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I’m not shopping for a stand-in. Rebounds are admin for the heart. You can’t warm winter with a screenshot of the sun. A JPEG glows. It doesn’t heat the room. I’ll keep the cold until it tells the truth. I want the sun, not its likeness. At first light, I’ll know the difference between a highlight reel and heat. F.S.F.

Heat Only

7:42.Screens blacken.Corridors ask for a name.A man gives one.“It’s on me.”Pressure steadies. By noon the rumour writes.It writes concerns.Calendar entries change by themselves.His badge still opens doors.The rooms act as if it does not matter. 1:13 a.m.Vendor letter: upstream fault, dual collapse,no local prevention.He folds it once.Silence is filed under Continuity. I observe. I initial the margins. Outcome is favoured over process.Afterward rewrites before.Necessary is mistaken for sufficient.Cause is confused with duty.After-the-fact arithmetic. The ritual proceeds.One body takes the loadso the building can sleep.Silence fits. It becomes a uniform.Moral injury is logged as Tuesday. He speaks clearly:“I own repair, communication, prevention.”He does not say meteor.Time is frozen at T-0.The clock resists. He staples it down. No spectacle.Prose only.Set a sunset date.Keep a second record.If windows are painted on, leave. I observe. I number the steps. The Court prefers doors labelled Root Cause.They make better speeches.The other door reads Response.It is smaller. It has a window.He signs for it. The file is archived. The building sleeps.The letter stays folded.My notes are legible.That is what survives. F.S.F.

Minutes from the Department

The platform clock said 14:57. Last train to Douz. Third class. Two dollars each.The carriage had a sliding door and timber ribs with two-finger gaps. It was built for animals. We tried to look like customers.I had promised my girlfriend “adventure” in a brave tone. She stood on her toes to find a better slice of air. Forty-five degrees. The smell was crowded. The gaps gave us wind and mercy. We dry-reached and thanked the gaps. After two hours there was only sand. Dunes to the horizon. Four hours total, the timetable said. I liked the certainty. It kept my thoughts domestic. The inspector came with a guard who did not need a name. Tickets were counted like pencils. An old man had empty hands and a hat with a salt ring. I stepped forward with two dollars. Men near me shook their heads. “Do not,” they said. “Do not interfere.” The door rolled on its track with a metal chirp. The guard made one clean movement. The old man met the sand. Through the slits I saw him bounce once. His hat rolled and stopped against a rib of dune. The train did not slow. The timetable did not blush. A boy near the door laughed at something small. The sound reached me late. One hundred kilometres to a town. Forty-five degrees. No water. Two dollars not paid. I held my ticket. It weighed the same as before. I told myself I had tried. I told myself I did not know the rules. Both lines were tidy. Neither bought a life. The inspector finished his row. A stamp clicked. Bread paper rustled. Someone checked a watch. The carriage returned to normal, which now felt like a trick word. The wheels kept the plan. In Douz we stepped down and became customers again. We praised the light and the fan in the room. We kept our tickets as proof that we were there. No one asked for proof that he had been there too. Later I counted the facts like drawers. Two dollars. Four hours. One body. A name I never learned. A country I barely knew how to spell. A heat that kept its appointments. I keep the number in my mouth. It tastes like copper and keeps its change. F.S.F.

