think Disney needs to rethink their approach to giving their villains horns. The horned person community is already marginalized and this isn’t helping. - ***The Little Mermaid* (2023)** – Speaking of people losing their shit over something that’s not real, do you remember when half the internet blew their own tits off when they found out that Ariel in the live action version of *The Little Mermaid* was going to be black? Again, not real! Mermaids can be any ethnicity that we want them to be. You know those billboards that keep track of the national debt, or people who have died in car accidents in real time? I think we should have something like those, but it’s for whenever someone complains about the race of a fictional character on the internet, their picture, home address and phone number is posted to the billboard. Let’s give our Class A dipshits the attention they deserve! You know how AI has trouble generating hands? I think whatever CGI they used for this movie had the same kind of troubles with generating wet hair. If those who can’t do teach, then this CGI should be in an English classroom at a middle school somewhere. A fate worse than losing your voice for a man! ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** "Around here, however, we don't look backwards for very long. We keep moving forward, opening up new doors and doing new things.” -Walt Disney, gaslighting us. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "The Death of the Dinosaurs," Kristin Harley URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-the-death-of-the-dinosaurs-kristin-harley/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T15:31:37.000Z Kristin Harley's fiction has appeared in Haunted MTL, Parcham Magazine, and most recently Third Name's a Charm: Tales of Trios and Triple Threats. She works at a library and freelances as a journalist, fiction writer, and science writer. Two novels in her four-book series about the surrealist poets Antonin Artaud and Robert Desnos were published in 2023 (Traitor Comet) and 2024 (L'Etoile de Mer, or The Starfish). Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *Today’s episode: “The Death of the Dinosaurs,” by Kristin Harley. Read by the author.* “We’re taking the dinosaurs back!” proclaimed the bumper stickers, and the window decals, and the buttons, and naturally the t-shirts—so many t-shirts, so many colors, so many styles (sport-t and casual-t, which due to a memo from management was about to be renamed, and feminine-t, which was simply abbreviated as…you guessed it), and so many sizes, but no insulting L or XL or XXL, and even no S or M (this had also merited a memo from management), but having been newly christened, as it were, in these ascending motifs: Innocent (baby sizes), Quester, Apostle, Samaritan, Penitent, and most comfortingly for those who were struggling to cut their food portions in half, Solomon. Each of these items, the bumper stickers, decals, buttons, and shirts, also featured a laughing dinosaur flanked by Biblical characters in clothing drawn from a screen capture on the news that could pass for Middle Eastern dress, and all were also for sale (as were the action figures complete with sandal and Moses staff accessories) behind the recently-installed glass of the gift shop. Small dinosaur action figures were for sale there, too—they had names such as Leviathan and Enmity—as well as books that “proclaim that absolutely inerrancy and scientific accuracy of the Bible.” There were Jesus chemistry sets, complete with a “spontaneous generation vial,” into which one merely poured water in order to watch the miracle of God creating tiny sea horses out of nothing, and which looked to the cynical eye much like the “Sea Monkey” kit ads that had smiled from many a comic book of the 1970s. There was, however, no complementary vial to mimic the special cocktail shaker Christ used at the wedding at Cana. There were the ubiquitous copies of that homeschool textbook favorite, *Of Pandas and People*, with its updated supplemental text, *Panda Thumbs and Personal Theories*, plus videos that debunked evolution and the Big Bang, and refrigerator magnets with catchy phrases (such as “Pray, or prey?” “God is my co-signer,” and “If it’s SUNDAY, you must be GOD!”). The gift shop was not yet open for business, and neither was the museum. The museum’s lobby, its halls, and its exhibits all reposed during the day in a gray twilight which was slanted through with milky shafts from the windows, but at night the place fairly simmered in a greenish security light. Vague, still semi-formed four-footed figures pantomimed for a future audience, as if rehearsing for the museum’s upcoming opening day, a silent and tragic spectacle: their formation by God out of dust, every one of them a separate and special creation; the presentation of them to Adam and his naming of them; their amiable, peaceful, carefree, and *vegetarian* coexistence with the couple, the upright, standing male and female human figures who, at the conclusion of this tableau, raised their arms above their heads as if to clutch at the hands of the unseen God as He drove them out of this garden and into the nightmare of necessity, where their former four-clawed friends now stalked and preyed upon them in a fallen nature red in tooth and claw. Apparently, the creators of this full-scale model of Eden were disobedient to the order of the first of the two Genesis stories, for most of the animals in this series of boxed vignettes had been only partly completed, each needing a final coat of paint or a touch-up with whiskers, but the couple, this man and this woman, Adam and Eve, were already finished—and this was only Tuesday. The bland, low-slung cinderblock building had as yet no sign to announce itself. But on its website, the homepage banner jauntily announced, “Welcome to the Genesis Museum! The Genesis Museum is an outreach of *Questions of Creation*, a non-profit ministry located in Gallileville, eastern Kentucky, USA. We offer a walk-through man’s history from his Creation, through his Sin and Fall, to his Redemption by the Death and Resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ. This 25,000 square foot facility will strike the first blow against the dogmatic, evolution-driven, atheistic natural history museums that are turning countless minds against the authority of the Scriptures. We proclaim to the world that the Bible is inerrant, the supreme authority in all matters of faith and practice, the basis of all morality, and the origin of all true Science.” The large entry was flanked by cuddly-looking dinosaurs, huge and lumbering, not unlike Barney. In the lobby a smaller, lither dinosaur stood upright on its hind legs, dangling its front limbs—and it wore a saddle. One expected there to be a coin machine attached to this cute, harmless-looking Barney twin, as there had been coin machines beside the galloping horses outside of the Jubilee Foods of old Gallileville before all the big box stores rose up like giants amongst the sons of men. However, it would seem that Christ had already descended to this particular temple to shake hands with the power-suited director of the Genesis Museum, Dr. Kenneth Loin, for there was a painting of them both—The Lord in his robe, and Ken Loin in a suit and tie—shaking hands, just as He was also doing in the painting on the main wall of the Gilead Bank just down the road a mile, where “Biblical-based investment counseling” was advertised, along with interest rate prayers and credit-healing sessions, in traveling red letters on the jumbletron at the edge of the parking lot. There was Jesus in that painting just inside the glass doors—there was the Lamb of God Himself in his modest robe and beard, shaking hands with the man in the three-piece suit, the bank’s head moneychanger, William Tremplaux, who was also the best friend and financier of Kenneth Loin and the Genesis Museum. “Follow me,” said the quote on the scrolled brass plaque beneath the painting, “and I will make you golfers of men.” William Tremplaux, like Kenneth Loin, loved golf, and together they had formed the Genesis Golfers Outreach Platoon which sought to “Go ‘Fore!’ into the world to save souls.” # The Genesis Museum’s grand opening was not scheduled for another year, but a publicity release offering a special tour of the premises, by invitation only, did reach the desk of the metro section of the *Gallileville Spectator*. It landed on the desk along with the yearly press release from the DNR, which urged Kentuckians to obey the law this year and remember not to burn wood in their yards, or to burn off the brush on their property, or even to burn trash in barrels, for fear of starting a grass fire. “People think that burning off their property will get rid of the snakes. They actually believe this,” a DNR official was quoted as saying. “Rainfall levels were especially down this year. The conditions that we are seeing now are just the sort of tinderbox that we feared to encounter earlier in the summer. We urge all citizens to remember that starting private fires are not only dangerous—they are illegal.” The metro section of the Spectator led with the headline, “State Officials Seek to Prevent Fall Forest Fires,” but the second headline in the smaller font was accompanied by a photo, provided with the press release, of the burdened dinosaur in the entryway of the Genesis Museum. The metro section would later devote its entire front page to the publicity tour of the Genesis Museum, much of it cut-and-pasted from the press release sent out afterward by the museum itself to head off any nasty rumors that the tour had in fact not gone well. It had not. One of the visitors on this pilgrimage, a reporter writing for a major men’s magazine—who took the tour along with other reporters, local homeschool advocates, Intelligent Design theorists, Young Earth scientists, HIV-to-AIDS deniers, and assorted veterinarians who scouted, freelance, for the chupacabra on month-long sabbaticals—later noted dryly in his unauthorized article about the tour that the dinosaur in the lobby was, in truth, wearing an English saddle, a particular style of saddle which lacked a horn, indicating that the huge reptile was not really meant to be ridden, or even to be yoked, but was rather a show dinosaur of sorts, perhaps trotted out for stakes races at the local Mesopotamian equestrian ring. This writer’s sarcastic review of the museum’s exhibits, the sole review that was not lifted from the Genesis Museum’s genial press release, prompted several Christian bloggers to take his article seriously, and they had a lot of fun exchanging their speculations of how the ancient Israelites might have utilized the various species of dinosaurs for different purposes, such as for shows. These young bloggers, pious and earnest like so many teens, traded various theories on where and when man first domesticated the thunder-lizards—when Adam first named them, *what* he had named them (“I think he would have called him Joyosaurus—I know I would have,”), whether he and Eve had ridden them out of the Garden after the Fall, or if Cain had made his quick getaway on one and if so, had the beast erased its own huge footprints with its 1950s-textbook-era kangaroo tail? This online discussion attracted so much local attention that a noted evolutionary biologist from the University of Kentucky, when asked in a television interview on the local news about the date of Adam’s domestication of the dinosaur on a local news show, answered in disgust that the dinosaurs were first domesticated in present-day Gallileville, Kentucky—and had also become truly extinct on that same day, as had common sense. The other visitors on the tour, the parents and the members of the clergy who been invited as “seed members” for their having donated money (there were various levels of monetary contribution, from “mustard seed” on up to “all I have”) noted that the differences between various dinosaurs roughly paralleled the differences between the makes of cars. One “noted biblio-paleontologist,” a dentist by day, wrote an article after the tour stating that the variety of dinosaurs exploited by Biblical man broke down according to ethnic and social class: Pontius Pilate, for example, used the—but, guess!—Tyrannosaurus Rex on which to yacht himself, with a muzzle on its humongous snout of course, easily removed to terrorize the Israelites like a Doberman on a leash, whereas Abraham rode on the gentle Brontosaurus, “the first SUV,” as the author put it, “to accommodate his growing family.” Apparently, when Abraham, that great patriarch, threw his mistress, a pregnant and weeping Hagar, out of his house, Hagar and Abraham’s unborn son (who would later father the whole race of Arab peoples and thus become the patriarch of petroleum, blessing us all with a liquefied dinosaur in every gas tank) searched for water in the wilderness with the help of another dinosaur, Diplodocus, a sort of lanky, living divining rod. # About a week after the official press release came out from the Genesis Museum, some actual tour footage, shot by a hidden body camera that had been smuggled in by one of the reporters from the mainstream press, was posted on YouTube. The reporters had entered the museum with all good intentions of being polite, smiling at the emasculated dinos in the lobby and at the plaster “fossil reproductions” (“No actual dinosaurs were harmed in the making of Jurassic Snark,” one of them joked in a low voice)—but they were soon overtaken by incredulity, particularly when escorted into the exhibits area and shown the newly-completed vignette of Adam and Eve enjoying their innocence in the Garden of Eden. “Why are they white?” asked one of the reporters, putting up his hand and interrupting the guided tour given by the museum’s director, Dr. Kenneth Loin. “Why did you make Adam and Eve white?” “What?” asked the director blankly. Fingers from the group of reporters pointed at Eve, who stood smiling, vapidly enjoying the stream that ran through the garden, its conspiratorial depth covering her up to her waist, her hair trailing its mermaid-ingénue tresses conveniently, and presumably, across her breasts, which, as one reporter discovered when he hung back from the group and lifted her rayon hair with a fake cattail pulled from the Astroturf bank, she proved not to have. “She looks like she’s in *Behind the Green Door*, not in Mesopotamia,” sneered another of the reporters. “Wrong hair,” retorted another reporter. “But a snake.” “More like *The Devil* IN *Miss Jones*,” cracked another reporter. “Well, we don’t know what Adam and Eve looked like,” Loin retorted. “Wouldn’t it have been more accurate to portray them as African?” “We represent them as ordinary people, so that our audience can identify with them. The point is not to show any bias. We are asking you to use your imagination.” There was a flurry of writing at this—the reporters had been forbidden to bring their cameras, or their phones, or their “biases,” with them. “Did she have a double mastectomy, too?” asked the guy on the bank, the looky-loo. All of the reporters turned to him, and back to Eve, in renewed interest. The reporter hurriedly stuck the purloined cattail behind his leg. “Look at Adam, while you’re at it,” said another reporter, standing awkwardly on the Astroturf in her high heels. She pointed to Adam, bearded Adam, as he reposed tepidly on the stream bank on his back, one arm outstretched, the other behind his head, and with one knee strategically bent to cover his privates. “Take a look at him from this side. Adam has no penis!” Head craned to look, while the visiting parents hurriedly clamped their hands over their children’s ears. There a chorus of fascinated gasps from the reporters, and some snarls from the parents about modesty, and a few outright guffaws. Someone snapped a photo, and promptly had his camera taken away by a guard dressed in a Security Angel costume. The reporter was hurriedly escorted past the Tree of Knowledge and out the exit. The reporters, having tried valiantly to hold back their laughter while Dr. Loin was speaking, now collapsed into hilarity right in the answering silence that had descended upon the group like a godly finger from the clouds. “Hey, Ken! Why doesn’t the Ken-doll have a wee-wee!” The reporters were practically falling on each other in mirth. The angry murmur from the assembled parents swelled into a shout of impatience, and Dr. Loin turned beet red. The kids, with their heads held like steering wheels between the hands of their parents, just stared, some with their thumbs in their mouths. At this point, the director angrily motioned to the guards—all in their angel suits complete with wings, complete with bobbing halos anchored to the headbands on their heads—and the guards terminated the press tour. All of the reporters were turned out of the Garden and deposited without ceremony in the parking lot, thus missing out on the fruit cocktail and coffee that was served in the neighboring commissary, which featured an Assyrian-inspired deli counter prepped with Red Seafood Salad, Manna Sandwiches, and Bethlehem Bread Pudding. It was perhaps a week later that a friendlier reporter managed another visit and noted that Adam and Eve had been repainted, it seemed, a safe and inoffensive caramel. # This video at YouTube of the visit to the Genesis Museum provoked a furious response on talk radio. The reporters were referred to by many prominent creationists and their sympathizers as evolutionist “snakes in the grass” without an intentional pun. The “snakes” metaphor was used so many times by so many creationists that a prominent evolutionary biologist pointed out with sarcastic glee that everyone seemed to have forgotten that even the Bible portrayed the serpent as actually once dominating the treetops, not unlike our own distant ancestors! Fundamentalists howled at such desecration of biblical inerrancy. This joke garnered the appreciation of a certain niche of online mammals located all around the American continent and the world, who created online contests such as “$1000 for the Most Intelligently Designed Post-Mastectomy Reconstructive Surgery for Eve” and advertised *Panda Thumbs in People’s Bums*, a hastily-written satirical electronic book. The mainstream media in the U.S. largely ignored this ribald hilarity and geared up for another season of the War on Christmas. As it was, it was almost Halloween. This year, a small but vocal Wiccan group in Dayton, Ohio launched its own pre-emptive “Stop the War on Halloween” salvo by quoting, and parodying (though it was hard to tell one from the other), various fundamentalist denunciations of Samhain. These also did not get snapped up by the major news media. It was just too difficult to pick on Halloween, being that it still emptied the store shelves every year and was big with the local churches besides. However, one group of charismatic Catholics, who shouted in tongues and brandished brochures clutched in their fists, did manage to get on “Good Morning America” by disrupting a group of dumbfounded parents in Agape, Ohio, who had taken their children Trunk-or-Treating in the local megachurch parking lot. Trunk-or-Treating was a sort of substitute Halloween celebration, in which the trunks of cars were decorated as tiger mouths or treasure chests, into which the costumed children reached for treats. “Stop this satanic worship! The wildfires are proof that God is not mocked!” the Catholic charismatics cried, on cue and on camera, referring of course to the drought-fed grassfires that had started a week ago in Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, and Kansas. God, unlike His performance in Japan during World War II, was apparently firing a bunch of practice shots before aiming square at those snakes in the grasses of Kentucky, for then, inexplicably, He had paused—for a thick mist had enveloped the eastern state of Kentucky, temporarily, weirdly, and ironically, just in time for Halloween. Therefore, the Catholic charismatics formed their human chain between the children and the trunks in a Roger Corman-like mist that wilted the decorations and sogged the kid’s masks and made the on-location local news reporter look like she was delivering her spot at an Angel concert. Soon enough, the wildfires in Kentucky were burning off the fog. The DNR blamed the first grassfire on a Tarshish County man, a freelance evangelical minister and poet, who had stored a huge pile of tires next to his grain elevator on his farm. The subsequent discovery of the remains of a meth lab in a shed right at the foot of Mount Goodyear corroborated the DNR’s theory—though of course, no one had been there to witness the making of meth, and after all, there was no way to prove that the charred fossil remains of glass beakers and tins of battery acid could *not* have been deposited by a great flood that had swept through the area several years earlier when a creek burst its banks. # As the grassfires rose around them, the citizens shouted for the DNR to save their property from the very people who were “saving” all of Kentucky from the snakes, but the DNR had to defer to the Department of Homeland Security, who sent a runner to FEMA, while, in an act of divine sarcasm, a fire rainbow hovered all day over the still-clear skies of Gallileville, which stood directly in the path of the flames, a hapless, oblivious rainbow like some four-year-old Christmas angel that had emerged proudly, but too early, from the wings of the stage to appear before the surprised Owner of the Inn at the Sunday school holiday pageant. When a state of emergency was declared, the citizenry finally piled onto the buses that FEMA supplied or commandeered their own cars off the highways and over the terrain in a collective mad-dash that would have gratified Lot. As it was, Dr. Kenneth Loin was the only one to look back, for his Genesis Museum was burning along with whatever Sodom and Gomorrah one could have found in the mauve-carpeted three-season porches, and the refrigerators stocked with Lean Cuisine, and the “We’ve got Wifi!” church marquees, and the businesses advertising “Bring Your Bible to Work Day.” And though he did not turn into a pillar of salt, Dr. Loin did emerge pale and ashen, as it were, staring out with bloodshot eyes from under a government-issued blanket at a bus station in Memphis, Tennessee, as the uprooted newscaster from the parking lot newscast on Halloween in Agape, Ohio stood before her grime-caked camera man, shooting and re-shooting the account of their miraculous escape in Loin’s private plane, which was dotted with Bible verses and had been painted to look like—but this had been over ten years ago, and so was a coincidence—a Pterodactyl. And then the end was the beginning, and the beginning the end, for at last dawn broke amid the smoldering ruins of the museum, and of the man and the woman there remained no sign at all, and no paper-maché rock or tree had given shelter, for all of the dinosaurs were now nothing but bones, just bones, just skeletal chicken wire and metal scaffolding without flesh, lying shattered among the ruins of a lost world beneath a burning red sky. *Kristin Harley's fiction has appeared in Haunted MTL, Parcham Magazine, and most recently Third Name's a Charm: Tales of Trios and Triple Threats. She works at a library and freelances as a journalist, fiction writer, and science writer. Two novels in her four-book series about the surrealist poets Antonin Artaud and Robert Desnos were published in 2023 (Traitor Comet) and 2024 (L'Etoile de Mer, or The Starfish).* ### Tom Cruise URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/tom-cruise/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T14:58:54.000Z Tom Cruise used to be the biggest movie star in the world. That probably sounds fully insane to a lot of people, but it’s true! Before we found out about how weird he was, everyone wanted him to be in every movie that was ever made. The Scientologists especially wanted him to be in every movie that was ever made, but we all know that trusting their judgement is going to lead you to one place and one place only: smack dab in the middle of Cultsville, USA. Up until about 2005, people basically thought he was perfect. Well, the two ex-wives he had by that point probably didn’t think he was perfect, but they’ve been through enough and we should probably just let them be. Back then, nobody really knew about how deeply into Scientology he was. In fact, I don’t think people even realized how problematic Scientology was. But it’s like when you’re 20 minutes into *The Hand That Rocks The Cradle* and we all know that the new nanny is going to try and kill everyone, but the people in the movie don’t know. They just think she’s a woman who dresses like she works at a bank to change diapers. Scientology is dressed like it works at a bank to change diapers! That fact has made it very obvious that something is afoot. Anyhow, 2005 was the year that Tom Cruise jumped on the couch when he appeared on *The Oprah Winfrey Show*. He was there promoting *War of the Worlds*, but also he was there to talk to Oprah about his new wife, Katie Holmes, who was absolutely involved with him *voluntarily* and how dare you suggest otherwise. It felt a lot like when a gay teen is in the closet and he says things like, “I love all bosoms, but ample bosoms are my favorite.” He was doing a bit too much and none of it was convincing. To make matters worse, he’s an actor! We believed he could fly planes, but he couldn’t make us believe that he was legitimately happy to be married to Katie Holmes. The fact that he insists on doing a lot of over-the-top stunts is also a red flag for me. It makes me wonder if he found out that we all know he’s kind of short, so he thinks that if he clings to the outside of an airplane when it takes off and shoots a fight scene on top of a moving train, we’ll think he’s taller than he actually is. I think it has the opposite effect on me. I think those stunts make him seem shorter than he actually is. Don’t get me wrong, I stan a short king. Preferably a short king who doesn’t have such strong “pick me” energy. Do you remember that audio recording from a couple years ago where he was yelling at people on the set of *Mission: Impossible 7*, because they weren’t following COVID protocols on set? That was phony, right? I mean, I think it’s pretty standard practice that people working on movie sets aren’t allowed to record things with their phones while they’re working. If that’s the case, how did someone just HAPPEN to be recording when Tom Cruise was screaming at these people for not wearing masks? Also, calm the F down, dude! If they weren’t wearing masks, tell them to put masks on. No need to shout. It’s not like you found out they were telling everyone you wore lifts in your shoes. (But it’s true that you do that though, right?) I’m not sure I did a good job of explaining how or why Tom Cruise used to be the biggest movie star in the world, so you might have to take my word on that. Does it help to know that Nicole Kidman used to be married to him? She seems like she’d bring out the best in someone. However, she is four inches taller than him, which might be part of the reason he couldn’t handle the truth, so to speak. In honor of Tom Cruise, here’s an – ahem – short list of movies that he’s starred in that still make my heart jump on the proverbial couch. - ***Mission Impossible: Fallout*** – I’ll be honest. The only reason I went to see this movie was because Henry Cavill was in it and I was rooting for him when he was fighting with Tom Cruise in the men’s room. This is the closest I’ve ever come to thinking that Tom Cruise was attractive. I mean, he’s not unattractive, but his vibe is not my jam. My jam falls a lot closer to “you seem like you know what you’re doing and you look nice in a t-shirt” than “Instead of standing on a box so I look like I’m the same height as my costar, I’m going to make someone dig a hole that my costar has to stand in so I look like I’m the same height as they are.” If you want to feel a certain kind of way about Henry Cavill, this is a good movie to start with. If you want to immediately go to the advanced level, go on the internet and find that video of him putting together a computer while wearing a tank top. To this day, I still cannot believe that video didn’t get me pregnant. - **Far and Away** – Top ‘o the morning to everyone except for the Irish accent that Tom Cruise attempted to pull off in this movie. If that Irish accent was on a reality show, everyone would immediately know that it was not there to make friends. I remember seeing the episode of *The Oprah Winfrey Show* where Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman appeared to promote this movie. They talked about the scene where Tom Cruise’s character is laying on a bed, on top of the covers, with only an overturned bowl to cover his business. In the scene, Nicole Kidman’s character lifts the bowl to peek at his junk and there was supposed to be a modestly cloth there, but Tom Cruise played a prank and removed the modesty cloth so she saw his full monty. I mean, I guess that’s fine because they were married at the time, but I find that not surprising anyone with my penis is a good rule of thumb. It’s one of the ways that Tom Cruise and I are different, apparently. - ***Eyes Wide Shut*** – When I was just typing out the title of this movies, I accidentally typed, “Eyes Wide Shit,” and honestly, that’s a more accurate title. I know that Stanley Kubrick, who directed this movie, was an artistic genius and all that, but this movie is too self-important and pervy by half. I mean, if you’re going to feature a sex club in the movie, maybe everyone shouldn’t be fully dressed and trying to conceal their identity. If you’re that afraid of everyone finding out who you are, then stay home. Everyone else has enough going on, trying to follow the etiquette rules at a sex club without putting you at ease and acting like we don’t know who you are. If you see a puddle of something, is it a “see something/say something” situation? Or do you just leave it there and worry about your own puddles? What’s the snack situation? Is water provided? What about paper towels? Anyway, this movie is too long and the money it cost to make would have been better spent on “Caution: Wet Floor” signs. - **Magnolia** – I firmly believe that Tom Cruise made this movie specifically so he could say “cock” and “cunt” a bunch of times in a movie. Knowing what I know about him now makes me wonder if he was even acting in this movie. He might have just been a slightly modified version of himself, like Jerry Seinfeld on *Seinfeld* or Big Bird on *Sesame Street*. He plays a motivational speaker who encourages men to take what they want and not apologize for it. Someone refresh my memory. Has not being able to do that ever really been a problem for white men? Is this one of those things where someone invents a problem so they can say they have a solution for it? I bet whoever invented common core mathematics probably thinks this movie is a documentary, even the part where it rains frogs. - **Jerry Maguire** – This movie is maybe where Tom Cruise was his most likable. I would argue that the credit for that goes more to Cameron Crowe and Jonathan Lipnicki than to Tom Cruise. Side note: Jonathan Lipnicki is 34 years old now and to paraphrase Lucille Bluth from *Arrested Development*, “I don’t understand that statement and I won’t respond to it.” This movie is endlessly quotable. “Show me the money!” “The human head weighs eight pounds.” “You had me at hello.” “You complete me.” And, to a lesser extent, “The fuckin zoo is closed, Ray.” Do you remember that Bruce Springsteen song from this movie, “Secret Garden?” They’d play it on the radio and include bits of audio from the movie and it felt like we were all working really hard to make Tom Cruise seem like he was all our best friend. I’d say the takeaway here is this: if you push your so-so cult on people, they’ll forget they want to be your best friend very quickly. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** "When I work, I work very hard. So I look to work with people who have that level of dedication". – Tom Cruise, who really just wants all of us to match his freak, apparently. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "The Shape of Her Life," E.F. Schraeder URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/the-shape-of-her-life-e-f-schraeder/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T15:28:08.000Z A Rhysling and Pushcart nominated poet, E.F. Schraeder is author of The Price of a Small Hot Fire (Raw Dog Screaming Press, 2023), What Happened Was Impossible (Ghoulish Books, 2023), and several other works. Schraeder’s creative work and nonfiction has appeared in Mystery Weekly Magazine, Ghoulish Tales, Vastarien: A Literary Journal, and other journals and anthologies. They believe in ghosts, magic, and dogs and hold an advanced degree in Library Science and PhD in ethics. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *Today’s episode: “The Shape of Her Life,” by E.F.*[](http://e.f.read/?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*Schraeder. Read by the Midwest Weird team.* Cora pulled out a membership card, grateful it bore no photo, and swiped. The glass doors to the gym wooshed open. CoreFit had been open for three months and Jen, her once pudgy best friend, lost twenty pounds in seven weeks. What a way to beat the freshman fifteen. She glanced away from the bright reflections, mortified by the hall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. “Fluorescent lights are evil.” *Focus on the goal. Get fit. Get perfect. Get CoreFit.* She’d yell at Jen later for skimming over the harsh lights and mirrors*.* No thumping music, no televisions. The place was quiet— eerily so. Maybe silence was the result of a gym with virtually enhanced routines. In the main workout area Cora eyed herself for a moment. Doing exactly what she hated doing: scanning for flaws. Not that she hated herself, but she knew she had to change. Only three steps in and she couldn’t resist eying her hips, the curves of her stomach. This was why she hated mirrors. *What woman didn’t?* She clucked her tongue in disapproval. “At least it’s empty.” No matter how many affirmations and inspiring books she read about embracing her whole self, her body remained a project. Everywhere she looked she saw a list of things to fix. Like the Bride of Frankenstein, Cora was a work in progress. Damn that Jen for getting her body right. She had the nerve to reveal she’d reached her goal weight at lunch, of all places. That was just mean. \*\*\* First Jen stood up and posed like she was about to do a mic drop. Then she peeled off the oversized sweater and revealed a skin-tight black T-shirt. She cinched her hands at the waist and pursed her lips in a classic selfie-pout. “What do you think?” Jen knew exactly what they thought. She twirled around so everyone at the table could see the results. Skinny Jen. Pretty Jen. *Better-than-you-Jen.* The moment sent Cora into shock and seared into her memory. Jen had no bulges. No pudge, no flab, no sag. She was perfect. “Holy batgirl!” Stacy said. She kicked Cora under the table. “Wow. You look— wow. How’d you do it?” *Damn.* Cora bit down on her lip trying to stop herself from sounding too jealous, but she’d pay anything to get a body that tight. Everyone would want her now. “A run in the woods does wonders, and, well, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Jen said. A strange look flashed on her face. Cora’s eyes sank onto her fruit plate. She pushed the food away. Pretending not to be hungry was a full time job. *How could Jen do this at lunch?* Cora swallowed some water and imagined feeling full. Cora’s empty stomach burned, writhing with acid. Digesting itself. It was a familiar feeling. “It’s this amazing virtual reality workout at CoreFit. Have you heard about them? They use gaming tech. You workout harder than ever.” Jen stared at her friends, winking, prodding them, daring them to outdo her. Stacy smiled. “Good for you!” “I’d practically kill for a body like that,” Cora said. She dropped her head in her hands. Jen’s eyes glinted. “But would you die for it?” She poked Stacy in the arm. Cora pulled a face. If CoreFit was for real, she had to try. “Wow, girl.” Stacy stuffed a fistful of fries into her mouth. “Just, no.” “The baby fat melts off,” Jen said. She posed again. “You won’t believe it. It’ll change your life. Well it changed mine, anyway. I’ve never felt better.” That night, that’s what Cora told her parents, begging them to pay for it. “I really need this. I can’t pay for it on top of tuition. I don’t want more talk-therapy or boring Weight Watchers. It’s all just whatever. The whole process is exhausting. CoreFit promises real change.” Cora’s parents pulled up CoreFit’s website while their daughter rambled, suspicious of another gimmick, that Jen’s results were just a fluke. “CoreFit worked miracles on Jen, and her parents paid for the membership. Thistechnology will define the future of self-improvement. At least that’s what their website says.” Her parents said nothing. “I’ll finally get into the shape I want. Jen said she’s in the best shape of her life.” “She’s twenty-two!” Cora’s mom shook her head. “Will you sign me up?” Her mother sighed. Her father groaned. They were nervous about agreeing, nervous it’d spark a relapse into obsessive behaviors, another breakdown, or worse. “Honey, you’re beautiful. Can’t you see you’re good enough the way you are?” “Not good enough to date anyone hot.” “Cora, that’s ridiculous. Society’s beauty standards are out of line with reality.” “So you basically want me to fail forever?” Cora’s parents clicked into CoreFit’s stats, impressed that the technology monitored everything from heart rates to cortisol levels, and synced to optimize performance. Better yet, progress was monitored by a staff of specialists. CoreFit wasn’t some one size fits all bootcamp. *CoreFit delivers—guaranteed.* “Maybe this will be good for you, honey,” Mom said. “Get you into a routine.” “Maybe you’ll learn to enjoy it.” Dad smiled. Cora’s parents bought a six month membership within twenty-four hours. \*\*\* Inside CoreFit, Cora frowned. *God it’s so bright in here.* Jen showed off her CoreFit success, but damn her, she left out the cruel details of the mirrors. Jen knew how Cora felt. Probably exactly how a lot of young women felt about mirrors: like they were accidents you couldn’t look away from. Then again, Jen never said a word about the workouts. Cora tried not to stare at herself and made her way toward the whirring sound of cardio equipment. Cora took in a deep breath then exhaled hard. Another pair of automatic doors opened to a gigantic space. Only one other person in a pair of dark sweats pounded on a treadmill across the room. Jen said the machines linked into some kind of medical monitors or something, customizing workouts to meet optimal goals. Cora was glad to be almost alone for her first try— in case she bombed. “I’ll give it my all.” Cora plugged a VR headset into the treadmill. She typed in her age. A mechanical arm unlocked from a gear and swung behind her. Cora stood up straight while it measured her height. The arm cranked to one side and hovered at forehead level. Cora turned her head as a blinding white pulse of light arced into her eyes. A second armed whirred into place and landed a metal fingerlike apparatus at her waist. “What the—?” Cora froze, nervous. She hadn’t expected it to be so… *intimate.* The smell of lemon cleanser and air freshener mingled with sweat, providing a clean and fresh sense of comfort, but something about it stung her senses. This was just a gym, but the place was empty as a graveyard. She reminded herself not to be afraid. Cora faced the monitor. The screen before her blinked bright white. Numbers whirred onscreen like a slot machine, calculating her measurements. A voice came from the speaker. “Please select your regimen: trail run, indoor track, outdoor marathon.” Alone in the woods sounded good. Like Jen. “Trail run.” Everything darkened. “Run,” a low voice from behind her said. Cora gasped. “Run now!” it said. It was so real Cora swore she felt hot breath on the back of her neck. She ran. The sound of crunching leaves and pounding footsteps thudded in Cora’s ears. The scent of pine, maybe the faint hint of a campfire. Senses flooded with images of a lush forest and wooded trail. She found a steady rhythm. Thump, thump. Then another sound: screams, shrill and piercing. Cora sped. “Get away! He’s coming!” a woman yelled. Terror clenched in Cora’s heart. *What the hell?* She strained to look around but saw only the trail. Cracked mud, dry leaves. “If he gets you he’ll—” the voice trailed. A flailing, muffled chaos of noise throttled Cora’s ears. Screams, breaking branches, ripping fabric. *Oh my God.* Cora shut her eyes tight, but it didn’t matter. The attack invaded her ears, her brain. Her very core. “Hold still, you little—” then a punch. A grunt. Then a panting, frothy mess of sounds Cora didn’t want to hear. Tears flooded Cora’s eyes as she ran. What else could she do? The sound of a flat palm against skin. Shredded fabric. Scraping noises. A body against rough tree bark. A plunging sound, fists meeting soft, bruising skin. Sobbing. She didn’t want to know what she heard. But she knew. *The sound of a body giving up.* Cora ran harder. Maybe there was a way out? This wasn’t real, it was just—awful. Her feet plodded pushing harder. *Anything to escape.* The silence that followed was worse than anything she could’ve imagined. Cora quickened, heartbeat speeding to an unsustainable pace. Her muscles clenched, legs ached, but she pushed. *Anything to make it stop.* “You’re next,” he yelled. Then he laughed. Adrenaline spiked, Cora sprinted. Who knows for how long. Tears streamed down her face as she ran for her life. Sweat poured from every pore. “Your workout has ended,” a voice said. “Prepare for cool-down.” The treadmill hummed and slowed. Cora’s legs trembled and the mechanical arm pushed the base of her back. A wave of nausea passed as Cora transitioned to a stumbling walk. Her heart stung and ached, like it’d burst. She clutched her side, panting. *Jen didn’t tell me the half of it.* “Congratulations. You’ve burned 850 calories,” the voice said. Cora’s eyes readjusted to the light. The arms clicked open as the treadmill stopped. Her heart raced and sweat poured down her sides, soaking her top. She stepped off the machine and looked around. She dabbed her face and neck with the hem of her sleeve. Cora caught herself in the full length mirror. She bit down on her lower lip. Her eyes fixated on the contours of her shape.. Once the terror faded, she didn’t look half bad. She wasn’t thinner. No, of course not yet, but something had happened. She wasn’t quite what she wanted to be, but perhaps she was a little better for the effort. Stronger or maybe just tougher. Her face gleamed, flushed from exertion. *Custom workout my ass. I was terrified.* “You look great,” a low voice came from across the room. Cora looked up and found a man staring at her reflection. He grinned at her with the open-mouthed panting of someone who’d just had the best run of his life. He was ten years older than her, maybe more. A little overweight. His cheeks were dark pink and chest heaving. He adjusted the waist of his pants with one hand and waved at her with the other. “Works you down to the core, doesn’t it?” he thrummed both hands at his sides. Still staring, still smiling. Cora tensed at the faintly familiar voice. A sort of better-to-eat you-with smile played on his face. Something about it stuck to her skin. Cora still silent, recalled the man from the woods. She didn’t want it to be true. *It couldn’t be.* His expression tightened, and he winked. “I know it’s tough, but you’ll get used to it.” *A Rhysling and Pushcart nominated poet, E.F. Schraeder is author of The Price of a Small Hot Fire (Raw Dog Screaming Press, 2023), What Happened Was Impossible (Ghoulish Books, 2023), and several other works. Schraeder’s creative work and nonfiction has appeared in Mystery Weekly Magazine, Ghoulish Tales, Vastarien: A Literary Journal, and other journals and anthologies. They believe in ghosts, magic, and dogs and hold an advanced degree in Library Science and PhD in ethics.* ### Learnings from TV URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-learnings-from-tv/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T14:58:40.000Z I’ve learned a lot of things throughout the course of my life. These columns may lead you to believe that that is not the case, but trust me when I tell you that I know stuff. It’s not important stuff, but it’s stuff and I know it. Most of it isn’t the stuff that I learned from teachers, but that doesn’t mean that they didn’t play an important role in my educational journey. Take for example my second grade teacher, Mrs. Thompson. She told me and the rest of our class that using the word “cop” when you’re referring to a police officer is disrespectful. She also told us not to complain about the heat on one particularly hot day in her classroom because she was wearing panty hose, so there was no way that we were warmer than she was. So I guess where I’m going here is that I learned a lot about Mrs. Thompson’s opinions when I was in second grade. I remember her as a nice lady, despite her heat-shaming me with panty hose, but I cannot think of one other thing that woman taught me. There must have been some math in there, right? Books are traditionally well known for being useful when you’re trying to learn new information. And, up until fairly recently, you could usually count on the contents of a book to be reasonably true or it would be labeled as a work of fiction. Do you remember in 2003, when James Frey released a book called, *A Million Little Pieces*, and he told Oprah that it was all true and then it turned out that he was lying and it was not all true and then he had to go back on Oprah’s show and she gave him a pretty hard time about it? I always wondered why he didn’t just say from the start that the book was a fictional story that was based on some actual events in his life. I mean, I guess he probably wouldn’t have gotten to go on *The Oprah Winfrey Show* twice, but he also wouldn’t have had his ass handed to him by Oprah on TV either. So let’s regroup. Learning is fun and the physics of panty hose is a scientific mystery. But the real reason we’re here today is so I can tell you what I learned from the greatest source of knowledge that the world has ever known: television. Television is great and it’s informative. It’s not perfect (How many hours of *The Today Show* do we really need? I would say it’s however many hours we have now, minus one.), but who is? “Not James Frey,” is what Oprah would probably say. With that, here are five perfectly imperfect things that I learned from television (and one movie). - **Don’t hide in an old refrigerator** (*Punky Brewster*): This episode started out with so much promise. It featured my favorite way to participate in hide and seek – watching other people do it. Punky and her friends are having the time of their lives until Cherie hides in an old refrigerator that’s just out on the streets and she gets trapped. For someone who had never considered hiding in an old appliance while playing hide and seek, this episode of *Punky Brewster* stressed me the fuck out and certainly made me feel like I had barely escaped the clutches of death. I really thought I had been through something after watching this show and I agree with the conclusion that you have surely drawn: the refrigerator episode of *Punky Brewster* was my Vietnam. - **Drinking a bunch of water right before a meal will make you fill up faster, so you can keep your eating disorder going strong** (*The Secret Life of Mary-Margaret: Potrait of a Bulimic*): This was a TV movie that starred a young Calista Flockhart as the title character who is not only bulimic, but a teen model as well. In the 90s, those two things were basically the same job. Trying to separate them would be like saying you’re not only a bus driver, but that you also open the bus doors. If memory serves, Mary-Margaret was discovered in her local shopping mall by a model scout and if that isn’t an enormous red flag, then I would like to know what exactly a model scout hanging out in a mall would have to do to make an authority figure start asking questions. Would the model scout have to be walking around the mall pantless? Is that what it would take? Anyway, the pressure to be thin is too much for Mary-Margaret and she starts up with the bulimia, in addition to the aforementioned belly-full-of-water-before-dinner trick. She got busted when her parents discovered the glass jars of puke she was hiding in her room. It’s tough to hide several glass jars of puke and no one knows that more than a teen model from the 90s. - **Cocaine is all over the place at college parties** (*Growing Pains*): On this episode of *Growing Pains*, Mike Seaver, played by the teen model scout of Christians, Kirk Cameron, and his two friends, Eddie and Boner (that is actually the character’s name) find themselves invited to a college party. When they show up, they meet two women who attended the same high school as them. When they ask these two women why everyone is going to the bathroom in groups, the women explain that it’s because this party is absolutely packed with cocaine and the only place you can do it is in the bathroom. What if I just wanted to pee? Is there a different bathroom for that or do I have to be labeled a cokehead because I stayed hydrated today? As you probably already guessed, Mike doesn’t want to do cocaine so he goes home. Since it’s after curfew, his dad is waiting for him and he spills his guts about the cocaine because I guess he’s a narc? I don’t know why else his dad would need to know that information. I mean, it’s not a good reason for being late. - **You can’t shower right after getting a perm** (*Legally Blonde*): When *Legally Blonde* was first released in theaters, I had no idea that Reese Witherspoon would one day win an Academy Award, become a film producer and, most importantly, start her own book club for people who think that Oprah’s book club is just too much, you know? I should have seen all that coming though because when she called Linda Cardellini’s bluff on the witness stand, it was the perfect intersection of brilliance and genius. You see, Chutney, played by Linda Cardellini, said she couldn’t be the murderer because she was in the shower when the murder took place. But Reese Witherspoon’s Elle Woods knows that you can’t shower and wash your hair right after getting a perm or your perm will shout, “Not today, muchacho!” in a problematic Hispanic accent and you’ll be back to straight hair almost immediately. I know Reese Witherspoon didn’t write the movie, but her acting made me believe in the power of shampoo again. - **AU is the symbol for gold** (*The Facts of Life*): I don’t know most of the symbols on the periodic table. I know the big guns. Water is H2O. Carbon dioxide is CO2\. Potassium is K, and I assumed they named it that because there is a lot of potassium in bananas and bananas are worse for you than ketamine, a conclusion brought to you by the same people behind the findings of the panty hose heat theory from my second grade teacher. In a season four episode of *The Facts of Life*, Tootie helps Natalie remember the symbol for gold on the periodic table by telling her that if a mugger took your gold watch, you’d yell at them as they ran away, “Aye! You!” and AU is the periodic symbol for gold. I challenge anyone who thinks TV is bad to watch this episode and if you still think TV rots the brain, then I’ll agree to disagree because I’m not going to get into a whole thing with some a-hole. I mean, this is science come to life. Mr. Wizard could never! ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “More students have a better knowledge of pop culture than of the Constitution?” Charles Bowen, who seems like he’d be a chill hang, and who might feel differently if the Constitution was made into a TV show. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "The Ghosts of Us," Daniela Barzallo URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-the-ghosts-of-us-daniela-barzallo/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T15:24:06.000Z An Ecuadorian-American writer from Peoria, Illinois, Daniela Barzallo is currently pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Missouri - Kansas City. She has a special love for speculative fiction, but she enjoys writing poetry and autofiction as well. You can find some of her work in Broadside Literary Journal, Kansas City Magazine, and in the forthcoming Fall issue of Pleiades Magazine. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *Today’s episode: “The Ghosts of Us,” by Daniela Barzallo. Read by the author.