Two Dollars

Morning. &nbsp;I wake as a profile picture.Not a beetle. Worse: &nbsp;a whitened rectangle.The house is quiet. &nbsp;The feed is not. &nbsp;Blue light. Blue applause.A clerk of numbers stamps my day. &nbsp;Approved: 1,243 impressions. &nbsp;Declined.I queue at the door marked Opportunity. &nbsp;A moderator with a soft smile checks my posture. &nbsp;“Grateful?” &nbsp;“Yes.” &nbsp;“Honoured?” &nbsp;“Always.” &nbsp;“Any failures to declare?” &nbsp;“Only the unshareable ones.” &nbsp;The door does not open. &nbsp;It refreshes.Lobby: a fountain of bullet points. &nbsp;Water made of lessons. &nbsp;Everything laminated. &nbsp;“Cover your food.” &nbsp;“Cover your fear.” &nbsp;“Cover your complexity.”A man gives me nine steps. &nbsp;They shine like wet rock. &nbsp;They ask for my email.A woman thanks her team. &nbsp;The team is a mirror. &nbsp;They clap in unison.A recruiter walks over, thin as a policy. &nbsp;Her hands are forms. &nbsp;Her eyes are filters. &nbsp;“Any gaps?” she asks. &nbsp;“Only the years I was a person.”I try to tell the truth. &nbsp;It arrives in bad light. &nbsp;It smells like coffee and error budgets. &nbsp;It wears an old timestamp. &nbsp;The truth is led out. &nbsp;Dress code violation.The castle is remote now. &nbsp;Everyone works there. &nbsp;No one has seen it. &nbsp;Invites arrive at midnight. &nbsp;Declines stay silent.A beetle scuttles by. &nbsp;He has a Creator Badge. &nbsp;His shell is a slide deck. &nbsp;“Build more carapace,” he says. &nbsp;“Ship more shine.”I find a door labelled Authentic. &nbsp;It is small. &nbsp;I kneel. &nbsp;Inside, a clerk the size of a thought. &nbsp;He stamps my chest: &nbsp;“Not Suitable For Homepage.”Above us, the algorithm hums. &nbsp;It likes tidy endings. &nbsp;It hates weight.In the atrium, success hangs from a pulley. &nbsp;We take turns hauling it up. &nbsp;We wave from the top. &nbsp;We wave from the fall. &nbsp;Both posts do well.Someone says “evidence.” &nbsp;Security arrives. Profiles polished. &nbsp;They walk him out through the Gift Shop of Mindset. &nbsp;Receipts are ready.Lunch. &nbsp;We eat endorsements. &nbsp;Chewy, bland. &nbsp;A pea republic forms in the comments. &nbsp;They declare freedom from nuance. &nbsp;Their flag is a template.Afternoon audit. &nbsp;Have I been human today? &nbsp;I tick the boxes. &nbsp;Empathy. &nbsp;Curiosity. &nbsp;Leadership. &nbsp;The ink is invisible. &nbsp;The boxes tick themselves.Night. &nbsp;The lobby empties. &nbsp;Mops of inspiration glide through. &nbsp;A cleaner hums a song with no bullets. &nbsp;Her hands smell like lemons, not brand.I sit on the floor. &nbsp;I take off my headshot. &nbsp;Bone and plain air. &nbsp;A small breath no one can sell.I call the door marked Outside. &nbsp;It rings. &nbsp;Rings again. &nbsp;Then opens like a window.No counters. &nbsp;No instructions. &nbsp;A cat climbs the fence. &nbsp;A neighbour laughs. &nbsp;Someone loses a game and stays kind.I write a post I won’t post. &nbsp;It is about the warp in a wooden table. &nbsp;How water found it and stayed. &nbsp;How hands learned to set cups on either side.I sleep as a person. &nbsp;Tomorrow I may wake as a profile. &nbsp;Or not.If the clerk asks, tell him: &nbsp;I went looking for the castle. &nbsp;I found a kitchen. &nbsp;It was enough.F.S.F.

Approved: 1,243 impressions.

It began stainless. Buttons clicked. Darren’s lasagne gave a low hum. Steam, not hope. Cheese, not teamwork. Then the intern. Lid tight. Confidence tighter. Orange cloud. Silence. No one wiped. By winter, a relic. Rice stitched to the walls. A pea republic took the corner. Broccoli phantoms clocked in at noon. Someone reheated fish. “Meal prep.” Management fought back. Laminated orders. “Cover your food.” Again: “Cover your food.” A pen-scratch on the door: “Egg curry? Seek help.” Entropy punched in. The lemon blackened. The vinegar quit. Still, we fed it. It breathed despair and chicken satay. Each lunch a reminder: nobody’s job, everybody’s fault. Now it hums on. A warm mirror. We stand there, hungry, guilty. Decay isn’t random. It’s democratic. F.S.F

Office Microwave

Six on the dot. The container shutter rattles up. Steam lifts. I tap, take the long black, step clear of chatter. Benches spread across the cobblestones; I walk the arc to the last one. I sit. Heat climbs the cup into my hand, throat, chest. Pen. Pad. Not a diary. A trap. Thoughts flare, then run. I net dreams, pin the dark to the margin, put a fantasy on shift. The council mower grids the oval. Dogs map their loops. I face the jacarandas. The page lifts, settles. I clock on to the quiet and let it speak.shutter up, steam threads jacaranda confetti ink squares the far bench F.S.F

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

Heat Only

Minutes from the Department

Two Dollars

Approved: 1,243 impressions.

Office Microwave

Shift Commences