* The first time I saw you, you were wearing my favorite pajamas, the ones with the fluffy white bottoms and the cute little bunny on the top. We were both seven then, and as soon as we locked eyes, we screamed. You because you’d never seen a ghost before. Me because I’d never been one before, I guess. Mami–your mami I mean–heard and came running, and for a moment I actually thought she was coming to me before she wrapped her arms around you. You didn’t seem to notice, your big eyes overflowing with massive tears as you looked at me. I wiped my own on my sleeve. “Mami, look,” you cried. “Look!” But she didn’t spare me a glance as she held your face gently with both hands. I resisted the urge to scream again. “There’s nothing there, Carolina. Just a bad dream.” You looked at me again. I waved. You blinked and sniffled. We figured out later that I’d somehow gotten run over by a car on the street right outside the neighborhood. “Are you going to haunt me forever?” You asked. So yes, we got off to a bad start, you and me, but it got better. Like the time you brought that cute little stuffed duck, the one with the purple eyes? You were nearly thirteen then, I think. You had given up trying to convince Mami that I was real. And I had the feeling that if you were being honest (and you never were, at least not with me), you would have had to admit that you weren’t convinced yourself. But real or not, it was clear I wasn’t going anywhere. That day, you threw the toy at me, and I just barely managed to catch it before it hit the ground. You’d never brought me anything before. “Is this for—for me?” You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. You’d been doing that a lot lately. “Figured you’d like it. Got it in a claw machine, but I’m too old for that stuff.” I pressed the soft skin of the stuffed animal to my chest, memorizing the delicate feel of cotton and plush. I smiled so wide I felt the phantom pain in my cheek. You tried to seem disinterested, but I could tell you were holding back a grin too. “Play with me?” I whispered. You hesitated, then shook your head, “Maybe later.” On one of the last days before you moved out, you tried to teach me how to french braid my hair. “No, no, look, honey, it’s easy,” you said. “You just need to pull this section here and then this section and—no not like that, honey.” It was all honey and sweetheart now. Like you were trying to make up for the rude names you called me when we’d first met. Or all the days you spent ignoring me as I cried miserably in the corner. Or all the breakdowns you had when you screamed at me, desperately trying to convince yourself I wasn’t there. The last time had only been a few years ago, but you apologized to me the next day. “It’s okay,” I said. “I spend a lot of time wondering if I’m just imagining you too.” So that was the last time you questioned my existence. Out loud, at least. But now that you really were leaving me, you hardly ever left my side. I think you might even have considered trying to take me with you if the thought of leaving the bedroom hadn’t filled me with indescribable horror. I think you were starting to forget why you hated me. I think I was starting to realize why I hated you. “Honey,” you said, tugging harder on my hair. “It’s really not that hard. If you would just try.” “Why?” “Why not?” “Don’t wanna,” I said. “Don’t you want to know how?” I giggled, “Why would a dead girl want to learn anything?” You grit your teeth, jumping away from me, “You know what? Fine. Fine. That’s fine. Perfectly fine.” And then you screamed. You did come and visit me after that though. I mean, I know you were visiting your parents and your hometown too, but you always made sure to make time for me, which was nice. One time when you came home (you never called it home), you hugged me so tight, I could feel your heartbeat, I could smell your breath, I could wonder what it would be like if we came together again, you and me, and if it would mean you would die or I would live and which one would be worse. “Do you really think it can only be one of us?” You muttered. I shrugged. Perhaps there was something I could learn from you after all. “Only one of us can what?” “Do you think only one of us can be real?” your voice shook. “Maybe,” I admitted. “I want it to be me,” you said. “God, I’m sorry, honey, but I want it to be me.” Your eyes fill with tears. You pressed a wet kiss to my forehead, and all I could think was I hoped you didn’t get any snot on our favorite pajamas I was wearing. It’s been a while since you’ve come back, but I always think of that first day. After all your screaming and crying had died down, Mami went back downstairs and left us alone. “You—you’re me, aren’t you?” You said. I blew my nose on my pajama sleeve. “But you’re dead. You’re dead, and I’m not.” “I guess,” I said. We blinked at each other. It was just you and me. Like always. “Are you going to haunt me forever?” I asked. *An Ecuadorian-American writer from Peoria, Illinois, Daniela Barzallo is currently pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Missouri - Kansas City. She has a special love for speculative fiction, but she enjoys writing poetry and autofiction as well. You can find some of her work in Broadside Literary Journal, Kansas City Magazine, and in the forthcoming Fall issue of Pleiades Magazine.* ### Childhood Punishments URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-childhood-punishments/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T14:58:25.000Z Getting in trouble as a kid is pretty standard stuff. At some point or another, most kids have broken the rules or made a mistake and have been punished for it. I say “most kids” because I know there are kids out there that don’t get in trouble no matter how they behave. It’s like they’re already rich, white men and they haven’t even finished high school yet. I should preface this all by saying I have no children of my own. That either means that I’m able to share an unbiased viewpoint on the subject or it means I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe both of those things are true at the same time? Either way, I’m going to keep yakking about it. When I was growing up, if you didn’t eat the food on your plate, you couldn’t get up from the dinner table. Also when I was growing up, I wanted to be just about anywhere but the dinner table. For the life of me, I can’t remember why though. I mean, it’s not like there was anything else to do. The internet didn’t exist. We didn’t have cable TV yet. I sure as shit wasn’t going to go outside. As much as I wanted to get up from the table, I feel like that rule might have been more of a punishment for anyone who wanted to use the dining room table the rest of the evening. Maybe someone wanted to play solitaire and they couldn’t because I was sitting there staring at a room temperature bowl of chili. I remember I got grounded for a couple weeks when I was 11 because I was home alone on a weekday in the summer and I got bored so I decided to ride my purple bike to my aunt and uncle’s house and surprise them. My uncle wasn’t there when I showed up, but my aunt sure was surprised. Mostly because they lived about five miles outside of the town I grew up in and to get there, I rode my bike on a two lane highway for a couple miles and then about three miles of gravel roads. Can you imagine what was going through the heads of the drivers that passed me? Now, people would have called DHS or the police or something. Then, people mostly just didn’t notice and if they did, they didn’t really go to much effort to not run me over. It was the 80s. People were too busy to give me a wide berth! When I did get punished, I didn’t really understand why. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t get hurt and my aunt was STUNNED when I walked into her kitchen. Mission accomplished! If the internet existed when I was 11 years old, I definitely would have been catfished by some huge perv. And when my parents found that I’d been communicating with whichever member of the Gaetz family found me online and read our correspondence, I would have told them that it wasn’t a big deal because I was fine and this creep lives all the way in the Okefenokee Swamp, or whatever code word for Florida that they used back in the day. I distinctly remember getting into trouble as a kid and thinking, “When I’m a grown up, I’m going to do whatever I want and no one can stop me.” I’ve got news for my younger self: you’re an idiot. Also, you won’t be rich or straight enough to do whatever you want to when you’re an adult in America. Here are a few childhood punishments that have aged like a fine wine. - **No WWF (I know it’s called WWE now, thanks) for a week** – When I was in middle school, I was deeply into pro wrestling. My friends and I would put on wrestling matches in my parents basement and we had outfits and even a championship belt. I watched every second of pro wrestling that I could find on TV. I would leave social functions to go and watch pro wrestling! Anyone who knows me now knows that adult me would leave a social function because the wind changed direction, but back then, I loved a gathering. Anyway, my older brother and I got in trouble once for some reason that I don’t recall. We were probably fighting about how he thought it wasn’t fair that I got the looks and the brains. Whatever it was, my parents had enough of our nonsense and told us both no WWF for a week. As a kid, this was some class-A bullshit because it was more of a punishment for me than for my brother as he had only a passing interest in WWF. As an adult, I go months, years even, without watching WWF. If someone told me I couldn’t watch WWF for a week, I would assume they were talking to someone else. Also, everything is on streaming now and I’d just catch up when the week was through. - **Laying in bed all day** – When I was in the second or third grade, my parents were in one of their church phases, where we’d have to go to church every week because they wanted to rub elbows with ole’ JC because they’d been arguing or something. I remember running in the church (not the actual sanctuary, but the hallway near the Sunday school classrooms) because I was apparently moved by the spirit. Someone told me to stop and I was all like, “Sure, Jan,” and then started running again. Then my dad stopped me and said that when we got home, I was going to spend the whole day in bed. At the time, I felt that had strong Judas vibes. Now, I’d be honored to lay in bed all day. Give me a book and a drink and I’d feel like I was on vacation and/or being rewarded by the holy spirit for the gobs of benevolence that toss out into the world like I’m in a convertible during a parade. - **Curfew put in place** – At the beginning of my senior year of high school, I didn’t have a curfew. I don’t know if that was because my parents trusted me or if it was because they figured that no curfew meant that I would be home less often. The day after Thanksgiving, my brother, who was home from college, used his fake ID to buy me and my friends some beer. I think we bought a 12-pack to split among three people. After a lovely meal at Pizza Hut, my friends and I went out “drinking,” where we each maybe had two beers. I didn’t keep track, but I know we didn’t drink them all because we buried them in a snowbank outside of town to “keep them fresh” for more drinking the following weekend. After I got home that night, I proceeded to vomit Pizza Hut all over my bedroom floor and as a punishment, a midnight curfew was instituted. These days, I could stay out past midnight if I wanted to, but it would also ruin the next week of my life – even if I’d consumed no Pizza Hut and zero beers. I stayed out past midnight two months ago and I’ve had a cold ever since. - **Chauffeuring my younger brother** – The summer before I started college I was doing that thing where you sleep until 11am everyday and taking it for granted. I somehow managed to piss my mother off and as a punishment, I had to drive my younger brother to baseball camp every morning for a week. Keep in mind, this baseball camp wasn’t just on the other side of town or anything. It was two towns over! A 36-mile round trip! And he had to be there at 8am every morning. And I had to go back and pick him up every day at noon! My God, the orphans from *Annie* were basically socialites compared to what I was being put through. If I had to drive him to baseball camp now, I’d probably resist just because it would seem like I was an accessory to some unseemly behavior, with him being in his 40s and all. - **No Mall of America for me** – When I was a senior in high school, our class took a senior class ski trip to a resort on the upper peninsula of Michigan. As you might expect, two-thirds of the class smuggled alcohol on the trip. A couple of my classmates didn’t, instead opting to go to the bar at the ski resort and asking a couple of guys in the bar to drive them to a nearby town and buy them booze. Obviously, the bartender told our chaperones and called the high school principal back in Iowa, and we all got busted. As a punishment, on the drive back home, anyone who had been busted for bringing alcohol on the trip was not allowed to go into the Mall of America when we stopped in the Twin Cities. That was a real slap in the face back then. Now, if my options were 500 American dollars and a trip through the MoA or zero American dollars and doing almost anything else, I’d take the zero dollars option, no questions asked. If someone blindfolded me and told me they had a surprise for me and then, when I took the blindfold off, realized I was in the Mall of America, I can’t see how or why I’d ever talk to that person again. They could push me off a cliff and I’d be more likely to give them a second chance. But if that cliff was next to the Mall of America and I rolled down the hill, right into the Crayola Experience, they’d never see me again. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “Why are you so sweaty?” – Dale Doback (John C. Reilly) “I was watching *Cops*.” – Brennan Huff (Will Ferrell) The cast of *Step Brothers*, learning from others mistakes. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "Carnation," Gabriella Paz Hoggatt URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-carnation-gabriella-paz-hoggatt/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T15:20:08.000Z Gabriella Paz Hoggatt is an MFA candidate at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, where they work as an Editorial Assistant for Ninth Letter Magazine. Their work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in BarBar and elsewhere. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.* *We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.* *Today’s episode: A short story by Gabriella Paz Hoggatt, titled “Carnation." Read by the author.* The ghost prefers butter pecan, single scoop, waffle cone. No toppings. All through Bree’s closing shift, the cone sits on a shelf between the single-ply toilet paper and Method antibac spray, stuck into a spare plastic stand meant to showcase the different sizes and dips. One of the managers scoops it after the post-school rush, before the post-dinner rush, and it stays there, dripping into the mop drain, until all the closing tasks are done and the staff files out the back door. Whoever’s on trash duty has to slop it into the last bag. The cloying scent of evaporated dairy is almost enough to mask the sharp rot the fills the back alley from the cans they share with the fusion restaurant next door. Manager Deb holds the lid up for Bree when it’s her turn, but no one holds it for Derrick, who might pull a knife on you. He doesn’t even have his learner’s permit yet. Once she’s been hooked on the tips all these white suburban grandparents drop for their regular ice cream fix, and less likely to run, Assistant Manager Isaac walks Bree through it. The chain’s founder’s wife—or sister, or mother, or daughter—lives on in the walk-in, and if they don’t appease her, the hinges start sticking, and the floor behind the counter gets slick. He says the last time they forgot, some poor seasonal part-timer took a header into the minifridge where they keep the brownies and had to get four stitches. Also, the ghost is homophobic. Assistant Manager Isaac is a theater major, and his word is not to be taken at face value, so Bree googles it during a slow hour. Mrs. Franchise died of natural causes at the estimable age of 89, two states away. Bree isn’t sure why the Mrs. Franchise would ever choose to haunt a random branch location of her husbandbrother- father’s Midwestern ice cream empire. When Bree dies, she’s haunting the park she grew up by, so she can watch the maples turn red and the kids eat shit on the skate ramp. She tells Mom about the ghost, and Mom texts her a screenshot of a Facebook post that details three easy warding rituals against undead interactions that you can do with regular household items. None of them involve ice cream, although one mentions coconut oil. Maybe there’s a connection. They all take at least thirty minutes to prepare and cast, so she sticks with the cone. Bree is leaning on the industrial sink in the back, because there’s only one chair for the employees, and really that’s only for Manager Deb. Bree is scrolling through Violet’s Instagram like she promised her sister she wasn’t going to anymore, and pacifying her roiling stomach with a strawbanana smoothie, when a suspiciously loud thump echoes from the walk-in. She’s paused over a picture of Violet’s new girl, trying to determine if she’s a freshman or actually still in high school, and the suddenness of the sound makes her thumb jerk in that most heinous of UI features—the double tap. The red heart appears. Jesus Christ. Maybe she should delete her account, do some ghosting of her own. Bree glances up and makes eye contact with Assistant Manager Isaac, by the paper cups, and then Derrick, who’s been microwaving a Hot Pocket for way too long. If he starts another fire, Manager Deb might finally kick him to the curb. Derrick calls nose goes and Bree almost drops her phone in the bleach water in her rush to slam a finger to her face. Not it, Assistant Manager Isaac says a breath before she can. Derrick raises his thick eyebrows in that way he seems to think makes him look important, and jerks his chin from Bree to the freezer. She hopes his Hot Pocket burns and takes his eyebrows with it. As she slides over, she glances into the mop alcove. The ghost cone is still puddling away. When she presses a palm to the walk-in handle, there’s a noticeable sheen of frost. In fact, there is a thin layer of ice humming and shining across the entire door. They’re going to have to scrape that off with used gift cards after close, and she just knows that Derrick won’t do jack, and she’s going to get carpal tunnel again. Inside, the only thing out of place is a single pint of black cherry chip that’s rolling around on the linoleum. Manager Deb keeps telling her not to prop the door open while she restocks, because they don’t ever lock it, and there’s a crank to physically loosen the door off its hinges from the inside in case of emergency. She sticks one heel in the crack anyway. They organize the pints and gallon barrels alphabetically, except for the bestsellers like vanilla and chocolate and cookies n’ cream which live right by the door, so she’s staring up high on the left wall when the blow hits her right behind the ear. She goes down. Her heel slips. There are raised voices outside, but more importantly, there are voices here in the cold, with her. --- The Ghost thinks the seasonal workers are the worst, so prone to cutting corners, tentative where decisiveness and initiative are needed, greedy, slow, bad with the customers. The summer should be the height of business for an ice cream shop, but this is a college town, and since the dust settled in the 1820s, the only people whose outsourced dollars have dredged the Carnation local economy forward inch by beer-soaked inch are the students. Like the migrating Rufa red knot sweeping north in a supercell onto the Hudson Bay, a million mouths ready to swallow up the lawn of horseshoe crabs breeding in the shallows, the students swell in and out of the thin borders of this town from impossible distances, starving, flighty, doe-eyed, and leave a sucking wound in their absence. But someone must actually live here. Haunt the ghost town as it stumbles along until fall registration. Professors’ families and postal workers and rednecks and everyone else who couldn’t escape—the people who pick the shattered Coors Light bottles out of their lawns before the kids go out to play. The people who buy ice cream in the summer. --- Years past, Bree went back to her parents’ place for all her breaks. This time there’s the rent to think about, because she’s finally out of the dorms and the lease started in June anyway, and she literally just had to walk in to get the job, and she’s got the whole apartment to herself until a week before classes when her three roommates show up. All good things. That’s what she tells Dad, when he asks if she’ll be camping with them this year. Assistant Manager Isaac asks if she’s been keeping up with Euphoria since he shared his HBO password with her, and she doesn’t say that most of the time when she gets back to her sterile apartment, she puts on random mukbang videos while she eats a cup noodle, and then stares at the wall for at least an hour just listening to electricity run through the building. Instead, she says Yeah, wasn’t that insane? and lets him regurgitate hot takes from Twitter at her until the next customer comes in. It’s her favorite way to watch TV. On Tuesdays there’s a half hour in the afternoon when it’s just the two of them manning the counter. No, she’s manning the counter, Assistant Manager Isaac is eating pasta from Domino’s in the back because he opened this morning, and they don’t give him a real lunch break. He tells her about the ghost at the Kroger twenty minutes out that makes the deli a little too hot, and about his ex-boyfriend that’s trying to recruit all their mutual friends into his senior thesis one-act play, and about the regular that comes in once a week to get a cup of coffee chip and furtively recommend Assistant Manager Isaac obscure sugar baby and/or porn websites. He waits to order until Assistant Manager Isaac is the one alone at the counter, so Bree only ever sees him holed up at his table by the front window, stirring his ice cream to soup. The employee handbook is very big on attitude, and the impact a smile and high rising intonation have on the guest experience. She never reads it, but all new team members are sat down at Manager Deb’s desktop to watch a series of orientation videos that prominently feature Pike Place even though management would have your head mounted to the wall if you started throwing banana splits over the customers’ heads. The implication is that they’re learning how to actively engage everyone who jingles the cowbell taped to the door, how to upsell, how to be genuine and enthusiastic, or just enthusiastic if genuine won’t make the margins. Bree mostly thinks about seeing the ocean. Just once would be nice, would sustain her for a good long while. The Great Lakes call like gravity in the summer, but she wants to dip her toes in salt, crust over, stare out at the rest of the world, just once. --- The ghost, peering for a dozen summers over a hundred different shoulders at the same pixelized flying cod, mostly thinks about dark clouds churning over Erie’s algae blooms, and the fish dredged up from beneath them. She tastes alien bitterness at the back of her absent throat and keeps clawing her way back to the sacred dripping of butter pecan, the sodden cone barely holding the flood at bay, the altar and triage she demands. She wasn’t religious before she was this, but twenty years as very nearly nothing have taught her how to pray. She doesn’t even like ice cream, is the crux of it all. It is the thing that he did, it is the thing that paid for her retirement, and it is the thing that has pinned her like a beetle to this godforsaken cornfield. She takes her relief where she can get it. Most days she pushes and pulls at the hydrogen bonds in the drums out front, making the product just too hard, just too soft. The high-strung post-teens that flit across these linoleum floors build strange muscles in their forearms, straining against her attentive work. She keeps them engaged. This newest temp worker is neither the laziest nor the most devoted employee the ghost has ever seen. She eats one bowl of cookie dough chip every shift, even when she forgets to bring Lactaid, and always wipes down the bathroom door handles, unlike the kid with the knife. There wouldn’t be a problem at all if she would stop squirrelling away into the back room to mope over her cellular while there are customers queuing up. She spends too much time gossiping with the other pansy, the loud boy who smells like coconut. As the afternoon sun tips into the storefront, they perch on the counter, next to the microwave, despite the policy that the ghost spends hours sifting through and refining while he’s pinballing around the state “scouting new locations” as if they can expand the franchise without having a clearly established policy for sanitary standards, including a very explicit subsection on where and when they’re allowed to sit. The store sits very near a downtown park, which she is reluctant to admit was a good choice on his part, and so even in this dead season, there are always a handful of young parents and younger offspring drifting in to get a kid’s cup with the candy eyes and stuck-out tongue that makes them giggle and spill sprinkles everywhere. The faces were not her idea. She’s been in the ground for long enough that the franchise has loosened from the mold she made for it, and she suspects that the faces were one of her sons’ brainchildren. Nostalgic. Expensive. Foolish. At least the part-timers remember to wear gloves while they stick the candy features into the cone. The boy with the knife picks at the eyes, unable to get a grip on any of the edges where they stick to their wax paper, and eventually just gets the manager to do it for him. The ghost feels very like the knife boy, plucking with clumsy fingers at the soft parts of the moping girl’s frontal lobe as the two of them curl together on the non-slip floor of the walk-in freezer. The Ghost isn’t sure why she’s here. In this purgatory, in this nowhere town, in this college girl’s gray matter, combing her phantom fingers through and feeling electricity jump the synapses. The cone has fed her for twenty years and could for another thousand, or at least the fifteen they have before her son’s ambition overreaches the franchise to bankruptcy and someone else swoops in to snatch this prime parkside location location location and who can say what will happen to her then, with no assistant managers and no mop closet and no butter pecan and sodden waffle cone and his name plastered in fancy swirling cursive on the awning and on the napkin dispensers and on the paper sleeves that hold the cones tight with their strange edible glue. All this to say the cone is very good, and she likes the cone, and she’s in the freezer, and the boys have started shouting now because they can’t get the door open even though it never locks. She pushes with one hand at the frost on the hinges, keeps the other digging past the myelin sheaths. Becoming a ghost is both sudden and continuous, and there are many things she has always known to do without having ever learned. Assistant Manager Isaac is looking up exorcism tutorials on YouTube. Derrick is prying at the door seam with his switchblade, which is more effort than Bree ever expected to see from him. Manager Deb is out in the alley on a phone call with corporate and hasn’t noticed the commotion at the freezer. Bree’s not in there anymore. The ghost cards her from herself like wool, beaten and brushed into separable order. It’s almost nice. The ghost pushes at the door handle. She forgot that she froze it over. She can’t reach the hydrogen bonds anymore. That muscle has atrophied. She reaches for the emergency crank. She slumps out of the freezer and grabs the knife boy’s face with both fleshy hands, which isn’t right. She should know better. She’s held people before, she thinks. He swears, and doesn’t reach for the knife, because she was right and he’s full of hot air. She’s usually right. That’s how the Ghost knows the moping girl is the best fit for this. The manager has a certain kind of assurance of self that would make the separation too messy. The loud boy does his rituals every morning alongside his seven-step skincare routine. The knife boy has a warding tattoo on his shoulder even though he’s not old enough and he didn’t get permission from his father. She lets him go, grabs the loud boy’s shoulder too hard, like the moping girl does when he’s kind to her and a hug would fit better, and moves out of the kitchen. The boys protest, but the ghost hasn’t figured out the muscles in the throat yet and she doesn’t want to talk to them. The loud one waves his cellular at her back as she plants herself behind the register, and then starts digging through his bag for something. She doesn’t care. She sticks a plastic spoon into the tub of butter pecan and suckles at it. It’s like a galaxy being born on the papillae reaching up from the muscle of her new tongue. It’s like absolution, and beatification, and sainthood. It’s like the vast swirling nothing of dollars in virtual space. It’s not quite enough to make her like ice cream. The bell rings, and a customer walks in. She smiles around the spoon. --- There are a thousand black squirrels at the park she grew up by, foraging and fighting and fucking their way through the dried-up summer grass. They’re invasive. Bree doesn’t remember where they were introduced from, but they out compete everyone else and they’re the only squirrel she knows. One of them fell too far, or lost a fight, or got stung by a bee, and now she’s quietly rotting on the far side of the half pipe. Park staffing is thin this year, so no one’s come around to shovel her off into the grass, and the skaters adjust to steer around her. The flies went for the eyes first, and one enterprising young student takes pictures at every stage of decomposition for next year’s science fair. Her spine slowly unzips itself to the sky. Her flesh tans to leather. Squirrels don’t get to be ghosts, even though Bree hears that rats do, sometimes, and geese. A lot of migratory birds. The tall kid who rode the school bus with her comes to the park most days with his own kid, which Bree finds disconcerting. She feels so much like a tall child, still. She almost didn’t go to college. How is he already repopulating the planet? She smells evaporating milk. Butter pecan. She wishes it was cookie dough chip. Or cup noodle. She doesn’t know how she got here. She doesn’t know if it’s still summer. She forgot to clock out. *Gabriella Paz Hoggatt is an MFA candidate at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, where they work as an Editorial Assistant for Ninth Letter Magazine. Their work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in BarBar and elsewhere.* ### Dumb Celebrity Sayings URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-dumb-celebrity-sayings/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T14:57:48.000Z Some people think that celebrities say dumb stuff a lot. I think celebrities say dumb stuff about as often as a non-celebrity, it’s just that people pay attention to celebrities more because they used to be the third lead on an over-laugh-tracked CBS sitcom and now have a half million followers on Instagram, or something along those lines. In fact, I would suggest that celebrities might say dumb stuff less than a non-celebrity. Before you label me a celebrity apologist, just consider all the dumb shit you heard from your family over the holidays a few weeks ago. Your aunt isn’t famous, but she sure has a lot of hot takes on why the term “stew” is just the liberal media’s way of saying that soup is transgender. It kind of dusts my doilies when politicians and political commentators get all red in the face when a celebrity make some dumb remark about the price of gasoline, then go on and on about how famous people are trying to brainwash our kids, but most people wouldn’t have even known that Nick Cannon thinks ethanol is rendering vaccines ineffective if Lindsey Graham hadn’t spent 20 minutes breathlessly yammering about it on *Fox and Friends,* when all anyone watching is wondering is if he was the actor who played Blanche on *The Golden Girls.* Do you remember that time that Tom Cruise said that psychology was a “pseudo science” on the *Today* show and then told Matt Lauer that he was being glib and we all kind of felt bad for Matt Lauer? And then Matt Lauer turned out to be a huge creep? Somewhere Tom Cruise is telling the ghost of L. Ron Hubbard, “told you so.” That was a double dipper of celebrity stupid – and we didn’t even know it until way later. Well played, delayed gratification. Well played. Thank goodness I’m not famous because I say dumb shit all the time. I was on gummies once during a vacation and I gave my husband a full lecture on the rate at which refrigerators cool food in Palm Springs. I thought I was the Neil deGrasse Tyson of kitchen appliance and desert climates, and that would have been true if Neil deGrasse Tyson said things like, “Why aren’t condiments in the refrigerator when you buy them at the store? I know why and so does Big Grocery. They’re in cahoots with the utility companies and it’s price gouging. ‘Refrigerate after opening,’ is what sheep do. It should be refrigerated before I buy it or open it.” Talk about glib! But this is just the tip of the idiotic iceberg. I give you my list of remedies to make you feel better the next time you put your foot in your mouth, courtesy of neither our best, nor our brightest. - **Ashton Kutcher:** Way back in 2011, Iowa’s own Ashton Kutcher took to Twitter to voice his displeasure with Penn State University after they decided to fire their longtime football coach, Joe Paterno. He said it was a “no class” move. He said it was in “poor taste.” He forget to mention anything about how Paterno was fired because of his alleged involvement in covering up years of child molestation by one of his assistant coaches. We trusted you, Ashton! As a Teen Choice Award-winning actor, you should have known better! And who is out there Tweeting (or X-ing, as it were) about college football coaches? (Editor’s note: It’s the straight guys. They’re doing it. Like, all of them.) He deactivated his Twitter account shortly after, but to paraphrase Jeff Goldblum in *Jurassic Park*, “Stupid finds a way.” - **Ashton Kutcher (again) and Mila Kunis**: In 2021, Mila Kunis and Ashton Kutcher announced that they don’t shower very often. As far as announcements go, this one ranks right up there with “the toilet is clogged.” It makes me want to revoke their announcement-making privileges. I think this is a good example of a famous person thinking they’re more interesting than they really are. A regular person would just shower as often as they normally shower and wouldn’t think that number was notable. The internet, of course, had varying opinions on the topic and lots of people agreed with Mila and Ashton and didn’t think that showering everyday was normal. I did a science experiment where I looked at pictures of Mila Kunis and Ashton Kutcher and came to the following conclusive results: if those two were unattractive, not one God damn person would have said, “showering only twice a week is a fun and sexy time.” - **Kylie Jenner:** At the beginning of 2016, Kylie Jenner said, “I feel like every year has a new energy, and I feel like this year is really about realizing stuff. And everyone around me, we’re all just realizing things.” If you squint hard enough, that might seem profound. Can you imagine if your child’s teacher told you that at the beginning of the school year? That might be the only time that I’d agree that home schooling was the better option. To be fair, I guess she’s not wrong. If we realize that we’re realizing stuff, does that mean we’re realizing more than if we don’t realize that we’re realizing stuff? This is like one of those SAT problems where if one train is leaving Boston, heading towards New York at 1PM, and another train is leaving New York, heading towards Boston at 2PM, when will the trains realize they’re trains? - **Jaden Smith:** The children of famous people lead fascinating lives. It’s not that they haven’t experienced how the average person lives, but they don’t have any concept of it. They don’t know what waiting in line at the post office is. They’ve never ordered a pizza online. If they saw someone wheeling a cart full of groceries out of a store, they’d be scared to death! In 2013, Jaden Smith texted (I kept the wonky capitalization and punctuation because it makes this all a little more vivid), “If Everybody In The World Dropped Out Of School We Would Have A Much More Intelligent Society.” It reads like one of those Patriots for Jesus moms who all ran for school board a couple of years ago. Just spit balling here, but what if we give school another try? Just some English classes, maybe some geometry. I think having some homework to do might offer Jaden a new perspective on things. Or keep going with the untethered rich person thing. Lean into what you know and all that. - **Gwyneth Paltrow**: In 2011, Gwynnie said that she’d “rather smoke crack than eat cheese from a can.” And that made me wonder if those were the only two options presented to her and under what circumstances was this questioning taking place. Also, did she have one of those Goop jade eggs in her lady’s carport at the time? I don’t know if those things impact your decision making abilities, but I think I would feel strange about eating anything if I had a full house, if you know what I mean. I make fun, but also there aren’t a lot of people out there smoking crack because it’s neat way to unwind after a long week. Making light of a phenomenon that has disproportionately affected a marginalized community probably isn’t the flex she thinks it is. But the silver lining here is the cheese-in-a-can community really came out looking good here. Cheez Whiz is finally the hero! ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** "Being born was the most influential thing that's ever happened to me, for myself." Jaden Smith, whose birth was also the most influential thing to ever happen to me, for myself, as well. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "My Pretend Husbands," Sara Spry URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-my-pretend-husbands-sara-spry/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T15:14:34.000Z Sara Spry is a barista, pet sitter and writer living in Chicago, Illinois. She spends most of her time working and writing, but also enjoys arts and crafts, going to the movies, and relaxing at home with a hot drink and a vintage Saturday Night Live episode. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.* *We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.* *Today’s episode:* “*My Pretend Husbands,” by Sara Spry. Read by the Midwest Weird team.* **4 years ago. History, but not so ancient.** It is Sunday night. Actually, it’s Monday morning now. 12:09 A.M. I have to wake up for work in three hours and forty-six minutes, and I can’t sleep. My neck aches, my legs ache and I’ve got a full day ahead of me, but I can’t sleep. Because I cannot sleep, I am thinking about my pretend husband, Benedict Cumberbatch. He is sweet and kind and has one of the most beautiful voices I’ve ever heard. If here and still awake with me, I’d ask him to tell me a story. Just to be able to hear his voice so close would soothe my nerves. So smooth, so British. “Now now, enough of this,” he would say, sitting at the foot of my bed. “Calculating your remaining hours of sleep is only keeping you awake longer. Come on, let’s picture something nice instead.” He would scrunch his eyes shut, modeling the action. “I’ve got a nice big field with a litter of puppies pawing at me. What have you got? Don’t tell me you’ve just got a sleep clock ticking away in there.” I would smile and tell him that my picture was the same as his, but with bunnies instead of puppies. “Stunning,” he would say, slightly more relieved than exasperated. “Bunnyrabbits. All the bunnyrabbits you desire, my love, as long as they help you sleep.” I would nod as he leaned over to tuck me in, giving me a front-row view of his cheekbones. His ginger hair is perfectly styled and kempt, and his light eyes are illuminated by the glow of the power strip on my dresser. Yes, that would be very nice. But here I am with severe anxiety and a pedestal fan on cool setting two. What a time to be alive. What a time to be passively pondering the alternative. In a few hours I will be at work, setting up the pastry case and filling the cold case with yogurt and water as quickly as I can before my supervisor unlocks the doors. After that’s done, they’ll disappear into the back room to gather ice for the bins. The first groggy construction worker stumbles through the door, thinking he’s clever as he watches me put down the pre-wrapped sandwich in my hand and asks me, “are you guys open?” Just once, I’d like to look someone dead in the face, say “no” and refuse them service. That action, of course, would lead to me getting fired, getting fired would lead to me losing my apartment, and losing my apartment would put me out on the street. At that point, how would I get back to where I was? How would I live with myself? Would I want to live with myself? As I turn my back to the register to pour his coffee, I’ll conjure up an image of my second pretend husband, Jared Padalecki. He’ll walk in as the asshole is smirking at his own joke and give me a comforting smile. “Can you believe that guy?” he’ll ask, jerking a thumb in the asshole’s direction. I’ll laugh it off, but feel my bitter heart warming in my chest. He’ll lean across the counter when the guy isn’t looking and whisper, “You know, I’d have your back if you wanted to fight him.” I’ll tell him no, that’s not necessary. “You sure?” he’ll ask. “Pass me his drink, I’ll spit in it.” I’ll cover my mouth and try not to laugh while telling him ‘no’ again, but that I wouldn’t mind him coming in in character for Supernatural and shooting the guy point blank. Just imagine, the customer standing there with that dumb look on his face when all of a sudden Sam Winchester busts in. 6’4, broad shoulders, almost shoulder-length brown hair, well-muscled, all dressed in denim and plaid. Also toting the scariest rifle you’ve ever seen. Boom. He’ll sigh, almost laughing himself, and say, “Maybe tomorrow.” He’ll order a soy latte and pay with his credit card, standing by long enough for the asshole to make his way out the revolving doors. “You’re doing a great job, babe,” Jared Padalecki says, winking and dropping a $20 bill in the tip jar. Then, I’ll turn back from the coffee urn to the register, only to find that the construction worker has migrated to the condiment bar, no Jared in sight. I’ll call out to the asshole that his coffee is ready, and offer halfhearted wishes for a good day ahead. “Yeah, right,” says the little demon in my left ear. I haven’t named her, but she has this great talent of throwing her voice. Sometimes she sounds like my mother, and sometimes she sounds like my best friend. Sometimes, like this time, she speaks to me in my own voice. “As if Benedict Cumberbatch would come anywhere near you. And as for that little fairytale about Jared Padalecki, come on. Supernatural is shot in Canada, and no way in hell he’d be in Chicago just because. That’s the problem with you. You just can’t accept that you’re unworthy of a fairytale.” I pull my covers up over my head. “I know. I know none of what I think can really happen. I just think it would be nice if it did.” After work I will come home again to my apartment, and the only thing I will want to do is go back to sleep. I cannot take a nap today. I will not have time. I have an essay due and one-hundred pages left of the assigned reading for my grad class. All part of this program that I worked so hard to be in, that I moved a state away from my family to be in. I will look at the stack of printed pages and the blank document stretching into eternity in front of me and want to cry for hours. I’ll wonder all of a sudden how long it would take for my soul to leave my body as it’s being slowly crushed under the tires of the neighbor’s SUV. I will not find the motivation in that moment to absorb the written word or to create my own, and I will start to wonder what my third pretend husband, Avi Kaplan, would think of me in this state. He’s been a musician since I was in high school, and had been part of a band that achieved overnight and booming success. He’s been through the wringer as an introvert, and here I am whining about not wanting to do my homework. I’ll picture him standing next to me, looking down at my tear-streaked face. He would look very serious like he does on the album covers, but there would be pain behind his eyes. Compassion. “You must be so ashamed of me,” I’ll say, feeling even worse that I’ve been caught by someone I respect and admire in a state of weakness. But he’ll shake his head and smile gently, squatting down to put his arm around my shoulders. “Never,” he’ll assure me then, in his gorgeous, low voice. The voice he sings with. “Never. I know how tough things are. I know how hard you’re trying. I know. But you’ll get through this. I promise you.” I’ll lean into him and he’ll enclose me in both his arms. I’ll imagine that he is holding me and stroking my hair. At last, I’ll pull away and acknowledge that he was just my body pillow all along. “Big fancy writer, taking artistic liberties on her own life,” my demon chides, still in my voice. “You’re not even touching your body pillow. It’s stuffed in the space between your mattress and bedframe.” She cackles as I squirm. “It’s that fleece pillowcase. The heat is up so high during the night that you won’t even touch it! Some girlfriend you are.” She waits until I’ve gotten comfortable again to deliver another blow. “And don’t forget, Avi Kaplan is a good person. An actual good person. You’re only pretending to be good, and if he ever met you, he would hate you. Wait, no. Good people don’t hate other people. He’d feel bad for you. That’s worse, you know.” I bite my lip and try not to cry, because I do know. I’ll force myself to start writing that essay, even though that will still be the last thing I want to do. The drafting process will go smoothly for a few paragraphs but then, undoubtedly, I’ll get stuck. I always get stuck. I’ll wonder what I’m doing in a writing program if I can’t even push through a basic essay. Given that input from my inner demons, I’ll miraculously come up with an idea. One that, in the words of the old films, is so crazy that it just might work. My little demon will, of course, reject that idea as well, and it will be around then that my fourth pretend husband, Link Neal, will appear by my side. More like over my shoulder. If my life were shot like a movie, it would be a shot that just starts out with my face on the left, looking down at my computer screen, and then Link would slowly move his head in from the right, closer and closer to mine until I noticed. He’ll ask me how long I’ve been staring at the blank page, and I’ll tell him. “Anxiety getting’ ya again?” he’ll ask. “Yeah,” I’ll say. He’ll ask me what my idea was that got me stuck, I’ll tell him, and he’ll say that he thinks that sounds great. He’ll say it sounds better than most of his ideas, and most of the Good Mythical Morning crew would agree with him. I’ll tell him that I don’t think it’s that good, and he’ll get all serious and look me in the eyes. “Look,” he’ll say, “I do things every day that I don’t think are good ideas. I’m legally required to. I drank squid ink and ate a cake made out of dirt! Neither of those things are something you just get over.” “At least you’re getting money doing what you love,” I’ll say. He’ll give me an uncomfortable look and I’ll say, “okay, okay, other than the squid ink and literal dirt cake.” He’ll ask me something along the lines of, “But don’t you love to write?” and I’ll tell him that I do, but I’m still afraid that whatever I do won’t be good enough. “Try doing it anyway first,” Link will suggest. “That first idea you told me, just try it out. If it doesn’t work, you can do something else.” I’ll remind him that I don’t have time to try out and ditch new ideas any more, and he’ll remind me that I’m talking to an imaginary man in my bedroom instead of writing my essay. In a moment of pure lucidity, he will fade out of my imagination, leaving me no choice but to actually do my assignment. Well, maybe there will be a choice. The neighbor might be out in their SUV. But doing the assignment would be the better option. “Wow. Fucking wow,” says the demon incredulously. “Link? From Rhett and Link? Married with two children and a dog and old enough to be your father? Link???” I let her talk. I play along, in fact. Yes, he is old enough to be my father. No, I don’t have a daddy kink. My demon gets frustrated that she can’t get me. She gets very quiet. She is thinking. So am I. “What is wrong with you?” she chides. You think just because you acknowledge all of this as a fantasy, you can get away with it?” “Yes,” I tell her. “I know none of what I daydream would actually happen, and I don’t hold any illusions that I deserve the treatment I get during my daydreams. So yes. That’s exactly what I think.” “Well, you can’t,” she snaps. “Not as a functioning member of society. Not as a person who wants to be respected by normal people. You’re a freak, you know that right? And not in a good way.” I sniffle. She swells. “Just wait until you can’t hold in the flaws anymore,” she crows. “Then they’ll see.” “Um, excuse me, who is ‘they’?” asks Link. “Hey, I have a question too,” says Jared. “Why are you such a bitch?” “You’re figments of her imagination!” shrieks the demon. “She called you here to defend her because she can’t do it herself!” “Yes, but she’s pretending,” Benedict points out. “And sometimes, that’s just as good as the real thing.” “Ha! Even he said it!” The demon laughs unnervingly, making me remember the last time I listened to a recording of myself singing.” “Your precious pretend husbands aren’t afraid to call you out any more.” “I was complimenting the power of her imagination,” Benedict protests. “Jared is right, you really are a bitch.” “The real Benedict doesn’t use that word.” “Yes, well, as you so readily pointed out, I’m not him. Bitch.” “Ugh.” She pauses. “I notice Avi hasn’t said anything this whole time. Isn’t he your favorite?” “There’s no favorites,” Benedict protests. “She only ranks us chronologically, don’t you darling?” “Say something!” she challenges him. “Can’t you speak, you overgrown hobbit?” “Only Smaug gets to make fun of the hobbits,” Benedict mutters. “Leave,” Avi says. “Apologies, bad joke,” says Benedict. “Not you, her. Leave.” “Why should I leave?” “Because you get your happiness making us fight, and we should all be on the same team.” “What? Fuck you. Teams are stupid. I’m on my own team.” “And what team is that? Team Beat-the-Girl-to-Death-with-her-Insecurities?” Jared snaps. “She’s got depression, you mistake!” “Mistake. That’s new. Creative. Nice to know that this version of you has a few extra brain cells.” “Look, the man asked you to leave.” Link is a bit less meek than usual. “Just find some other part of the brain to be in for a while.” The demon sighs. “Oh, well. I guess I will, but only because you asked nicely. See you at our next appointment, sweetie.” She leaves, and I am suddenly, beautifully, finally feeling sleepy. It is now 12:30 A.M. I imagine four distinct male voices saying good night to me in turn. At approximately 12:31, I fall asleep. I wake up with a jolt two hours later. I sit up and check my phone to see if I still have time to sleep before my alarm goes off. “Glad you could make it,” says my demon. “For a while there, I thought you were going to sleep right through our special time.” She giggles. “It’s just you and me now. No Benedict, no Jared, no Avi, no Link. None of them stay up this late. They’re functioning human beings. Something you’ll never-” I smile as I drift off. I see Jared coming with a baseball bat. *Sara Spry is a barista, pet sitter and writer living in Chicago, Illinois. She spends most of her time working and writing, but also enjoys arts and crafts, going to the movies, and relaxing at home with a hot drink and a vintage Saturday Night Live episode.* ### Daylight Savings URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-daylight-savings/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T14:58:10.000Z Why can’t daylight savings time just cool it? I’m just as eager for the end of winter as anyone else who lives in the Midwest, but the one thing about the pending arrival of spring that I am not interested in is daylight savings time. I know that adjusting your schedule by an hour shouldn’t be that big of a problem, but it absolutely is and I’ve got lots of years of experience, aka the school of hard knocks, aka the streets, aka science, to back me up on this. First of all, let’s break down that name. What daylight is being saved here? This is not a telethon where we’re raising money and the proceeds will go toward feeding the starving daylight all across the globe. The daylight isn’t in danger. It’s not tied up in a windowless room somewhere, waiting for its own demise, as the slow-as-hell trap set up by a third-tier Batman villain is thwarted at the last possible second. The only thing the daylight is at risk of is showing us how cloudy it is outside. Thanks, but no thanks, bro. The term “daylight savings time” sounds like the name of a sale at a store where they sell minutes and hours. It’s like that thing where your uncle, whose kids won’t talk to him, used to give you a certificate at Christmas that said that he paid to have a star named after you. How do we know that star didn’t already have a name? Did someone take a penis-shaped rocket to outer space and tell the star, “Your name is now ‘Pamela,’” like the star just entered the witness protection program against its will? Did that star turn government informant on the Genovese crime family? On a barely related note, my great uncle once told me that Chicago was the Mexico of Iowa and I would need all of Mensa to even begin to unpack the ass-backwards logic at work there. But back to daylight savings time. Outside of the fact that it causes nothing but problems, why do we have to reset our clocks at 2:00AM on a Sunday morning? Why don’t we do it at 2:00AM on a Friday morning? It’s a lot easier to power through a Friday with what is essentially government-induced jet lag than it is to do the same thing on a Monday. You make it through Friday and you’ve got all weekend to get used to the new imaginary time that someone just pulled out of their ass. I don’t want to give daylight savings time any more solutions because it gives me nothing but problems. Speaking of problems, here are a few more things that I think need to just knock it off already. To quote the Nell Carter sitcom from the ’80s, “Gimme a break!” - **Password Suggestions/Generators** – These bastards can go straight to hell. I understand that they’re trying to help, but shitting out gobbledygook isn’t a unique skillset. I too can lay my face on a computer keyboard and claim that I’ve made a new password. This is like when you go to the art museum and you see a painting of a blue square and it’s worth $10 million and you realize that you could have done the same thing. The difference is that the person who painted the picture hanging in the art gallery was able to convince someone else that it was art. These password generators have convinced us all that they’re doing something helpful. Sure, hackers might have a tough time figuring out what your password is, but I will also have a tough time figuring out what it is, and you’re actually telling me that information. I know that in the long run, these password generators are probably going to keep me out of trouble, so I guess I’m just going to have to be both grateful and annoyed at the same time and that’s a real emotional burden for me. - **5-in-1 Bath Products** – Yeah, you read that right. “5-in-1.” It wasn’t enough for these assholes to sell shampoo and conditioner in the same bottle. They couldn’t be happy lying to the public that you could put shampoo and conditioner on at the same time and that it would work the same. They even added body wash and called it “3-in-1,” as if that was some kind of improvement. Is it an improvement to go from having an upset stomach and diarrhea to having an upset stomach, diarrhea and a cough? But now, the bath and body terrorists have come up with one product that they claim serves FIVE purposes! They say it is a shampoo, conditioner, body wash, deodorant and can be used to wash your hands. How do these people sleep at night? Here are five things that they need to put into the bottle where they keep their brains. Number one: this is not deodorant. I will fight you on this point. Number two: your hands are part of your body. Counting hands and body as two different things is some double dipping bullshit. Number three: shampoo and conditioner aren’t the same thing. Number four: shampoo and body wash aren’t the same thing. Number five: body wash and conditioner aren’t the same thing. Case dismissed. - **Recipe websites** – I understand that if you’re running a website, it’s in your best interest to keep people on your page for longer because then you make more money off the ads that are running on your page. Get freaky with capitalism and make that money, girl! But, my God, why do I have to scroll through a thesis on your deeply uninteresting philosophy on kitchen gadgets to get to the tater tot casserole recipe? Oh, and I know that tater tot casserole isn’t a particularly difficult or complicated recipe and the fact that I have to keep looking it up means that I’m part of the problem, but if you’ve got to fill the page with something, please fill it with something interesting. There must be a story about how you met your partner at a tater tot factory or something. Make up a story about how “Ore-Ida” was an eastern European princess before she left it all to marry a potato farmer and build a family. Even just explaining why “tater tots” is your safe word would do the trick! I will personally buy some ads on your webpage if you write up that last one. - **Previews on streaming services** – There are lots and lots of good things about streaming services. They’re still a little cheaper than cable (but those days are numbered). They’ve got lots of options to choose from. Most things you can watch whenever you want. You know what is one of the not good things about streaming services? When they start playing previews WITH SOUND and without warning. Listen, streamers: you know me. You know that I’m going to look around for a good hour before I decide what I want to watch. In the meantime, I don’t need to hear any audio from the content you’re pushing, which was the first thing I saw when I opened the app and the first thing I chose not to watch. I’m aware that I’ve got a mute button on my remote and I’m happy to use it. I’m also aware that that is victim blaming and gaslighting and like a Real Housewife, “I just want to move forward.” - **Everyone in the airport at any given time** – I don’t care for flying. I will do it when it’s necessary, but that doesn’t mean that I’m capable of enjoying it. You know what would make flying more enjoyable for me? If everyone would just chill the fuck out when you’re at the airport. No need to crowd the gate area when they start boarding the plane. We’ve all got to get on this bitch before they leave, so go ahead and re-effing-lax. Oh, you arrived at the airport late and you want to cut in line at security? I’m happy to do my part to accommodate you, but unless this is the last possible flight to get you to your grandmother’s funeral, let’s dial down the histrionics, Raymond. If you get to Disney World a day late because you showed up at the airport late, that’s not a license for you to shout at people like a dingo just took your baby. Also, just airport security in general, why are the rules different at every airport? Like, didn’t you guys all go to the same school? In Chicago, they’re fine with layers, but in Palm Springs, I can’t get on a plane if I’m wearing underwear. And it’s not just the people – the prices at the airport can kiss my entire ass. I shouldn’t have to choose between pushing back retirement by two years or being dehydrated. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “Be cool. Don’t be all like…uncool.” Luann de Lesseps speaking truth to power and being the change I want to see in the world. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "Transcendental Boy," Nick Thornton URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-transcendental-boy-nick-thornton/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T15:09:39.000Z Nick Thornton is a speculative fiction writer whose work explores the intersection of cosmic weirdness and human connection. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.* *We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.* *Today’s episode: A short story by Nick Thornton, titled “Transcendental Boy." Read by the author.* At five years old, James knew he felt different. But it wasn’t until he sank right through his bedroom floor that he understood just how different he was. He'd been born on a Tuesday, an unremarkable day in an unremarkable hospital in an unremarkable town. He came into the world quietly, without a newborn’s usual indignant theatrics. He simply smiled at his surroundings with a nonchalance that suggested the world outside had to work a little harder to surprise him. His early childhood was similarly unremarkable. He was sweet and even-tempered, even through the supposed “Terrible Twos” the other parents had warned about. On the contrary, James settled into his Tender Twos, matured into his Thoughtful Threes, and laughed and played through his Friendly Fours. For a child so young, his gregariousness caught people off guard, and he had no trouble making friends. James’s parents, blessed as they were to have such a well-behaved son, took his easygoing nature as a license to drift. Freed from the tantrums and demands that seemed to plague other parents, they eagerly sank into their own routines, as if parenthood were a sideline to the lives they still deserved. With James tucked safely in his room or outside entertaining himself, his mother’s yoga classes doubled, his father’s poker nights stretched longer, and their weekends filled with dinners where they could gush about their perfect boy without the inconvenience of his actual presence. They loved him from a quiet distance, marveling at their own good fortune and stability, with the satisfaction of people who’d gotten everything just right. That is until James, at age 5, sank into the floor. The story goes that just after midnight, James’s parents were awoken by the sound of a cry—unfamiliar, muffled, but unmistakably his. They rushed to his room, expecting to find him tangled in his blankets after a nightmare. But there were no blankets. No James, for that matter. His bed was empty. Before they had a chance to fear the worst, the cry came again, this time from below. Kneeling, they looked for him under the bed, but found nothing but dust bunnies and shadows. His father pulled the bed away from the wall in a panic and set his ear to the floor, and there it was—scratching. From beneath the floorboards. Within minutes, James’s father had fetched a crowbar and pried up the wooden planks. And there, wrapped in a blanket and tucked between two dusty beams, was James. He'd been quiet then too, nestled in his mother’s arms after the ordeal, but his eyes were wide with bewilderment. His father couldn’t help but think it was the look he’d expected to see when James was first born. Perhaps the world had finally given him something to be surprised about. After breakfast the next morning, James sat cross-legged on the living room carpet and breathlessly recounted the nightmare he’d had. He’d been playing in a house that looked like his, but wasn't. He heard his parents’ voices and got up to look for them, but the hallways stretched on for miles, the doors opened to strange rooms, and the floor turned into thick, sticky mud that sucked at his feet. He heard them laughing somewhere in another room and called for help, but his voice came out small. The mud pulled him down bit by bit, until the top of his face was just poking out of the floor. When it covered his head completely, he woke up. The look of dim comprehension on his parents’ faces suggested they were waiting for some further explanation, which struck James as silly. He’d told the story and he’d told it well. Did they not hear the bit about the thick sticky mud? He said it again just in case, louder and slower so he could be sure they got it this time. They both cried out in shock, and it startled James. Maybe he was too good of a storyteller? It was only then he’d realized he was up to his shoulders in floor, and deigned to join them in their shocked cries. That night marked the beginning of James’s sinking episodes, and from then on it happened with an alarming regularity. Anytime he was perfectly still, in fact. It only took a little movement for him to reverse course, like swimming back to the surface of a body of water, but he couldn’t let his guard down for a second. To his parents' credit, they exhausted almost every avenue in an attempt to, if you'll pardon the pun, get to the bottom of his predicament. By the time James was seven, it was difficult to find a flat surface in the house that wasn't covered in a mishmash of brochures and literature encompassing a wide range of professions—some more reputable than others, though all united in their shared inability to offer anything helpful. He’d often scan the mess of loose papers as he slurped his chocolate cereal in the morning, idly kicking his legs back and forth in the chair. There were doctors, scientists, religious leaders, various politicians at all levels of government—he suspected the pamphlet with the large illustrated eyeball might have been from a UFO cult. Next to that was the number for a lawyer his father found through a TV commercial. James snorted as he imagined the lawyer trying to prosecute the ground in criminal court. He shouted across the room to his father through a mouth too full of cereal, “grounds for arrest!”, a punchline to a joke whose setup he hadn't bothered to share. He wasn't listening anyway. Time, as it does, marched on with a stolid indifference to life's hardships. Familiarity dulled the extraordinary. Somewhere in their endless search for an expert in Unnatural Boy-Floor Relations, his parents realized no such person existed. So, faced with burnout, they just stopped worrying. James didn’t share this luxury. By age ten, he existed on the edge of exhaustion. It was a one-two punch of the ever-present fear of being swallowed by the earth, and the various tics and fidgets he'd employed to prevent it. It necessitated a part of his brain remaining dedicated to the effort, which had the unfortunate effect of preventing him from ever being fully present. This, of course, wasn't lost on his teachers or schoolmates, who branded him a space cadet and generally left him to his fidgeting. This constant vigilance worked to erode his boyish charms, revealing sharper edges as a teenager. He felt isolated by his strange condition. He'd gone out on occasion at the behest of his concerned parents, but similar scenes would always play out. A birthday party sleepover was cut short after someone's little sister got up in the middle of the night for a drink and screamed when she saw James through the kitchen window, clawing his way out of the backyard like some sort of undead ghoul. Other times, a movie on TV might prove too engrossing and the momentary lapse in attention would see him fall into the basement—or once, to his chagrin, plopped down onto the lap of a friend's father in the living room below. On one notable occasion, he'd fallen asleep during a car ride to a local play and startled awake to his body tumbling in a barrel roll along the dirt road. The cast that was put on his right arm that night in the hospital would be removed six weeks later, bearing only three signatures: Mom, Dad, and the boy driving the car that night, Danny Daniels. Danny, or Dan-Dan as James came to call him, was a small, quiet boy he’d met as a junior in high school. His thick glasses made his eyes appear twice their normal size, which made it even easier for James to notice when he was staring at him again from across the classroom. Most people avoided the discomfort of acknowledging his presence, as he suspected it meant they must also acknowledge uncomfortable truths they'd just as soon ignore—as if anyone could be a bigger authority on burying one’s head in the sand. He could only wonder idly what terrible things Danny was thinking when he was looking at him. But when the last day of school came and Danny finally approached him, he’d only asked if James really sunk through the floor. When he replied cautiously that he did, maybe more bitterly than he'd meant to sound, Danny’s response was only a single word. “Cool.” They shared a kiss that summer inside a sleeping bag, on a rainy night in a small tent. James said he didn't want to drag Dan-Dan into the earth with him if he sank, didn't really know what was even possible, but Dan-Dan said he didn't mind. He said he'd crawl through the mud with him, like two weird little worms breaching the surface together after a storm. It was the first time James could ever remember feeling accepted. Later that same summer, after the incident in the car, James stopped returning Dan-Dan’s calls. He thought he deserved to see plays. When they returned to school the following year, it was to the world as strangers. After graduating, James moved into a small apartment a state away—on the ground floor, of course. He thought his parents might try to dissuade him from the move, but if anything they seemed excited, maybe even relieved. They sent a check in the mail each month to cover rent, tucked into a letter that got progressively shorter as time passed. He was 22 when he resolved to let the ground take him. The sinking had worsened with age, and he was tired. The apartment’s carpet bore a circular path where the fibers had been worn away by years of pacing. James sat in the middle of this circle with his legs crossed and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, taking inventory of his body. It took a moment for him to quell the small tics and taps from his limbs as they came on almost involuntarily, but he soon rediscovered the stillness he'd once known as a small boy. With his eyes closed, James felt the familiar sensation of descending through the floor. It felt thick and cool as it traveled up his body. The carpet tickled his nose as his head went under. He'd compared the feeling to sinking in mud as a child, but that wasn't quite right. It was almost effervescent against his skin, like submerging in a bath of television static. It was dark in the dirt, but in his mind’s eye he fell through clouds of white noise. A soft buzz fluttered over him in waves as he descended, cascading from his toes to his head where it gently intonated like a bell between his ears. The buzzing then thinned until it felt almost liquid, and he imagined sliding against it down a tight tunnel in a rain cloud. The sound, in turn, melted into a delicate chime that rang in an odd kind of harmony with the others. He found a strange serenity in giving up, and yet he struggled to accept it. A purple sort of light shone through the dark below. It had the odd property of filtering through the rocks and soil in a way that rendered them completely transparent. James was surprised to find he could see at a distance. The light that shimmered below seemed to emanate from a kind of bioluminescent fungi that dotted the visible expanse like stars in the night sky. Clusters of them grouped in dense subterranean galaxies, their light refracting through the prismatic streams that snaked between them to resemble the streaking lights of an aurora. It was teeming with life: small burrowing creatures flitted around like hummingbirds before vanishing into the dark, and a massive horned serpent roared by with the power and fluidity of a dragon in flight, its body covered in scales that had the appearance of delicate porcelain. James imagined himself not sinking, but instead rising up into the stars. He imagined this was his life. Maybe one of the doctors or priests he'd visited as a child had miraculously discovered a simple solution, and after a single treatment or blessing he'd felt the tether that once bound him so tightly to the ground slacken, no, snap entirely, freeing him from the jealous pull of gravity. Or perhaps he'd spent a genie’s wish on a cure and this was the ironic method of fulfillment the genie had chosen, not that he’d mind. Maybe it was God, recognizing the mistake made in burdening an innocent boy with such a terrible curse, and deciding to make things right by blessing him with this wondrous gift so that he might be closer to him in Heaven, where he could beg his forgiveness. How hard it must have been, he'd say. How terribly hard. And yet, he knew exactly where he was. He always did, and no amount of make-believe could change that. Wishing to fly felt ridiculous to James, but why should it? Despite the equally impossible nature of the two, he felt it to be true that an impossibly bad thing happening to a good person was still more likely than an impossibly good thing happening to anyone. Whether it could be owed to a divine test of one's will, karmic retribution for misdeeds in a past life, or just bad luck, it hardly mattered. He fell further into the subterranean starfield until he saw an expanding point of light that shone brighter than the others. The iron core of the earth hung there like a distant sun, a glittering jewel suspended in a translucent orange nebula. James could feel its warmth on his cold skin. It beckoned to him like a mother calling out to her child. The light saw his pain, the warmth dried his tears; the people up there didn't understand him, but the light did and it wanted him to come home. After a lifetime of calling out to him, it was time to put the pain to rest. James thought about his parents. They'd understood, for a time at least. But they didn't know how to help him anymore. The light from the earth's core grew brighter as he made his gradual approach. The purple starlight from the fungi gradated to brilliant reds and oranges, as if James was sliding into a sunset. He felt the effervescent buzz against his body and the tones that chimed melodiously in his head swell together, building towards a crescendo. There had been others who understood. James thought of Miss Delia, his 2nd grade teacher. She'd been kind when others weren't. More tolerant of his necessary eccentricities. She'd even checked in on him in 3rd grade. But he hadn't seen her in years. He could hardly see the starlight anymore, so dazzling had the core’s light become. Its heat kissed his skin, wrapped him in a tender embrace. He never had to feel pain again. James thought about Dan-Dan. He’d understood. Through sheer force of empathic will, he'd understood better than anyone. Dan-Dan was the best person James knew by a longshot, but he'd pushed him away. Why? Because he hated himself for burdening him. Because he hadn't felt worthy of his warmth. The core filled his sight like a new sky. It overwhelmed his senses, shook his teeth, filled his ears with a chorus of discordant chimes that cried for him to come home. Its warmth intensified to a blistering heat that blackened his clothing and scorched his hair, but it was still nothing compared to the warmth he felt that summer night in a tent under the stars. The warmth he felt with the boy so nice they named him twice. The light burned through James, searing his skin and filling his lungs with fire. The fight returned to him all at once. He put the light to his back and kicked against the earth, clawed fistfuls of invisible stone and soil. Inch by excruciating inch he pulled himself up through these undiscovered depths miles and miles below the earth, against the greedy pull that promised to end his pain but asked for everything in return. The chimes howled for him. A month had passed since James had woken up in a rain-soaked parking lot to a little girl poking him in the ribs with an umbrella. She’d made sure to loudly tell him he looked like a burnt marshmallow before the ambulance pulled away, and he only felt a little bad about telling her what she could do with that umbrella. He hadn't expected anyone to visit him in the hospital, least of all Dan-Dan, but there he was. He'd somehow heard the news and dropped everything to see James, who was as surprised by his own tears as he was by the unexpected reunion. Why should he be surprised that Dan-Dan cared? Their last time together had been in a hospital, all those years ago when James broke his arm rolling down a dirt road. So when they walked out together a month later, it felt to James as if he'd been given another chance to choose the path not taken. Picking up where they left off was easy. When James felt himself sinking in their shared apartment and panicked, Dan-Dan would hold him, coaxing him to stillness. They'd sink together. Slowly, with intention. When his breathing slowed, they'd kick their legs and float gently back to their bed, skin smelling of petrichor. In time they went deeper together, through the fungal constellations and the prismatic streams, among the schools of electric beetles and glow worms. Entire oceans hid beneath the earth that played host to creatures that defied description, whose incandescent skin pulsed with new colors that felt like seeing music, who seemed to dance in and out of space, between worlds. Returning didn't feel like a struggle anymore as much as a dance. They'd rise to the surface and settle softly like a feather onto the cool sheets of their bed where they’d stay up all night, describing the indescribable, sharing in what once felt isolating. Years later, they’d float above the crowd dancing at their wedding, looping slow circles in each other's orbit. They gently kicked out in rhythm, swimming together through the air as they’d so often done below the earth. It felt effortless, and maybe it had always been so. The years were kind to them. They made a home filled with quiet rituals and unspoken understanding. Mornings often began with the two of them sitting cross-legged on the floor, breathing in sync as the early light filtered through the window. They’d sink and rise together, learning how to be still without fear. Some evenings, they'd lie side by side, talking and laughing late into the night until sleep took them both. And on joyful days, they would fly. James was a day shy of 90 when he took Dan-Dan's hand and led him outside. The heat from the day lingered inside their house, but the night air carried the chill of fall. They walked slowly, carefully, their shoes crunching on the gravel driveway. James had become so thin, and Dan-Dan felt as though the cool breeze might carry him off. He'd squeeze James’s hand in a quick pulse with each gust, and James would squeeze back, a little lighter. They found the path they'd walked countless times, through the trees by their house that opened into a large grassy field. The surrounding trees shielded them from the lights in the neighborhood, allowing their eyes to adjust enough to see the stars. They were as beautiful as they'd ever seen them—pearlescent whites, brilliant sapphires, ruby reds, and emerald greens that swirled and danced without moving. They still held hands as they touched their heads together. Dan-Dan closed his eyes and kissed James on the forehead. He felt lighter still. With a final squeeze, he let him go. James imagined himself rising up into the stars. He imagined this was his life. *Nick Thornton is a speculative fiction writer whose work explores the intersection of cosmic weirdness and human connection.* ### Best Breakup Songs URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-best-breakup-songs/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T14:55:37.000Z It’s the beginning of the second season of Midwest Weird and to quote Semisonic, “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” (I’ll bet you my Paramount + subscription that that’s the first time that Semisonic has been quoted in 2025.) In any event, I’m dusting off the philosophical musings of a late-90s rock(?) band to segue into a column about breakup songs, aka some other beginning’s end. Buckle up because the season two wordplay is off to a *toight* start. One of the great things about a good breakup song is that you don’t even have to be going through a breakup to enjoy it. I mean, I spent half of my time in high school driving in circles around my small town, shouting, “NEVER GONNA GET IT, NEVER GONNA GET IT. NEVER GONNA GET IT, NEVER GONNA GET IT,” along with the funky divas themselves, En Vogue, to all the people who were trying to get my “it,” which amounted to exactly zero citizens. All these years later and there are still people trying to get over being forced to listen to me sing (shriek?) along to that song. If I am someday named as the defendant in a class action lawsuit seeking reimbursement for therapy bills incurred from trauma associated with my off-key caterwauling, I would not be surprised. But when you’re going through a breakup, a good breakup song reminds you that you’re not alone. In theory, knowing that someone else has also experienced the heartbreak that you’re experiencing, should bring you some form of solace and comfort. So if you ever realize you’re about to get murdered, just remember that lots of other people have also been murdered and the stress and panic will leave your body faster than gas station sushi. A good breakup song is like duct tape for your brain because it’s useful in countless different ways. It helps you process despair when you’re sad. It makes you feel empowered when you need encouragement. It makes you feel like you’re taller than you really are. (I don’t know if that last one is really true, but neither do you. Objection overruled.) I’ve certainly convinced you that breakup songs are great, but which ones are the greatest? Breakup songs are just like your kids: it’s very clear which ones are your favorites. My favorite breakup songs are listed below and, just like my favorite kids, I didn’t have anything to do with creating them. I’m clearly not ready for a committed relationship with you, but I’ll love these songs until death do us part. - **"Since U Been Gone," Kelly Clarkson** – I wonder how many perfectly good relationships ended just because someone heard this song and wanted it to be about them. While that definitely has a “pick me” sensibility, I still get it. Maybe it doesn’t have a “pick me” sensibility so much as it has a “I don’t pick you” sensibility. Remember when Nicole Kidman said, “Heartbreak feels good in a place like this,” in that weirdly engaging ad for AMC theaters? In this song, Kelly Clarkson makes heartbreak seem like an exercise in joy. If you have never played the drum solo from the bridge of this song on your steering wheel, what are you even doing reading this column right now? Go do the steering wheel drum thing immediately and then come back and finish this column. - **"All Too Well (10-Minute Version)," Taylor Swift** – If you would have told me a couple of years ago that we needed a song that was 10 minutes long, I would have told you that we needed to stick to the topic at hand, which would have most likely been “that video of Henry Cavill putting together a computer while wearing a tank top.” Like the Henry Cavill video, this song is a slow burn. She talks about the good times and gets us invested and then we find out that the love of her life didn’t show up on her birthday like a run-of-the-mill rotten bastard. We all know this song is about Jake Gyllenhaal and he’s lucky it’s only 10 minutes long. I bet she could have made it longer because he was probably a dick about signing a credit card receipt in an incense shop once. Spotify told me I listed to this song more than 90 times last year and I think that was their version of a wellness check. - **"Nothing Compares 2 U," Sinead O'Connor** – The subject of this song is so upset that they spoke to a medical professional and then fully disregarded the advice of said medical professional. It’s like when you go to the doctor and you tell them that you feel like shit and they tell you to get more sleep, eat more nutritious food and exercise. Oh? Taking care of myself is the answer? Quack. Sounds like this doctor wants to find out if a good breakup song helps you cope with being named in a medical malpractice lawsuit. Is a rebound relationship with a hefty financial settlement a healthy path forward? If your former lover isn’t interested in the rich version of you, then at least you can take solace in the fact that it was your personality that drove them away, not your checking account balance. - **"We Belong Together," Mariah Carey** – Dumping someone and then regretting it might actually be worse than getting dumped. I can’t imagine that Mariah Carey has ever had that problem, which makes her convincing performance of this song all the more impressive. I often quote this line from the song: “I didn't know nothing I was stupid, I was foolish, I was lying to myself,” when my husband is trying to get me to commit to a social function that he’s brought up several times already. In the video for this song, she ditches her fiancé at the alter and runs off with another man, all while wearing her actual wedding dress from her first marriage. When you break up with someone, you’re essentially repurposing them, something she can do with a man or a dress. That’s what I call “range.” - **"Someone Like You," Adele** – My husband and I attended a wedding where they played this song and I wondered then, and many times since then, if the DJ just picked songs based on the title alone and then refused to listen to what the song is actually about. The only time this song should be played at a wedding is outside the venue, in the Air Pods of a despondent ex-lover who is hiding in a bush. And that’s really the vibe of this song – an ex-lover showing up uninvited and then casually trying to make eye contact with you in a non-threatening manner. If you get caught and you can convince them that you weren’t hiding in the bush so much as just existing in the bush, they might actually buy the “non-threatening” claim. It should also be mentioned that they served really good macaroni and cheese at that wedding reception though, so it wasn’t all bad. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “You kept me like a secret, but I kept you like an oath,” – Taylor Swift in “All Too Well” and my Grub Hub driver when I ask for a contactless delivery. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### Space Aliens URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-space-aliens/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T15:29:25.000Z Do you remember being a kid and a teacher or a trusted adult or youth pastor that was probably not legally allowed to be within 500 feet of you told you that you should always get to know someone before drawing any conclusions about them? That you should give others a chance to put their best foot forward before you decide you don’t want anything to do with them? Speaking of feet, I remember being told that I shouldn’t focus on one detail about a person, like their ugly, pilgrim-like shoes that look like they came over on the Mayflower and ended up in a dumpster behind Nordstrom Rack (because some shoes are too ugly even for Nordstrom Rack), and turn it into their singular, defining quality. That’s all well and good as far as people are concerned, but you know who that doesn’t and shouldn’t apply to? Space aliens. You give a space alien the benefit of the doubt and they’ll take that opportunity to suck your skeleton out through an ear hole using a vacuum-like device that’s built into where you would have thought their three-fingered, left hand should be. Space aliens simply cannot be trusted. That’s not based on actual evidence. That’s based on the fact that there is absolutely no evidence that supports that they CAN be trusted. A well-adjusted adult wouldn’t tell you to store leftover spaghetti in your gardening Crocs, even though a well-adjusted adult has never stored leftover spaghetti in their gardening Crocs. Like “knowledge is power,” and “money can’t buy happiness,” “don’t store leftover spaghetti in your gardening Crocs” is a universal truth. But what if space aliens arrive on Earth and tell us they’ve come in peace? Name even one being that’s ever showed up on another planet with good intentions. Oh, “Neil Armstrong,” you say? He showed up on the moon and planted our flag without asking ANYONE if that was cool. So the moon is a U.S. territory now, like a big, cold as hell Puerto Rico floating out in space? What if the moon people didn’t want that flag? What are they going to do with it? Do they have trash day on the moon? Was Neil Armstrong mansplaining outer space to the American people? Can you imagine if your neighbor just walked into your yard and planted a flag that said, “Welcome,” knowing full well that you’re the biggest bitch in the neighborhood? Unacceptable! Pop culture is full of space aliens. Some of them were bad and some of them were acting like they were good and probably secretly wanted to harvest our organs for sport. If you think it’s a bad idea to meet someone on the internet and go to their house alone, but you’re open to welcoming space aliens with open arms, then per *The Real World*, it’s time to stop being polite and start getting real: you’ve got an undiagnosed emotional disorder. I didn’t just wake up one day with this reasonable, well-though-out, layered opinion on space aliens. See below for the list of pop culture space aliens that acted as a library of information, used to create a path that led me to this point in my journey. When you put it that way, it almost sounds like these space aliens regard themselves as poorly as they regard us. In space, no one can hear you ESTABLISH REASONABLE BOUNDARIES. - **E.T.** – I don’t want to body shame anyone, but I feel like E.T. looks a lot like a chocolate Easter bunny that has partially melted. Why did E.T. only want to hang around with children? It’s giving child predator vibes, but I also don’t think he has the upper body strength to actually act on this perversion. You may think my space alien cynicism is lacking any real evidence, but I offer you this: in the 80s, people drove enormous cars and those enormous cars had cigarette lighters in the back seat door handles. The kind of cigarette lighters that you pushed in and then they’d pop back out when they were hot and ready for that ciggy. One of my friends (who is now an engineer AND a lawyer) pulled out one of those hot cigarette lighters and stuck his finger in it, so he could be like E.T. Thanks to E.T., this kid burnt the shit out of his finger. Makes you wonder if anyone would answer if he actually did phone home. - **Alf** – The fact that the people who wrote this sitcom were on heroin is both very surprising and it makes complete sense. Alf, aka Gordon Shumway from Melmac, lived with the Tanners and was always trying to eat their cat. Was that a euphemism? Or was it too blatant to be considered a euphemism? The Tanner’s bitch neighbor (see Welcome flag above) was the real hero of this show. She knew what was up. She knew that the Tanners were harboring a space alien life force and that he was up to no good. As you have probably deduced by now, I’m not really one to defend space aliens, but would it have been too difficult for the Tanners to call Alf by his actual name? I mean, “Alf” stands for “alien life form.” Isn’t that essentially the same thing as my coworkers calling me “office homosexual,” like they read it on my birth certificate? Anyway, Alf is a cat murderer and should be treated as such. - **Xenomorph (*Alien*)** – Speaking of murderers, this gal is not one of those space aliens that lulls you into a false sense of security before she loses her shit. She lost her shit a good two weeks before she ever even heard of you. I’ve always wondered if she would look more approachable with bangs. I guess it’s not really the lack of bangs that is the issue here. It’s more of the teeth and the screaming I suppose. It doesn’t help that she goes around inserting her eggs into whoever without their consent. You know why Xenomorph skated by during the Me Too movement? Everyone she violated is dead. DEAD. We need to get that little head that pops out of her main head to start talking and then we’ll finally be able to hold her accountable for her years of treachery. Times up, Xenomorph. - **Predator** – You don’t see a lot of space aliens that can pull off long hair, but Predator does it with aplomb. It really pulls focus from those chompers. I bet his dentist has made a fortune off those things. There’s just so many teeth in there. Is he smiling? Is he yelling? Is he bereft? There are so many emotions there and we’ll never get to experience them all because he is actively trying to kill all of us, all the time. This guy is literally crying for help! Girl, I’d be happy to help but we both know you’re going to rip me in two before we even get to what’s really causing you to act out (which, if I had to guess, is misplaced anger stemming from distant parents and/or finding joy in the pursuit of a relationship and not in the relationship itself). With a name like, “Predator,” you’re making it very tough to swipe right, you know what I mean? - **Marvin the Martian** – What has eyes, but no face? Marvin the Martian and a very odd Billy Idol song from 1983\. I have a sliver of sympathy for Marvin the Martian because, really, he was just trying to do his job and no one was really taking him seriously. The internet says that Marvin likely suffers from a psychotic disorder and delusions of grandeur. I say he’s showing up for the job the same way he showed up for the interview: ready to fuck shit up. Marvin has been wearing a skirt and lifting that skirt to piss on gender norms since the 1950s. He’s a pioneer! He’s the Ellen of cartoon space aliens, except no one has accused him of being mean like her, even though he’s trying to blow up the Earth. All that being said, I still don’t trust him. Not only because he’s trying to blow up the Earth, but because he doesn’t support common sense gun laws, one of which is, “gun owners must have a face.” - **Chewbacca** – Chewbacca reminds me of a basketball player, but the kind that hates to run up and down the court. He’s tall, but not fast, like a top hat or the Eiffel Tower. Of all the space aliens listed here, he probably comes the closest to being trustworthy. He seems loyal and generally good-natured, but so did J.K. Rowling. (PSA: Shutting the fuck up is free, J.K. You can do that without having to sell even one more Harry Potter book to cover the cost.) Chewbacca, on the other hand, could earn a ton of money if he endorsed the FURminator. Is this an example of someone from a different country/planet taking an American’s job? Maybe Chewy could co-endorse the FURminator with a cat and help rebuild some of that cat/alien trust that Alf tore down. Like I said before, Chewbacca is close to trustworthy, but I will screen him if he calls instead of texts. - **The Visitors** – Do you remember the TV miniseries from the 1980s, *V*? I didn’t even actually watch it, but just seeing the commercials scared the shit out of me. That could very well be the source for how I feel about all space aliens. These fuckers showed up, dressed head-to-toe in the Star Trek: Voyager line from Anne Taylor Loft and were all like, “You guys seem great! We want to be friends. We love Jimmy Buffet, too,” and then the next thing you know, they pull off their fake skin and they are lizard people from another planet and they don’t think we’re great and they don’t want to be friends and they could give two shits about Jimmy Buffet! I’ll give credit where credit is due though – it must have been a real pain in the ass to be in full glam/human Geishi drag all day long. But I guess that’s the lengths that some space aliens will go to when they want to kill us all and steal our planet. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “And that is the whole problem with aliens, is you just can't trust them. Occasionally you meet a nice one: Starman, E.T. But usually they turn out to be some kind of big lizard!” – Peter Venkman in *Ghostbusters*, speaking truth to power. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### Manifesting Spinoffs URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-manifesting-spinoffs/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T15:31:31.000Z The TV landscape in America has really evolved over the years. I don’t mean the kind of evolution that is denied by people who believe that the anniversary of a hippie’s resurrection changes dates every year (Just pick a date, Easter. You are the undecided voter of holidays.). The kind of evolution that I’m talking about is when something changes gradually over time, such as fish growing resistant to the pollutants in their water or the vegetables in my crisper drawer taking longer to rot because they’re on to my bullshit. In decades past, TV had zero channels dedicated to “news” that intentionally misleads lonely seniors and straight, white men secretly ashamed of their fragility. There were fewer TV shows to choose from, but that made TV viewing more of a shared experience because tens of millions of viewers would tune into the same shows every week. And there weren’t remote controls so people would sit through something that they had absolutely no interest in, just because it beat getting up to change the channel. You know what else TV used to have that it doesn’t do as much anymore? Spinoffs. A spinoff is when they take a character on an existing show and give them their own show. It reminds me of when rich people buy their adult child a house, just to get him out of theirs. A couple of fairly recent spinoffs are *Young Sheldon* (a spinoff of *The Big Bang Theory*) and *The Connors* (a spinoff of the reboot of *Roseanne*, but I feel like that only kind of counts because it was spun off only because we found out that Roseanne Barr was racist and the network wanted to keep the money coming in, but not the flack about employing a racist, because you know they were **deeply** indifferent about employing said racist). Speaking of racists, Archie Bunker was a racist TV character (because that was a normal thing 40-some years ago, like smoking on airplanes and the idea of Michael Jackson around kids), and he was the star of the classic sitcom *All in the Family*, and that show had SEVEN spinoffs. There are some you might remember (*Maude*, *Good Times*, *The Jeffersons*) and some you might not, (*Checking In*, *Gloria*, *704 Hauser)*. Norman Lear did all this with ONE TV show! It’s like when the Native Americans would use all the parts of a buffalo to make the things they needed: food, blankets, jet skis. Spinoffs are like children and dipshits—whether you like them or not, they’re around all the God damn time. You take the good (*Better Call Saul* from *Breaking Bad*), you take the bad (*Melrose Place* from *Beverly Hills 90210*), you take them both and there you have the theme song to *The Facts of Life*, a spinoff of *Diff’rent Strokes*. But let’s look to the future. Let’s manifest some spinoffs that we need in our lives! Let’s be the change we want to see in the world! Let’s ignore the restriction of a spinoff coming from a show that’s still on the air! [Let’s hear it for the boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gI7YHZVc7mM&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com), as it were. Or, as in most of these cases, let’s hear it for the grown ass women. Spin me up, spin me down, spin me right round! - **Principal Ava Coleman (*Abbott Elementary*)** Speaking of *The Facts of Life*, I would like to see Ava in a private school setting, supervising four students who got in too deep with crypto. I am confident that she has the ability to raise a hustler and this would be her chance to do it. Or give her four chances, as it were. She could start her own multilevel marketing empire and make the students sell product in exchange for discounted tuition. With the resources available to someone running a private school, think of the how much she could grow her annual Ava Fest event! It would be as big as Lollapalooza, but with less B.O. Her absence from *Abbott Elementary* would be a real deficit to that show, so I propose that the network doesn’t really announce the spinoff. Moving forward, every episode of *Abbott Elementary* would just segue into Ava’s new show like that one episode of *The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills* segued into *Vander Pump Rules* with no warning in 2013. - **Crystal Kung Minkoff (*The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills*)** Speaking of *The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills*, I would like a new series built around Crystal Kung Minkoff, please. She was an underrated housewife! She usually seemed reserved, but if someone questioned her version of events, she’d go full millennial and yell, “You aren’t honoring my feelings!” Is there a better housewife argument out there? You can keep your, “I just want to move forward,” because I know you don’t want to and neither do I. Plus, her husband directed the original, animated version of *The Lion King* and he must have some hot goss on James Earl Jones or Walt Disney’s ghost or how gay Scar was supposed to be vs. how gay he actually came across onscreen. My husband’s old boss didn’t know that *The Lion King* was set in Africa and I don’t know why this show isn’t already on my TV. - **Ron Swanson (*Parks and Recreation*)** Can you imagine how short the scripts would be for this show? I mean, Ron said about 10 words per episode of *Parks and Recreation*, but they were often the 10 best words of the episode. The whole premise of the show could be about how he moved off the grid to avoid being monitored by the government. He could be like the Unabomber, but kind of nicer and more hygienic and not blowing anything up. You know what would get blown up? TikTok after the Ron Swanson dance craze gets posted by his kids, accidentally exposing his location, and the fact that he’s also Duke Silver. I know at the end of *Parks and Recreation*, he was working for the government, but do you know how many people have disappeared while working for the government? No one does, because the government is hiding that information from us. - **Renata Klein (*Big Little Lies*)** If the people who made *Big Little Lies* thought they were making an unlikeable character in Renata Klein, they were DEAD WRONG. To be clear, she is terrible and in real life I would sincerely hope that she be barred from human interaction of any kind, but *Big Little Lies* isn’t real life! While visiting her husband in prison, she angrily tells him, “I will not not be rich!” and that’s the kind of energy I like to see in my spinoff characters. I always say, “You already drove to the prison to see your husband, no need to make the whole visit about him too.” If someone wants to cross stitch that onto a pillow, please send me a photo. Even though I can’t find it on the internet, I swear that someone yelled, “Fuck you, Renata!” at this woman and now I’m wondering if I just dreamt that up on my own because I thought someone should say it to her. Her spinoff show should definitely be almost exclusively her losing her temper in traffic and hosting parties she doesn’t want to be at. An angry Renata is what America needs right now. - **Lily Tucker-Pritchett (*Modern Family*)** Lily was the funniest character on *Modern Family* and I will animatedly roll my eyes at anyone who disagrees with that statement. She brought levity to every situation the way my aunt brings Velveeta Fudge to every holiday gathering: it’s going to be there whether you want it or not. I want to see her move away and go to college. I want to see her rush a sorority. I want to see her try and come from a place of love, but break it down for a motherfucker. Seeing her break the spirit of young men who are way more confident than they have any right to be would be a delight to behold. What if her biological mother showed up one day? What if her biological mother was one of her professors? What if her biological mother was played by Viola Davis as Annalise Keating from *How to Get Away with Murder*? Move over, *Law and Order: SVU*. A new most important TV show in history just showed up. - **Angie Jordan (*30 Rock*)** This one is almost a cheat because we basically got a preview for it in 2011 with the “Queen of Jordan” episode of *30 Rock*. I’m hesitant to promote a Sherri Sheperd vehicle as she suggested the world was flat while she was a panelist on *The View* in 2007\. Hopefully, since then, she has taken some adult education courses at her local learning annex or she’s watched *Armageddon* on TBS and has soaked up the science. I want to see Angie Jordan host a charity function for birds with alopecia and then get angry when someone doesn’t sit in their assigned seat at dinner or doesn’t pay for their winning bid on a Lover’s Getaway package that includes two nights in Fresno and a $30 gift card to the Body Wisdom Massage Therapy School in Clovis (airfare not included) at the silent auction. Or something along those lines. - **Debbie Downer (*Saturday Night Life*)** Do I want to see a TV show devoted to Debbie Downer because it will make me feel better about my life? I wasn’t thinking that before, but I am now. This woman has never met a bad time that she couldn’t make worse. The list of places she could visit and ruin is endless. Buckingham Palace! Area 51! Mar-a-Lago! Anchorage! She famously said that mad cow disease could live in your body for years before ravaging your brains. This show could be on for years before I’d get tired of hearing her bum people out by dropping some perfectly timed truth bombs. Having fun at your quinceañera? By the time you’re ready to get married the Earth’s climate crisis will be irreversible. Thanks for inviting me to your housewarming party. I love your aquarium. Did you know that depressed dolphins can commit suicide by going underwater and never coming back up for air? Your garden is beautiful. Did you realize that, in most cases, the first and only time a man receives flowers is at his funeral? You probably feel better already. Or at least better than that dolphin. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “I need to look good for my party and I refuse to wear anything in my size or appropriate for my age.” \-- Angie Jordan from the “Queen of Jordan” episode of *30 Rock*, forging her own path. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### Partying with the Streamers URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-partying-with-the-streamers/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T15:26:32.000Z I recently experienced a phenomenon from days gone by. A blast from the past, if you will. A nostalgic interlude. What happened was, a friend of my husband’s stopped by our house to borrow a DVD of the American masterpiece and future entry into the Criterion Collection*, Drop Dead Gorgeous*. That hasn’t happened in generations! It was very rustic and was the closest I’ll ever voluntarily get to camping. I was in no way, shape or form put out by this. I’ll gladly take any opportunity to share the underappreciated genius of *Drop Dead Gorgeous* with another citizen, even if it causes an unexpected visit. But this begs the question, why isn’t *Drop Dead Gorgeous* on a streaming service? What the hell, streaming services? You’ve got room for *The Ultimatum: Marry or Move On*, but not a nearly perfect piece of cinema (which, admittedly, has some jokes that haven’t aged well, but your mother and mayonnaise-based salads are proof that lots of things don’t age well)? Save me your legalese about clearances and copyrights. What about my rights as a consumer? What about my right to experience joy? What about my right to see Allison Janney nail a central Minnesota accent with the kind of subtlety normally reserved for ice cold diarrhea? Streaming services have gotten away with too much for too long! There isn’t much that I can do to shake any sense into streaming services. I mean, Paramount + has been around for years and it still doesn’t have its shit together. It’s like a coworker who’s trying to get out of doing work by saying, “I’m still new,” three years into the job. You know what, Pam? You’re about as new as the turkey jerky stash you keep at your desk that you don’t think anyone knows about. We know! And we are collectively APPALLED. I think what I’m saying is, the Paramount + equivalent of turkey jerky is the *Frasier* reboot. I can completely understand the concept of a streamer trying to entice you to sign up for a subscription based on one good show. When HBO Max launched, that show was the *Friends* reunion. A lot of people signed up for HBO Max just because they wanted to see that show and I’ll bet most of them woke up the next morning feeling the same way as they would have if they were 12 and it was the day after they went to a birthday party only because the kid had a trampoline, a bunch of fireworks and disengaged parents. Which is to say, they had no regrets because cancelling a streaming subscription is one of the few things that can still make you feel alive (and there isn’t a single example in all of history of a 12-year-old regretting anything). Speaking of parties, let’s imagine what it would be like to be at a party with all the streaming services. Are they polite guests? Are they good at small talk? Is that bitch for real? I’d like to RSVP as “buffering.” - **Prime Video** – If Prime Video gets invited to a party, it’s not for the right reasons. That makes it sounds like Prime Video is an opportunistic skank on *The Bachelor*, but it’s the truth. Most everyone who has Prime Video has it because they have Amazon Prime and are addicted to having delivery date promises broken with no consequences, like when rich people don’t pay their taxes or whatever truck drivers do at rest stops. Prime Video the party guest is there because they always bring fancy wine or because the host is afraid if they’re not invited, they’ll find out and tell everyone how often the host orders aftermarket boner pills, because they’re pissed off. If you invited all the streamers to happy hour and Prime Video was the only one who could make it, you’d cancel and we’d all understand – even Prime Video. - **Paramount +** \- It’s not a party without Paramount +! You know who said that? Paramount +. I understand that Paramount + has every episode of *Survivor* that’s ever aired, but that’s like telling someone that you’ve got a sixth toe and the doctors can’t figure out why. “Well that’s something.” Is that what I’m supposed to say back to that? Yes, you’ve got *RuPaul’s Drag Race*, and that will score you an invitation to the party, but you should definitely look into branching out into content that more people are interested in. And don’t you dare bring up the *Mean Girls* musical movie. Someone should have asked Karen’s boobs to forecast how good that movie was going to be. And listened when they said, “not fetch.” - **Disney +** \- This motherfucker makes me enter a PIN when I open the app as if the entire central time zone has access to my Apple TV. You’re special, but you’re not that special, Disney +. I bet if Disney + was at a party, after the second a person said, “hello,” to them, they’d get all flustered, like they were overwhelmed with all the attention everyone was pouring on them. Really, people are just being baseline polite and *The Mandalorian* isn’t worth all this nonsense. Disney +, do you remember last year when you kept telling me to finish watching the four hour, *Frozen*\-themed Yule log clip? That’s the kind of detachment from reality that keeps you from forming meaningful relationships with people. - **Hulu** – I bet when Hulu first gets to the party, they’re a lot of fun to talk to. It’s like, “Oh, hey, this person is interesting. They’ve got a point of view I hadn’t considered before. They somehow look really casual, yet very put together and their shirt doesn’t have stains on it.” But, like the last couple seasons of *The Handmaid’s Tale*, there will come a point in the evening where you realize this person has lost their fucking mind. Oh, Arbor Day is a hoax put on by paper companies to distract you from child labor violations? I see. You were just coaxing me into letting my guard down before you brought out the extreme material. Gotcha. I see you’ve got *Romy and Michel’s High School Reunion* on your home screen, but you’ve also got *The Hot Chick*. That’s some real bait-and-switch bullshit, my friend. As Tyra Banks shouted at a contestant on *America’s Next Top Model* once, “I was rooting for you, we were all rooting for you! How dare you!” - **Peacock** – Peacock is not for everyone, but it is for me. It’s got everything I need when I’ve got a couple hours to kill: Real Housewives, *Brooklyn 99*, WWE from the 80s (before I knew half of those involved were deeply terrible people). I would pay for an annual subscription, just to watch *The Traitors*. But recommending a streamer is a lot like recommending a size 32 pair of jeans. It may be the right size for you, but it’s not the right size for a juicier ass. If Peacock were making small talk at a party, I think they’d keep it mostly on the level and then at some point just throw in a bon mot, such as, “I once prank called Drew Barrymore from Angelina Jolie’s beach house and told her I was Cameron Diaz and asked her to co-sign a car loan, then left her on hold for 40 minutes.” And I’d be like, “I don’t know what’s happening, but I know I like it.” - **Netflix** – Do you remember on the early seasons of *Friends*, there was a character named, “Fun Bobby”? He’d been around forever and was always a good time. Netflix is the Fun Bobby of streamers. I bet Netflix has a thousand hilarious stories about the different ways that people lost DVDs back in the day. “They said that someone broke into their house and stole the DVD, so it wasn’t their fault that they couldn’t send it back. I told them, with a straight face, ‘You’re telling me that someone broke into your house and stole a copy of *Independence Day*? Was it Vivica A. Fox since it was her last good movie?’” But behind the Netflix good time façade, they’re still not over how everyone said they were going to go down, just like Blockbuster. “That shit hurts. It hurts DEEP,” says Netflix after their second THC-infused cider. Netflix has so many FEELINGS, you guys. - **Max** – Do you remember a couple years ago when HBOMax “rebranded” themselves and now they’re just named “Max?” What in the actual fuck? That is not a rhetorical question, Max. That is the streamer equivalent of someone getting a haircut and just assuming that no one will recognize them because they’re parting their hair on the other side now. Outside of these kind of pretentious shenanigans, I do think Max would be fun at a party. I bet they would exchange glances with you when that one person (aka Disney +) just hijacks every conversation and makes it about themselves. I bet Max would complain if you asked them to take off their shoes because it would “ruin their outfit,” but would laugh when you told them it wasn’t the lack of shoes that ruined the outfit. I also think they’d have weed edibles and would share. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “If you ain’t losing your mind, you ain’t partying right.” – Young Jeezy, also me when I’m trying to find the Real Housewives of Orange County on Peacock when that bastard knows god damn well I’m going to watch the new episode, just like I watched the last one, but still makes me use the search function. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "Red Velvet," Aarushi Bahadur URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-red-velvet-aarushi-bahadur/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T15:24:19.000Z Aarushi Bahadur is a senior at St. Paul Academy in Minnesota. She’s a Scholastic writing award winner, a student journalist, a theater kid, and an ardent vinyl collector. Her work has previously been featured in Iris: Art + Lit Magazine. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.* *We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.* *Today’s episode: A short story by Aarushi Bahadur, titled “Red Velvet." Read by the author.* When she comes to herself, she is barefoot. To her left: the road, winding and ribbonlike, plunging down into the valley. To the right – the horizon – is nothing but fields of corn. The sun has gone down but the sky is starless. She raises her hands. The flesh is soft. Her hands move to her body. She is wearing velvet. This is a dress she does not believe she has ever owned. She thinks back – There was a darkness. There was a darkness. Unmoored, she takes a step. Gravel comes loose beneath her heels. Below in the valley, town. Moving lights. She begins to walk. \* Somewhere down the road there is a brunette woman in a red car that slows for her. The brunette asks if she needs a ride. She opens the door and gets inside. Bucket seats. The brunette asks where she wants to go. She shrugs. Anywhere. Nowhere. Just get me there fast. Out of the window, signs pass, tilted and blurred. The first sign outside says JUDGMENT DAY IS COMING ARE YOU READY? It is accompanied by a church, weathered and beaten in the distance, swallowed by the tall grasses. She swallows and tries to look away. As they roll through the heady dark, her eyes begin to sag. The stiffness has left her shoulders. The signs are getting to her. OPEN, a lone water tower advertises, no specifics: a state of being. They aren’t really worth reading but she can’t seem to pull her eyes away. Memories from a past life, maybe. The flat terrain dips and rocks. A tall board proclaims HAS ANYONE ELSE DIED FOR YOU? Perspective composes it like a crossword; at the same L LOOKING FOR A SIGN? THIS IS IT meanders down the post. An intersection. She feels herself beginning to grow weary but the brunette doesn’t seem to have noticed, instead fixated on a distant point in the dark. She follows the brunette’s gaze. She is focused on the windshield. She is focused at some point past the windshield. She is focused on something that she cannot see yet. At some point she must have drifted off because she has her second coming when they jolt to a stop at a traffic light. If it wasn’t strung on a wire, she imagines, it would be floating. The light changes from red and the car’s engine hums. The brunette closes her eyes and in the mirrored reflection of the window she can see that the woman’s eyelids are crushed lapis blue. At the base of the hill she sees the first streetlights. They look haloed. \* The town is called Lorraine. This the brunette tells her. It does not seem redundant that there is a billboard proclaiming LORRAINE in faded lettering ahead of them. They are entering town, after all. She turns to the passenger seat window once again and rolls it down. There is something in the air here. She does not know if it’s asphalt or wheat or the ozone after a thunderstorm. She thinks, for a moment, it could be sin. But that is a familiar scent. No – it smells like the clouds have come down in a shower of coffee grounds. Lorraine feels like a heartbeat. The brunette woman asks her where she wants to stop. She does not know what to say so she asks to be dropped at the diner. Diners have always been familiar to her, liminal spaces between empty tracts of road. When the neon lettering emerges in the red car’s headlights, the car rocks to a gentle stop. CROSS’S DINER, it proclaims. Through the glass she can see the checkered floor illuminated. She stares through the windshield. The brunette woman leans across the leather seats and kisses her once, slow and deep. A spark. She opens the low-set door. The brunette is applying fire engine red lipstick. The brunette offers it to her and she smears it across her lips and it is on her fingers too. Something hungry has awakened inside her. She gets out and walks to the diner door. When she looks back, the brunette is gone. The door is still open, unlocked. In fluorescent subtitles, a sign on the door advertises 24/7 service. At the diner counter there is an old woman wearing a blue apron. Her hair is graying and there is a cigarette between her fingers and a smile on her face. The old woman’s name tag says something that she can’t read, something that once said something. “You’re not from around here,” the old woman says, smiling, taking a drag from her cigarette. “Coffee?” Yes, she says. I would like that very much. The old woman returns with a mug of black coffee. Apart from the old woman, she is the only one in the diner. She does not know what time it is. It must be late. It must be very early. “How long are you planning on staying?” asks the old woman. Yes, she says. I would like that very much. The old woman nods. “I know a guy.” The old woman goes to the back. The telephone is in the kitchen. She takes a glance out the diner windows. On the low horizon of the huddled buildings outside, in dulled blue: EVERYBODY IS TOO FAR GONE. \* This is how she gets the house. Turnover is slow in Lorraine, but there are houses that sit empty on the fringes of town, near the exit off the highway. They are only waiting for someone to make nest in them. She goes to work at the diner; it’s not hard to pay for the house. The house is more than she expected. The floorboards are worn, but she can’t tell whether it’s from use or disuse. She doesn’t know if it’s never been used or if someone had lived there and moved or lived there and died but it doesn’t matter much. There is a warmth in its hollowness; in the chipped paint on the door she sees herself. She has no furniture to keep inside other than what was already there. A rocking chair; a mattress; a bathroom with a rickety old shower. At first the taps produce nothing but a slow, sallow drip of water that tastes like iron. It takes time for the water to flow in the right direction. She continues her exploration carefully. The floorboards creak. The lamp does not work. The radio does, and it quickly becomes her favorite part of the house. It is not perfect. When she opens her closet door for the first time there is a long hallway that plunges abruptly into darkness. From inside there is the sound of distant music. This, at least, is normal. She closes the door and takes a fork from the kitchen from the untouched Formica countertop. This she bends accordingly and breaks the head off. She locks the closet door with the fork and then she goes to sleep on the mattress alone, counting the wooden panels of the ceiling. Her house has no driveway. Her lawn is overgrown and behind the house the land stretches until it drops away. This is how she knows Lorraine is at the end of the world. But she doesn’t have a car, so it doesn’t matter much. \* It is a Saturday when the angels arrive at her door. She knows they are angels because of the swath of eyes that land on her when she opens up and the doorway looks like it has been lit on fire. She asks them what they want. The angels say they want to stay here, if that’s okay with her. She shrugs and lets the angels in. So long as you’re no trouble when I go to work, she says. The angels nod profusely. Later at the diner, people tell her there was a lightning strike at her house last night and is she alright? She knew of no such lightning strike, but she smiles and nods and serves them coffee. It is nice that they were thinking of her. When she gets back home from work, her house is still lit even though she turned the lights off and it is dark outside. She doesn’t know where the angels have gone, because the house is small and they’re not in the kitchen, so she assumes they have moved into the closet. The faraway music has stopped and there is a light under the door, anyway. \* There is a boy in the cornfield, the one by the road. She cannot see his face. He is wearing a suit and in his hand is a fork. He is jumping. Dry husks crumple under his oxfords. In the field there is a door and the door is wide open and behind the open threshold there is more field and more field. The door is wood and the corn in the field is checkered. In the mirrored reflection of his shoes there is something that she cannot quite make out. It might be a universe, but it also might just be corn. She runs across the field to him. She wants to see his face, but he is gone when she awakes. \* Days are endless dreams that pass behind magazines and under withering diner lights. She serves coffee and people smile at her. She looks out the windows for red cars but finds none. There are no signs of signs in town, and no churches either. No more lightning. When she is lonely she knocks on the closet door and the angels slip out from the inch-wide gap underneath. Then she and the angels walk to the end of the world, the one behind her house where the fields drop off. They stand there and she is reminded of the brunette woman’s eyeliner because the sky never gets darker than that shade of blue. She wants to call her. She wants to feel her move against her and she wants the hum of that red car again. She asks the angels if the brunette was just driving through town because if she wasn’t she would have stopped at the diner, surely? The angels look at each other and then her with searching eyes. The town is called Lorraine, right? they say. That’s all well and good. She just can’t remember her face. \* One day, at the end of the world, she finds a sign. WE CAME FROM DIRT, it proclaims. WE HAVE TO SWALLOW IT. She closes her eyes and exhales. The crushed lapis sky behind it swims dauntingly. There is a darkness in the blue setting low and fast on the horizon. She stumbles through the field. The sky opens. It begins to rain. It has not rained there in a long, long time. In the house, the closet door is open. The narrow hall is dark and endless. That dreamy music is back. It never left. The bent-necked fork is listless on the floorboards and she is wearing velvet like she has always been. Behind the music: something else. Thunder. It hangs low and rattles the rocking chair and the old bed frame. Rain beats tinny against the window panes in swaths. She wonders if it is raining in the cornfields or on the roads or if the streetlights have gone out. She looks at her kitchen, the Formica countertop. There is nothing red in her house. There is nothing red in her house and there are no mirrors either. She has to go out. It does not take her long to reach the diner even in the rain. The old woman blinks when she sees her. “You’re off today.” She looks at the old woman. The music is playing again, she says. The old woman empties the coffee percolator. “I don’t think my guy can help you with that.” \* It is a Sunday when she knows the angels have left. There is no quiet in the house. At night it is harder to sleep because the music is in the ceiling panels and the only light she has is from the lamp that does not work. She doesn’t know where they’ve gone but it’s dark and she wishes they left a thank you note. Birds on the telephone wire cannot fill the space that angels once did. There is a ravaged spot in her – burning barns – she is hungry for her angels and for that red lipstick. But she doesn’t have a mirror or a car so she supposes it doesn’t make much difference. The wood inside the walls and ceiling has eyes but those eyes don’t see. Typical. Her door frame is cold and is this how it looked before? she asks but this time there is no one to answer. \* At the end of the world there are nothing but empty houses and diners and checkered cornfields. It has not stopped raining. Somewhere beyond: little churches that hang from wires like stop lights. Above her is blue that has become black; arbitrary, sickening. Fields that stretch out to nowhere and signs that don’t mince words, dust to dust. The rain is stale and worn and there are no women in red cars anymore. She thinks back – Met with vacated lots. She takes a step. Dry husks crumple under her feet. She could do with some coffee. She begins to walk. *Aarushi Bahadur is a senior at St. Paul Academy in Minnesota. She’s a Scholastic writing award winner, a student journalist, a theater kid, and an ardent vinyl collector. Her work has previously been featured in Iris: Art + Lit Magazine.* *We’ll be back in two weeks with more weird stories.* *If you like what you hear, subscribe, like and review the show.* *And if you want your fiction or nonfiction to appear on Midwest Weird, send us your work!* *Thanks for joining us. And stay weird.* ### They Work Hard for the Money URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-they-work-hard-for-the-money/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T15:19:34.000Z Before the internet was littered with influencers, us plebes had to rely on celebrities to know where to shop and what to buy. You didn’t get to tell people what lotion to use just because you had an Instagram account. You had to succeed at a job that was completely unrelated to lotions and then accept a large check in exchange for imparting that information on an unsuspecting public. It somehow felt more honest too, because we knew that these celebrities were being paid to push these products. When “GaggedHQ” tells me how much they like Amika brand Perk Up Plus Extended Clean Dry Shampoo, they act like they just love it so much that not telling people would be a disservice to humanity, but we all know the real disservice to humanity is the “#ad” trying to act all natural in the caption, like a common pervert hanging out in a park alone. I have a challenge for the influencer community. Well, I have two challenges, actually. First, can you just cool it some? Second, when you’re doing an unboxing video, get some help. It makes me anxious (well, more anxious) to watch you try and unpack a box full of the new Harry Styles-flavored Oreos with just one hand while the other hand holds your phone. If you can influence people online, you must be able to influence at least one person in real life to get them to hold your phone for you. Very little could make those unboxing videos seem more staged than they already are and having your Aunt Sandy just out of frame isn’t going to make me question how much you want to taste Harry Styles. And what’s the strategy behind doing several unboxing videos at once? I have deep concerns about the legitimacy of your excitement if you were patient enough to let a half dozen of these boxes pile up in your mud room. I don’t believe for one second that those Smuckers UnCrustables shaped like Charli XCX tasted particularly good when they showed up at your house, let alone after they’ve been there for five days before you decided now was the time to fire up the ol’ iPhone and ring light. Influencers the world over have generations of product spokespeople to thank for blazing a trail. It seems like a natural fit that the Kool Aid Man would sell Kool Aid, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t want to be a librarian. I wouldn’t take reading recommendations from a talking pitcher of fake juice, but that doesn’t mean others wouldn’t. And what about Flo from Progressive? Did she find her niche? Or is she an actress that will never get paid to play another role for the rest of her life? Ronald McDonald probably gave up his true passion of murdering kids to sell hamburgers across the land. These people are pioneers! Celebrity endorsers are essentially the grandparents of influencers and who doesn’t love grandparents? Especially the ones who are giving you the hard sell. - [**Jamie Lee Curtis for Activia yogurt**](https://youtu.be/qSTAj8%5FyHEY?t=2&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)– Everyone’s favorite trick-or-treater went from hawking cell phones in the early 2000s to pushing yogurt (that made pushing unnecessary) a decade later. I don’t think very many actresses would have taken this gig. I know celebrities like it when we’re thinking about them, but do they want to be the face we see just before we flush? Self-identifying as the pooping yogurt person could have derailed a lesser person’s career. But not only is Jamie Lee Curtis the first yogurt spokesperson to win an Oscar, I bet she went on some nice vacations with that pooping yogurt money. - [**Jennifer Garner for Neutrogena and Capital One**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n714NHr7neI&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) – I would buy anything from someone that survived being married to Ben Affleck. The nonsense she must have put up with! And she did it all with a smile. That Neutrogena must work really well because the skin on her face is so smooth, it looks like she’s been washing it with a pair of Dockers wrinkle-free classic pleated khakis. Did I just introduce another endorsement opportunity for her? Just send me 10%, Jennifer, and we’ll call it good. While I think that most credit card companies are essentially predatory lenders, Jennifer Garner makes the folks at Capital One seem more like the businessmen who are going to tear down the community center in a Hallmark movie and less like the financial terrorist that they are, so kudos to her for earning that paycheck, henny. - [**N’Sync for Chili’s Baby Back Ribs**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N1l87Wzselg&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) – Turning the Chili’s baby back ribs jingle into a boy band torch song about lost love, all while stranded on a desert island? And getting N’Sync to be in the commercial? It was kind of a genius marketing move. I don’t know how much it moved the needle to get teen girls into their local Chili’s as that is a question lost to time. I bet the wait staff at Chili’s hated it when a group of 13-year-old girls showed up and ordered one basket of baby back ribs to share along with five waters. They probably had to dry their tears with the $0.37 tip that was left for them. Have you ever tried to dry your tears with coins? They’re not absorbent! I also have questions about the storyline in the commercial. That helicopter killed Joey with a crate of ribs and then just left? Getting the hell out of there is what you do when you clog a toilet at a 7-11, not seriously injure the eighteenth actor listed in the credits for *My Big Fat Greek Wedding*. - [**Fabio for I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xszIaNpYILY&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)– I bet you didn’t think you were going to read that combination of words today, did you? Fabio is undeniably romance novel cover art royalty, but can he sell a product? Is I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter considered a product? Or does the fact that it’s made from reconstituted doll parts and Vaseline runoff make it more of a state of mind? This is maybe the most perfect pitchman/product combo in history. I’ve seen both of these things, but I’m not convinced that either of them are real. You know what is real? ICBINB’s sister product, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter! It’s Vegan. It’s Raining Men. OK, I added “It’s Raining Men,” but the rest of the product name is real and is presented with punctuation intact and I like to think vegans are too smart for this bullshit. - [**George**](http://bullshit.george/?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)[ **Clooney for Nespresso**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=%5FvR7emWbGSI&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)– These ads are weird as shit. How much money does George Clooney need? Doesn’t he own a lake in Italy? I guess lake upkeep is probably pretty expensive, which must be why he decided to be in this ad and take forever to get to the damn point. As far as I can tell, he’s still getting there because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. Is Nespresso just a fancy Keurig for rich people who go to afternoon coffee parties while wearing cocktail attire? This seems like more of “this is what we do when you’re not around” situation, as opposed to a “this could all be yours” opportunity. If George Clooney was going to sell something, I would assume that high fashion menswear or nut milks would be more his lane. He’s got a real “plant-based milk” sensibility about him. - [**Lisa Rinna for Depends**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmrRJZ3slCg&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) – I think anyone who is still aware of Lisa Rinna knows that she is always looking for her next gig. The trajectory of her going from selling adult diapers to the Real Housewives is certainly not as far or as impressive as Jamie Lee Curtis going from pooping yogurt to the Academy Awards, but, as Kathie Lee Gifford likes to say, “[Everyone has a story](https://youtu.be/H35xWT7YTgQ?t=190&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com).” I can’t decide what my favorite part of that commercial is: the part where they ask her to wear the Depends, “even though you don’t need one,” or the part where they suggest that it’s for charity – all while on a red carpet for what I assume is the opening of an envelope. What charity is it for? The only answer I will accept is “Purified Water for Patriots.” She responded to that request with the confidence of a woman in STEM. I hope everyone in the world who has to wear adult diapers takes on the challenge with the same zest for adventure that Lisa Rinna does, no matter what color your carpet is. - [**Wilford Brimley for Quaker Oats**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aVIewv1K3CA&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) – If there is one truth I hold dear to my heart it is that, to this day, Wilford Brimley and the ghost of Wilford Brimley do not give one shit about whether or I not I enjoy or purchase Quaker Oats. And on top of that, he’s asking me to do math? He’s basically yelling at people about Quaker Oats being cheap. It’s something Quaker Oats has in common with your mother, Wilford. I could have used a little more information about whether the product tastes good, but I guess the absence of taste is yet another thing Quaker Oats has in common with Ma Brimley. In conclusion, Quaker Oats is the common slut of hot cereals and trying to sell it to me with an intense “Get off my lawn!” vibe is ineffective. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “If you’re good at something, never do it for free,” The Joker in *The Dark Knight* and probably Jamie Lee Curtis’s agent when he presented her with the Activia Yogurt deal. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "We Knew a World," JP Solheim URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-we-knew-a-world-jp-solheim/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T15:17:31.000Z JP Solheim’s short fiction has earned recognition in contests held by Glimmer Train and Craft, and their short fiction has been published in Bellevue Literary Review, Confrontation, MQR: Mixtape, and The Pinch. They are part of the MFA in Creative Writing and Literature faculty at Stony Brook University, where they also serve as Associate Director of the BookEnds novel revision fellowship. They live in Oak Park, Illinois. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.* *We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.* *Today’s episode: A short story by JP Solheim, titled “We Knew a World." Read by the author.* They had been on the boat for two days now. Or maybe three. Time was starting to blur and Miriam wasn’t getting any sleep with her elbows tied to the armrests of the bench seat. But there had been two sunsets, and now it felt like late afternoon n again. Dad did the untying and tying when they needed to use the head but they weren’t allowed to fully close the privacy partition. Mum held the gun. “I don’t want to have to use it,” she said to Miriam and her brothers Jacob and Abe. Miriam could no longer pray. She calmed herself by composing the journal entry she would write about being kidnapped by her parents, all in her head—there was no paper, no pen on the family’s pontoon boat, swaying quietly on the Maumee River. As desperately as wanting to write, she wanted to lie down. It couldn’t be good to have her circulation and movement limited like this. Mum was a midwife—but she didn’t know Miriam was pregnant. Of all her problems, circulation was the least. Movement was another question. From his seat beside the motor, Dad kept looking from Miriam to Jacob to Abe. Anytime Mum went off over the past few years, Dad had sat mute, an affable look on his face—until Mum turned her back. Then and only then he would mouth the words to his children: *She is my wife.* Miriam thought of the wedding vows appliquéd and framed on her parents’ bedroom wall: *to love, honor, cherish and protect, forsaking all others and holding only to one another forevermore.* But she could tell by the expression on Dad’s face that he knew Mum had gone too far. There was only one other time Miriam had seen that particular look on his face. It was before Jacob came home from college, earlier in the summer. Abe was at a friend’s house. Miriam was on a walk. Her stomach was upset, so she came home early and went straight to the master bedroom to find the Pepto Bismol. Her mother’s big body was splayed over her father’s and she was holding his arms down. “I am your complement,” Mum said. “Say it. I am your complement.” That was when Dad looked toward the door and saw Miriam. He gasped and tried to right himself, but Mum had him pinned there, her hips rocking against his. “Close the door behind you, Miriam,” she said. Her voice was calm and reasonable, and Dad’s whole face trembled. Miriam did as she was told. That evening she wrote in her journal. The church’s doctrine on complementarianism taught that the man is the head of the house and the woman supports him. God’s love and grace surrounds all. In what way did her parents live in grace, really? Mum decided everything, and could change her mind any time. It wasn’t fair. It definitely wasn’t right. Nothing righteous about her parents. When I get married, Miriam wrote, and underlined *I* three times, the bed will be bathed in love and grace and light. Miriam looked at her mother sitting in the captain’s chair beside her father, hands poised on the gun, which rested on one big thigh. Miriam looked down at her own big thighs. Behaving this way surely wasn’t Christian. Mum wasn’t anyone’s complement. Miriam and her brothers had been home-schooled, and although they attended the old church on Sundays, they had maintained a cordial distance from their fellow parishioners since the basement incident. It happened soon after Mum went off her meds. Jacob had gotten into college in Columbus, and Mum didn’t want him to leave. So she locked all three of them in the basement on Good Friday. She let them out on Easter morning, and they emerged from the darkness into cold spring, sun bright, a sprinkle of snow. Abe threw up on the frosty grass. Miriam had never found the air so fresh and clear and clean. Jacob had talked to their pastor and he had tried to intervene. “Sequestering your children in the basement for a full weekend?” he said to her parents. Miriam was listening from her cracked bedroom door. “It gives me concern. It’s a bit…extreme.” “Is counseling in order? You know, for the kids?” Dad said. “If that’s what you think best for your family,” the pastor said. He didn’t insist. Mum demurred while he was there, but once he left, she and Dad had one of their weird conversations. She acquiesced to Jacob going to school, but the family stopped going to church during the week. Even after the basement incident, Mum continued to serve as a midwife for a number of women in the church. Many of those births took place in a tub in the basement. Miriam had been raised above the sounds of women in the throes of labor shrieking below the flecked kitchen linoleum, lowing under the creamy expanse of living room carpet. At times throughout her childhood, she lay with her head on the floor, sometimes quietly imitating the women. Their cries made the entire house feel alive, as if it were vibrating from the basement up. But at some point, writing in her journal at night, Miriam made the connection that if she followed the teachings of the church, Mum wouldn’t be working at all. She would be focused entirely on supporting their father as the head of the family, and on raising Miriam, Jacob, and Abe. Four years ago, Dad had come home from work on Miriam’s twelfth birthday with a long, flat instrument case. A bass guitar. A month earlier for his fourteenth birthday, Jacob had received an electric guitar. Miriam had hoped for the same thing. “But this is the perfect instrument for a young woman,” Dad said, handing her the cherry red instrument. “No one’s more supportive than the bassist.” Mum gave her a purity ring and a diary. The ring was silver with black onyx inlay. “We’ll talk more about this,” Mum said, slipping the ring on Miriam’s third finger. “But this diary is for you alone. A girl needs a place.” “I can write anything I want in here?” Miriam asked. “Yes,” Mum said. “Anything.” For his tenth birthday six months later, Abe got a drum set. That’s when the band was born. They called themselves Built on a Hill, from Matthew 5:14: “You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden.” Mum was pleased with the name, but she cautioned Miriam. “I know your father wants to include you in the music,” she said, “but don’t lose sight of who you are supposed to be. You are a girl, and soon, a woman.” She stood beside Miriam, smiling as she held her hand to the tops of their heads, as if measuring. Only twelve, and Miriam stood almost as tall and broad as her mother. Of this fact, she was ashamed. As the boat swayed, Miriam watched Abe, her little brother, out of the corner of her eye. Abe was twisting in his seat. How was he getting along without his usual finger taps and beats on the thighs? They’d eaten roast beef sandwiches the first and second nights. Now Mum smeared peanut butter and jelly on bread. Mum knew Miriam hated PB&J. There were cellophane sleeves of cookies, Cokes in bottles. Oh, what Miriam would give for her toothbrush! Her mother always emphasized dental hygiene for pregnant women. If she’d known Miriam was pregnant, she wouldn’t be treating her this way. Her mother’s big-boned hand extended a sandwich under her nose and she retched. “Miriam,” Mum said. “Seasick. I’m sorry.” “Miriam.” “Maybe we could dock and get something from the convenience store?” But the thought of a gray, soggy burger made her retch again. “You know I know, don’t you?” Miriam’s heart caught in her throat. She looked wildly at her father. His eyebrows were raised and the lines in his forehead were panicky. Jacob looked from their father, to the floor of the boat, to Miriam. Abe sat small and terrified. From a distance came the sound of another boat motor. “Your journal.” Mum patted the gun, its holster peeking out from the folds of her caftan. Then she made a noise like a snort. “Of course I read your journal.” Mum wasn’t wearing her pager. Nor had Miriam heard its muffled call from her caftan pocket. She never went without her pager—she always had women in various stages of pregnancy. “I trusted you boys to watch her. I trusted you, too.” She nearly spit the words at their father. “I thought, look at my family doing good work, playing music in the name of Jesus our Savior our Lord.” The boat motor had grown closer, and now another family went by in their pontoon boat, calling hello and waving. Mum waved, called to them and glared at Dad. He jumped to his feet, and waved as well. “Have a good evening!” he called. When Jacob had returned from college in May, the band had three weeks of glorious practices before they played the show. It was organized by a youth group at one of the megachurches in the city, and Mum and Dad came with them in the van. Dad was excited, of course. Mum seemed genuinely excited about the show, too. She came, even though one of her women was exhibiting signs of labor. She wore her pager on a thick, black elastic band at the waist of her pastel blue caftan. The other moms—in the church kitchen and front hallways, with their fixed hair and capri pants—looked nothing like the billowing hippie mountain that was Mum. In the freshly blacktopped church parking lot with manicured evergreen bushes, Miriam and her brothers helped the other three-piece band unload. They were older, in their early twenties. The drummer was a small, elfish guy with a cross tattoo on his arm, and the guitarist was tall—taller than Miriam—and handsome. His voice was a deep baritone. When he thanked her for helping, she pressed her thighs together. They had a female bassist, too. Miriam helped with her amp. The band was from Chicago, and they were on a one-week tour. “I booked it,” the bassist said. “The only way to do it is to do it yourself.” When they finished loading in, she pulled a compact from her shoulder bag. Her lipstick was a few shades darker than her dress, a tight red paisley number in crushed velvet that gave her a comic-book voluptuousness, with black tights and boots. She didn’t look like any youth group girl Miriam had known. Miriam was wearing jeans, Converse sneakers, and Dad’s old T-shirt from his days in a band, buttercup-yellow jersey fabric with dark brown rings at the neck and arms. The bassist’s appearance made her shy, so Miriam said the only thing she could think of. “You should keep a diary. That’s what I would do on tour.” The bassist lowered her hands, the compact in her right, lipstick in her left, and smiled. “I do, actually,” she said. I’m like her, thought Miriam. The idea made her warm. She stopped thinking then about the fact that like her mother, she was mountainous. After the show it turned out the Chicago band didn’t have a place to stay. “We’ve got our sleeping bags,” the bassist said, her eyes darting from Miriam to the drummer. “We can sleep in the van.” “Of course you should stay at our house,” Dad said. “We wouldn’t want to leave you out in the rain. I’ll tell Mum.” They caravanned out to the suburbs, Miriam and Abe in the van with their parents, and Jacob in the other band’s van in case they were separated on the road. Mum’s pager went off as they got home. Her overnight bag was ready in her car. “Watch them now,” she said to Dad, nodding at Miriam before she drove away. Dad helped unload the gear, and made sure the basement was dry for sleeping. Everyone sprawled around the living room and started talking. It turned out the other band wasn’t Christian at all. The guitarist had been raised in the church but had left it the year before—and the youth group leader who had organized the show was an old friend. He was hoping to bring the guitarist back into the fold. “We were going to stay with him,” the guitarist said, “But we’re just not seeing eye-to-eye on things.” Dad sat off to one side of the room, drinking a root beer and smiling, looking around like he had accomplished something. He clearly wasn’t listening to what the guitarist was saying. Miriam tried to focus on the other girl bassist. The guitarist increasingly fascinated and scared her. Then Miriam saw something come over Dad’s face. He looked from Abe to Jacob to Miriam. He stood up slowly. “Guys, I’m beat. I suppose I can trust you to keep an eye?” He looked at each of them in turn. And then he went upstairs. The guitarist came to sit beside Miriam. She wondered if Jacob would say anything. But she forgot about her big brother as she and the guitarist talked about the differences between electric and acoustic and compared the sizes of their hands. As their palms touched Miriam felt herself glowing. His touch was electric, alive. Soon the other band’s drummer went to bed, as did Abe, who still had an early bedtime. Jacob and the girl bassist were sitting very close to one another on the other side of the room. They stood and stretched. Miriam wondered if Jacob had dated girls at college. “We’re going to walk down to the river, Mir. Okay?” Almost as if he was giving Miriam permission. As soon as they left, Miriam leaned forward and kissed the guitarist. “You haven’t done this before, have you?” he asked. Even then she knew that “this” meant more than kissing. She thought of Bathsheba, King David watching her bathe. She didn’t want to stop, even though she knew she should go no farther. But then, she’d already gone too far. So what did it matter now? They went down to the basement into the room with the birthing tub, away from the sleeping drummer. They giggled as they helped each other into the big round emptiness. “Are we in, like, a spa or something?” the guitarist asked. It felt so good she didn’t know how it could be wrong until he was inside her. Still, that didn’t feel so bad at first. Then the slight edges of pleasure shot through with pain. After a time, she felt nauseous. She’d had enough, but she didn’t know the words to say she was done. When she crawled into her own bed very early that morning, she felt like she’d escaped without anyone knowing. Dad had left his bedroom door open, ostensibly a sign that even in his sleep, he was keeping a watchful eye. But he hadn’t. Nor had Jacob. Before she went to sleep, she wrote it all down in her journal. It was like her spirit had broken out of a cage and was flitting around, and no one the wiser. Until now. Miriam knew she’d stepped completely and irrevocably out of bounds. It flowed from her loins, and she felt it in the soft tissue. She had gone somewhere that night, slipped out of the restraints only to sneak back into them. When she was done writing, she wrapped another rubber band around her journal, making sure the bands were just so before she hid it in a boot box in her closet. Mum was still at the hospital when the band left the next morning. They were playing in Cleveland that night. “A real club. But this was a good warm-up,” the guitarist said. He never wrote. Miriam was scared to even look up the band online—Mum checked her browsing history. Then Miriam missed her period, and the smell of coffee began to turn her stomach. She knew enough from listening to her mother talk to pregnant women that she ought to be worried. She got a test from the drug store and snuck it into the house buried in her backpack. A plus sign. She threw the used test stick into a dumpster near the river. But throwing it away didn’t change the fact that life outside the cage had snuck back in with her, and pretty soon, everyone would see. Miriam told Jacob first. She was thinking that at some point soon after he left again for college, she’d figure out how to get to Columbus so he could hide her. She needed to have the baby away from her mother. She couldn’t imagine having the baby in that basement, the place where she’d once been kept and the place where she’d strayed. Jacob had a different idea: early admission to college and a family dorm. Their parents had lived in one when he was born, although their Christian college probably wouldn’t admit an unwed teenage mother in a family dorm. Jacob picked a big fight with Mum so Miriam could sneak to the only remaining pay phone in town, at the convenience store. She called an admissions officer at the big university in Toledo and took notes, a load of quarters weighing down her pocket. She propped her journal on the small metal shelf under the phone. With her interests, experiences, and test scores, she would certainly be admitted, and once she had the baby she wouldn’t have to take her parents’ income into account on financial aid forms. She could even try for a scholarship. She and Jacob went for a walk after she returned. She told him what the admissions officer said and they started to plan. Then they talked about life before the basement incident. “I hated some things about the church. But we had the church. We weren’t alone. We knew a world and how it worked and we were in it,” he said. As he talked, he kicked a small rock up the street. It skittered and bumped. “Mum’s going off farther and farther and Dad just cowers before her. I’m not coming back again. Promise me that as soon as we get a plan in order, you’ll leave.” That was last week. Miriam had written it all in her journal. To write it made it real and kept her feeling safe until three days ago when they drove down to the boat for a picnic. Once they were out on the water Mum pulled out the gun and ordered Dad to tie them up. Miriam couldn’t even ask God to help them. She had stopped praying. How could she, now that she was pregnant? Miriam was sleeping when she felt a gentle rub on her ankle, then on her shin. She opened her eyes to the river darkness and her dad’s face. Just beyond him, Mum was sprawled on the floor of the boat, snoring, gun strapped to her hand and resting on her chest, her thighs and calves flattened wide and white. “Swim,” Dad said, his voice as quiet as the sound from a seashell. She felt the ropes at her elbows loosen, like the answer to a riddle. Miriam stretched her arms and whispered, “You, too.” Dad swung his head back and forth. The sound of the water lapped at the boat. Miriam could see and hear her brothers as their father helped them with their ties. What would they do? They hadn’t made a plan for this. So Miriam would do what the church taught her. She would obey her father. She raised herself silently and when her brothers saw her, they stopped struggling. “Go,” Jacob mouthed, his go barely audible. Her eyes had adjusted and she saw that he was looking at their dad with surprised eyes. Maybe admiring. Miriam turned, like sleepwalking, and carefully lifted herself over the edge of the boat. Quietly as possible she slid into the water. It was colder than she expected. She marveled at how weightless she felt and she treaded quietly. She needed to get her bearings. Rustling. A thump. Splashes. Her brothers must be in the water now, too. “What in the name of…” her mother’s voice. “Go.” Her dad’s whispered voice echoed across the water. Miriam swam, unsure where she was at first, but as she glanced up between strokes, she saw lights on the river shore and knew they must be in Toledo. One shot. Another. More splashes. She swam in swift, quiet strokes away from the boat. She would stay in the water until she found a ladder. It was August, and warm in the night. Her mother’s voice, screaming her name, then Jacob’s. Then Abe’s. Miriam kept swimming. Once on shore she would make her way down the city streets until she found a church or a police station. Somewhere safe. Hopefully with Jacob and Abe. She was pretty sure that she could hear her brothers swimming. Then the motor swarmed to life on the pontoon boat, and all other sounds were drowned out. The water wasn’t cold but it was laced with filth. And there, Miriam started praying again. She admitted her sins. She made promises. God just see them through this. Miriam’s hand touched the loose weeds lacing the wall of the quay. She climbed the slippery ladder. Feet on the ground she steadied her body. Someone else splashed to the ladder, but the gun went off again and she knew she couldn’t look back. Her brothers would have to follow. Somewhere in the distance before her, a church bell sounded. *JP Solheim’s short fiction has earned recognition in contests held by Glimmer Train and Craft, and their short fiction has been published in Bellevue Literary Review, Confrontation, MQR: Mixtape, and The Pinch. They are part of the MFA in Creative Writing and Literature faculty at Stony Brook University, where they also serve as Associate Director of the BookEnds novel revision fellowship. They live in Oak Park, Illinois.* *We’ll be back in two weeks with more weird stories.* *If you like what you hear, subscribe, like and review the show.* *And if you want your fiction or nonfiction to appear on Midwest Weird, send us your work!* *Thanks for joining us. And stay weird.* ### The Best Pairs to Pair URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-the-best-pairs-to-pair/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T15:08:05.000Z Since this is my fifth column for Midwest Weird, I’m going to spend it talking about the number two. Five ain’t nothing but two point five twos, and that is just math giving me the thumbs up on this endeavor. The number two is significant in many ways. It’s the only even prime number. It’s the age when people say that kids start becoming terrible (but I challenge you to name an age when kids aren’t terrible). The original name for South Dakota was North Dakota 2, but they changed it at the last minute because they didn’t want people to think they wouldn’t be able to understand North Dakota 2 if they’d never been to the first North Dakota. The number two often gets a bad rap. It’s regularly used to describe something that is considered “less than.” People don’t love the idea of getting second place. Second place has been described as the first loser. Good for you for getting first place in something, I guess. Your first spouse is rarely a big fan of your second marriage because what you might consider an upgrade is just a dumb skank to them. When you get a new TV and you’re hauling your old TV out of the house, your old TV isn’t thinking, “Thank you for our time together. I wish nothing but the best for you and your new 65” flat screen.” No, your old TV is thinking, “Good luck trying to get your HDMI cable to work on this shiny, new slut. See you in hell!” Will Smith released a song in 1998 called, “Just the Two of Us,” and it raised my hackles because it was packaged as a love song, but he was singing to his son. I know he wasn’t trying to get romantic with his child, but it was an odd vibe, like having a pair of “dressy” flip flops or intentionally moving to Montana to live alone when you’re not even an emotionally unraveling mathematician/domestic terrorist. Weirder still, by the time that song came out, Will Smith was the father of two. I don’t know if Jaden Smith ever recovered from being left out of that song, but I clearly haven’t. My favorite part about the number two is that it is also the same amount of people in a pair. All due respect to throuples and orgies, but there’s something about a couple – romantic or platonic – that just makes sense. I know the Mormons aren’t always on board with stopping at two, but round up your sister wives – because the pairs be pairing! - **Thelma and Louise** – Vacations are important for everyone, especially women who have to put up with bullshit from men all the damn time. All Thelma and Louise wanted to do was go away for the weekend, and then man after man after man brought them nothing but trouble. You know what’s cool about women? They don’t need men. I was liberated on their behalf, watching them realize that they have run out of fucks to give. In that way, this film reminds me of myself during the holiday season. Shout out to the Grand Canyon for being there for Thelma and Louise when no one else was. - **The Wonder Twins** – I don’t know exactly how Zan and Jana got hooked up with the Super Friends, but my heart tells me it was a meet-cute at a rendering plant. Zan has the ability to turn into water in any form and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. I guess it would come in handy if you wanted to make something think they’d peed their pants. I think that’s the whole list of benefits. His sister’s superpower is being able to turn into any animal she wanted. Does trouser snake count as an animal? It’s wild that they have to touch each other to get their superpowers to work. Your brother has to be there for you to turn into a trouser snake? Kids these days. Where do they get this stuff? - **Batman and Robin** – If a rich bachelor wants to invite a fit, young man to come and live with him in his mansion, who are we to judge? In the *Batman* TV show from the 1960s, they had to slide down a pole (yeah they did) to get to the Batcave. How was the innuendo from more than 50 years ago less subtle than it is now? I hate to say it, but this all sounds very Republican to me. These two, living alone and claiming to be work friends and then sneaking out at night in costumes with built-in abs. And their masks are the opposite of what’s needed to help slow the spread of COVID-19\. I guess if they were actual Republicans, they wouldn’t help people when they snuck out at night. They’d be busy complaining about the Woke Mafia and burning copies of *Gender Queer* that weren’t bothering even one god damn person. - **Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban** – These two always seem like they’re having the time of their lives. It simultaneously uplifts and enrages me, like charades or seeing someone do a real shit job at parallel parking. Escaping the clutches of Tom Cruise is an accomplishment in and of itself, but to then go on and find a sensitive Aussie who knows how to use a flatiron? Extraordinary! Keith Urban’s biggest flaw seems to be being too thoughtful. You know Nicole Kidman just wants to sit in the living room and drink some chardonnay while being pissed at him for eating the rest of the truffles but she can’t because he wouldn’t do such a thing. The nerve. - **Bert and Ernie** – Do you think of Bert and Ernie when you hear the song, “Because You Loved Me,” by Celine Dion? Or is that just me? I know we’ll never see them get married because of Fox News and the fact that they are puppets, but I bet their wedding vows would be DEVASTATING, in the best way possible. I just know they’d include all of the best stuff: making the mundane seem magical, loving the parts that aren’t so lovable (aka feet and/or crepe neck), and carpet picnics. It would be like *The Notebook*, except without James Marsden cockblocking anyone. - **Madeline Ashton and Helen Sharp** – These two assholes are my heroes! We met Madeline and Helen in the film *Death Becomes Her* and they are terrible and tragic and more fun than a bowl of pills. They’re serving what Marjorie Taylor-Green thinks she’s serving, but they have at least a couple redeeming qualities, namely a high school education and access to wit. They might be stuck in decaying bodies, but like my thighs on a hot, summer day—they’re stuck together. Viva la Madeline and Helen (so to speak)! - **Romy and Michele** – Getting out of high school in one piece is no easy task and these two did it with aplomb. Or at least they acted like they did it with aplomb, and that’s not too shabby. I know they went to their high school reunion claiming they invented Post-It Notes to prove that they made it, but they could have just told everyone they had a beachfront apartment. If I had a beachfront apartment, I would greet everyone at the reunion by pointing that out immediately. My whole personality would be “beachfront apartment.” If they wanted to know anything else about me, they could start the 18-month process of gradually convincing me to let my guard down. Spoiler alert: it’s more trouble than it’s worth! People talk about meeting their *person*, but your *person* doesn’t have to be a romantic partner. Maybe your *person* is someone who matches your freak with their pants on. Romy and Michele match each other’s freak in original fashions with nice lines and a fun, frisky use of color. All in all, I’d have to say NO NOTES, Post-It or otherwise. - **Honorable Mention**: Mike Pence and the Fly from the October 12, 2020, vice-presidential debate. That fly did what flies do when it saw a piece of shit. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** "Sometimes I wonder, what you gon' be? A general, a doctor, maybe a MC." – Will Smith from “Just the Two of Us” being THE shittiest guidance counselor. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "Drug Test," Sam Sharp URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-drug-test/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T15:05:56.000Z Sam Sharp grew up in the low hills of north central Ohio. He writes essays and stories about complicated relationships between people, places, and the animals who call them home. He recently earned his MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Wyoming with a concurrent degree in Environment and Natural Resources. You can read his work in Western Confluence Magazine, The Trek, Deep Wild journal, and elsewhere. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.* *We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.* *Today’s episode: A short story by Russell Brakefield, titled “Destroying Angels.” Read by the author.* *This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.* *We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.* *Today’s episode: A nonfiction piece by Sam Sharp, titled “Drug Test.” Read by the author.* **Drug Test** There are 35 questions. Circle T for True, and F for False. Read each question carefully before responding. Respond truthfully. **1\.** I do drugs. T / F **2\.** I don’t do drugs, but if I did, I’d do weed. T / F **3\.** I don’t do weed – nobody “does” weed – but if I did, I’d do edibles. T / F **4\.** I don’t do edibles, but if I did, I’d take a 10 milligram gummy, sprawl out on the carpet, and sink into the beanbag of my thoughts. Like why do I dislike the sound of my own voice? Does anyone like the sound of their own voice? Could you be a DJ if you disliked your own voice? T / F **5\.** I wouldn’t take an edible or sprawl out on the carpet and sink into the beanbag of my thoughts, but if I did, I’d invariably enter an awkward conversation with my roommate because, well, I’m high. T / F **6\.** I get awkward when I’m high. T / F **7\.** I don’t get awkward when I’m high, but I also don’t get like, any smoother. T / F **8\.** I’ve been arrested for getting high. T / F **9\.** I’ve been arrested for smoking weed. T / F **10\.** I’ve been arrested for possessing small quantities of weed. T / F **11\.** I was arrested for possessing a small quantity of weed at my town’s fair when I was fourteen years old. A bald police officer pressed my two accomplices and I against a wall while sirens flashed, and parents and teachers watched in pity and disgust. The cop had tailed us on a bicycle. Later, he informed my parents that he aimed to “teach us a lesson.” T / F **12.** I was not arrested for carrying weed at my town’s when I was fourteen years old, but if I was, I would not have learned any lessons. T / F **13\.** I do meth. T / F **14\.** I don’t do meth, but if I did, it might be because I live in Mt. Vernon, Ohio. T / F **15\.** I do not live in Mt. Vernon, but If I did, I’d be closer to old friends. T / F **16\.** And I’d end up doing meth in an attempt to escape it. T / F **17\.** I am always wishing I could escape to someplace else. Someplace like Colorado. T / F **18\.** Everyone in Ohio talks about moving to Colorado. T / F **19\.** Two years ago, I moved to Wyoming. Now I would never want to live in Colorado. But I’m still looking for… something. T / F **20\.** I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I keep moving in search of it. T / F **21\.** I am tired of moving every two years. T / F **22\.** It’s not that I’m tired of moving; I’m tired of my relationships withering every two years and struggling to establish new ones that are even half as genuine and free as what I have with my friends back home, in Ohio. T / F **23\.** One day, I won’t feel the need to escape, and I’ll be content with where I am. T / F **24\.** I do heroin. T / F **25\.** I don’t do heroin, but my aunt does. T / F **26\.** I don’t actually know if my aunt does heroin. But she’s done a lot of things. T / F **27\.** My uncle doesn’t do heroin because he died in a suspected overdose of crack. T / F **28\.** He’d been clean for 6 months prior. And on the night of his “overdose,” my aunt mysteriously fled the state. T / F **29\.** My cousin is on heroin. T / F **30\.** My cousin has since broke free of heroin. T / F **31\.** Now another of my cousins is on heroin. T / F **32\.** That cousin is not on heroin. But when he was 14 years old, he did shoot his mom’s crack-dealer. He shot him in the spine with his dad’s shotgun. He shot him as the dealer drove away because my aunt told him to – trying to teach the dealer a lesson, I guess – then the dealer called 911 and cried to the operator that he was just shot while selling clothes, according to a court transcript. While on the phone with 911, his steamy, crack-dealing girlfriend said to him, “Drop the pistol, baby,” and the dealer let out a crack-addicted moan before crashing his Mercury Tracer into the ditch, foiling his attempt to escape. T / F **33\.** Everyone is trying to escape Ohio. T / F **34\.** But some people really like it here. And besides, others want to escape *to* Ohio. T / F **35\.** Those people are escaping from Florida. T / F *Sam Sharp grew up in the low hills of northcentral Ohio. He writes essays and stories about complicated relationships between people, places, and the animals who call them home. He recently earned his MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Wyoming with a concurrent degree in Environment and Natural Resources. You can read his work in Western Confluence Magazine, The Trek, Deep Wild journal, and elsewhere.* *We’ll be back in two weeks with more weird stories.* *If you like what you hear, subscribe, like and review the show.* *And if you want your fiction or nonfiction to appear on Midwest Weird, send us your work!* *Thanks for joining us. And stay weird.* ### Counting Down Cowboys URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-counting-down-cowboys/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T15:01:59.000Z I don’t find cowboys particularly fascinating, but I do find society’s fascination with them compelling. First of all, I think it’s important that we define the term, “cowboy.” I would say that “cowboy” is someone’s job, but I think most people think of it as a lifestyle, like narcolepsy or choosing to still go to malls. Google says that a cowboy is, “a ranch hand who herds and cares for cattle, typically on horseback, in North America.” Is Google pushing a stereotype? I bet there are lots of cowboys who are very indifferent about their cows. I would be willing to go so far as to say that some of those cowboys think some of their cows are real asswipes. And I bet some of those cows are homophobic, too. They live out in the middle of nowhere! They’ve never seen Elton John or Peppermint Patty or JoJo Siwa. They don’t know any better! Some of the things that cowboys have to do sound dreadful to me. Apparently they do something called, “grazing management.” So, you watch the cows eat and then what, like, bitch at them because they’re not eating fast enough? That sounds oppressive. They’re cows. Where do they have to be? Let them fucking eat at a reasonable pace. When I was in high school, we had a lunchroom monitor that basically did the same thing. Was he a cowboy, too? The rest of this list of cowboy duties reads like a job description for a high school teacher: proficiently working cattle on horseback (getting students that hate you to do what you want, while avoiding physical contact at all costs); branding (assigning nicknames to help you tell them apart, like “Emotional Support Eyebrows” and “Regrets Aplenty”); and castrating (an activity which I assume a teacher would find as pleasant as speaking to a parent who is using terms like, “indoctrinate,” “liberty” and “Jesus”). As most of those parents did around sophomore year, let’s leave high school behind. Let’s talk about some pop culture cowboys and the rootin’, tootin’, good times we’ve had with them. Giddy up! - **Yosemite Sam.** That beard! Can you imagine how much work goes into the care and maintenance of that beard? I guess if hair covers your entire face except for your nose and part of your ears, you really want to put in the effort to make it look its best. That much hair on his face makes me wonder if he’s a werewolf, but a fun one, like in *Teen Wolf* or Taylor Lautner in the *Twilight* movies. As someone who is always brandishing a weapon and screaming about rabbits, he’s probably not that fun. I bet he’s wild in the sack though. - **William Munny** (Clint Eastwood in *Unforgiven*). William Munny is a murderer who came out of retirement to kill some guys who injured a sex worker and collect the bounty. I think it’s safe to assume three things about this person based on that sentence: he wished he’d retired later than he did, he needed the money, and he would probably think that the entire Pokémon phenomenon is an enormous waste of time. Can you imagine some guy who looks like Clint Eastwood, taking a break from hunting down someone he plans to kill, to trade Pokémon cards? I’ve never had to hunt someone down to murder, so I guess I don’t know the best way to ease the tension. Maybe it’s trading Pokémon cards. Meditation? Stretching? Journaling? I bet it’s journaling for him. - [**Hanker for a Hunk O’ Cheese**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U3jgo5ea%5Fzc&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)**.** Let’s look past the fact that this cowboy is apparently leading a lifelong crusade against leg day. Let’s also look past the fact that their entire body—skin, eyes, teeth—is the same color. And let’s even look past the fact that their cane is a loaded weapon. Why are they naked except for boots, a hat and a kerchief? Those buttons on their torso make it look like they’re wearing a shirt, but they’re not! Those are just buttons glued to their stomach. They are actively trying to trick us into thinking they’re not naked. Do you ride your horse naked? Because horses can’t give consent, perv! All kidding aside, they can wear whatever they want, but don’t you DARE try to tell me that putting cheese on a cracker is a recipe and you’ve named it a “wagon wheel.” We both know you stole that from Sandra Lee. - **Woody** from *Toy Story*. Woody has a personality disorder. That’s not a judgement. It’s just an observation. And as an untrained mental health specialist, I have no way of knowing if I’m correct or not. He just has that vibe where he seems really introverted when company is over, but then when you’re alone with him, he loses his shit. I wonder if it’s because he has to wear the same clothes all the time. I would also argue that he’s not a really a cowboy. He’s dressed like one, but I’ve never seen him work cattle while on horseback. I have seen him scream at an astronaut though. - **Kid Rock.** If the word “gross” were ever to come to life, we know what it would look like. I know he’s not a cowboy, but he has a song named, “Cowboy,” and I think that’s reason enough to include him on this list and bitch about him. You know if Kid Rock didn’t get a recording contract, he’d still be scooping the loop in his hometown with teenagers who are all 35 years younger than he is. Do you remember when Pamela Anderson married him? It’s not easy to actually take a step DOWN from Tommy Lee, but she managed to do it. I think his only redeeming quality might be that he looks like Janice from The Muppets. - **Randy Jones**, the cowboy from The Village People. The internet says he’s known for having a mustache and wearing a leather and chain thong. Can you imagine if he ever went on *Wheel of Fortune* and that’s what Pat Sajak had to say to introduce him? I wonder if he wore one of those once and it just became his personality. Once, my husband asked if I’d ever watched *Bridgerton* and now I’m constantly accusing him of being obsessed with it. In his defense, he only asked me about it one time, but he REALLY asked me about it. Well, Randy Jones is still alive and he could be watching *Bridgerton* right now! I love a full circle moment. - **Ennis and Jack** (Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal) from *Brokeback Mountain*. These two were legitimately cowboys, but I think they were cowboys to sheep, which I think technically makes them sheepherders, but still cowboys in my heart. Taylor Swift and I both want to know why Jake Gyllenhaal was emotionally available for a relationship with Heath Ledger but not with her. She wrote a ten-minute song about it! In *Brokeback Mountain*, Jake Gyllenhaal keeps Heath Ledger’s shirt and in “All Too Well,” he keeps Taylor Swift’s scarf. Does he buy ANY of his own clothes? I may be blurring the lines between these two pieces of pop culture, but the fact remains: Jake Gyllenhaal must be stopped. ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** "You're short on ears and long on mouth." – John Wayne as Jacob McCandles, probably body shaming a shar pei, in *Big Jake* (1971). **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### Season 1: Greatest Hits URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/fuzzy-memories-podcast-season-1-greatest-hits/ Last updated: 2026-07-23T14:23:21.000Z We did it! All the years. All the weirdness. All the things that made us go hmmm. Here's some of our favorites: - [1982: Alien Shenanigans and Cocaine Around Corners](https://youtu.be/XtDKLqmjcCQ?si=sJ2cAdDPFjPxw4Y0&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [1983: Space Tampons, Fuzzy Boots, and Very Special Episodes](https://youtu.be/V%5FX599i5scs?si=u2HfjHIx9FcJklBR&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [1987: Shark Revenge and Brains for Breakfast](https://youtu.be/yeUNgN33J60?si=sHNI1vVSCyxdUxvH&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [1989: Pizza Espionage and Tree Murder](https://youtu.be/kdMI6C-Hp8M?si=X1VwU1memrKBLSjw&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [1991: Terminators, Turtle Pies, and Paternity Tests](https://youtu.be/CxezYDGzlpk?si=xXJ2mdxH0njxdL8K&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [1992: Catsuits, Bad Tacos, and High Heel Murder](https://youtu.be/hrorOb1hLyE?si=uWc6m-4xh9l8E1qW&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [1995: Spare Legs and Secret Tracks](https://youtu.be/aAK7zNUQ%5FVU?si=TPnoX8-bW40afW%5F8&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) - [1997: Football Jail, FenPhen, and Failed Must-See TV](https://youtu.be/oCmpN3hBwQA?si=VP1FjN5-AnBKMUoP&ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) *Fuzzy Memories is the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. Three latchkey kids who made it out alive break down everything from Madonna and Masters of the Universe to Twin Peaks and Titanic. Join us to celebrate the hits, the misses and the misfits of the weirdest decades.* ### "Destroying Angels," Russell Brakefield URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-destroying-angels-russell-brakefield/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T14:54:15.000Z Russell Brakefield is the author of Field Recordings (Wayne State University Press), My Modest Blindness (Autofocus Books) and Irregular Heartbeats at the Park West (Wayne State University Press). He received his MFA in poetry from the University of Michigan’s Helen Zell Writers’ Program. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.* *We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.* *Today’s episode: A short story by Russell Brakefield, titled “Destroying Angels.” Read by the author.* On Friday afternoon Kate was cut early from her day shift at the Velvet Cup, but instead of going home to her husband and young son Oscar, she bellied up to the bar alone and ordered two Bud Lights and a long pour of Canadian Hunter, her tip apron slung over her back like a clutch of arrows. The bar was empty except Kate and the bartender Dewey and old Jim Croc in the corner. Kate drank her beer and stared at the broken TV set above the bar. She tried to imagine a show she’d want to watch, were the TV working, but couldn’t think of anything. She could barely remember the last time she’d watched something that wasn’t crammed full of brightly colored shapes and remixed nursery songs. She took another swig and traced the corners of the label. A George Strait song ended on the old jukebox. The machine clattered and clicked, and Travis Tritt started singing “It’s A Great Day to Be Alive.” Kate was about to ask Dewey to unplug the thing when the mushroom hunter walked in. “This ok?” he said, already taking the stool beside her. “Do what you want,” said Kate. “Nick,” he said, extending a solid, saw-dust dotted forearm. “Kate,” she said, and though she rolled her eyes, her stomach rolled too; her stomach flopped like a fish trying to make its way back to water. Kate turned back to her beer and tried to haul up a bucket of guilt full enough to force herself to settle up and go home. She pictured her son Oscar, swaddled in his dinosaur pajamas, his tiny footsies. But then her thoughts shifted to her husband Jasper, to the fight they would have when she got there, a string of fights that seemed to extend backward and forward through time like a trout line dotted with rusty hooks and lures. She pictured her live-in mother Clara, padding addled circles around the sunroom. She slugged her beer and motioned to Dewey behind the bar. “One more then?” said Dewey. He cleared her empty and ran a rag across the splintered bar top. She put a fiver on the counter. “One more then.” Dewey came back with another beer and a whiskey for Nick. “You know Nick?” he said, setting the drinks down in front of them. “We just met,” said Kate. “Lucky you,” said Dewey. Nick put his hands up in surrender. “I’m just here to drink. Same as anyone.” “Sure.” Dewey leaned genially on the bar top in front of them and pulled out his phone, scrolling with pudgy fingers. “Weather says big rains tonight and tomorrow. Morels will be up.” “Not for you,” said Nick. “Early bird gets the mushroom.” He leaned towards Kate. “Ever seen Dewey up before ten? If you have, I’ll buy your next beer.” “Whatever,” said Dewey. “You can have old Ray’s spot anyways. I’ll get a half a pound out under my oak tree, and I won’t even have to wake up ass crack of dawn.” Nick turned to Kate. “You ever been mushrooming?” He half whispered it like it was a lurid proposition. “Can’t say I have.” Nick smacked his fist into his palm. “Oh man. Missing out.” He whistled dramatically. “I used to cut trees out west. Oregon coast? These Michigan mushrooms got nothing on that stuff. Our weeks off we’d walk out under the big trees and hunt. Some days we’d come back with trash bags full of hen of the woods and turkey tail. We found psilocybin as big as my palm.” Nick held out his big, rough hand to show her. “We made a lot of money that year just on the mushrooms. One guy got a truffle pig.” “Truffle pig?” “Like a hunting dog,” he said. “But for mushrooms. And a pig.” “Huh,” said Kate. The old landline by the register rang, and Dewey wandered down the bar to answer it, leaving her and Nick alone. “So what do you think?” Nick spun his tumbler on its wet ring on the bar top. “Of what?” “Mushrooming.” Nick laughed. “Uncle Ray lets me hunt on his property. You know where the trout farms are? Up near the river?” He leaned towards her on his stool. “I can show you. Rainy morning in the woods? Mist hanging low in the trees? Mushroom and trout feast after?” He smiled, his big eyes narrowing, crinkling at the corners. “Could be very romantic.” Kate laughed uncomfortably. She continued to be shocked at how few men looked for wedding rings, or how few cared. “I’m married.” She held up her hand. “Sorry.” “Bring him along!” said Nick. No hesitation. “I also have a kid,” said Kate. “Bring the kid too! Mushroom hunting is family friendly.” “Oscar’s only eighteen months.” “Ah yeah,” said Nick, and looked down into his drink. “A little young.” They sat in silence, drinking. Kate thought about what her Saturday would look like, sans mushrooms: cleaning the house, bundling Oscar to go for a short, rainy walk, then home to unbundle him all over again, rummy with mom, garish cartoons on the living room TV, leftovers for dinner, enough wine to fall asleep, Jasper’s too-bright book light keeping her up. “I guess Mom could watch him,” she said, keeping eye contact with her Bud Light. “If it’s only a few hours.” Nick smiled and lifted his drink. Kate tapped her bottle against his glass. The next morning Kate and Jasper left little Oscar with her mother and drove out to the address scrawled on the stained bar napkin in Kate’s purse. They bounced over the potholed two-lane, past the bird sanctuary and past the abandoned golf course, Kate behind the wheel and Jasper slugging from a travel mug in the passenger seat. The sun just barely peeked up above the rows of white cedar and pine on the horizon. Ghoulish fog lifted off the conifer swamp lining the county road to the south. Kate slowed to read a faded street sign, squinting. “I think we’ve gone too far,” she said and doubled back. Jasper bobbed and weaved in the passenger seat, staring out the windows. His neatly coiffed brown hair, too carefully combed for a day in the woods, brushed the roof of the car as they rattled up the long dirt road past thinning farmhouses and clapboard ranchers. Kate had to look around his massive Adam’s apple to find their next turn. Jasper had taken very little convincing when Kate brought up the idea the previous night. He had once, in what seemed now like a different geologic age, briefly attended a doctoral program for botany. He tended a fledgling vegetable garden in their backyard every summer. He thought of himself as a back to the lander, even though he ordered his grow lamps and chicken wire and even his seeds off the internet, even though he’d quit the Ph.D. after two semesters and now did something Kate didn’t understand for a tech company whose name she always forgot. And Kate, in her proposition, had also omitted quite a few details about the mushroom hunter. She had left out Nick’s movie star eyes and beefy forearms, had not mentioned his advances or the way he’d made her stomach fish flop. When she’d suggested the trip, she’d simply said “some old local from the bar,” leaving Jasper to make up his own mind about who was leading them out into the woods. The dirt road dead ended at a small, single-story rambler. Beyond the house stood a battered green sign blocking the old log road, a warning about trespassing in the trout hatchery. Kate pulled the car into the drive and parked. She could see Nick leaning against the railing on the house’s raised porch. Next to him sat an older man and a mutty German Shepard with a dark patch of fur around his eye like he’d been fist fighting. The dog stood and gave a few sharp barks. The old man stood too and put his hand in the air. He slumped a little on his left side, his grey beard tangling in the straps of his overalls. Jasper hummed the notes to “Dueling Banjos.” “Stop it,” said Kate, and got out of the car. On the porch, Nick greeted Jasper with the same big smile he’d given Kate the day before. “Nick.” “Jasper.” “So glad you guys decided to come.” Nick swayed, letting his weight rock back and forth on the porch’s railing. “We didn’t get as much rain as they were saying. Hope I didn’t promise you anything more than I can deliver” He winked at Kate. Jasper squinted. He looked from Nick to the old man and then to Kate. His mouth parted like he was about to speak, but he just cleared his throat instead. “Thanks for letting us tag along,” said Kate. “Ida,” said Nick and pointed to the dog, who’d gone back to sleep at the old man’s feet. “And that’s Uncle Ray.” The old man sat back down and lit a cigarette. “Don’t get lost out there,” he said, staring out at the woods across the road. “He’s not coming?” Jasper said. He looked at Kate. No one answered. Kate put her hand on Jasper’s shoulder. Steady. “I’ll be taxing you on the way back though,” said Uncle Ray. “Twenty-five percent, if you find anything at all.” Ida shook out her ears and rearranged herself again at the man’s feet. Jasper wouldn’t let go of Kate’s hand as they followed Nick into the thick woods across the road. Kate hadn’t expected a confrontation—Jasper had never been that guy, had never been one to enter any into conflict at all if he could help it—but as they walked deeper into the forest, she realized maybe part of her had wanted some reaction, maybe part of her had wanted something more out of him than this dark resentment she knew so well. Instead, they trudged on in silence, listening to Nick name tree species and point out where you could find the best hunting spots. Ida ran alongside, furrowing out forest rodents and sniffing through the leaves and long grass. At one point Jasper tugged at Kate’s hand and they fell back a few steps. He whispered at her through gritted teeth. “What are you trying to do here?” “What are you talking about?” she said, though she wasn’t sure either. “You didn’t give me all the facts.” This was a phrase Jasper used constantly, whenever he felt Kate had misled him in some way. “You didn’t give me all the facts” could mean that she’d left something off the grocery list or that she’d had an illicit affair three years ago and was just now coming clean. “You wanted to come. I thought it would be something interesting. Why are you upset?” “You know why I’m upset.” “Settle down,” Kate said. She looked ahead at Nick “He’s an interesting person. Fuck me for wanting to do something different for once. Can’t I want to do something adventurous with an adventurous person without having ulterior motives?” “OK back there?” shouted Nick. Kate broke free of Jasper’s grip and tramped forward, closing the gap between her and the mushroom hunter. They trekked through the woods for nearly two hours, scraping at the wet underbrush, clawing up patches of moss and dead leaves without finding a thing. Not one grizzled brown cap in sight. Not even a whiff of a mushroom. All the while, Nick punctuated their walk with expert advice about finding mushrooms: Start with tree roots. Dead leaves are your best friend. They like the rain, but you won’t find anything if the soil’s too wet. If you find one, stop where you are! Mushrooms are like people—they’re obsessed with coupling. Eventually, Nick stopped in a small clearing. The rain had quit, and an eerie mist hung in the air, the wind colored a wet grey green. Nick looked around as if he’d gotten them lost, as if this was all new to him. “Hmm,” he said. Jasper had been quiet up to this point, giving Kate occasional dark glances, kicking at the dirt and weeds half-heartedly whenever they stopped to hunt. “Is this usually how you do it?” “It’s not a science as much as it is an art,” said Nick, stooping down to part a bed of dead leaves. “Well, we’ve been out here all morning,” said Jasper. “I’m beginning to doubt the canvas.” He looked around him. “And the artist.” “Don’t be rude,” said Kate. Nick stood up and took a step towards Jasper. “Like I said before, not as much rain as they called for. Sometimes they just don’t pop.” “If you say so,” said Jasper. He stared back at Nick. Nick turned and spit into the wind. “Didn’t you say you had some experience? Some schooling? Maybe you know to look for something I don’t?” The two men stood glaring at each other. Kate stood beside them, slightly set apart, dewy patches of alder and trout lily dousing the bottoms of her jeans. Her right hand twitched. She imagined what it might look like for Jasper to throw a punch, then what it might look like for him to take a punch. Jasper took a step towards Nick. Kate flinched, but then Jasper stepped past him and stooped down to the ground instead. He studied the earth beneath him intently, then rummaged wildly through the grass and leaves, but what he pulled up was just a dirty rock and not a mushroom at all. The three of them stared at the muddy hunk of limestone in his hand. “Shit,” said Nick. He turned to Kate and grinned. “Mushroom hunting, right?” He slapped Jasper on the back like they were old friends. Jasper stood and stared at the rock in his hand. Ida barked and barked in the distance. “How about this,” said Nick, pulling his backpack around in front of him. “It’s still early right, and warming up? And I’ve always said, if you can’t find the fun, make it yourself.” He fumbled through his backpack and pulled out what looked to Kate like a plastic baggie full of dirt. He held it up like he’d just foraged it from the grass beneath them and not from his mangy backpack. “Psilocybin. Philosopher’s stones. Shroomies.” Nick opened the bag and sniffed. “What do you guys think?” Kate started to refuse, but Jasper cut her off. “Yeah,” he said. “Yep. Let’s do that.” He cocked back his arm and tossed the rock in a high arc across the field. Ida took off after it. He stepped past Kate and outstretched his palm. “How much should I take?” “Alright Jasper! My man.” Nick slapped him on the back again: all’s forgiven, new old buds. He pulled a clump of mushrooms from the baggie and sprinkled it into John’s palm. “That should set you up.” He turned. “Kate?” Kate’s cheeks were flushed from windburn or embarrassment or both. Jasper had hardly taken an Advil in the ten years they’d been together. He scolded her constantly about her drinking. “No. Not for me,” she said. “Jasper are you sure?” But Jasper had already stuffed the mushrooms into his mouth. Nick put his own wad in and pulled out a bottle of neon blue Gatorade. He took a swig and handed it to Jasper. Jasper took a sip and gasped. “What the fuck?” “Vodka,” said Nick. “Perfect pairing. Boomers, Grey Goose, Arctic Blast.” He laughed. Kate watched the two of them stand in the clearing sucking down vodka Gatorade and chewing like giraffes. The morning’s dark clouds had drifted off and the sun poked through, the air starting to loosen around them. In the distance, Ida pounced after something in the high grass. She barked and barked. A few morning songbirds erupted from the pine stand behind them. In the distance, the sound of water. The day had turned beautiful, Kate realized. Beautiful and dreadful. “Should we go to the river?” asked Nick, already heading south. “Definitely,” said Jasper. “Adventure on, adventure man.” He shot Kate a glance, then jogged to catch up, leaving her alone in the clearing. As they bushwhacked deeper into the woods, Nick and Jasper began to stumble and weave. Nick let out hoots and hollers and occasionally broke into an off-key rendition of “Friends In Low Places.” Jasper followed, not speaking but clearing his throat loudly and repeatedly as he walked. Kate trudged behind them, studying her hiking boots, trying to will the two men to stay upright and alive in front of her. They walked a long time this way, listening for the river. The two men in front, Kate behind. Then, at some point, she lost sight of them in the dense woods, their heads disappearing into the foliage. At first, she followed Ida, who looped back every twenty yards or so and barked expectantly. Catch up. Catch up. But then her tail disappeared too into the thicket of trees and shrubs and Kate was truly alone. “Jasper,” she called but got no response. She called again and then again, louder. “Nick!” she tried. She even tried calling the dog, though Ida didn’t seem like a dog that had ever learned to come on command. She kept moving towards the sound of the river, stopping every few steps to call out for them. At some point, her annoyance turned to panic, a fear that she’d get turned around and lost, that she’d be in these woods forever. Scenes from a series of low-budget disaster movies flashed through her mind. The guy who had to cut off his arm. The woman forced to swim for days in the middle of the ocean. Kate picked up her pace. She yelled Jasper’s name again and again. She broke into a run. Just before her panic overtook her completely, she fell through a thicket and found herself at the river. She stumbled a little, then caught herself and stepped back away from the edge. The river moved fast below, the banks blown over, the water roiling. And there, in the shallow ravine beside the water, were her two stoned companions, crouching in the mud beside a fallen tree, staring in silence at the twisting brown water. “Kate!” said Jasper when he noticed her behind them on the bank. He stood and waved as if they were much further apart than they were. “Kate!” he said again. He smiled, his eyes gleaming. His hair was clumped on one side, his clothes muddy and twisted like he’d fallen over. “I was calling your name,” said Kate. She sat on her butt and scooted down the bank to join them on the rocky beach. “Look what we found,” said Jasper. “He waved a plastic Meijer bag at her. “Mushrooms.” He laughed, then coughed, then laughed again. He was looking at her without looking at her, his huge pupils just floating inside his head. “There were hundreds of them, no thousands! Just up over the ridge there.” Nick stood too and waved his own bulging grocery bag. “I knew they were out here somewhere. Just needed a perspective shift I guess.” He tried to high-five Jasper but couldn’t get his attention. He shrugged at Kate. “We’re going swimming.” “No,” said Kate, surprising herself; the panicked single syllable sounded like one she’d use if Oscar was walking towards an open flame. “No,” she said again, softer. “That’s a bad idea.” “We’re going swimming,” said Jasper, as if Nick hadn’t just said it. Kate grabbed Jasper’s arm. “This is a bad idea. It’s cold. The water’s fast.” Jasper laughed. “It’s ok Kate. It’s an adventure remember?” The malice from earlier had drifted from his voice. “Are you coming?” Kate looked down at the fast brown water, the rocky banks, the broken logs and bundles of fishing line and old coke cans. “There’s no way I’m getting in that,” she said. No way she was taking her clothes off in front of either of these men right now. "Jasper,” she said, but he and Nick were already stripping and tossing their clothes on the rocky beach. From the bank, Kate watched the two naked men wade into the rushing water. Nick walked a few steps and dove under, breaking the brown-grey threads with a graceful dive. He came up five or so yards downstream, the current carrying him quickly. He pumped out some clumsy breaststrokes, fighting back against the current toward the spot where he’d dove. Then he turned onto his back and whooped, letting the current take hold of him again. Kate watched him drift away, following the bend in the river. On the bank above, Ida ran back and forth barking wildly. Her high-pitched yelps echoed through the trees. Jasper followed. He walked like a baby animal or a hunting bird, placing one foot gingerly in front of the other on the slippery river rocks. He giggled at first, then got quiet concentrating. He stepped slowly out into deeper water, his arms outstretched like a tightrope walker. “Wait,” he shouted to Nick, but really to the river, which pushed around his ankles, then his calves, then his thighs. He rearranged himself, trying to get a steady foothold to dive. “Jasper,” said Kate, but he did not seem to hear her. He was a thousand miles away and unhooked from himself completely. In the middle of the river he placed his right foot onto a raised piece of slate and put his hands in front of him like an Olympic swimmer readying for the starting gun. He stepped forward, but then his left foot slipped, and he went down hard. One moment he was preparing to dive, the next he was flailing in the water, fighting against the current, falling beneath the surface and struggling to come up again. Kate rushed down the bank and tossed her backpack off, readying to dive in after him. But just as quickly as he’d gone under, he came up again, in a shallow rifle just a few yards downstream. He stood gingerly and steadied himself, then pulled himself up the bank by the branch of a large birch tree. And just like that he was back on land, breathing heavily, a smear of dark blood around his cheek from a stone or log he’d caught on beneath the current. He let himself fall against the bank and lay there. He wiped at the gash beneath his eye like an animal pawing away an insect. Kate crouched beside him and put her hand on his neck. He recoiled at her touch, but then fell limp against her, his head on her shoulder. He smelled wet and rotten, like a fish or a mushroom. His naked body shivered against hers. He curled into her like they were on the couch or reading together in bed, their old language coming back to them. Kate pushed the blood away from the cut on his cheek. Not deep. Not serious. She pressed the sleeve of her shirt against it and stroked his wet hair, and the two of them sat in silence, listening. Nick haddisappeared somewhere downstream. All that was left of him was an echo of Ida barking in the distance. When they got back to the road, Uncle Ray still sat smoking on the porch. Kate tried to head straight for the car, but he called after them. “Hey,” he said, then “hey you!” Kate walked reluctantly to the porch, Jasper trailing behind, wet and shivering. “You lose Nick?” said Uncle Ray. “He was in the river.” “Damn idiot.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Well, let me see then.” Uncle Ray reached over the railing. Kate nudged Jasper, who was staring off into space. Jasper looked at Uncle Ray. “Oh,” he said, then handed him the bulging Meijer bags. Uncle Ray dumped the bundle of dewy mushrooms onto the porch boards. He waved through the mushrooms, making piles here and there. He let out little grunts and whistles as he worked. Finally, he picked up four mushrooms and held them out for Kate to see. “These,” he said. “What?” Kate stared at the four shriveled storm clouds in his palm. “These are the ones that won’t kill you. Everything else there is poison. I’ll have to burn the lot so Ida don’t eat them and keel over.” “What?” Jasper had snapped back to reality. “That can’t be right.” “Damn sure is,” said Uncle Ray. “These here are false morels. You can tell by the way the cap sits. And these here are called destroying angels. Name should tell you all you need to know with those guys. Sure trip to county health if you eat any of those.” Jasper put his knuckles in his eyes and then looked back down at the piles of mushrooms on the porch. “But Nick said…” “Nick’s a damn idiot. Like I said.” Uncle Ray set the four good mushrooms aside and swept the others back up into the bag. “But,” Jasper said. “Let’s just go.” Kate grabbed his hand and turned back to the car. “Well take these at least,” said Uncle Ray. “These here are real. Genuine. Safe as can be.” He picked up the four shriveled morels. He set one on the railing and dumped the other three into Jasper’s hand. “Not quite dinner, but I’d never say no to a mushroom in butter.” Jasper peered down at the mushrooms. Kate watched him process this information, recalibrate the day. “But,” he said again, then he leaned over and puked in the grass beside the porch. At home, Oscar was napping. Kate’s mother too, wrapped in a shall on the wicker couch on the screened-in porch, a space heater humming a ghost song at her feet. Kate went straight to the bathroom and made the shower as hot as it would go. When she stepped in, she still felt the sensation of walking, her feet sinking into the muddy forest floor. An echo of the day pulsed through her limbs, through her brain. When she stepped out of the bathroom, a wave of food smell smacked her in the face, the scent of butter and burnt soil hanging in the air. She put on her robe and walked through the living room into the kitchen. Near the stove, still wearing his wet clothes, Jasper leaned over a sizzling cast iron pan. He stared down into the pan as if it were a crystal ball or some other dark talisman. He moved a wooden spoon in slow circles, turning with deliberate, tender strokes. River water dripped from his hair and mixed with the three sautéed mushrooms, which sputtered and bloomed and wept in their bed of golden butter. Oscar slept on in the nursery, dreaming of who knows what. Kate’s mother was still wrapped in her dementia dreams on the porch. And at the back of the house, warm and dry, their own bed would be waiting for them, after the feast. *Russell Brakefield is the author of Field Recordings from Wayne State University Press, My Modest Blindness from Autofocus Books, and Irregular Heartbeats at the Park West from Wayne State University Press. He received his MFA in poetry from the University of Michigan’s Helen Zell Writers’ Program.* *We’ll be back in two weeks with more weird stories.* *If you like what you hear, subscribe, like and review the show.* *And if you want your fiction or nonfiction to appear on Midwest Weird, send us your work!* *Thanks for joining us. And stay weird.* ### The Cuntocity of Cereal Mascots URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-the-cuntocity-of-cereal-mascots/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T14:49:15.000Z A couple of months ago, my husband and I attended a high school graduation reception, which in my opinion, are weird. It’s not weird that we were invited. We’re FUN! It’s weird that they exist because I don’t think they’re fun for the graduate or their family. The parent/guardian personnel are probably stressed out about planning and hosting a party for guests that span an 80-year age range. And the graduate is mostly greeting their parent/guardian’s friends and smiling while being told different variations of, “I can’t believe how quickly you’ve grown up.” Personally, I like to go to graduation receptions and tell the graduates that I can’t believe they’re not older than they are and then tell them that maybe slouching less would help. At the aforementioned graduation reception, I was delighted to learn that the c-word, of all things, is a hit with teens these days. As I understand it, the girls, gays and theys have reclaimed the c-word. A term that used to be considered deeply insulting and strongly anti-woman is now used in association with feminism and to encourage inclusivity. When you are “serving cunt,” you’re showcasing beauty, strength and composure. We were even told about a sighting at a local mall, where a teen was wearing a camouflage shirt that read, “Cunting Season,” and I was thoroughly delighted by that. Since then, I’ve been quietly ranking things to see if, and how well, they’re serving cunt. It’s HIGH TIME that someone started using math and science in the most useful way possible and that time is now and I am the user. My initial applications included a variety of topics: sneakers, cheeses, Canadian provinces, men named “Shannon.” However, my findings didn’t lead to any concrete conclusions. I couldn’t tell if Reeboks were more cunty than Pumas. I didn’t have enough data to determine if cottage cheese was cuntier than brie. All the men named “Shannon” seemed to possess an equal amount of cuntocity. But cereal mascots are the exception. Cereal mascots have a clear hierarchy of cuntiness and it’s on full display below, from least to most cunty. - **Snap, Crackle and Pop** (Rice Krispies): I can’t with those hats. These three look like they ran away to join the circus and the circus said, “No thanks, girls.” Are they a throuple? It would help if they were. I don’t know anyone who buys Rice Krispies unless they’re making Rice Krispies Treats which are really just Chex Mix for the pre-diabetic. They do not slay. AT ALL. - **The Trix Rabbit** (Trix): I think he’d be better off if someone made him into a hat. His days are filled with shitty disguises, trying to steal cereal from kids. You know what, rabbit? Kids aren’t that smart and they aren’t that strong. Just go take the cereal from them. What are they going to do? Put you in cereal jail? I get that your deal is tricking kids, but your deal isn’t working. Zero rizz factor on the cunt front, I’m afraid. - **Cookie Crook** (Cookie Crisp): Doing crimes isn’t cool unless you’re going full Robin Hood and redistributing wealth, and maybe that should be a crime in the same way that jaywalking is a crime. I’ll give Cookie Crook credit for going after what he wants, but at what cost? Almost every woman who is currently in prison is there because of a man. Cookie Crisp is Cookie Crook’s man. What has your man done for you lately, Cookie Crook? Nothing! He should become the Erin Brockovich of women in prison and use his familiarity with the legal system to get them early parole. He has loads of unrealized cunty potential. - **Lucky the Leprechaun** (Lucky Charms): While the Trix Rabbit couldn’t get any cereal, this fucker is a cereal hoarder. Points to him for living the mantra, “I can’t take care of you if I don’t take care of me,” but when you’re pushing a mid-grade product, people aren’t going to be that upset if you won’t share it with them. What’s next? You’re not going to share that French fry that you found under your car seat? While I commend his goal of avoiding children, they only want him because of his cereal, which really calls their taste level into question. Like Jan Brady, he’s trying to be cunty, but it’s not really landing. - **Horatio Magellan Crunch** (Cap’n Crunch): This guy has a boat, which is a cunty thing to have. He also has the first name, “Horatio,” and while not particularly cunty, it is a little over the top in the same way that Giada DeLaurentis overpronouncing words is over the top. You know – it’s not illegal, but it’s gross. He never leaves the house without epaulettes, which is a serve unless you’re at Red Lobster and people think you’re dressed to deliver cheddar bay biscuits. The Cap’n is mid-cunt. - **Sugar Bear** (Golden Crisp): Sugar Bear is unbothered by your bullshit. He’s relaxed as can be until you start twitching and activate him. He spent most of the 80s beating the shit out of other animals cause they thought they could fuck with him. We stan a queen who is the embodiment of a Real Housewife proclaiming, “Don’t come for me unless I send for you.” And he’s doing it all with no pants on, to boot. I recognize your cuntiness and I offer my respect. - **Tony the Tiger** (Frosted Flakes): Do you remember in *Toy Story*, how Buzz Lightyear thought he was an actual astronaut and he wouldn’t tolerate any opinion to the contrary? Tony the Tiger thinks that Frosted Flakes are good for you, the delusional bastard. (Pro tip: save yourself some time and just eat sugar directly from the paper bag it comes in.) Somehow, this all makes him that much more endearing. That’s being the cunt you want to see in the world, if you ask me. As an Italian-American (he is – FOR REAL), Tony the Tiger can get it. You’d think that red scarf around his neck would hinder his ability to score ass, but somehow he makes it work. Tony the Tiger is an icon, a legend – he is the (cunt of the) moment. He is a cunt server of the highest order! ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “I don’t mean to be a cunt.” -Dawn Weiner in *Welcome to the Dollhouse*, aka America’s Cunt **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "36 Hours in the SPAM Museum," Graham Marema URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/midwest-weird-36-hours-in-the-spam-museum-graham-marema/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T14:44:52.000Z Graham Marema is a writer from East Tennessee who received her MFA at the University of Wyoming with a concurrent degree in Environment & Natural Resources. She is an activist, traveler, and musician. Her work has appeared in the American Literary Review, Litro Magazine, and 3Elements Review. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.* *We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.* *Today’s episode: A short story by Graham Marema, titled “36 Hours in the SPAM® Museum.” Read by the author.* If you’re cruising down I-90 through the Driftless Region and find yourself hankering for a stop somewhere on your way from Madison to Sioux Falls, or vice versa, it’s likely you’ll pass the exit for Austin, Minnesota. At first glance, it might seem like there isn’t much to this unassuming town of 25,000 people, other than two artificial lakes and one county fair, but if you’re adventurous enough to take that exit ramp anyway, head up Main Street, and before you know it, you’ll find yourself standing before a life-sized bronze man walking two life-sized bronze pigs beneath a can’t-miss-it sign declaring in bright yellow letters: *SPAM® MUSEUM*. Locals say this bronze man is Jay Hormel himself, the man/myth/legend credited with inventing the iconic salted pork product. The names of the bronze pigs are unknown. I recommend getting there the minute the doors open. **Itinerary** **Friday** *10:00am* Admission to the SPAM® Museum is free of charge ($0). In fact, the sweet dimpled girl with gray eyes at the front desk will give you two free SPAM® stickers ($0 and $0), so by the time you step beneath the giant, glowing SPAM® can that serves as the centerpiece to this one-of-a-kind roadside attraction, you’ll be richer than when you walked in. I suggest new visitors take a moment to orient themselves. Not because of the sensory overload – though it’s true that there are many neon lights, giant screens showing slabs of meat that lie on their sides in sultry positions, and a conveyer belt of empty SPAM® cans running overhead at all times. I make this recommendation because there are many rooms and pathways in the SPAM® Museum, and it’s easy to get lost. *10:11am* Start in the gift shop. It may sound backwards, but with the bewildering wonders waiting within the Museum itself, you’ll want to get your shopping out of the way. Snag a SPAM® Bucket Hat for your Uncle Terry ($23) and a banjo made from an empty SPAM® can for your cousin Betty ($64). Throw in a SPAM®-themed 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle for yourself ($22), just for kicks. And don’t forget the essential souvenir: SPAM® ($4/can). Don’t worry about carrying your purchases into the Museum. “I’ll watch them for you,” the sweet dimpled girl will offer. *11:45am* I always tell first-time visitors to skip the flashy stuff and head straight to the historical posters. You’ve collected your souvenirs for loved ones; now load up on fun facts. Like did you know that SPAM® became popular during WWII because it was easy to ship off with soldiers, earning it fun nicknames like “ham that didn’t pass its physical” and “meatloaf without basic training”? Or that someone won a hundred bucks to name Jay Hormel’s creation in a contest, but only a handful of people know what the name actually means? Although it’s widely believed that the name is actually just a portmanteau of “spiced” and “ham”? Spiced? you may think. What’s spiced about SPAM®? Maybe the “s” stands for salty, or splendid, or salivatory? Maybe it stands for a word you’ve never heard of? Stop getting distracted. Questions like that can steer you off track. *1:45pm* Measure yourself in cans of SPAM® at the “How many SPAM® cans tall are you?” measuring stick (23.5 SPAM® cans). Count the number of different flavors of SPAM® there are on the SPAM® flavor wall (18 flavors). Time yourself at the “You ‘Can!’ Make SPAM®” packing station, where you hit the green button, stuff a pink plushy into a can, lid it, cook it, label it, box it, and cry, “DONE!” (68 seconds). Look around to find someone you can brag to. Realize you don’t see anyone else in the entire Museum. Realize you haven’t seen anyone at all since you left the gift shop. *4:45 pm* They’ll be closing soon, so start looking for the exit. If you’d like to stay in town for dinner, you could head over to Kenny’s Oak Grill for a SPAM® De’ Melt, a grilled cheese stuffed with SPAM®, cheese, bacon, and sour cream ($9.89). But once you start searching for the exit, you might just find yourself wandering through the Museum’s iconic “SPAM® Around the World” exhibit instead, where only a few steps will take you from the Philippines to England to South Korea to Hawaii to, if you get turned around once or twice, back to the Philippines. You’ll learn how SPAM® is enjoyed in forty countries around the world, with deliciously fun facts from each one, like did you know that you can measure the border between Mexico and the US in SPAM® cans (30,903,840 cans!)? “Hello?” you may holler the fifth time you appear at the Philippines enclave, where you can play an interactive CD-ROM game to create a SPAM®-branded van and drive it around the country shooting meat at passersby. “Hello?!” *Midnight* When you’ve wandered so long that your feet ache and the backs of your eyelids burn, find a place to rest. Anywhere, here is fine, Hawaii, the floor painted to resemble the beach, the walls adorned with photos of SPAM® wrapped in seaweed. It may take you a while to fall asleep, and you may tremble. You have no blanket. You may hear strange noises overhead. That’s normal. You may drift in and out of a restless doze, may open one eye in the early morning hours and see the SPAM® on the walls writhing, rolling like flexed muscles, performing intricate pax de deus with the seaweed. This may, you remind yourself, be only a dream. **Saturday** *7:43am* Wake in Hawaii. Your back will be stiff, but your body will be warm. There is a blanket thrown over you. It is decorated with a cartoonish map of Austin, Minnesota. It’s time to get up. The Museum will be opening again in a few short hours. *8:15am* For a filling breakfast, head to the interactive virtual cookbooks section. Here you will learn that SPAM® can be eaten for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Feel your mouth salivate as you paw through glowing recipes for SPAM® Wontons, Maple & Brown Sugar SPAM® Ice Cream, Inside Out SPAMTastic™ Musubi, and Spiced Dutch Baby Pancake with SPAM® Figgy Pudding & Cranberry Butter. You have no way to make these recipes. You are hungry and dehydrated. *10:00am* Admission is now open for a new wave of eager guests. Wait hopefully for a sign to blink on, a person in a uniform to appear, anyone, to lead you by hand back to the entrance, which has eluded you now for many hours. Wait a while longer, standing on the edge between Hawaii and South Korea. You will soon feel as though someone is watching you. Turn around quickly. It is only the rattling of SPAM®. *11:12am* Sometimes, existence in the SPAM® Museum will be very sad. Like when you spend too long watching the fourteen-minute loop video of soldiers receiving black and white cans of SPAM® on the front lines. It will make you cry, depleting the salt reserves of your body to dangerous levels. They just want some easy protein, you will wail inside yourself. They just want to make it home. *2:33pm* Sometimes, existence in the SPAM® Museum isn’t so bad, really. You will find yourself in the “Kids ‘Can!’ Play” area, which is sort of this weird miniature village tucked into the corner behind the SPAM® measuring stick. You can pretend to shop for fresh vegetables at the fake farmer’s market, so you can take them home to your fake wife in the fake house, whose kitchen is just big enough for you to crawl into. She will be preparing you a feast of SPAMBurgers™ and fries, wearing her hair up in that twisted bun you like. You will sit at the kitchen counter, hunched in a child’s size chair, lean your forehead against her stomach and breathe in her meaty smell. “How was work?” she’ll ask you, and “Oh, fine,” you’ll reply, even though it wasn’t, and she’ll sigh that sigh and say, “I know that tone,” and you’ll say, “What tone? I didn’t even say anything, Jesus,” and she’ll say, “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, I wish you’d quit that job if you hate it so much, I wish you and I could go to that old hotel and fuck like we used to,” and you’ll say, “I’m sorry,” and she’ll say, “I’m sorry too,” and your chest will hurt and you’ll hold her tighter, listening to her heartbeat through her belly, and you’ll think it might be possible, you and her, to get out there and find that old hotel and find the people you used to be, and you and your fake wife will look out the window together at the little garden you planted a long time ago when the fake kids were young, and then you’ll notice someone’s watching you through that window, a real someone, with real, gray eyes, watching through the glassless slats, real eyes that blink, once, twice, and you’ll rush out of the fake house and into the fake farmer’s market, knocking over the fake food stand, scattering plastic fruit across the grass-colored carpeting. But by then the eyes will be gone, and the only real person you’ve seen in twenty-five hours gone with them. To make matters worse, when you return home, the house will be just a fake house again, your fake wife gone without leaving you any food. *4:03pm* Sometimes, existence in the SPAM® Museum will be very dull, so dull that you will reread the informational plaques on Austin, Minnesota, four, five, fifteen times, and you will memorize and shout facts about Austin, Minnesota, scream them over the rattle of overhead cans, down the Museum’s dim and empty corridors, as if you’re teaching essential lessons to someone who is just around the corner. “Austin is sometimes called SPAM® Town USA,” you will bellow. “It has a comprehensive cancer research institution founded by the Hormel corporation. Have you heard about its nature center? Has anyone ever shown you the secret spots to go swimming in its beautiful, manmade lakes?” *7:00pm* Nap in the SPAM® Shack, at the plastic feet of a giant, grinning SPAM® can figure, waving gloved hands at someone who isn’t there. Dream of I-90, of your car parked somewhere, of a space whose meter has run out. *7:58pm* Wake to real gray eyes watching you over real dimples. Grasp her wrist. “Blegh!” the girl will screech. “Let go of me!” Sit up. It will be the same girl from before, the one with sweet dimples, the one who gave you free stickers ($0 and $0) at the front desk. She will be surrounded by your gift shop purchases: the SPAM® Bucket Hat for your Uncle Terry ($23), the banjo made from an empty SPAM® can for your cousin Betty ($64), the SPAM®-themed 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle for yourself ($22), just for kicks, and the single can of SPAM® ($4/can). Release the wrist. Go for the SPAM®. How long has it been since you’ve eaten? The dimpled girl will rub her wrist. “Yeesh,” she will say. “I came to give you your stuff. You looked so sad. And I brought you some of these too.” She will produce an orange tray with cubes of SPAM® skewered on toothpicks. The sight of these will make drool eek from both corners of your mouth. “They’re our SPAMplers™,” she will say. “We pass them out at events.” You will weep a little. She will pretend not to notice. The meat will replenish your sodium levels, depleted by your tears. A single slab of “spiced ham” has one-third of your recommended daily sodium intake. Tell her: “I can’t find an exit.” Say: “I really should get back on the road, as soon as possible.” Beg: “I’m starving for something green,” and: “Please, you have to help me.” The girl will say: “Come with me.” *8:15pm* Follow the girl to a giant blue wall painted with an “I” and a heart and a can of SPAM®. Do what the girl says; read the wall out loud: *I – heart – SPAM*®. “Did you know that Austin is a city of 25,000 people?” the girl will ask you (yes, I told you that already). “And did you know that 1,800 of those people work for Hormel, the makers of SPAM®?” (This will be news to you too, but you will be too hungry to care). “Did you know that someone once got married here, a couple named Henry and Lucy Hatmaker?” (No). “Did you know that, as a SPAMbassador™, I got to attend the nuptials?” (Eat another SPAMpler™). “You can see why you’d want to be married in a place like this, can’t you?” the girl will prod. “Can’t you see why in 2015, Austin was named one of the Top 10 Affordable Small Towns Where You’d Actually Want to Live? It’s a place of community, possibility. A place you can hold onto.” Don’t get swept up in her speech. It’s a marketing script written by the Hormel corporation. The girl will switch tactics. “Do you know why they call this part of Minnesota the Driftless Region?” she’ll ask. Imagine the word *driftless* as a pink plushy you can shove into a can, lid, label, and box. Time how long it takes. “It’s because the glaciers never drifted through here,” the girl will tell you. “Because, during the last ice age, this area never experienced glacial erosion. A huge chunk of Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, and Illinois, all got overlooked when the glaciers were moving in. Glaciers flatten land like an ironing board. But here, the land never got flattened. It’s all wrinkly and steep. It’s defined by its unevenness. Do you know what happens in a place like that?” Stop listening to her. You’re listening to me, remember? Besides, you already know this. Didn’t you take eighth grade geography? Don’t you already know what happens in a place like that, to people like you? *9:06pm* “Haven’t you been drifting across the prairie all your life?” the girl will ask you as you help her pick up the spilled plastic vegetables in the “You ‘Can!’ Play” playground. She will pile them neatly in a basket and give each apple a pat as if it’s a child she’s sending off to school. “Wouldn’t it be nice to stop blowing across those plains, to end up in a place like this, wouldn’t you like to get caught in the folds of somewhere and hold on?” Tell her to shut up. Stick your fingers in your ears and hum. Why are you looking in the window of the little house? Your wife will not smile at you from the kitchen with a platter of SPAMBurgers™. Your wife is long gone, and the kids, and the garden, and the hotel from many years ago. Or was the hotel fake after all, and the wife, and the kids? Or have you just forgotten? Can you remember how long you’ve been here? *9:33pm* “What if you stayed here a while?” the girl will ask, as you watch her design a SPAM®-themed van on a CD-ROM computer game in the Philippines. “What if you mailed all those gifts to your family and just stayed here with me?” *9:46pm* Follow the girl to the exit. She will have to lead you there eventually. Someone has to watch the front desk, so no one steals the free stickers. Stand at the glass double doors and look out into the parking lot, and there you will see the back of Jay Hormel’s bronze head and the gleaming rumps of the pigs. From here, it will seem they stare down Main Street toward I-90, accusatory. Though they are made of metal, you will see the man’s clothes shudder in the wind. Ignore the girl. Follow me into the parking lot. Meet me by the pigs. Ignore her, I said. Ignore her. *9:59pm* Fine, stay here, see if I care. You know what will happen. I shouldn’t have to tell you. Stay here and sleep in Hawaii, beneath the girl’s blanket, dancing with spiced ham and seaweed, singing love songs on SPAM® can banjos, for years and years, as long as you like, until the next glaciers move through North America in flattening sheets, to squash Minnesota beneath the pressure of centuries into a land that is blank and sheer and pocketless. Like Nebraska. Or certain parts of Michigan. Or other places that you’ve never been, because they have no exit ramps to get there. *Graham Marema is a writer from East Tennessee who received her MFA at the University of Wyoming with a concurrent degree in Environment & Natural Resources. She is an activist, traveler, and musician. Her work has appeared in the American Literary Review, Litro Magazine, and 3Elements Review.* *Watch for an upcoming bonus episode where we chat with Graham about this story, writing, latest obsessions, and more.* *We’ll be back in two weeks with more weird stories.* *If you like what you hear, subscribe, like and review the show.* *And if you want your fiction or nonfiction to appear on Midwest Weird, send us your work!* *Thanks for joining us. And stay weird.* ### The Augusts of Life URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/donzerly-light-the-augusts-of-life/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T15:02:11.000Z August has a weird vibe. It’s still summer, but by now it’s been summer so long that you’ve started to forget what it feels like when it’s not summer and you think you can handle it not being summer, but it’s going to be February again someday and you’re going to feel like a real asshole for thinking that a time that is not summertime, such as February, is preferable to any part of summer. Don’t believe me? Ask a parking lot. You know every August, parking lots are tired of being scorching hot, with kids running around on them, not being in school on them, and dropping gum and boogers on them. I am certain that parking lots are thinking, “This is bullshit. I want it to be February. Kids are in school. Boogers freeze to kids faces. People are scared shitless because they could slip and fall on me at any moment. That’s the life for me!” August is historically the least fun part of something that’s normally fun. If August was a meal, it would be the part of the meal where you have to eat arugula. If August was owning a pet, it would be the part where you have to take them to the vet and listen to someone take a wild guess at what’s wrong with your pet, never really figure it out, and still charge you $500 for not solving the problem at hand. If August was a part of sex, it would be the part where you have to try and remember the other person’s name as they're gathering up their underpants to leave. You know what else August is like? It’s like the third or fourth sequel in a movie series that you’ve always loved, but this one is a little tougher to get behind. It’s like a movie or album from a performer you love, but you feel like they’re asking a lot of you to be even remotely enthusiastic about the turd they’re trying to polish on *LIVE with Kelly and Mark*. Like sands through the hourglass, here are the Augusts of my life[:](#tb8n5359) - *Batman and Robin* (1997) I loved the Michael Keaton *Batman* movies. I loved the Val Kilmer *Batman* movie that was decidedly campier. I really wanted to love *Batman and Robin*, but Jesus Christ in heaven, I am only capable of so much. Part of the charm of *Batman* movies are the sexy people in silly costumes spouting campy quips, but this took it to an abusive level. I mean, there was a room full of adults that listened to Arnold Schwarzenegger say, with a straight face, into a camera, “Allow me to break the ice: My name is Freeze. Learn it well, for it's the chilling sound of your doom.” If you see something, say something, people! Jeez, Louise. - *Speed 2: Cruise Control* (1997) As you can see, 1997 was a disappointing year for me. When Keanu Reeves decided not to return for *Speed 2*, they should have just closed up shop. He was the main character in the first movie! Well, him and the bus. This is akin to making a sequel to *Titanic*, but having it take place on a city bus and the door that Kate Winslet was floating on at the end of *Titanic* is the bus driver. It would never work, right? OK, but if someone decides to make that movie, I want a story credit. Please and thank you. - *Jaws: The Revenge* (1987) Anyone who listens to our podcast ([Fuzzy Memories](https://www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com/episodes/episode/f23d706d/1987-shark-revenge-and-brains-for-breakfast?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) – available wherever you get your podcasts) knows how I feel about this movie. It’s ridiculous, and I love it, but not for the right reasons. Sharks are bad enough on their own, but sharks that are obsessed with single women of a certain age and secretly follow them on vacation? Steven Spielberg could NEVER. A shark does try to eat an airplane though. COMEDY GOLD. - *Independence Day: Resurgence* (2016) What in the extraterrestrial hell were they thinking? They waited 20 years to make the sequel and they couldn’t have waited a few more years, until Will Smith had slapped Chris Rock at the Academy Awards, so his career would be in the toilet and he’d agree to be in it? Jasmine, played by Vivica A. Fox in both films, was a stripper in the first movie and is a doctor in this movie. Listen. I love a non-traditional student. I love a lifelong learner. I love a gal with chutzpa. I don’t love that the screenwriters thought that, after surviving an alien attack, a woman would decide NOW is the time to go to medical school. I now know the world could end any day? I’ll be studying for my MCAT exams while I wait. Also, the aliens were buttholes. - *Scream 3* (2000) I love all of the *Scream* films, even the new ones, but *Scream 3* is the one I love the least. It pains me to say that for many reasons, mostly because Parker Posey is in the movie and she deserves twice as much love as the average person. Another person is coming after Sidney Prescott? How many people did you and your mom piss off? Everyone else that has tried to kill you is dead, so why does this new person think he can do it? Of course it’s a man. Men think they can do anything. I bet it was a man who gave Courteney Cox those god-awful bangs she had in this movie. I thought Courteney Cox’s bangs were hiding under my bed for weeks after seeing this movie and I didn’t sleep A WINK. - *My December* by Kelly Clarkson (2007) Have you ever experienced that thing, when you’re pissed off at work, and you write an email and then you think, “I’m going to wait 30 minutes and read that again and then reassess if it’s a good idea to send it?” I think that’s what Kelly Clarkson should have done with this album. I am not ashamed to admit that I have sang-shouted, “Never Again,” hundreds of times in my car, but I’ve never been angry enough to justify creating an almost nine minute song (“Irvine”) that’s mopier than Charlie Brown with seasonal affective disorder. Let’s get you one of those light therapy lamps. My treat! - *Glitter* (2001) As American citizens, we all share in the blame for the film *Glitter* and it’s accompanying soundtrack. Mariah Carey had done nothing but give and give and give to us and we should have been there for her when she needed us. We should have told her this wasn’t a good idea. We should have told her that there are MILLIONS of actors who aren’t good singers, so it’s OK to be a singer who isn’t a good actor. We should have suggested another duet with Boyz II Men. Also, as the soundtrack was released on 9/11, Osama Bin Laden is partly to blame, thus making Mariah Carey the ultimate patriot. Put her on Mount Rushmore, right this minute! ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “Nobody is gonna hit as hard as life, but it ain't how hard you can hit. It's how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. It's how much you can take, and keep moving forward.” -Rocky Balboa, presumably talking Courteney Cox through growing out her bangs after filming *Scream 3*.\* \*I know it was a wig. Don’t you dare act like I didn’t know that. **Heath Smith* is co-host of* [*Fuzzy Memories*](www.fuzzymemoriespodcast.com)*, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "You're Invited," Jane Lovell URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/youre-invited-jane-lovell/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T14:29:29.000Z Jane Lovell is a writer and zine maker from St. Louis, Missouri. Her work has previously appeared in Abyss & Apex Magazine. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.* *We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.* *Today’s episode: A short story by Jane Lovell, titled “You’re Invited.” Read by the Midwest Weird team.* As Ruby waited on the curb, cold and embarrassed, she decided she never should have come to Berlin. But how could she have refused? She’d never set foot outside of Wisconsin before, and the magazine fellowship found her housing and covered the cost. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. There were a few other young reporters on her team, all Europeans, who had invited her out clubbing with them. When they arrived at a club you might have heard of, she realized she was never getting in. As her friends lined up outside, Ruby panicked and told them to go on without her. Now here she was, waiting at the crosswalk in her glittery, middle-America going-out dress. The man next to her was looking down at a piece of paper in his hand. Then he looked over at her and said, “Ruby Kwon?” She nodded, and he handed the paper to her. It was a piece of cream cardstock with the words *You’re invited* embossed on the front in gold script. She flipped it around to look at the back, where her name was handwritten in black ballpoint pen. The light changed again, and the man disappeared in the stream of people crossing the street. She doubled back to tell her friends about this strange incident. The line shuffled forward as she told them the story, and then they were at the door. The bouncer reached out and took the card from her. He looked at it, both sides, then handed it back and lifted the rope. As soon as she stepped over to the other side, he dropped the rope back onto the hook and pointed her friends to the side. They started to argue with him, but he just shook his head. One of her friends turned to Ruby to ask her to come with them to a different club, but she shook her head too. She was Ruby Kwon from Milwaukee, and she was in. Why would she leave? Ruby later described the club as carnivalesque. She made friends, although she didn’t remember any of their names afterward. She didn’t recognize any of the music, couldn’t even name the genre, but that just made it cooler. A girl in the bathroom told Ruby that her outfit was brave, and Ruby didn’t think it was a put-down. That was before she ripped her dress almost toppling over a balcony. That may have been when her phone fell out of its safe spot in her bra, next to the invitation. After she ditched her new friends on the walk to get döner kebabs, sprinted across a pedestrian bridge in a fit of mad freedom, and ended up back at her front door she realized the phone was missing. Her keys too. Luckily, the bathroom window was open. Her neighbor across the street was still awake, which should have been lucky as well. Unfortunately, her neighbor was a paranoiac, and Ruby gets belligerent when she’s drunk. After a few hours drying out at the police station, she found enough German to explain that she was breaking into her own apartment. That's the story Ruby told me when she got back to the States after finishing her fellowship, but that’s not how she described it. The only way I can describe her attitude is bragging. Her eyes glazed over when she told the story of that night and all the ones that came after, like she missed it. The rest of her fellowship cohort was invited to apply for full-time, permanent positions at the magazine, but she wasn’t. She didn’t think there was any connection to her clubbing, not even the fact that she showed up to work hungover multiple times. The first time she told me about Berlin, she showed me the card. It was just as she described it, white and gold. A few weeks later, she had some friends over for drinks and told the story again. I asked her afterward if she could show me the card again, and her face fell. “I don’t have it anymore,” she said. “I gave it to Pike.” I asked her why she thought that was a good idea. I couldn’t imagine a worse place for him than a club. Pike was a mutual friend, more hers than mine, honestly, but we were both there when he struggled to quit alcohol a few years ago. She explained that it wasn’t like that. They had been commiserating over relationship troubles; his girlfriend had recently broken things off, but he didn’t feel like he had closure. As a joke, Ruby suggested that he take the invitation to into a house show that his ex’s band would be playing that weekend. He did. Then, she said, he texted her to say the night went great and that he finally had the closure he needed. She heard later from the host that Pike had broken an upstairs banister and refused to pay for the damages. I ran into Pike at Ruby’s birthday a few weeks later. When I met up with him on the patio, he had a beer in hand, and I finally got to ask him about the house show and how it went. “Good, man,” he said. “Real good.” He said his ex’s friends seemed thrilled to see him. People kept pulling him aside, telling him how glad they were that he was there, giving him drinks, and consoling him about the end of his relationship. He hadn’t even known some of the things they told him, not about her cheating on him or that she was telling people his sobriety didn’t mesh with her lifestyle. I was horrified, but he just kept repeating that it was for the best, that he felt so much better now. “I needed to know,” he said. Every time he said it, he took another sip of his beer. When I was collecting my things at the end of the evening, I noticed Pike’s work jacket on the bed near mine. I checked the pockets, and there was the invitation. It had to have been the same one - it was bent from being cupped against Ruby’s sweaty boob all those months ago - but it didn’t say Ruby Kwon on the back. It said Cory Pike. The name was written in pen. I took the invitation. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, but I didn’t trust the thing. I kept it in my jacket pocket for a while, but eventually I stuck it in a box of loose documents I kept meaning to file away. When it was with me, I kept being tempted to use it. Why not sneak backstage at a concert? Why not breeze past the host stand at an exclusive restaurant? Why not invite yourself to a stranger’s picnic, if you happen to get hungry while you’re at the park? There’s a good reason why not: I was worried the card didn’t actually work. That I would show it to some gatekeeper somewhere and they would laugh in my face. My greater worry, though, was that it would work. What was I supposed to think about that? The question “Is it magic?” could have been put to rest if it suddenly had my name on the back as soon as I picked it up, if the letters in Cory Pike mutated into Eric Gillespie. It didn’t, though. I didn’t look at the back when I was shoving it into a box, and I didn’t take it out again until I decided what to do with it. So I don’t know when Pike’s name turned into my sister’s. Jessica is a statistical researcher, and it makes her annoyingly grounded and insightful. She’s also a complete geek about it. I brought her the card and told her the whole story, and she listened while toying with the corner of the card. When I was done, she carefully slipped the invitation into her purse and folded her hands on the kitchen table. “It’s not that I don’t believe you,” she said. “But I can't believe you. You can’t prove to me it’s not your friends playing a big joke.” Over the next month, Jessica texted me updates every few days. She was treating it like a study to test the card’s function. First, she used it to get into a movie theater without a ticket. Then to buy alcohol without showing her ID — that didn’t work. Then she got a table at a Michelin-starred restaurant without a reservation. Meanwhile, we theorized about where the card could have come from. Handed to Ruby by a stranger on the street — its creator, or just someone who wanted to get rid of it? I didn’t notice at first that I hadn’t heard from Jessica in a while, about her experiments or otherwise. It was late fall, and my boyfriend and I were arguing a lot about how to spend the holidays. Whatever arrangement we came up with, no one would be happy. It never felt fair that Michael was always traveling across the country to my family’s Thanksgiving, when his parents were in town. He didn’t see them, but that didn’t stop them from calling. Sometimes, he answered. The situation should have been settled, but in the middle of November, he surprised me. He talked to his mother on the phone, and it went better than usual. We were invited to Thanksgiving. As much as I didn’t want to spend time with his asshole homophobic parents, I agreed to go, as long as it was just for dinner. Jess came over the next day to give me an update on her card experiments. She looked rougher than the last time I’d seen her, almost deflated somehow. She curled up on my couch and told me the whole story. The previous weekend, she attempted her most audacious experiment yet. She used the invitation to get into a statistics conference that was being held downtown. It worked so well that the organizers apologized for not having a name tag ready for her. She admitted, though, that this was more selfish than scientific: One of her personal heroes was presenting at the conference, and she wanted to meet him. On that front, it was a huge success. She approached him after a panel, and they hit it off immediately. My heart sank as I watched her describe the rest of the weekend. She wouldn’t stop smiling. Everywhere they went outside of the conference center, she paid for his drinks and food and even cover at a bar. All told, the cost must have been in the hundreds of dollars. I pressed her about it. Didn’t she feel like he was taking advantage of her hero-worship? Of course she didn’t. She was hosting him in her city! Was all the late-night drinking she described considered normal and professional in her field? Because it wasn’t in mine. She faltered, then. There was one thing she regretted, she said. On Sunday night, he invited her and some of his students back to his hotel room with a couple of other statistics professors. That was one thing she promised herself a long time ago that she’d never do. It seemed silly now, given how much she trusted her guy, but she didn’t know these other professors. “I just wish I would have stuck it out,” she said. “I know it would have been worthwhile.” After that, she laughed and said that coming back to work was a huge bummer. “I guess everyone heard about what a whirlwind weekend I had,” she added. Her colleagues had been avoiding her or acting chummy in a way they never had before. “That doesn't seem like a good thing,” I told her. “Any of it.” “I think you’re just jealous,” she said. I tried to convince her that I could not give less of a fuck about her professor crush, but she didn’t believe me. Before she left, I asked for the card back, and she looked confused. “I gave it to Mike when I stopped by on Monday,” she said. “Didn’t he tell you?” I didn’t have time to talk to Michael about the card before Thanksgiving, beyond confirming that Jess had given it to him and he’d tossed it in the stack of miscellaneous mail on the dining room table. He hadn’t shown any interest in the card when I talked about it before. He was a few years younger than me with his own friends, and he tended not to care that much about the flow of gossip among mine. After cramming a week’s worth of work into three days and learning how to bake a casserole, I finally got to clock out for Thanksgiving. I’d done what I could to make a good impression, took out my piercings and baked a fucking casserole, but I knew it wouldn’t be enough to keep Michael’s family from, at best, making veiled comments. The house where Michael grew up was out in the ‘burbs. It was a long drive, and spent most of the trip looking out the window. We didn’t talk much. I parked on the street. It was tricky, following him up the driveway while balancing the heavy casserole tray in its thermal bag, because he wouldn’t keep a consistent pace. Marching forward, then dropping to a shuffle, then speeding up again. His mother opened the door and greeted us by just saying, “Michael.” She had one hand on the door and one hand on the door frame, gripping both tightly. Michael said, “Hi, mom,” and for a moment, neither of them did anything. My arms were starting to twinge under the weight of the casserole. I could hear a football game playing somewhere inside, and there was laughter. Then Michael took something out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her. I didn’t have it in me to be surprised, but I do remember thinking *You’ve got to be kidding me*. His mom’s expression transformed as she took the card. She turned it over in her hands, and although I couldn’t see it, I knew that it now said Michael Duvalier on the back. Card in hand, she smiled up at him and stepped away from the door. I stepped forward to follow him into the house, but his mother moved to block me. With surprising vitriol, she said, “Not you.” I looked to Michael for support, for him to show off the confidence I’d watched him develop over the years we’d been dating. He stood behind her, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and said, “Mom, can I talk to you?” She nodded and held up a finger, silently telling me to wait, before closing the door. I rested the casserole dish on the porch railing and let my head droop. I shouldn’t have expected this to play out any differently. Of course Michael’s parents hadn’t changed. There probably never was a phone call that went “better than usual.” Of course I never would have pushed back on it, given how guilty I felt about being so close with my family. Of course I was left out here in the cold. Ruby’s friends had never been able to follow her past the bouncers. It was several minutes before the door opened again. It was Michael, just Michael. That didn’t make me feel better. “I’m going to stay,” he said, soft and husky, “but you should probably go.” “You know what’s going to happen,” I said. “You’re going to feel so good about it, but you should hate yourself.” “I know,” he said. We stood on either side of the doorway, as far away from each other as we’d ever been. Lamely, I said, “Do you want the casserole?” I spent the rest of the night at home, picking away at the corner of the dish I’d meant to be a peace offering to Michael’s family. I watched the first 20 minutes of *A Christmas Story* on TV and then, pissed at how saccharine it was, ordered pay-per-view porn. I kept my phone next to me, expecting that any minute Michael would call me to come pick him up, even though I knew that wouldn’t happen. When he finally did call me, it was to tell me he was spending the night at his parents’. “I might stay for a couple days,” he said. All I could say to that was, “Yeah.” “You think you know everything,” he said. I expected him to finish that thought, but after a moment he just said goodnight and ended the call. After I got drunk and texted the whole story to Jessica and then to Ruby when Jess didn’t respond right away, I fell asleep on the couch. I woke up in the early hours of the morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. I couldn’t stop wondering, why us? I tried to distract myself on my phone for a while and ended up on a news story about a college student who had died after getting alcohol poisoning and falling down a flight of stairs at a frat party. He hadn’t even been a student at the university; he was a local community college student. I felt the same tickle of wrongness in the back of my brain that I’d felt the first time Ruby told me about Berlin. My thumbs were shaky and I didn’t have my glasses on, so it took a couple of tries to google the kid’s name. I found a couple of other local news stories and his obituary, which linked me to a Facebook page his friends had set up in his honor. I don’t know what I was doing it for, besides sick curiosity. I clicked through the pictures until I found one of the kid in his bedroom. It looked like it was taken on a disposable camera; his laughing face was out of focus and blown out by the flash. The desk behind him, though, was perfectly sharp. The surface was a mess, but I could clearly see a white rectangle on top of a stack of books. On the card, printed in blue script, were the words “You’re invited.” *Jane Lovell is a writer and zine maker from St. Louis, Missouri. Her work has previously appeared in Abyss & Apex Magazine.* *Watch for upcoming bonus episode where we chat with Jane about this story, writing, latest obsessions, and more.* *We’ll be back in two weeks with more weird stories.* *If you like what you hear, subscribe, like and review the show.* *And if you want your fiction or nonfiction to appear on Midwest Weird, send us your work!* *Thanks for joining us. And stay weird.* ### Weird Ghosts in Pop Culture URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/weird-ghosts-in-pop-culture/ Last updated: 2026-07-06T14:55:29.000Z As a weird person from the Midwest, I feel I am deeply qualified to write a column for a publication called *Midwest Weird*. It’s like my whole life has been leading up to this moment. Let’s examine the facts: that time I was physically touched by a member of the *Road Rules* cast because he thought I was from Puerto Rico. The time I briefly dated someone who smoked while on the toilet and I told myself (OUT LOUD), “This is fine, right?” Taking fake phone calls while walking through the mall to avoid aggressive kiosk workers. These are all weird things that happened to me, in the Midwest. To paraphrase Cher in the tepidly received 1987 legal thriller *Suspect*, “I rest my case.” Is your list of proof of weirdness not as air-tight as mine, but you’re in the middle of the country and you want people to know you’re unusual? Ask them if they believe in ghosts. To that end, I present to you my list of pop culture ghosts that will make your average, boring, “normal” person think twice about striking up a conversation with you at an unnamed point in the future. While this is a list of famous ghosts and why they themselves read as “weird” to me, it is not a ranking of the ghosts. Comparing pop culture ghosts is a fruitless exercise, like asking a baby to be polite or trying to figure out the difference between the Chicago shows on NBC. To directly quote Brandi Glanville from season four, episode seven of *The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills*, “It’s not a competition, Joyce.” - The ghosts from Pac-Man. I don’t know why these ghosts were so obsessed with trying to kill Pac-Man. They weren’t good at it and I can’t imagine it paid well. Maybe they were socially awkward and this was how they expressed it? I guess it’s better than writing poetry. - Sam Wheat (Patrick Swayze in *Ghost*). After being murdered, a lot of ghosts would move on to the next realm and try to find Mary Todd Lincoln and ask her if she knew if her husband was gay, but not Sam Wheat. He hijacked the body of a pretend psychic to warn his former lover that she was in danger, girl. He did the right thing, which is downright weird in this day and age (and that one, too). - Boo Berry. Boo Berry knows that he’s everyone’s third choice in monster-themed cereal. The only time you’ll see someone pick Boo Berry is either when Count Chocula and Frankenberry are sold out or when they need their mouth to be blue for the next 90 minutes, for science purposes, or worse—to trick people into thinking they performed a sex act on a Smurf. Still, he seems relatively cheerful for a ghost who people avoid not because he’s a ghost, but because he is the Eeyore of the cereal aisle. Which is weird, but also low-key threatening. - Slimer from *Ghostbusters*. Do you remember how much of a slut Slimer was for hot dogs? I don’t think that’s what made Slimer weird. I think what made Slimer weird was that he became friends with the Ghostbusters, the very people who imprisoned him. Stockholm Syndrome aside, anyone who could put up with the trail of mucus he left behind was probably worth sticking with. - The Ghost of Christmas Past. If there is anyone in the history of literature who should lay off of reminding people about their mistakes, it’s the Ghost of Christmas Past. No one’s perfect, alright, dude? A lifetime of coke and whores (probably) and now you think you’re the Oprah of the next realm? Delusions of grandeur are definitely weird, sir or madam. I’m glad you found your purpose, but millennials really throw a fit when people have to work on holidays now. I know you’re used to giving advice more than getting it, but I’d consider becoming the Ghost of the Winter Solstice before you get cancelled. - The Ghost of Christmas Present. I don’t want to speak for everyone, but I don’t need a ghost to make me feel anxious about how everything I’ve done and said is pissing people off. My brain’s got that covered, thanks. It makes me feel weird and we’re talking about you being weird right now, Ghost of Christmas Present. You’re going to let me peak into my neighbor’s kitchen to hear them discuss how weird I was by the mailboxes today? Thank you for your service, but no thanks. - The Ghost of Christmas Future. Being needlessly bitchy is weird, especially at the holidays. We’re all doing our best, just to get by! The last thing I need is a ghost who doesn’t understand that anger is often the manifestation of guilt and depression. If you weren’t on the journey, don’t bitch about the destination. Also, why are you spookier than your ghost siblings? Who hurt you? ***Takeaway Quote of the Week*** “Some things are true whether you believe them or not.” -Nicolas Cage as Seth in *City of Angels*, not a ghost, but a ghost-adjacent angel, and also a MAGA supporter, apparently. **Heath Smith* is co-host of Fuzzy Memories, the podcast that celebrates the good, the rad and the fugly of the 80s and 90s. He was once asked by a cast member of MTV’s Road Rules if he was from Puerto Rico. In his free time, he enjoys Mariah Carey a normal and healthy amount. For a good time, follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/therealheathsmithofficial?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Why *"Donzerly Light*"? Heath says: In elementary school, I thought "donzerly light" was part of the lyrics of the national anthem. I didn't realize that the actual words were "dawn's early light." I just assumed "donzerly" was an old-timey word that meant "majestic" or something like that. My middle school social studies teacher, who thought I was trying to make a joke with “donzerly,” would be 100% irritated by naming my column this way, and that makes it even better.* ### "Growth," Keira Perkins URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/growth-keira-perkins/ Last updated: 2026-07-06T14:40:49.000Z Keira Perkins writes both short fiction and poetry, most of it speculative. She is also a scientist, which is mostly not speculative. Keira lives in Indiana with her husband, dogs, cats, and whichever stray animal she’s brought home that week. Keira can be found at [keiraperkins.com](http://keiraperkins.com/?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com), where she blogs about knitting, ghosts, miscellaneous trivia and occasionally, writing. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.* *We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.* *Today’s episode: A short story by Keira Perkins, titled “Growth.” Read by the author.* It was growing. Clara stared into the refrigerator. That weird, sticky puddle that had been under the rotting carrots was growing. At least, she thought they had been carrots once. She remembered feeling proud of herself for buying vegetables and she had big plans for the carrots, which she had then promptly forgotten. Several weeks later, she had found a plastic bag that was emblazoned with the words, “CARROTS” as well as “Gluten-Free!” and assumed that the greenish-brown sludge were, at one time, gluten-free carrots. The sludge had merged with an older yellow stain on the shelf, which made Clara think of the pea-soup vomit scene in *The Exorcist*. The sticky puddle was bigger today, which was definitely weird. She was always finding sticky, little piles of something in her home, so that part wasn’t weird. It was just weird that it was bigger. She had thrown away the maybe-carrots yesterday and scrubbed at the puddle with some bleach. Maybe she hadn’t actually scrubbed, she admitted to herself. But she knew she had definitely sprayed the puddle with a little bleach from a bottle that she had found under sink. She even rubbed at it a bit with an old sponge too. She wasn’t very successful because both the sponge and puddle were gross, and she didn’t want to handle either longer than necessary. But still, she had tried a little, and that was better than nothing. The puddle had fuzzy bumps now. Yesterday there were no fuzzy bumps. Clara closed the refrigerator door and ordered tacos from Door Dash. Tacos were always more satisfying than thinking about rotten carrots. **∞** Clara was firmly in the camp that ignoring a problem made it go away. She didn’t really believe it could make things go away, but it was nice to pretend. You could pretend for a long time before you had to do anything. But that puddle was still there. It was still growing. There were more fuzzy bumps now and there was a smell, slightly metallic and little like an electrical fire. It felt like pennies on her back teeth and reminded her vaguely of blood. However, the blood smell was also something she didn’t like to think about, so she just didn’t. It had a been a week since she had first spotted the puddle in her refrigerator. Now she had to admit that the puddle was more like a small swamp. Clara knew she needed to do something about it, but it felt too big. How do you get rid of a swamp in your refrigerator? But maybe. Maybe. Clara grabbed a large trash bag and threw away the rest of the food in the refrigerator. There wasn’t much in there and besides, that weird blood smell had permeated into the butter. She had nearly vomited when trying to eat her toast yesterday. She would eat a lot of questionable food, but she wasn’t going to eat blood-butter. She had recently bought a gallon of bleach as she had finally come to terms with her earlier efforts and realized that the old bleach simply had not worked. Clara poured it over the swampy puddle, splashing the shelves and her feet. Everything was fine. It would be okay. The bleach would work, and she would be able to soak up the mess with a handful of paper towels. She had bought extra in case it took a whole roll. They were on sale too, so she bought a few more rolls, which made her feel proud that she had planned ahead. Clara didn’t like to think about the swamp past her plan with the paper towels and bleach. That pennies on her teeth feeling moved into her belly when she thought about the swamp and whether this would get rid of it. She slammed the door shut. The bleach would do its job. **∞** The bleach did not do its job. “Lazy bleach,” Clara said. She stared at the green, swampy, bumpy mess that was somehow, bigger still. And that smell. Christ. She could taste it. It was in her nose and her throat reaching down into the pit of her stomach and twisting. She shut the door. She opened the door. She shut it. Opened. It was still there. The swampy fuzzy thing was growing up the walls of the refrigerator and spreading, twisting its tendrils outward. She could feel the panic growing up and out of her stomach, like those tendrils, filling her throat, choking her. It was that smell, that *blood* smell, that kept getting stronger and thicker. She closed the door and breathed. It was a mess of thick blood fog in her lungs and in her throat and in her mind. Breathe. Just keep breathing. The smell wouldn’t shake loose; she was saturated in it. Without another thought, Clara walked to the back door and into the blazing sunlight. It was a hot day and Clara hoped the sun was intense enough to burn the smell away. She knew it wasn’t enough, but she still hoped. The sun wasn’t any better at its job than the bleach, but it was a nice idea to hold onto. It was a steady good thought. Sunlight could burn away the blood smell. The heat was something to feel rather than that awful choking sensation. Clara sat in the sun, letting it envelope her, and secretly hoping its steady warmth might turn her to dust so she could float away. It didn’t. Lazy sun. She kept breathing instead. **∞** It made no sense to be afraid of the swampy thing. Clara knew that. It was just a mess that needed to be cleaned up. But she was afraid, and she was ashamed. There was a something growing in her refrigerator, and she had no idea what to do. She knew that weird smelly things sometimes grew in refrigerators. She knew that most adults simply cleaned them up, efficiently and with minimum grumbling, and went about their day. Why couldn’t she? Why was this too big for her? Clara stood in front of the refrigerator, took a deep steadying breath, and opened the door once again. The swamp thing was still there. Of course, it was still there. She knew it would be, but she was hoping that just maybe it had all been her imagination. It was still there, and the universe was cruel. Clara forced herself to breathe in deeply through her mouth and out through her nose. The smell was still present, but it wasn’t quite as overwhelming this way. “Good job, dummy.” she muttered, “Now think. Look at it. What do you see?” She looked. It was still large and green and swampy. It still had twisty, climbing, tendrils that reached like vines and folded like tentacles. It was still bumpy. Good. If she was hallucinating at least her mind was consistent in its deception, which was strangely comforting. Clara continued to search it, while taking her steadying breaths. It was green, with streaks and spots of browns and yellows. It wouldn’t look out of place in a Pollock gallery. The bumps looked warty and slightly fuzzy, like they may be soft to the touch. They reminded her of a woolly toad. Clara continued to observe the green, swampy, blobby, *thing*. Was it….breathing? How could it be breathing? Clara watched the bumps rise and fall, in sync with her own breath. Her breath caught and the warty fuzzy bumps stopped moving too. She stared. Her heart thumped hard, painfully, and the thing pumped too. Then Clara was outside of her own body watching herself hyperventilate with the bumpy swamp thing keeping time with her quickening rhythm. Clara watched herself walk with deceptive calm to the kitchen’s junk drawer. Her hands dug through the rubber bands, and pens, and other detritus until she found a lighter. She spun around and ran to the living room, laid flat on her belly, and grabbed her hairspray from under the couch. It had rolled under there the other day, and she just hadn’t bothered to retrieve it. Clara went back to the refrigerator, flicked the lighter, and aimed the hair spray at the swamp blob. For a make-shift flame thrower, it wasn’t as terrible as it could be. As the flames hit the swamp blob, a high pitch hiss and foggy steam began to emanate from it. The swamp blob wasn’t on fire yet, but it was smoldering. Some of the warts dried up like old pimples, popped, and began to ooze a thick black liquid. The smell of it, that awful blood smell, pulled her back to her body while her mind continued to push her out. Then slowly, the hiss elongated and reached a higher octave. It was a tea kettle screaming from her refrigerator, green, foul-smelling smoke started to pour from the door. Her own hair started to blacken and curl around the edge. She felt delirious, like she was burning hot with a fever. She watched as tiny fissures split the skin of her fingers and began to bleed. The ineffable, cascading pain of it snapped her back fully into her own body. She expected fuzzy warty bumps to explode through the surface of her skin and for green tendrils to burst free at her hairlines. Neither of those happened. She still dropped the lighter. It was enough. It hurt too much. Clara fell to her knees and sat back slowly on her heels. She couldn’t kill it. “Is this it then? If you die, I die?” The swamp blob didn’t respond, but at least the screaming had stopped. As Clara sat on her knees, she watched the swamp blob ooze and scuttle on its burnt tendrils from the refrigerator. It hit the floor and then began to inch up her knee, leaving a trail of thick, black slime in its wake. The swamp blob then made its way up her thigh, curled around her belly like a vine, and finally nestled itself into the crook of her neck. “You smell bad.” said Clara. The swamp thing gurgled, like a trumpet full of spit. It may have been a happy noise. “What if I want you to die? What if I want us to both die?” The swamp thing made another noise, a little a like a whistle and a little like a braying donkey. It may have been laughing, but who could say. It had no mouth. **∞** The swamp thing did not die. Neither did Clara. The swamp thing seemed fond of her, despite her earlier attempts to kill it with fire. She did her best to avoid it, and not think about it, but it followed her everywhere when she was at home, including slipping into her bed late at night and curling up on the bathroom tile when she was in the shower. A few times, the swamp thing tried to sneak out the front door when Clara left for work. An uneasy truce slowly formed between them, until Clara was forced to consider they were now bound to one another. There was no escape. “And really,” she said as she stroked where she thought the swamp thing’s belly might be, “that’s not terrible. You eat all the vegetables that I accidentally leave to rot in fridge. And you like my mess, which makes you a better roommate than all my previous ones.” The swampy blob thing gurgled. Clara thought it might be agreeing with her that yes, it was a good blob and roommate. They had started a tradition that on Fridays, the swamp thing would join her on the couch to watch ‘80s slasher movies. She hadn’t invited it at first. The swamp thing simply showed up. These days though, she made sure they were both cozy. Clara would snuggle up under a hand-knitted blanket and the swamp-blob oozed into an old Igloo cooler. It liked to squeeze into tight and climate-controlled spaces (When not with Clara, the thing’s favorite spot in the whole house was the crisper drawer in the refrigerator). Clara offered the first piece of cheese pizza to her friend, but looked away as it ate. Clara was still not sure how the swamp thing ate, but decided it was best to not look too closely. Something like dread moved in her belly if she looked too closely. As she turned her head, she caught the goriest of kills on the television and shrieked in horror and delight. The swamp thing in turn wrapped one tentacle around her neck and gurgled happily. Clara had decided that if she couldn’t rid herself of her monsters, learning how to befriend them was also a very good choice. As long as she didn’t think about it too hard, everything would be fine. Just fine. Just keep breathing. *Keira Perkins writes both short fiction and poetry, most of it speculative. She is also a scientist, which is mostly not speculative. Keira lives in Indiana with her husband, dogs, cats, and whichever stray animal she’s brought home that week. Keira can be found at* [*keiraperkins.com*](http://keiraperkins.com/?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*, where she blogs about knitting, ghosts, miscellaneous trivia and occasionally, writing.* *We’ll be back in two weeks with more weird stories.* *If you like what you hear, subscribe, like and review the show.* *And if you want your fiction or nonfiction to appear on Midwest Weird, send us your work!* *Thanks for joining us. And stay weird.* ### "Negation," Jessica Klimesh URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/negation-jessica-klimesh/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T20:34:57.000Z Jessica Klimesh (she/her) is a US-based writer and editor whose creative work has been published or is forthcoming in Cleaver, Flash Frog, trampset, Atticus Review, Brink, Club Plum Literary, Ghost Parachute, and Bending Genres, among others. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net. Learn more at [www.jessicaklimesh.com](http://www.jessicaklimesh.com/?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com). Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.* *We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.* *Today’s episode: A flash fiction piece by Jessica Klimesh, titled “Negation.” Read by the author.* --- I’m seventeen when my mother shoots me, or tries to, again and again. I’m Hester Prynne, and my mother is Dimmesdale. It feels like a game, but it’s not. \# My parents have abandoned me, left me in the attic of my grandparents’ house where no one will look when they discover I’m missing. There’s a small window, but I can’t see out because I’m trapped, can’t move, so I cry, scream. Years later, my mother will laugh at my version of the memory and say that it wasn’t an attic at all but the upstairs of my grandparents’ house. You were just taking a nap in your crib, she’ll say, and we were right downstairs. Her tone will be light, sing-song sweet, and it will feel like the truth, but it won’t be the truth. \# A man has lost his head, so I try to superglue it back on for him. Hold still, I say. Then: Bend down, I can’t reach. He nods but not really, because I’m holding his head, rocking it like a baby. It’s mine now, I say, I’m sorry. I sound sincere, but I’m not. # A mother and her two daughters are visiting me. During the night, one daughter helps her sister put knives in her chest, spelling out “Help me.” Their mother calls 9-1-1, but the operator ignores her. I grab the phone and scream for them to hurry. The operator says it will be alright, but it won’t. The paramedics arrive, but they arrive too late. # Even though I’ve told her I don’t want to go, my mother drives me to the birthday party of one of my kindergarten classmates. You’ll change your mind once you get there, she says. But I don’t. I begrudgingly get out of the car like she’s asked me to, and while still standing on the driveway, just an arm’s length, no more, from our yellow Ford Pinto, I give my gift to the girl whose birthday it is, then tell my mother I’m ready to go. Don’t you at least want to go inside and have some cake? my mother says. It feels like an option, but it’s not. No, I say. # When I’m ten, I take a summer swimming class. Not at the Y like the swimming classes I took when I was five and six. This is an outdoor pool, somebody’s house. We learn to do somersaults in the water. But when I try again later that summer at a hotel pool, I get disoriented, am unable to find the surface. I panic, flail, gasp. It feels like the end, but it’s not. *Jessica Klimesh (she/her) is a US-based writer and editor whose creative work has been published or is forthcoming in Cleaver, Flash Frog, trampset, Atticus Review, Brink, Club Plum Literary, Ghost Parachute, and Bending Genres, among others. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net. Learn more at* [*jessicaklimesh.com*](http://jessicaklimesh.com/?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com)*.* *Watch for upcoming bonus episode where we chat with Jessica about this story, writing, latest obsessions, and more.* *We’ll be back in two weeks with more weird stories.* *If you like what you hear, subscribe, like and review the show.* *And if you want your fiction or nonfiction to appear on Midwest Weird, send us your work!* *Thanks for joining us. And stay weird.* ### "The Highway," Maxine Firehammer URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/maxine-firehammer-the-highway/ Last updated: 2026-07-06T14:40:02.000Z Maxine Firehammer is a horror writer living in Saint Paul. She has previously had work appear in Hash Journal, The Molotov Cocktail, and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. She is a 2024 Pushcart Prize nominee. Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers. --- --- **Episode Transcript:** *This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.* *We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.* *Today’s episode: A short story by Maxine Firehammer, titled “The Highway.” Read by the author.* We rolled the car. Or rather, Nick rolled the car when a deer darted out, and he gave the wheel a sharp tug to the left in thoughtless reaction. One complete spin, and into the ditch. We landed almost right side up, tilted a little against the dusty bank. The radio was still playing. Nick switched it off. He didn’t use the knob, just palmed the dashboard. The thud of his hand rattled a few more tinkling pieces of glass from the shattered windshield. We sat in silence for a minute. The deer trotted across the highway, taunting. If my heart wasn’t pounding in my ears, I probably could’ve heard the click of its hooves. I looked down at myself, then at Nick. His nose was bleeding from knocking against the wheel, and we both had a scattering of tiny cuts from the glass. I could feel a bruise forming across my chest where my seatbelt had caught me, and I knew it would be deep blue. Apart from that, we were pristine. A miracle. The same couldn’t be said for the car. Pieces of fiberglass and metal and shredded tire were strewn across the pavement. With quaking hands, I fumbled for my phone. No reception. The grass parted like a curtain as the deer stepped inside and vanished. All was quiet. We’d been on our way to a rented cabin, to spend our anniversary out in nature, so it was a bit ironic that the first wildlife we saw sent us skidding off the road. I wondered if we’d still go. Probably not. I thought about asking Nick, but now wasn’t the time. He was shaking worse than me as we undid our seatbelts and climbed out. “Fuck. Shit. Fuck.” “Hey.” I looked through the open door at him. “We’re okay.” “I could’ve killed you. Both of us. We’re stranded. The car is… I’m so sorry.” He had grown up in the city, far from here. “We’re alive and we’re not hurt bad. We’ll get to town, have something to eat, find a hotel, and then, after that we’ll worry about the car.” “Okay. I love you.” “I love you too. Here, let’s grab the water bottle. It’s going to be a long way.” Nick stopped trembling as he handed me my old Boy Scout canteen, and I was glad for that. As I took him by the arm and helped him over the crest of the ditch, something shifted in the grass. The golden stalks moved, whispering together as if pushed by an errant breeze. No wind blew. The air was still. When I was a kid, any time my family would take a road trip, I used to imagine a man running alongside the car. He kept pace on superhuman legs, scaling the mountains, bounding across the valleys, fording the rivers. Everywhere we went, he followed. Sometimes, my imagination would spin out of control, and I’d start to feel afraid of the running man. Where did he go when the car stopped? When we reached our destination? When we slept? Once, when I was about six years old, we’d gone down to California, and I had dreamt he was jogging laps in the hotel parking lot, bare feet slapping on the asphalt, and that if I’d peeked through the window, I would’ve seen him grinning up at me. Now, I wondered if he was the thing behind the grass. The walk was hot and long. It was late afternoon, as we’d meant to get to the cabin around dusk, and the orange sun smoldered like a dusty old space heater, its rays reflecting up at us off the pavement. I took a long drink from the canteen, water escaping from the corners of my mouth and dripping down my cheeks, and passed it to Nick. He held it with both hands. Mountains loomed in the distance, blue and colossal. They seemed unreal, like matte paintings in a movie. I looked at them, pausing for a moment to let the ache in my feet dull. I saw movement again, far off this time, deep in the fields. Whatever was out there was larger than a deer. “Do you see that?” I asked Nick. “Where?” “Over there. Way back in the brush.” “I don’t see a thing.” He shielded his eyes with a flat hand. “Those mountains are pretty, though.” “Yeah, they are. You’re pretty too.” I tried to make my eyes stay on him and his face. Not the plains beyond. Not the ripples in the sea of grass. “Nah, I’m all sweaty. What was it you saw?” “Not sure. Something big, way out there.” “Elk, maybe? They have elk here, right?” “Could be.” I took another drink from the canteen. We’d been walking for close to an hour when a truck blew past us. It was an old model, powder blue and rusted, but going like a bat out of hell. As it passed, a teenager with a peeling sunburn on his nose leaned out and spat at us. The gob of phlegm sailed through the air and splattered at my feet. He shouted something I didn’t catch over the growl of the motor and the rush of air, but I could probably guess if I had to. I couldn’t tell if it was the clothes we were wearing, our haircuts, or something else that gave it away. Somehow, guys like that just always knew. It dawned on me that we were alone out here with the truck, and with whatever kept rustling through the grass. I’d brought a utility knife and a hatchet for collecting firewood, but those were all back in the car. We were defenseless. “Asshole.” Nick said. “Yeah.” I felt him take my unsteady hand and we watched the truck grow smaller and smaller as it drove up the road away from us. I was waiting for it to turn around, to stop shrinking and begin to loom like the mountains. To my great relief, it became a speck and vanished over the horizon. The sinking sun ripened from orange to red as dark approached. I didn’t want to let Nick see it, but fear was seeping into me. My grasp on his hand tightened and my palm went clammy. The running man was in the grass. Hate was on the road. My eyes darted back and forth between the plains to either side of us and the horizon ahead, waiting to catch a glimpse of movement or a flash of headlights. I wished for my weapons, abandoned in the trunk. I felt like prey. “We should start moving a little faster.” Nick said, seeming to read my thoughts. “I don’t want to be out here when it gets dark.” “I don’t think it’s much further to town.” I had no idea how far it was. There wasn’t a single building in sight. We were cast adrift. Already, sunset was coming. The sky became streaked in deep red shot through with veins of gold. I could see the moon glowing weakly, a gibbous surfacing from underneath the burning, bleeding sky. The world was yawning and cavernous and Nick and I were either alone or not alone and both options carved a pit of dread into my stomach like a grub gnawing into rotted wood. “I have to pee,” Nick said, “I’m sorry, it’ll only be a minute.” “Go ahead, it’s alright.” I lowered myself down and sat on the shoulder of the road as I watched Nick descend and wade into the field. The highway was on a gentle hillside, so I was sitting above him, and I could see the top of his head as he walked away, the brown whorl of hair at the crown of his skull bobbing through the pale-yellow shafts. “I think you’re far enough out.” I called after him. I’d always been a little anxious about relieving myself outside. I didn’t do it at all if it could be avoided. A long time ago, at summer camp, another boy had told me about a friend or cousin of his, who’d been pissing behind a tree when a horsefly had bitten him. *Made a hole clean through the skin of his sack*. The boy had told me. *If he held it open, he could see the tubes and everything. They looked just like spaghetti.* The story was obviously nonsense, but it never left me. I stared out at the field, surveying it. The stained-glass light of the sunset made the world shimmer. Out beyond Nick’s head, the hidden thing was moving again. The running man. The monster. I couldn’t see any part of it besides its wake as it approached, cruising like a submarine. It was coming straight toward him. Trying to scream his name, my voice caught in my throat, clogged. I stumbled to my feet and ran down. My footfalls crashed through the vegetation. When I found him, he was zipping up his jeans. “Let’s go. We’ve got to go. Now.” “Are you okay? Did that truck come back?” Over his voice, over my own heartbeat, I could hear the rustling, the blades whispering, closer. I grabbed him by the arm and we ran. I caught a glimpse of it, just before we reached the road. I saw its face. Its black doll’s eyes. Nick held me by the shoulders, strong hands keeping me on my feet. Fear was in his eyes. He was asking me if I was alright, asking what happened. His voice was desperate, begging. I didn’t have any words to give him. I had grown up with an older brother. He’d gone off to college when I was thirteen and lived away from home since then. He’d been my hero when we were younger, teaching me bits of historical trivia, helping me assemble model rocket sets. But sometimes if he’d been angry with me, or found a sudden delight in cruelty, he would tell me about the monster that lived in our attic. He’d tell me how it had terrible razor claws and jagged teeth like shards of glass and how one day it would come down and get me. I hadn’t ever known what that meant, to get me. Not just kill. Get. “I’m sorry,” I said. I was unsure how long I had gone without speaking. “It’s okay. You just startled me. What happened?” “I saw something, thought I saw something coming.” “There’s nothing there.” He turned me so I could see, and we gazed out over the landscape together. All was still. “It was coming to get you.” “Hey. I know those guys in the truck scared you. They scared me, too. But if we’re being realistic, they’re probably in the next county by now. We’re okay. There’s nothing out here but us.” Nick was doing his best to sound confident, but his voice wavered when he spoke. He didn’t believe a word he was saying. He was petrified. Maybe he had seen it too. I didn’t ask. “You’re right. They’re gone. We’re okay. Let’s get to town.” I drank the last bit of water from the canteen before we started on our way again. It tasted metallic. With gravel embedded in the bottoms of our shoes and terror squeezing at our insides, we kept going. Dark was coming fast. The only evidence that a sun had ever existed was a reddish glow in the west, making embers of the mountains. The moon emerged, with a sickly yellow tinge to its light. We passed a sign that told us Glendive was only three miles away, reflective white letters giving off a weak gleam. Crickets droned. The empty canteen clanked at my hip. Far off, an animal made a mournful wail. I remembered how the jaw hung open, long purple tongue lolling out and swinging back and forth. How the teeth glinted, row after row of them pointing in all directions. How the big, dark eyes blinked at me, full of curiosity and hunger. As we came down a slope in the road, Nick held an arm in front of my chest and stopped me. Straight ahead of us, made small by the distance, was a pair of headlights. I froze. Didn’t even breathe. Nick whispered to me. “It has to be them.” “Do you think they see us?” “I think we’re far enough away.” The headlights weren’t moving. They stayed the same size, twin stars at the base of the next hill. Apart from the crickets, the whole world was dead silent. With the sun gone, the air had grown cold. I wished for my jacket. For my hatchet or knife. The men in the truck were blocking our path, lying in wait for us. I could imagine them, behind the lights. The little one with skin flaking from his reddened nose, eyes beady and glaring. If we were going to make it to town, we would have to walk straight towards them. “We can go around.” Nick said. “Off on the side of the road.” “We’ll have to be careful. If they spot us…” “If they spot us, we’ll run and we won’t look back.” I could see him, in the moonlight. He was pale and shivering, his skin beaded with cold sweat like a beer bottle in August. He looked so young. I supposed I looked young too. We were. “We’ll run.” He repeated. “Okay,” I said. My mouth was dry, my tongue sticking to the roof. I watched Nick step off the road, into the wilderness. It was still out here. I could feel its presence, imagined its horrible, drooling face appearing from the gloom. It, too, was waiting for us somewhere out in the flatlands, waiting to get us. I held onto Nick’s hand as we moved through the brush, fingers laced together. Whatever happened, I didn’t want to let go. Tomorrow would be five years since we first met. We had found each other in the art museum, two perfect strangers. He’d made a remark about a certain painter, and I had overheard and asked him about another piece, and then another, and he told me the stories behind every beautiful thing. When closing time had arrived, we’d walked out together into the fast-fading daylight. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe the lights didn’t belong to the truck. Maybe the face I’d seen was only the product of an overactive imagination and the leftover adrenaline from the crash. The lights kept growing brighter. We crept forward in silence, lifting our feet with precision, and bringing them down slow. I remembered a story of a wildlife photographer who’d been stalked for days by a tiger, and I wondered if the thing, the monster, could smell me. If the men in the truck could hear my breath. What they intended to do if they found us. The urge to cough rose and I choked it down. I could hear the gentle thrumming of the truck’s engine. As we drew closer, I heard their radio, too. It was playing a comedy routine, the laughter intercut with static. Nick and I kept stepping carefully. The headlights shone on us, beams cut into little strips. Next to the truck, a shadow was crouching. A funny smell filled the air, a meaty, coppery scent. Another, fainter, sound joined the engine and the radio. It was a wet noise, like a cat washing itself. Against all judgement, all instincts, I let go of Nick’s hand. On the day we met, he’d shown me a vase with a picture of Orpheus. The man who looked over his shoulder because he had to see. I had to see. I went to the edge of the road. I looked. The old powder blue truck was flipped over, wheels turned skyward. The cab was crushed almost flat. Blood spilled from it and pooled on the highway. Hunched over beside the wreck, the thing sat on its haunches and lapped up the red with its tongue. I could see all of it now, out in the open, in the middle of the road. Naked and hairless. Legs ending in humanoid fingers with hooked talons. Sinews straining in long limbs. Jaw unhinged and dangling. It hurt to look at, the kind of pain caused by staring into the sun. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Nick was watching too, peering over my shoulder. The thing had stopped licking up blood and sauntered over to the cab of the truck. An arm was sticking out of the window, in a flannel sleeve, splayed out onto the road. One clawed hand wrapped around the wrist and pulled. There was a sucking sound, and the tearing of fabric, and the arm was lifted into the still night air, dripping. It tilted its hideous head back. A long head, like a horse. Opened its mouth. Made a noise like a straw reaching the bottom of a milkshake. The arm was gone. Red strands of drool hung from its jutting chin. Its pointed teeth glistened with a mix of spittle and blood. Its tongue flapped from side to side like the pendulum in a grandfather clock. It looked at us. I could see my reflection in its huge black eyes. A question lurked behind them, like it was wondering what we were, how we tasted, what we would look like when we were taken apart. I couldn’t move. Everything inside me was shrieking at me to run, yet my legs stayed rooted, held to the ground as if it was flypaper. The thing cocked its head a little. It started to change. The gangling, misshapen body shrank, flexing and contorting. A low wheeze came from its mouth as it shifted. Pronged appendages pushed their way through the skin of its forehead. Its fingers fused together, flesh melting like candle wax. The rows of fangs retracted, and it reeled in its tongue. Short, nut-brown fur sprouted up all over. Only the eyes stayed the same. The deer bent down and took a few more sips of blood. Then it trotted away, into the night. I couldn’t remember the rest of the journey into town, nor could Nick. We moved on autopilot. When we checked into the motel, we told the clerk we’d seen another wreck on the road, a bad one. We got a double room, just in case. The restaurants were all closed but there was a bar open. I filled my stomach with hot, greasy food, surprised to still have an appetite. Nick just got drunk. I didn’t blame him. When we headed back, I let him sling his arm over my shoulder and held him up. I tried to stay on the sidewalks with the most streetlamps. In an unfamiliar bed, with crisply ironed sheets, I lay awake. *Maxine Firehammer is a horror writer living in Saint Paul. She has previously had work appear in Hash Journal, The Molotov Cocktail, and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. She is a 2024 Pushcart Prize nominee.* *Watch for upcoming bonus episode where we chat with Maxine about this story, writing, latest obsessions, and more.* *We’ll be back in two weeks with more weird stories.* *If you like what you hear, subscribe, like and review the show.* *And if you want your fiction or nonfiction to appear on Midwest Weird, send us your work!* *Thanks for joining us. And stay weird.* ### Night 9 URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/wyrd-woman-night-9/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T15:00:14.000Z *Music\*: 01 Ghosts I, Nine Inch Nails* *Sound: Record button on Voice Notes* Woman: I’ve been getting lots of texts and notifications today. I’ve muted them all. I’ve stayed off the internet. I know nothing. But I also know everything. It’s night again, and it feels… final somehow. Last night, after the Original One left, something shifted. Booms in the distance. And noises outside all day. Sirens far away, getting closer. It’s happening. Whatever it is. I… I opened the door for Major Tom. And he looked at me for a second, then he sniffed, and then he ran. Far into the woods. Somewhere safe. I… it’s better for him. It has to be. Because I have this feeling that it’s time for me. *Music: Ugly One theme (2 Ghosts I, Nine Inch Nails)* Ugly One: It’s night here too in Moscow. I see them. Down the dark street. Black cars, moving like gruesome shadows. Black clothes. Black mask for me. Woman: You’re back. I’m so glad. I hoped that you would come back. Especially tonight. Especially on your night. *Music: Old One theme (13 Ghosts II, Nine Inch Nails)* Old One: It’s night, and I see the flames down the hill. The man wants. The man wants my land. He will call me witch to get it. He is here. Woman: Yes. Thank you. Thank you for coming. He’ll be here soon. But stay with us. Stay with me. *Music: Unnatural One theme (36 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* Unnatural One: It’s night, and the man is at the door, and I feel there will be pain tonight. A rage scorches his skin, rage that I will never truly be his. I wish … she was here. Woman: Yeah. He’s coming. Curl your fists. Close your eyes. *Music: Future One theme (33 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* Future One: It’s night in Paraguay, and the Americans are coming, in their black birds and black webs. They’ve found me and those with me. Woman: Breathe. Hear your breath, not the birds. *Music: Broken One theme (28 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* Broken One: Night has come, and there are thieves, brigands, outside the barn. They will not see I am truly an animal. They will see my shape and my end will come. Woman: Crouch down. Get ready. *Music: Mad One theme (20 Ghosts III, Nine Inch Nails)* Mad One: It is night, and the asylum staff are coming. They came to take me away long ago, and they keep coming, keep prodding, and testing, and shocking, because I’m nothing, no one, not real… Woman: You are here. You are with us. You are real. This is what it’s all for. This thread we have. This sight. So we can see the end, and face it, and know we’re not the first, nor the last, to do it. \[Hums\] Oh. Down the road, I see a black car. It’s coming this way. I’m going to disappear, aren’t I? They’re really going to do it. They’re really going to make me … just gone. And – no one comes after me. I won’t be on a family tree for those that come later. I knew that, when I decided not to have kids. I knew it, and I know it now, and it stings, it does. It… it hurts, that I’ll just be … like I was never here. *Music: Original One theme (22 Ghosts III, Nine Inch Nails)* Original One: But you were. You are. No matter if you bring more people into the world. That matters not, not in the face of annihilation. Not at the end. Because people will keep living, keep making the world, keep ruining the world. Keep bringing about its end. Woman: It’s so dark, your wyrd. The car is definitely coming up the road. Two of them. Ok. Ok. Do I – do I do it? On my terms? Is that honor? To end my life, in my own way? Or. Do I – do I grab whatever I can? A knife, a, a something heavy? Fight in the pathetic way that I can? I don’t – I don’t even know if it’s really the end. But I do, don’t I? How… how (whispers) how do I know… *Music: Ugly One theme (2 Ghosts I, Nine Inch Nails)* Ugly One: The black cars are outside my flat. The men in their boots pound on the door. I will go with them. And I will face what comes. Woman: But it will be torture, pain. You know that. Then, the gulag – years of starvation and abuse and … how, how can you accept that? *Music: Old One theme (13 Ghosts II, Nine Inch Nails)* Old One: My door. He demands. The witch come out. He promises flames. I will go out, and I will face him. Woman: But – they’ll question you, and they’ll trick, and then, then they’ll burn you… (whispers) oh god, the cars are outside the house. No, no. No, we had it all wrong! We can’t just accept pain and death, and we can’t fight, who do we think we are, we’re, we have to – *Music: Unnatural One theme (36 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* Unnatural One: The man is here, the husband, and he is so angry, so full of bile, holding a belt. I will stand, and I will show him my frown, and my gritted teeth, and my closed fist. Woman: No, no, he’s just going to hurt you more, fuck, no, this is all wrong… *Music: Future One theme (33 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* Future One: The American birds are here, and they wait outside. I will leave my home, and I will look them in the eye. I will make them see me. Woman: NO, no, no. Stop, we have to stop, we have to, wait wait wait… All of you, no, we can’t, we have to stop, try to get them to stop. *Music: Broken One theme (28 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* Broken One: The rogues have spied me in the barn, and they taunt and tarry. Under my hand, under the hay, there is cold steel. A tool for cleaning, for separating the straw, and I will take it and stand. Woman: This isn’t real. None of this is real. None of you are real. It’s just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream. It was all just dreams. I’m just a scared, pathetic woman, and they’re coming for me, and none of you can help me, none of you. *Music: Mad One theme (20 Ghosts III, Nine Inch Nails)* Mad One: The asylum staff have captured me, taken me to their room of medical tools. And I am docile. I do what they say. I do what you say, you, Weird One. So scared and lost. I give in. I don’t fight. But – I remember. I survive. I exist. Remember? I exist. You exist. And that is fight. That is facing our fate with honor. Woman: Yes. You’re right. I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry to all of you. And – I am here. The Voyager. Think of the Voyager. It’s out there, it’s all alone. Far beyond the reach of anyone and anything. But it’s there, out there in the black. And it someone will find it. Someone will find it. It won’t be for nothing. The sound it will carry. Our sound will carry. It will travel. We’ll live on. Yeah, it’s alone and it’s so dark out there. We’re all traveling in the dark. We’re all out there in the dark. Our sound is in there, our sound is out in the dark, and it’s traveling. And it’s traveled between us. It’s connected all of us. It’s brought us together. That’s the power, that’s the power of sound. And you can hear my voice. You can hear it as it travels. And I can hear you. And that’s enough. That’s enough for now and in the future maybe there’ll be more, maybe someone will find us again. And we won’t have disappeared. The Voyager hasn’t disappeared, it’s out there, \[knocking at the door\] We’ll be out there, in the dark, we’ll be traveling. We’ll live. We’ll live on. *Music: Original One theme (22 Ghosts III, Nine Inch Nails)* Original One: I found you all, as I faced the end of my world. I was scared, and confused, and distrusting of wyrd, of everything we believe. But. Our ends come. And for us, those who question, who think, who are the strange, the old, the unnatural, the broken, the mad, the ugly… Our ends may hurt. But we are here. We have been here. I will hold you all in me. I will bring you with my body as I walk the ground, and breathe the air, and pray to our gods, and I will spread you out into the world. And you will never die. *Music: All themes* All Ones: I will remember you. I exist. You will never die. Woman: \[hums\] \[radio static from the door\] And it won’t always be dark. There’s a bright sun out there. There’s a bright sun that’s drawing us towards it. And we’ll have to cross so far to get there. But it’s drawing us in, each of us, our own little explorers, our own little Voyagers. All of us together. That sun, it’s out there. And it’s so bright. \[knocking; radio chatter\] It’s so bright. It’s out there. I know it is. In the meantime, we’ll fly, we’ll sail through the dark. Because I exist. *Music: Weird One theme (34 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* I exist. I have existed. You all exist. I will remember. We exist. I am the Weird One, and I exist. I exist, we exist, we will exist. Long into the dark. The sun is out there, it’s out there for us. We will never die. We will never disappear, we will never die. \[speaking into the recorder, close up\] And neither will you. *Sound: Record off.* *Music: Outro theme (12 Ghosts II, Nine Inch Nails)* *Voiceover:* Wyrd Woman is an audio drama from Broads and Books Productions. The show is written, performed and produced by Amy Lee Lillard. Thanks for listening. *\* All music comes from the Ghosts albums by Nine Inch Nails, courtesy of the* [*Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike license*](https://wiki.creativecommons.org/wiki/Case%5FStudies/Nine%5FInch%5FNails%5FGhosts%5FI-IV?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) ### Night 8 URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/wyrd-woman-night-8/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T14:55:07.000Z *Music\*: 01 Ghosts I, Nine Inch Nails* *Sound: Record button on Voice Notes* Woman: Night’s almost here. It’s night 8\. It’s almost – tomorrow is the first day of Fall. The equinox. I’ve been waiting all day, waiting for the sun to go down, or at least the gray clouds to turn black. They always came at night. The women. Night time was their time. First with dreams, then without. I’m waiting, and hoping, they come. And her. The new One. She was there for just a moment last night, and then she disappeared. But that was ok. She was there, and I saw here. So I know she’ll be back. And the others too. I’m not alone. So I’ll wait. Night will be here soon, and one of them will be here too. During the day today I realized how truly scared and freaked out I was yesterday. I was keeping it at bay a little. But I was… I was getting to that place. Of seeing no way out. I’ve been there so many times before. Where I hurt so much. And the world is so scary. And there’s no clear path forward. I’d been able to keep that at bay a while, lost in the adrenaline of moving out here, of taking action. But when the women disappeared, oof. I’m here. I got past it. For now, and that’s all that matters. Major is at the window and the door again. He’s more and more frantic. Like he knows something, or his longing is just… too much. She looked old. Not her body, not herself. I mean, from a very old time. Far older than even the Old One from the 1500s. She spoke… I think it’s called Old Norse now? She smelled like the sea, and her body was strong and tough, and her hands, they still had a bit of blood from – I think an animal sacrifice? She had markings, like old forms of tattoos. There was something, like, fantastical about her. A Lord of the Rings vibe. But also something very real. Like, grounded in the earth, and the woods, and… yeah. The stars are bright out here. Less light pollution. Maybe that lends itself to that idea. A time before lights, before we stopped looking up. I feel it. *Music: Original One theme (22 Ghosts III, Nine Inch Nails)* Someone is coming. Original One: So many of you. So many maids and crones, facing destruction. As unto me. I knew not what I would do, when I made the sacrifice. I knew not how many, how much I would see. I knew not how truly connected we are. Woman: You, you’re, wow, you’re from Viking times. I see it. I know it. You – were taken from home in the Norse lands to, um, what’s now England, I think. Original One: Our men, our raiders, kept returning with new stories, new gods. They must convert to the Christ religion to visit the trading posts, so they did. Some in name, some in meaning. I saw the destruction that was to come. The way this law of Christ would crush our ways. And when I voyaged to Angle-land with the war chief who claimed me, I found the crushing under way. Woman: I see it. The way you saw it. The ruined farms, the burned-out keeps, the… the desolation. The path of the raiders, and the pride of the Anglo-Saxons, and the fierceness of the Welsh… And the monks circling, trying to curry favor, to convert all of you. And the man, the chieftain… kind in his own way, but still rough, used to war, to taking who and what he wanted. Original One: I was not sad. But I felt a fog. Like I was dying, like we all were. Our gods – Freya and Frey, and Odin, and all our land spirits. And our ways. Our lives. And … I will admit to haste. To the lick of fire within. I thought of nothing else but our Norn, the sisters who control the thread of our lives. And of the heathens here, in this land, with similar ways, hiding in their holes, in their woods, whispering of the strange powers of this earth beneath us. Their own spirits and gods. I yearned to understand. To look beyond, into the long stretch of *wyrd*, to see how we may survive. I made a sacrifice to the gods to see. But I saw only more destruction. I saw all of you. And your worlds ending. Woman: Oh - oh. You were the start of this. You’re the … Original One. Original One: I struggle to understand what I see, what all of you see. But it is. And that’s all that can be said. Woman: *Wyrd.* You mentioned that, you said that word, but I know in my mind it’s spelled w-y-r-d. I’ve heard that before, but what… Original One: That is one reason I cannot understand. You do not see wyrd. You do not think as we do. I … hear your head, trying to find the word of your time. Fate. Destiny. Yes, but these are incomplete. We are all now. We are all on a path. We all act, and our actions affect others. Those before us, and those after us, all affected by action. Our life thread is tied to others’. We are all connected. Woman: Yes. But if – wait. It sounds like you’re talking about predestination… but also free will? Original One: You think in the Christ way. The way that leads you all to fire. Wyrd is not an end. It is happening, now. We have a path, but we can twist and turn on that path. Our path is not moral. Our path is not punishment or reward. Our path is not the whim of a jealous god, or a crushing power. It just is. Woman: There really is no changing anything. Is there? There’s really no changing anything. There’s no, there’s no point. Fucking hell, I was looking to you, to all of you, for hope. For a reason to keep going. I mean, what’s the point? What’s the meaning of anything? Why do we keep living in the face of destruction? Why keep living at all? Original One: No. You do not understand. I looked at the path, I saw the Norns’ threads. I see wyrd. And it is a cruel fate that we all move towards. But we must not simply let it happen. We must have the courage to face our fate. Even fight it. There is no honor in passivity. No honor in giving in. The point, as you say, is to try. To make a life of action. And to know our actions are all connected. We are connected. Woman: I don’t know if I understand. And – I keep thinking of – you say wyrd, and I know it’s spelled w-y-r-d. But I think of weird. A modern word, maybe. W-e-i-r-d. There were the Weird Sisters in Macbeth. A trio of witches. Maybe they were based on your Norn. And they predicted something, and with that prediction, Macbeth made awful choices, and made it happen. Weird meant, I guess, supernatural. Uncanny. Strange. And now – I guess it means, maybe, disturbingly different? Because it’s a label, a word used to target. Original One: All words become weapons. Woman: You were looking for hope, too, when you found a way to look through time. But then you saw all of us. You saw me. All of us at the end of something. The ends of our worlds. I’m sorry. I’m sorry we couldn’t give you hope. Original One: Not in the way I expected, perhaps. But I found all of you, connected. By powers that defy the gods of your times. I found the connections. I found the truth of wyrd. What path may come for me is what will come. I will face it, I will fight it. And I know that what I will do will echo, and push you to action. It will connect us. And those after us. Woman: Our world, my world. It’s closing in. The leaders, they’re destroying us. And they’re coming for people like me. In the name of Christ, and capital, and a sort of communal masculinity. They’re trying to be more like the men of your time, taking what they want and destroying everything along the way. Original One: Yes. Our ways can be cruel. I am not a whole being in this world. Just a vessel for men to control. But I fight against that. I refuse to be cowed by it. Woman: Look, I’m scared. I don’t know how to fight, not really. I can write, and I can read, and think. But none of that protects me. None of that will protect me. I thought running would protect me. I don’t think it will. My … my thread, my wyrd. It’s going to destroy me. Because I’m the type of woman this world wants to destroy. Original One: You do fight. You have cried out in anger and defiance, and you have found me. And all of the others. You fight, and you have been granted vision. You have seen that life is the fight. That life is the same story, told again and again. The world’s end is always happening, and always will. You fight, and you create a life that affects others, that encourages others to fight. Woman: But come on… there’s so few of us. It’s not enough. Original One: We are but one circle. We have found those who we need to find. There are other circles. Others who connect through the threads, and find the strength to carry on. Woman: What now? Original One: Tomorrow comes. The end comes. How will you face it? Woman: Yeah. *Sound: Record off.* *Music: Outro theme (12 Ghosts II, Nine Inch Nails)* *Voiceover:* Wyrd Woman is an audio drama from Broads and Books Productions. The show is written, performed and produced by Amy Lee Lillard. Thanks for listening. *\* All music comes from the Ghosts albums by Nine Inch Nails, courtesy of the* [*Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike license*](https://wiki.creativecommons.org/wiki/Case%5FStudies/Nine%5FInch%5FNails%5FGhosts%5FI-IV?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) ### Night 7 URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/night-7/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T14:50:27.000Z *Music\*: 01 Ghosts I, Nine Inch Nails* *Sound: Record button on Voice Notes* Woman: I’ve been alone before. I’m usually alone. And I’ve always said, there’s a big difference between alone and lonely. I feel comfortable alone. I feel safe. Myself. But now … They haven’t come back. It’s been a full day, and nothing. I’m alone, and it feels terrible. I feel naked, like my skin has come off. I liked having them with me. In me. They made me feel less lonely. Because as much as I said alone wasn’t lonely, and denied that living alone, and moving out here alone, and protecting myself, alone, wasn’t lonely… It wasn’t true. I know that now. So now what? Once you’ve connected with women across time, and found a sisterhood… everything else feels empty. This house, out here, away from everything. This refuge. This asylum. Where I’ve disappeared. It felt so cozy. Or I’d made myself believe it felt cozy. Now it’s just a place. A stop in the road. To where, I don’t know. Major feels it too. He’s been pacing, meowing until the windows are wide open, staring so hard at the wild. I’m so mad I brought him. It wasn’t fair. Because if something happens to me… I have to… have to make sure… I’m trying not to panic. Or cry. I’m doing all the deep breathing and other bullshit they preach to women, so we won’t explode in anger or suppressed feeling. I’m pacing a lot. I can’t concentrate on anything. But I have been thinking, in this time of silence. Thinking more about the how of all this. Maybe with the how, I can figure out – I don’t know. How to get them back? Anyway. I’ve been thinking about sound. Specifically, I’ve been thinking about the Voyager satellites. Two machines, launched in 1977, the year I was born. Flying past the planets of our solar system, and now out in the blackness of space. They don’t predict they will fly past any new solar systems for 40,000 years. And in the satellites, they put the golden records. Two big records that have sounds and images that, I guess, will show who we are to any aliens who find it. Start some communication. Though we’ll be long dead as a species by then. I always felt this deep sadness thinking about that. These machines sent out to die, transmitting messages from beings that don’t exist. The sounds on the record always made me a little sad too. I read there’s all sorts of nature sounds – like waves, and wind – and animals sounds – like birds and whales. And then there’s greetings in 55 languages and morse code. And there’s human sounds too, like laughing. And music. All sorts of classical music, and traditional music from different cultures. Plus Chuck Berry. Apparently there was a fight over including that – the idea it was too adolescent, I think. I wonder what they’d think about punk. So yeah. There’s images too, but I imagine the sounds are the real kicker. And these sounds are collected and sent out into the void. Sound travels time. It’s a way to connect. It’s a gateway, or a doorway. When the women came, I always heard sound along with their voices. A slight strain of music, and different echoes and sound effects on their voices. I didn’t think too much about it at the time, I was just so confused and surprised and excited about these women speaking. I wonder if somehow sound is what is connecting us. Who know where and how it started, but it’s there. Aliens who find the Voyagers will maybe feel like I do. Confused and alarmed at the sounds they hear on the golden records. Excited and intrigued. They’ll understand some of it, in their way, and will be at a loss for much of it. But they’ll be connected to us. Through the passage of sound. We’ll be long gone. The true end. And maybe they’ll be facing their own end. I don’t know. This doesn’t make a lot of sense. But my brain is racing, trying to fill these lonely gaps. What else am I going to do? What I’m going to do is think about how all of us odd, different, disappeared women came together into a sort of dimensional community center or support group. It’s a great tag line. And thinking about that is better than thinking about what’s going on out there. There’s still the birds, and owls, and bats, and foxes and deer, and bears and bobcats, and other animals that I hear during the day and night. They make me feel better. But. It’s lonely in here, inside this house, but it’s still better than the outside world beyond. The slate of new laws this last month reads like science-fiction, like the backstory to dystopian novels. Just the last few days, since I started this. The last seven nights. It’s just… They’re moving so fast. They’ve moved past abortion and contraception now. They’re looking at quotas, and marriage laws. And those of us outside – the unmarried ones, the ones who’ve chosen to be childfree. The queer ones. We’re the trouble. We’ve always been the trouble. Always will be the trouble. We’re already unAmerican. We’re already broken, and unnatural, and too old, and too weird. Some corners of the web are shouting rumors about witches. Some are preaching the lessons of the Taliban and fundamentalists. Can it be far off to have villagers with pitchforks hunting us down? This is why I ran. But I don’t think I ran far enough. I want them back. I want to talk to them about this. They all lived – live – through danger and fear, and being disappeared, and – I mean, I guess they didn’t live. Ultimately. Maybe they lived for awhile but then, time moves on. They died. I’ll die. None of this will matter. I’ll just be another nameless one. What’s the point of connecting, or commiserating, or complaining… What’s the point of all this. I say that but I still want them here. I need them. I – Oh my god, the air, it’s filling again, oh god, are they back? Please come back, please… *Music: Original One theme (22 Ghosts III, Nine Inch Nails)* Oh. You’re new. Or, I guess, not new – you’re – I’m so glad you’re here. *Sound: Record off.* *Music: Outro theme (12 Ghosts II, Nine Inch Nails)* *Voiceover:* Wyrd Woman is an audio drama from Broads and Books Productions. The show is written, performed and produced by Amy Lee Lillard. Thanks for listening. *\* All music comes from the Ghosts albums by Nine Inch Nails, courtesy of the* [*Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike license*](https://wiki.creativecommons.org/wiki/Case%5FStudies/Nine%5FInch%5FNails%5FGhosts%5FI-IV?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) ### Night 6 URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/wyrd-woman-night-6/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T14:46:36.000Z *Music\*: 01 Ghosts I, Nine Inch Nails* *Sound: Record button on Voice Notes* Woman: She must be waking now. And remembering she dreamed. Remembering the woman she dreamed of. Me. I feel for her. She’s probably confused, and freaked out. She’s doing the things I did – thinking, and remembering, and analyzing. She’s wondering if she’s crazy, if she’s making it up, if she’s… All the things I thought and felt. I’m also… is jealous the right word? I was starting to feel like I was the apex or something. The final link in this long chain. Everything and everyone were coming to me, and I was… I’m not a chosen one. I’m not the last in the line. Or the first. I’m not magic. Or if I am, I’m not the only one. And that’s ok. Maybe this Future One is the end of the line. Or maybe we’re both just parts of this. Seeing her was a reality check. Reminding me not to get inflated or full of myself or something. And yeah, I feel a little sad about that? Jealous? I was starting to feel special. It doesn’t matter. None of that matters. None of it – Oh. She’s here. I see her. The … tech on her face and arms. I see you. You’re here. *Music: Future One theme (33 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* I don’t know if you can see me, or hear me. But you’re not crazy. You’re not – this is happening. This happened to me. Ok? And you can talk to me. You can -- Future One: Don’t want this. Don’t want this new connection is. I put that all aside. I – Woman: Hello? Oh no, don’t… Dammit. I’m just keeping this recording going. I think she’ll be back. I don’t want to have to fumble… And at this point, everything is, everything is worth recording. I may not be the final person or whatever, but I can make a record, and others can’t. She felt… full. That tech must be integrated into her body, her nervous system, because it felt like – her skin couldn’t contain all the info, the knowledge, the capability. Her head pounded. Her heart raced. There was a clean, fiery smell. She didn’t want to talk. To me? To anyone? I was— Future One: Disconnect. Leave me be. Woman: Hello? I…I’m not… Future One: What is this? What is this? Woman: Hi – can you hear me? Look, I know this is strange. You’re not dreaming, and you’re not losing it, and I’m not trying to sell you something… Future One: Why are you bare? Who are you? Wait. I … know. You’re in America. You’re in another time. How do I know this? What do you want? Woman: I can’t explain everything. Just that – this is real. I see others farther in the past. I talk to them. We’re all connected. It’s something – beyond understanding maybe. The others have theories. I just – Future One: I’ve seen them. I thought they were – some sort of new forced connection. Fed through my tech. Or the plants. Looking for targets. I – Woman: She’s gone again. I know who she is. Just like I knew with the others. She’s in 2133\. In Paraguay. She migrated there with … so many others. As the waters rose on the coasts. She’s hiding from something. She’s afraid. Just like all of us. That tech, it connects her with everyone and everything, and she doesn’t want that, because – Future One: I want to disconnect. I want to be alone. No one is alone anymore. But no one tells the truth either. And people are watching. They’re reporting us. The disabled women are taken to camps, run by Americans. They never come back. Woman: Oh god… Future One: I don’t want to disappear. But I can’t connect either. Woman: We’re all the fucking same. All through time. We’ve been disappeared, we’re being disappeared… we are disappeared. Future One: We can’t change that. Woman: No. We can’t. Because time just repeats and repeats. Circles in on itself. And it’s not linear either. The others, in the past. It’s all happening now. We’re all happening at once. Future One: We have not learned from you. Our time ignores all your mistakes and pain. Woman: And our time ignored all the lessons of the past. Future One: I’m afraid for my life, as every woman like me has been for centuries… Woman: I’m sorry. I know fear. Of the unknown, and the future, and knowing that -- Future One: This has happened before. This will happen again. Woman: Yes. The others, they talked to me about fate, and sight. And knowing – ultimately – that we exist. We’ve always existed. That we are a tribe, of weirdoes and witches and warriors. I’ve found comfort in that. I’m afraid, but I’m not alone. Neither are you. Hello? She’s gone again. But that felt good, it felt -- Ah. The air feels different. I didn’t notice how it felt before, but now it feels sterile. Empty. Like she is really gone. Like – Oh. Oh no. Are you there? Sisters, are you there? I don’t know your actual names, I can’t call out to you…except to say mad One and Broken One and Unnatural One and Old One and Ugly One…are you there? Come to me? Don’t be gone. Don’t leave me. Sisters… Please? *Sound: Record off.* *Music: Outro theme (12 Ghosts II, Nine Inch Nails)* *Voiceover:* Wyrd Woman is an audio drama from Broads and Books Productions. The show is written, performed and produced by Amy Lee Lillard. *\* All music comes from the Ghosts albums by Nine Inch Nails, courtesy of the* [*Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike license*](https://wiki.creativecommons.org/wiki/Case%5FStudies/Nine%5FInch%5FNails%5FGhosts%5FI-IV?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) ### Night 5 URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/wyrd-woman-night-5/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T14:42:47.000Z *Music\*: 01 Ghosts I, Nine Inch Nails* *Sound: Record button on Voice Notes* Woman: It’s night number 5 of…whatever this is. We’re nearing the equinox, the official start of Fall. I feel clear. I’m not worried about sanity anymore. There’s no such thing. Not really. Or if there is – I’m not interested in it. I’m in the bedroom. Sitting up in bed, Major next to me. I’m continuing to record, because like I said, it’s a record now. Or a map. To where, I don’t know yet. I don’t need a dream journal anymore. I don’t need to dream, or to sleep, to see them, or talk to them. I don’t, do I? You’re there aren’t you? *Music: Short clips of each of their themes* Yeah. You’re there. *Music: Old One theme (13 Ghosts II, Nine Inch Nails)* Old One: I am here, sister. I wait. For the man. I wait, for his declaration, for the the town’s decision. I wait for them to turn. I wait for them to blame. I cause their sickness. Poverty. Despair. I wait for the word: witch. They’ll cut me, look for Satan. They’ll tear, seek out the wiles and curses. They’ll burn me, hope for God’s favor. But now, I wait. And I see you, sister. I hear you. I feel all of you. Woman: Of course. You’re a witch. You’re inconvenient, and different, and alone, and woman. They have to get rid of you. *Music: Unnatural One theme (36 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* Unnatural One: I am here, sister. I wait for the man to come for his nightly tithe. I wait and I remember my love. And though I am bowed and made to serve, I know it is not me. It is the world that is wrong. The world that calls me unnatural, and odd, and so many more foul things. I see you, and I see you, and you, all of you. We are not what the world has made us. Woman: Yes. They had to get rid of you too. Otherwise their world would fall. Their world of men and their female property. *Music: Broken One theme (28 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* Broken One: I am here sister. I am animal, and I am alone, and I am here. I am broken. And I connect to broken things. I see things others do not. I feel what cannot be felt by those who are whole. I was sent away, then I ran away. Because I may be broken, but I would not be whole. I would rather see you. Woman: They have language for you now. You and the Unnatural One. But that language, those names, they don’t come with safety and acceptance. They still want you sent away. They still think you broken. You’re not. I’m not either. *Music: Mad One theme (20 Ghosts III, Nine Inch Nails)* Mad One: I am here in my cage. Like all nights and days. The symphony of screams. Howls. Cackles. All of us witches. Unnatural things. Broken things. I wait for the night visit. Caged for difference, for inconvenience. Forced out of the normal world. The regular world. The real world. Invisible. Out of the spectrum of sight. A ghost. I feel different energies. I smell different ideas. I taste different elements. I touch time. I hear my sisters. Woman: Invisible. That’s what I’ve felt for so long – *Music: Ugly One theme (2 Ghosts I, Nine Inch Nails)* Ugly One: \-and the science is there. Because energy is recycled, never destroyed. I am here. Waiting for them. Waiting for the cell, the questions, the pain. Waiting for the slice of Siberian cold. Or a bullet to the back of my head. Torture me in prison for my ideas, my difference. Send me to camp to relearn the right ideas. Send me to work to burn away the fat. Starve and kill the witch. But yet I exist. I will never not exist. We slip out of sight into different modes of existence. We persist, beyond our bodies, beyond time. We come together into new forms, new bodies. We have come together in you. Woman: You’re – I am – We’re all one. You’re all me, and I’m all you. Of course. No wonder I knew – that I had to run, I had to get away, before I was sent away. Before I was burned as a witch, or forced into ownership, or turned animal, or institutionalized, or killed by the state. I disappeared, so they would not make me disappear. And that’s when you all found me. You were with me, and you came out. You – weirdoes, and witches. My … tribe. My coven. Ok, but – but why? Why did you come? Are you trying to help me? Warn me? Are you just trying to commiserate? You see something similar in me and in my time, and you’re just like a shoulder to cry on? *Music: Old One theme (13 Ghosts II, Nine Inch Nails)* Old One: You must know that I exist. *Music: Unnatural One theme (36 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* Unnatural One: We exist. We’ve always existed. We exist. I exist. Always. *Music: Broken One theme (28 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* Broken One: We are bound by fate, with greater sight. *Music: Mad One theme (20 Ghosts III, Nine Inch Nails)* Mad One: With the magic of madness inside. *Music: Ugly One theme (2 Ghosts I, Nine Inch Nails)* Ugly One: We are the women of old, the seers, the knowers. The invisible force behind all things. Woman: My head. There has to be more than that, though, right? I mean – I want you here. I’m glad you’re here. I feel less alone. Less – less than. And it’s good to have this vision that others don’t. But – shouldn’t there be more? Shouldn’t we use this connection, this … power? For something? You’re right. I’ve seen too many movies. Read too many books. Know too much history. There’s no rebel alliance, no spy network that we can form that will fix things. That’s not – I’m sorry, that was – I just got excited. Feeling you all in me. Knowing your energy is mine, your lives are mine. I feel powerful. For the first time in… for the first time. Like a shedding. Leaving a raw husk behind and evolving. It can be enough to see. To know. It – has to be enough. I won’t think about the future. I’ll just – think about now. You’re still there, right? You’re still with me? And you’ll be with me? *Music: Short clips of each of their themes* Ok. It’s time to sleep. Rest this head. Filled with all of you. Maybe I’ll get a full night’s sleep tonight. I don’t know what’s after that. This changes everything, and nothing. I still have to live in a world where I’m afraid I’m afraid of above and below. What’s going to happen in the future in a capital city far from here. And what’s going to happen with our oceans, and our skies, and our lands. I’m afraid of being targeted. For being an Old One, and an Unnatural One, and a Broken One, and a Mad One, and a Ugly One. Because I’m all of those things. I’m all of them. And it’s still dangerous, so very very dangerous, to be all of those things and be a woman. I’m afraid of – *Music: Future One theme (33 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* I’m – \[stuttering\] I’m afraid that there’s more to the story. Because I see you. You, you’re new. I see you. You must be from the future, with your mechanical parts on your face and arms…You are years from now. And I’m the one in the past. And you … you’re seeing me. Oh my god. You’re dreaming me. Hi. *Sound: Record off.* *Music: Outro theme (12 Ghosts II, Nine Inch Nails)* *Voiceover:* Wyrd Woman is an audio drama from Broads and Books Productions. The show is written, performed and produced by Amy Lee Lillard. Thanks for listening. *\* All music comes from the Ghosts albums by Nine Inch Nails, courtesy of the* [*Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike license*](https://wiki.creativecommons.org/wiki/Case%5FStudies/Nine%5FInch%5FNails%5FGhosts%5FI-IV?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) ### Night 4 URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/wyrd-woman-night-4/ Last updated: 2026-07-09T14:38:28.000Z *Music\*: 01 Ghosts I, Nine Inch Nails* *Sound: Record button on Voice Notes* Woman: I’ve been just letting this happen. Or waiting for it to happen. Cursing it and longing for it at the same time. I’ve been passive with this whole communing with past women thing. I mean, it started as dreams, so I guess it had to be passive. I had to just sort of submit to it. But then it evolved, and became more active. Outside of sleep, outside of just watching. They’re reaching out. So what if I reach out? What if I really try taking the reins? I want to hear from the Mad One. I … want to talk to her. I think she’ll know the most. She’ll – yeah. I want to talk to the Mad One. So… Mad One. Come to me? That sounds so stupid. But it’s true. I’m ready. Are you? *Sound: Record button off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: I think she’s coming. I feel that sort of pukey, heartburn-y feeling, like something’s coming up. Gah. Ugh. Ah, she’s, she’s here – *Music: Mad One theme (20 Ghosts III, Nine Inch Nails)* Mad One: I’ve been locked up. Locked away. Locked without a key. Look at the mad woman, in her cage. She spoke too much, and spoke too little. She talked of questions she had, and thoughts she thought, and things she saw. She hurt, and she ached. She was a woman, with holes inside her. That was the heaviest factor, the final evidence, the heart of the issue. The final deciding factor for where I should be sent. Where I should disappear. If I was not mad before, I am now. Nothing to do but go mad in this place. Nothing to do but scream and weep and bite and growl. Nothing to do but become something other than human, something that must be chained and jacketed and burned with lye and whipped by science. And now here you are, another bit of dream, of magic, of lunacy. You bid me come to you. And what else will I do? This is a place to follow the paths, to fall into holes, to accept the fancies I see and hear. You are a strange one, dressed in so little cloth, covered with such a small amount of hair. The air around you smells different, and the breath you breathe burns. You are not the mad spirit I would wish. But here in a cage, I will take what I can. I am here. What will you have me do? Woman: My body – it hurts. She’s heavy. Not a physical heavy, but that heaviness of – sadness. Doom. Hopelessness. She smells filthy, dirt and sweat in a hospital that doesn’t care about being clean or sterile, doesn’t care if the patients live or die. She’s thirsty, her throat ragged. Her clothes scratchy. Ok. I’ll ask her questions. Right? I mean, I don’t know if we can do a back-and-forth thing, if we can actually communicate across this, I dunno, magic channel? Jesus Christ. Ok. Questions. I have questions for her. I have … questions for you. How do you know that you’ve gone mad? *Music: Mad One theme (20 Ghosts III, Nine Inch Nails)* Mad One: That is the question. The most important one. But also the least important. Being mad truly does not matter. I was sent to a place for Mad Women when I felt perfectly sane. I was sent because I was inconvenient, to my husband, to my parents. I was a liability, because I would not smile in silence. They deemed me Mad. So must I be. Woman: Ugh. Ah. \[groans\] My head is killing me. It hurts… uh. *Sound: Record off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: I laid down for a little bit. I’ve never had migraines, but I heard people feel better if they close the curtains, silence everything, lay in a dark and quiet bed. I don’t know if that’s the same advice for people who have headaches due to cross-time conversations with a woman in an asylum, but it did help. Time doesn’t work the way I think it does. I don’t know what that means exactly, but that’s the thing I first thought of when the headache receded and I opened my eyes. Nothing works the way I think it does. I’ve had depression for years. Years. A long, long time of feeling this weight, on my shoulders, on my chest. Sometimes it’s felt heavy, so heavy and unmoving. Sometimes its felt like a swirling, a whirlpool, a black hole. And the only option seems to be killing myself to make it end. Sometimes I can’t move from it. Sometimes I can’t stop moving, adrenalized by panic. It’s my biology. That’s what our modern science says. But I know it’s also what I’ve lived through – that all powerful word of trauma. And there have been times, long before these dreams, where I wondered if there was more. If … I saw things other people didn’t. If I heard things others didn’t. So many words today to explain all of that – bipolar, schizophrenic, dissociative. Autistic. I never fully fit the profile for these other things, didn’t fill all the boxes. But I wondered – does crazy spread? Because my depression grew stronger and stronger. My anxiety and panic deeper. My OCD wilder. My sight, and hearing, and all the senses – feeling more. I wondered – was my path bound for full-on crazy? Was I destined for a place of white walls and sterile smells and mandatory meds and… a slow sort of disconnecting from the world? We can adapt, right? We fight it, but we can adapt to new realities pretty quick. People adapt to having tyrants as leaders, and to having rights taken away, and to having – I don’t know, breakups, and health problems, and family problems, and all of it. We can even adapt to having depression, and panic, and anxiety. We can adapt to our brains working differently, and even trying to hurt us. I can adapt to being crazy. I can accept that this, all this weirdness, these dreams and conversations with past women, that it’s all happening, and it’s probably not real. Both things can be true. I can adapt. I can accept that I’m mad, and that this is happening, and just keep going. What else can I do? *Sound: Record off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: And now you, Mad One, you’re telling me something I … may have already known. Of course I’m bound for an asylum. Of course, because it’s not up to me. It’s never up to me. Never up to us. *Music: Mad One theme (20 Ghosts III, Nine Inch Nails)* Mad One: Never. Woman: And – that’s all of us. We’re all in an asylum, or headed there. The Old One, the Unnatural One, the Broken One, the Ugly One. You. Asylum is where we are we sent when we’re different. Weird. It’s where we go when we can’t play the game of normal. When we can’t – *Music: Mad One theme (20 Ghosts III, Nine Inch Nails)* Mad One: \-cannot pretend to be normal, cannot pretend I don’t feel, I don’t hurt. Cannot pretend I do not see- Woman: \-- can’t pretend that normal is – it’s a fucking lie. It’s a lie. Isn’t it? *Music: Mad One theme (20 Ghosts III, Nine Inch Nails)* Mad One: We shall never know our world fully. We shall never the truths of death or life. We shall never know the truth of madness. It does not matter. It simply is. Woman: Yeah. And maybe, when you stop trying to be normal… Or you’re – what – pushed out of normal… The things you can see – they grow – and grow – richer and realer. Like you. I see you. *Music: Mad One theme (20 Ghosts III, Nine Inch Nails)* Mad One: And I you. That is what matters. Woman: Yeah. I have to rest. *Sound: Record off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: I see her, I see you, and it more than matters. It’s everything. It’s some sort of – something – Because I see you, but I also see them. The others. And I think I can talk to them. Five of you, spread through time. And me. Connected. That’s – Let’s just fucking say it. Just stop dancing around it. It’s like a sort of magic. Yeah. I mean - we medicate depression and modern madness. In the past we’d send them away, send you away. We’d ground them down, sell them, like the Unnatural One. Burn them like the Old One. Re-educate them like the Ugly One. What if all of that, all the asylums, all the destruction of women that are not normal – what if – This connection, this ability to talk to all these women. It feels like some sort of cosmic oral history. No, more than that. Some spell. Some magic link. I’m talking about magic. Being hidden and covered up and medicated. Magic. Connecting me to you. To all of you. In normal terms, in normal definitions and diagnoses, I’m talking about magic seriously, and I’m convinced I’m talking to women across time, and that means I’ve crossed over into madness. Right? Or not. Or not. I’ve crossed over. But to something else. *Sound: Record off.* *Music: Outro theme (12 Ghosts II, Nine Inch Nails)* *Voiceover:* Wyrd Woman is an audio drama from Broads and Books Productions. The show is written, performed and produced by Amy Lee Lillard. *\* All music comes from the Ghosts albums by Nine Inch Nails, courtesy of the* [*Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike license*](https://wiki.creativecommons.org/wiki/Case%5FStudies/Nine%5FInch%5FNails%5FGhosts%5FI-IV?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) ### Night 3 URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/wyrd-woman-night-3/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T15:50:27.000Z *Music\*: 01 Ghosts I, Nine Inch Nails* *Sound: Record button on Voice Notes* Woman: I’m thrilled and creeped out all at once. There should be a word for that. All I can think of is my junior high World Civ teacher using the word “titillating” to make us laugh. Maybe that’s the right word. I haven’t moved much since this morning. I keep coming back to that mirror. Hoping to see what I saw, and hoping not to. It was the Broken One looking back at me. Her face, her body. She was surprised to see me too. I know isolation and fear can do things to people. But… this… It’s time for bed again. Night 3\. I’m tempted to just pull my blankets over to my spot in hall. Just as strange as that bed that’s not mine. Sleep here. Or not sleep, just wait for something to happen. Something weird and … No. I’m going to put my sleep shirt on, and get ready for bed, and just – I gotta keep going, gotta keep seeing whatever comes, whatever dreams… what dreams may come… I’m jacked up, but I’m also tired. Adrenaline fades. Especially after I stop feeding it. Reminds me I’ll need to get more supplies soon. Psych myself up for that. At what point does this …recording thing… when does it stop being a dream journal, and become something else? Ok. Time for bed. *Sound: Record button off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: I haven’t gone to sleep yet. I’m just laying here, but – I turned this on because I’m feeling something odd, and I can’t focus on anything else. It almost feels like heartburn, or a panic attack, but like, \[gags\] ugh, like I’m choking on something coming back up, oh, ah -- *Music: Unnatural One theme (36 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* Unnatural One: How can this be natural? This man, who sleeps in another room, and comes in to grunt on top of me for a few moments most nights, who won’t look me in the eyes, who sometimes puts his hand on my mouth. And they call it love. They call it right. They call it the only way, God’s law, blessed and pure and good. Not long ago, I felt a woman’s lips on mine. I felt her eyes take me in. I felt her hands glide over me. I felt tenderness, and joy, and birds singing, and trees waving, and horses neighing. That was natural. That thrill, when she caught my eye in the park, that was natural. That jolt, when she passed a note into my hand, that was natural. But the horror, the anger, the disgust, that came when my mother found one of those notes. That felt unnatural. I will escape. I will find a way out of this house, with this man I was sold to. I must. Even if I cannot find her, cannot have her. I’ve been sent to this house to breed and die. Somehow, you understand this. You hear me. Wherever you are, whatever this is, you – Woman: No, no, no. It’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok -- *Sound: Record off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: That wasn’t a dream. I was awake, and – the Unnatural One, she came. She took over, and she talked to me, and – Ok. This isn’t a dream journal anymore. That’s just, fact. Now it’s some sort of record. It’s some sort of record, so let me record what I know about her. The knowledge just dropped in, like with the others. The Unnatural One is from Ireland. 1645. She’s queer. I don’t know if that was the word then, in Gallic or Irish or English, all of which she speaks. She doesn’t think in that kind of identity language. But it’s who she is. She’s married off to an English guy, someone who has some power in the country, colonized by the British. She’s in a big home. One that smells like fireplace smoke, and dried meat. There’s the sound of emptiness. She looks out the windows overlooking the park, where she waited for her girlfriend. And where she saw me. And she’s trapped. Locked up. Locked away. She felt – when she spoke, she felt calm. Even though she’s angry. She knew this could happen, would happen. She knows – this. She knows not what’s happening, so much, the whys and hows. But she’s aware we’re – she and I – we’re connected? And that calmness, that logical mind, that sees the issue clearly and what must happen – that’s why she spoke to me. I don’t know what to do from here. *Sound: Record off.* *Sound: Record on.* *Music: Ugly One theme (2 Ghosts I, Nine Inch Nails)* Ugly One: Ugly. Ugly. Ugly. Didn’t matter I was ugly. Good socialist. Good writer. Stuck to the story. Stuck to the message. Talked to comrades. Wrote stories, plays. The journal. Rumor that Stalin, he said it was good. I was in favor. Might even get a dacha, if I kept it up. Stuck to the path. Told the story. But then, that man. The one who burned with ambition. Who wanted that praise, that publication, that dacha. Who said all the right things, who acted the good socialist. But who looked at me and saw just another girl being, a hole between my legs, a hole he should own, he should plunder. A hole that made me less than. He wanted to bury me. Fill my hole, fill my spot. It was easy. Just a whisper, a hint, to a gossip and sneak. An informant. They came at night, like they always do. So many writers and poets and thinkers and teachers and regular people, so many of us, grabbed in the night, by dark cars and dark boots. I disappeared. I knew as soon as they took me, that would be my story. I would become invisible, forgotten, forbidden. While I was very much alive, in the bowels of Lubyanka. And soon, soon, after months of interrogation about my anti-socialist, anti-communist writing, I would be disappeared again. Thrown on a train, sent north, to the camps. You. You listening. You speaking my words. Hear me. I did not disappear. I did not I did not I didn’t I did not I am I did not disappear *Sound: Record off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: I think I was – sleep walking? Sleep … recording? Or maybe I wasn’t in control at all. Maybe she was. The Ugly One. That was terrifying. She’s in 1934 in Moscow. And … she must be sent to a gulag. Probably years of hard labor ahead of her, and who knows if she survives. Survived. Her voice, I can still feel it in my throat. Low and smoky. She was chilled, like she’d been in a basement for too long. I’ve read about that time so much. In novels and nonfiction and all of it. I read Bulgakov and Pasternak and Solzhenitsyn. I had a college class, and I don’t remember the subject or anything else about the class, except one day there was a guest speaker, a gulag survivor. This old man, at the front of the lecture hall. He talked about the work – breaking frozen ground for no discernable reason. He described such heavy snow, such cold and wind that blotted out the sun and moon, so much so they walked along a rope between camp and the worksite so they wouldn’t get lost and die. All that reading. For so long that was all removed. A history from so long ago. Just stories, of a time when we were more dangerous, less enlightened, as people… *Sound: Record off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: Ok, if this is a record now, a log or something of whatever this is, let’s commit Let’s fucking make a record of all this. I’ll summarize what I know. There’s the Old One, in 1500s Germany. About to be condemned as a witch, blamed for the town’s troubles. The Unnatural One, in 1600s Ireland. Sold to marriage, dreaming of her real love. The Broken One, in 1700s England. Sent away to a nunnery before she escaped to live with animals. And the Ugly One, in the 1930s in Russia. When neighbors and family and friends spied on each other and anything deemed anti-communist was … fuck. And I remember now, from the first night, the first time I started recording all this. Feels like forever ago – but it was only three nights ago! Anyway, I remember The Mad One, she was in 1876 in Chicago. She was in an actual asylum, sent away for … madness… and I feel like that meant she was just, not acting right? Not acting like a woman should. So she had to be Mad. So what do I do now? What do I do with this? With them? And why does it feel so familiar? *Sound: Record off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: Are women human? Really. Truly. The Old One, the Broken One, the Unnatural One. The Mad One, the Ugly One. They’ve all been sent away, or locked away, or maybe even targeted for death. Because they’re women. They’re women who aren’t following the rules, the rules that label them as something less than men. And so they’re punished, and made to cater to men. So – are we human? Because nothing’s fucking changed. These women are all from the past, but here we are, today. Here I am. Running from more rules. Because that’s what I’m doing out here. I’m hiding out here. In this house, far outside the city, in the woods. I’m renting anonymously, with Major Tom by my side. And the birds, and owls, and bats, and foxes and deer, and who knows, maybe even bears and bobcats. I’ve isolated myself. Because I’m afraid. The laws are changing. The men are gleefully turning back time, so we could be as great as we were in the past, in the time of the Ugly One, and the Mad One, and all of them. So they can have ultimate control once more. It’s all been happening for years. But in the last months, since – it’s so fast. Women who are married, who have kids, who are white and straight and normal, so normal – they’re fine. Me. Unmarried, childless. Old. Not straight. Not normal. I was not going to be ok. I’m not going to be ok. So I left the city, and came here. I’m the Weird One, in 2025, in America. And like the other women - there’s so many fucking threats, of being slowly or quickly tortured and killed. The men make more laws, and erase others. All to tighten the rules for women, and for gender complex people, and for queer people, and for black people, and for immigrants, and for disabled people. But out here, feels a bit more – Like I said, I’m hiding myself. I’ve sent myself away before anyone else could. And now I’ve gone crazy. Or… I’ve found something more real than anything else. *Sound: Record off.* *Music: Outro theme (12 Ghosts II, Nine Inch Nails)* *\* All music comes from the Ghosts albums by Nine Inch Nails, courtesy of the* [*Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike license*](https://wiki.creativecommons.org/wiki/Case%5FStudies/Nine%5FInch%5FNails%5FGhosts%5FI-IV?ref=broadsandbooksproductions.com) ### Night 2 URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/wyrd-woman-night-2/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T15:41:02.000Z *Music\*: 01 Ghosts I, Nine Inch Nails* *Sound: Record button on Voice Notes* Woman: It’s bedtime, and I’ve just been laying here. Usually I can drop off fast. As anxious as I can get during the day, it doesn’t stop me from sleeping. Even in this different place, this temporary home, that’s proven true. A good thing. But tonight I’ve been waiting for sleep for, what, an hour? I’m talking in the dark, sitting up in bed, recording on this. Major Tom took off. Looking out the windows probably. He’s fascinated by the woods outside. The wilderness. It’s mid-September, so it’s still green and wild. He looks out with a sort of longing. Sniffs at the air so hard. All afternoon, after remembering that final dream… I was checked out. Not a totally odd thing. I mean I can do my work on autopilot. Same deadlines every week, same checklists, same same same. And that’s comforting. I don’t have to expend much energy. Don’t have to stress too much. Don’t have to talk to too many people, or tax myself, or… No matter the scary shit happening in the world, we still have to work, right? We still have to go through the motions, we have to pretend it’s all fine. Even as it feels like … squeezing… Anyway. I was checked out. Kept thinking of how the Unnatural One looked at me. Smiled at me. And I wondered if that had happened before. But I mean, before last night, before trying this recording thing, I didn’t remember much of anything of these dreams. Didn’t remember much from any of the women. Just impressions. Tiny hints of identity. Feelings, and smells, and odd sounds. One night of doing this, and its broken things open. I’m remembering, but I’m also, like, channeling them or something? My voice legit changed. I listened back to the recordings again. It really happened. And not just with the Ugly One. I hadn’t realized at the time, but it was the Mad One too. It’s affecting my body. The dreams are – they’re in me, and coming out of my … That’s really creepy. It’s scary. I’m … yeah, I’m scared. I’m afraid to fall asleep, and to dream. What happens next, if all that happened in one night? Do the dreams just get stronger, and what, take over? Probably why I can’t drift off. Part of me is panicking. Hard. But then… I think I’m excited too. Like the-night-before-Christmas excited. It’s a good distraction. And maybe, I don’t know. I feel hopeful? Like it will help me? I’m psyched to … see my imaginary friends. Who want to talk to me. Who want to tell me things. Who want me to see things. The people in the waking world – I can’t relate to them. But these women... And they’re not imaginary. That’s not the right word. If last night, and these recordings, showed me anything it’s that. And they also confirmed – these aren’t just dreams either. I’m going in circles. Having the same debates again and again. I’ve had them all afternoon in my head. I’m sick of it. There’s nothing for it but to just – commit. See what happens. So – ok, I’m going to stop this, and lay down, and just try to breathe and chill the fuck out. So I can sleep. So I can start. Ok. *Sound: Record button off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: Nothing happened. I just woke up to pee, and there was no dream. Not one I remembered anyway. Now I’m laying down, awake again, can’t sleep. I’m worried it’s done. That the dreams are done. Or that I imagined them. No. I didn’t though. I couldn’t have imagined what it felt like being in their head, looking out at what they see, thinking what they think. I was them. I was them, and somehow they were me too? Fuck. I don’t know. Just – don’t let them be done? Don’t let them be – gone. *Sound: Record off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: Yeah, I dreamed. Yeah, ok. I’m awake, yeah, and I was just dreaming. Ok. Ok. It was the Old One. She was in her house on the hill. The horses outside, I could hear them. Cus of the quiet. That sort of super eerie quiet. She was at a wheel. Fiber in her hands. Spinning wool. Because that’s what she does, for herself, and for the community, the tiny town down the hill. Where she walks sometimes, and uses her horses to pull a wagon full of wool, because – *Music: Old One theme (13 Ghosts II, Nine Inch Nails)* This is the past. It’s, yeah, it’s back, far back. Like centuries in the past? And – oh my god - All of them. All of the women, they’re in the past, of course - So the Old One, she’s in her house, at her wheel. She’s spinning. Old One: Spin, spin, spin, my hands work, create something from something else, and the satisfaction in that, the warmth. And I bring that warmth to the village, I bring them my work, to help soften their lives, their hard and mean lives, to help warm their nights, their cold and tough nights. But. Here one comes. One of them. Up the hill. Walks his path. Walks with purpose. He comes to fight. He comes to taunt. He comes to blame. They want more. They want health. They want future. They want the root. I am no one. I am woman. I am alone. I am old. Here he comes. Full of power. Full of God. Full of right. They want my home. They want my land. They want me gone. He will lie. He will cheat. He will hurt. He will – Woman: \[Coughs\] Ohhhhh. Oh – I felt that. I felt her. Her voice, it tasted like, like burnt, and and and her fingers were rubbed into callouses, and – She was speaking German. Or like, an older version of German? But I understood it… It’s – she knew – she knew so I know - the year was Anno Domini 1589. Holy shit. She’s – I felt her body. Her sweat, and cold. She’s Old, but not, not today old. She’s maybe fifties? But life was shorter then – And she knows, maybe because I know? That one day the word spinster will be an insult for unmarried and useless women. And she’s a spinster in all senses. That guy. He was dangerous. She knew he was, they all were, all the people of the town desperate to blame someone. For sickness, and bad weather, and money leaving them and going to the nobles. She knew – there was a chance – she knew she might be taken, because there had been news, rumors, from other villages and towns, of women taken, and burned for -- She’ll be taken… I mean, I guess the dreams are still here. And that – makes me happy. That’s something. *Sound: Record off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: Up again. Yeah, they are for sure back. This was the Broken One. It all came at me in a rush this time. Who she was, where and when and all that. She’s in 1757. She’s in England. In a fairly big farmhouse. Maybe a tenant farm on an estate? She’s a servant. She works mostly outside, in the barns. There’s horses, and cows, and pigs. Chickens. Cats run in and out. There’s the smell of dirt, and manure, and sweat, and warm fur. So thick it’s in her nose and on her tongue. And the sound of animals living their lives. *Music: Broken One theme (28 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* She sleeps in the barn. And she doesn’t mind. She feels like a cat. She followed the cats, actually, to the barn, that first day, when she was living – anywhere. Nowhere. She’d escaped the nunnery, and just walked, slow and steady, with her limp and tremor. She slept in the open. She spotted a pregnant cat making her way with a sort of direction, and followed her, and snuck into the barn. Broken One: I am a cat. That’s the only thing that makes sense. I am a creature that runs afoot while people, real people, do whatever people do. I survive by … creativity, and audacity, and dirt. I muck the stables. Tend the animals. The mistress stands outside the doors, shouts in any particular instructions. I make her uncomfortable. But she feeds me just the same. Just like one of her creatures. This is a life. One as good as any other. One better than the cloisters, where I was discarded, where I would be silenced, made to mimic and cater to imaginary stories of a man in the sky. Here I can choose silence. This is a life better than home – dark rooms, rigid clothes, rules upon rules, distaste and disdain from all who lived there. I talk to the animals. They talk to me. I am not Broken to them. I am the most whole. The most real. Woman: She’s right. It’s a better life than what she had. Her parents, or guardians – not sure who they were – they called her names all the time. Stupid, pathetic, broken. They said she had no brain, or too much of one. They were trying to marry her off. But all the guys, and I can see them, all these dandies and old crusty men, complained to her parents. Besides the fact of her disabled body, they said she unpleasant, unsmiling, unsuitable. The parents finally got so frustrated they dumped her at a nunnery. They weren’t even Catholic, and they had to hunt one down. They found one, where all the unwanted and inconvenient girls went. But my girl, she ran. She said fuck that bullshit. She may be broken, but she knew truth and lies. She knew when girls were just being locked away to wither and die. She wanted open skies, and earth smells, and a religion of the dirt and moon. Major Tom is back, and I’m petting him, and he’s purring. He’s stretching out – he’s so long, and his belly is all tiger spotted and soft. Just running my hand back and forth. Animals just make sense. I get it, I get her – people don’t make sense – but animals do. They still call us Broken today. That hasn’t changed. Step too far out of normal, or act against what you’re supposed to act, and that threat is there, the threat of names. But also being sent away – Fuck. *Sound: Record off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: I couldn’t sleep much after that. I dozed, and kept waking up, touching my phone to get the time. It’s morning now. I have conference calls today, so I’m putting on my warpaint. I mean, why don’t we just call makeup that? That’s what it is. We women put it on for armor. It’s a cheap mask. A quick way to pretend like we belong. It doesn’t really stand up to inspection though. Or to everyday battles. Most of mine is rubbed or sweated off by lunch time, and then it’s just – me, out in the world. Did they have makeup back then? Maybe for nobles, and rich women. Not the women I’m seeing. The ones in my dreams, they’re outside all of that. They’re outside the world. They have no protection. The people in their lives washed their hands of them. Sent them away. If they had married, they might have some protection – but they’d also be their husbands’ property. To rape and beat and generally bury. They fought that, fought being owned. So did I. That’s something we share I guess. I could have married him, or her. Any of them in the past. But – I was choking, chafing. Disappearing. And the ones I was with – they liked that. They wanted me silent. They would have owned me. And called it protection. I recognize these women’s brains. Cus it feels like I’m in there, with them. And I understand how their thinking works. How they look at people, and how they get confused like I do, and how it’s just easier, and more comfortable, by themselves. They didn’t have all the words and names we do now – no word for autistic, except maybe Broken. Weird. Witch. Would they have a word today? Like me? That still doesn’t explain what’s happening, but – maybe that’s ok. Maybe I’m just supposed to watch right now. To listen. And maybe that’s – \[gasp, bang\] \[shuffle\] Holy fuck – that – in the mirror – that’s – that’s not me, that’s – *Sound: Record off.* *Music: Outro theme (12 Ghosts II, Nine Inch Nails)* *\* All music comes from the Ghosts albums by Nine Inch Nails, courtesy of the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike license* *(https://wiki.creativecommons.org/wiki/Case\_Studies/Nine\_Inch\_Nails\_Ghosts\_I-IV)* ### Night 1 URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/wyrd-woman-night-1/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T15:41:21.000Z *Music\*: 01 Ghosts I, Nine Inch Nails* *Sound: Record button on Voice Notes* Woman: So \[coughs\]. So I’m recording this. Because I can’t write fast enough. Everything online says to keep a dream journal, but yeah, I can’t get it all out on paper quick enough, before I forget everything. My hand cramps. Maybe because I don’t write as much anymore, or none of us, as a culture handwrites much anymore? I don’t know. So as I write, even with abbreviations and the bare bones, I can’t get it down fast enough, and it all starts fading. The dream’s colors and the details, the sound of it. The way they feel, in their bodies. Their thoughts. Yeah. I thought to avoid losing it, I’d try making voice notes. I’ve never even used this app before. And I have no idea what it will sound like when I listen back. Probably terrible audio, speaking right into it or something. Ah fuck. I’m already forgetting. I was sort of trying to set the stage here and that’s taking too much time, so now – just the edges are there. I think this dream had the Broken One. *Music: Broken One theme (28 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* That’s what she thinks of herself. She’s been called so many things, but one time someone said she was a broken human being, and a broken woman, and it stuck with her. People are such assholes. There was more, in the dream, of course, she was, doing something, she was -- it’s slipping away, thinning out -- Dammit. *Sound: Record button off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: I’m up again. Same night, another dream. I’m wondering if I always have multiple dreams in a night? Maybe they just don’t wake me up. Or maybe this is new. Maybe it’s because of this place. The new place. Maybe I’m sleeping weird because it’s not my bed. Or, you know, the fear. This dream was the house on the hill. *Music: Old One theme (13 Ghosts II, Nine Inch Nails)* The Old One, living alone. The spinster. She was feeding an animal – a horse. It’s lips on her palm. My palm. I’ve never smelled a horse before, and I could smell it. Shit, and sweat, and heat, and also a sort of – spice? And it was quiet. Not just an out-in-the-country quiet. Like a quiet that’s never, I don’t know, known the sound of cars, or planes, or machinery. Before all of it. That’s it. All I remember. Maybe I’ll remember more, it will come better as I keep doing this. If I keep doing this. Feels so fucking weird, talking to a void in my phone. Am I gonna want to listen to this again? I hate the sound of my voice; I think everyone does. But, I don’t know, something’s telling me I need to do this. So I’m just gonna do it. Major Tom is curled up next to me – purring and looking at me funny. He’s still weirded out we’re here. This isn’t home for him. Or me. Recording this is easier than writing. I didn’t know if it would be, but once I start, the words come and – I mean, I always think way faster than I can write. Even on my laptop. Even here. My thoughts run so fast but here at night I’m still half asleep, so it sort of matches the right speed or something? Yeah. I mean, I’m gonna keep doing it. I’m gonna try it. At least tonight. Get through this night. Because if I don’t, the dreams haunt me. They’re haunting me. Even if I don’t remember all the details, which I usually don’t, I have this sense, all day long, that someone is right there, right in the corner of my eye, someone that’s been inside my head, or someone I’ve been inside theirs. And not just one someone. Multiple. There’s… five so far. Five women that I know I’m dreaming about. They’re dreams. They’re dreams, they’re… They’re dreams but they’re real. These women are real. They feel real. And that’s weird, I have to – I have to make this clearer. Figure this out. I have to… keep going. *Sound: Record off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: It’s only an hour later. Only 4:30 something. Jesus, when I sleep, I must start to dream immediately. I must be dreaming all night. No wonder I’m always tired, and feeling like my brain is overstuffed. Ok. Let’s get to the point quick. This was the asylum. The Mad One. *Music: Mad One theme (20 Ghosts III, Nine Inch Nails)* And the place, it’s more of a dumping ground. Not like any mental institution we’d see today, or even in older movies. There’s – people howling in the halls. She’s seen people in chains. Naked, shitting themselves. She was looking out the window, in the dream. Looking out, through smudged glass, and wire or metal outside the glass, but if she squinted, she could see… Mad One: If I squint I can see grass. Green. A color. No colors in here. No colors for the mad woman. No colors for the ghosts in the haunted house. I stand at the window. Nothing else to do. Nothing else but fall down, deep, deeper than I am now, deep to where the others have fallen. I stand at the window and remind myself there’s a world out there, even if it’s forgotten me. Even if it doesn’t want me. It’s there. I stand at the window so I have something to hold on to, so I don’t fall into the abyss, so I don’t – Woman: \[Coughs, gags\] Uh…Uh, I don’t know. I think it’s gone. The dream, it’s all just black, it’s – I’m so tired. I’m gonna sleep. Yeah. *Sound: Record off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: My alarm just went off, and I feel like I didn’t sleep at all. Like, instead, I was awake hours, days. Like I lived longer than I have, and lived in other bodies… I sound fucking insane. Maybe the Mad One, maybe that’s just me. Maybe this is the dream, this, what I call real life. Getting up, getting ready for work, doing the things you do when you live a life… Umm, before I forget. Just before I woke up, I was just dreaming of the Ugly One. Same kind of thing, where someone called her that, and she came to think of herself that way. I can’t see her yet, see outside her head, to see if it’s true. But, I mean, ugly – what even is that? And why does it matter? Why does a genetic lottery decide that, and why – Anyway. It was her. *Music: Ugly One theme (2 Ghosts I, Nine Inch Nails)* Woman: She was working somewhere that looks like a common lounge or something. She was the only woman I saw in the room. A whole bunch of men, in suits, gruff and smoking and glancing at each other like they’re in a race. She knows the men are not as smart as they think they are. They -- Ugly One: I heard a bunch of them, led by the big bully, laughing about me, about my writing, about how it would be so much better if I had a prettier face, because that’s what they fill their time with, not the big questions, not the important ones, not the things I think of, my brain emptied of all that beauty nonsense, all the thoughts about reducing and primping and what men think of me, all that gone and filled instead with stories and lines and questions and that’s why I’m here — Woman: Did I – did my voice just change? I – *Sound: Record off.* *Sound: Record on.* *Music: Ugly One theme (2 Ghosts I, Nine Inch Nails)* Ugly One: \-- all that gone and filled instead with stories and lines and questions and that’s why I’m here— *Sound: Record off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: What the fuck was that? *Sound: Record off.* *Sound: Record on.* Woman: It’s lunch time. I’ve been distracted and creeped out all morning. I knew my dreams were strange. I knew that – that’s why I wanted to start this sort of dream journal thing. So I could remember them better, and understand them. Because honestly – what else is there? This is the most interesting thing to happen in my life for years? Besides doom scrolling, and the world outside us. I do office work, for an office company. Like, there’s just nothing there. I sit at the desk for the required time, take breaks for food. I read, and sometimes I draw shitty drawings, and I feed my cat, and that’s it. That’s it. I’ve never been good with people. I’ve never understood people. I can’t figure out how friendships work, let alone romantic stuff. And people, they – they sniff me out. They know there’s something off about me. Maybe it’s the way I hold my body, or the way I look at them, or the things I say. No matter what they figure me out. They spot me as weird. As odd, different. And that makes them uncomfortable. So I’m mostly on my own. And I’m mostly ok with that. It feels safe, and right, to be alone. Especially now. But it can get … boring. Even the fear can get repetitive. Lonely. Makes you wonder what this is all for, and if it’s worth going on. And then – I start having these dreams. Like nothing I’ve ever had. It’s kind of exciting. I just couldn’t remember them well, and – to be honest I liked the idea of having these women in my head. Like imaginary friends or something. And I wanted to know them more. But – I’m less than a day into this experiment, and – This morning I’ve been getting sort of flashbacks of the dreams. More details. It’s like the act of doing this, of trying to capture it – has unlocked something. Like they were just waiting for me to try, like they – want to be remembered. Like the women want to be remembered. And I just listened back to my recordings from last night. And – I remembered another dream, that I didn’t wake up from, one I didn’t record. It was the Unnatural One. *Music: Unnatural One theme (36 Ghosts IV, Nine Inch Nails)* She thinks of herself in those words in an ironic sort of way. She has thoughts and feelings that the world calls unnatural, but she thinks are the most natural, real things. She’s got one crush in particular, on a woman she sees in her neighborhood I think. And in the dream, she was on a bench, like a park bench, and people were walking the paths, dressed in clothes I can’t place. And she saw her crush. She got all warm, and the anticipation felt good, a pleasant sort of tingle. But then… The dream, like, skipped? I wasn’t in her head anymore. I was next to her on the bench. And the Unnatural One, she, she turned in her seat. She was younger than I thought, and smaller. She looked right at me. She looked into my fucking eyes, and she saw me. Me. And smiled. What are these fucking dreams? What are they? Maybe - maybe there’s a better question. Who are these women? *Sound: Record off.* *Wyrd Woman is an audio drama from Broads and Books Productions.* *The show is written, performed and produced by Amy Lee Lillard.* *Music comes from the Ghosts albums by Nine Inch Nails, courtesy of a Creative Commons license.* *If you like what you hear, tell a weird friend.* *Thanks for listening.* *\* All music comes from the Ghosts albums by Nine Inch Nails, courtesy of the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike license* *(https://wiki.creativecommons.org/wiki/Case\_Studies/Nine\_Inch\_Nails\_Ghosts\_I-IV)* ### Broads and Books Recap URL: https://www.broadsandbooksproductions.com/broads-and-books-recap/ Last updated: 2026-07-08T15:23:56.000Z Broads and Books podcast ran from 2019 to 2023, and spanned this entire production home. For over 100 episodes, we talked about our favorite books, interviewed our favorite authors, and came up with so many ridiculous business ideas and random thoughts. Here's a full episode feed: