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What’s the cruelest whisper?Strive for perfect. It hums from billboards,flickers in screens,coats idle chatterwith a sterile gleam. Yet every star worth chasingignites in chaos,swirling dust,untamed gravity,no blueprint in the blaze. We hunt better,steps tracked, flaws mapped,a race toward a vanishing line. A deaf child clasped a piano,teaching silence to sing. A girl, stitched by steel,dragged her fractured spineacross canvas, history paused. A scientist, stilled,blinked at a cursor;it wove black-hole hymns. A singer, scarred,let cracks carve the song. None perfect,all fiercelymagnificent. So shed the polished lies,the chase for flawless shine. Wear your scars like emblems,freckles like galaxies,mistakes like hidden keys. Be magnificent,not perfect. You nod,reach for a rulerto align the words. Chaos hums.A star is born. FSF

Magnificent

wake to my phone, not buzzing, but meditating, email spinning its little zen wheel. downstairs, in pyjamas, clutching a dumb Oura ring, I find my daughters staring into blank glass. “Daddy,” says the eldest, “Instagram’s dead. how will I post my smoothie art?” I suggest toast, maybe conversation. they blink, like I proposed exile to a cave without sockets. by nine, the whole street has surrendered. no "can you hear me?" calls, just neighbours waving phones at clouds, conducting a techno seance. over the hedge, Mrs Johnson, barefoot in the dew, screams at her router: "Get me Elon Musk!" at work, the CIO pounds the conference door. email is dead. servers hum in mockery. "It’s global," I say, guessing wildly. the first fallacy of apocalypse: hasty generalisation. lunch: the newsreader asks how we will survive. suggests books, letters, pigeons. dinner: toasted cheese, guilt. tears: a half-drawn owl lost in the wires. “paper,” I whisper, "there’s always paper." night: kids with footballs, neighbours trading gossip like rare coins. tucking them in, I see: the strongest networks have no passwords. lying awake, the ceiling breathing above me, I wonder— will the signal ever return? or have we, at last, come home? FSF

Wi-Fi Wake

It all started, as these things often do, with a joke.I was CTO of a financial firm with all the warmth and ethics of a crypto Ponzi scheme wrapped in a navy-blue tie. Travel was part of the gig. Not glamorous travel, no business class champagne or crisp white sheets, just airport lounges that smelt of beige, and hotels that forgot what city they were in.We had a handful of general admin staff, ruthless time-warriors in cardigans, who booked our travel. You emailed them your needs and, without further interaction or acknowledgement of your humanity, you'd find yourself on a flight manifest.One Tuesday afternoon, sleep-deprived and high on sarcasm, I sent them a request:“Please book me on the first flight to Melbourne tomorrow. Any airline. Book it under FS Forbes (the F is for Fantastic). Cheers, Sam.”And that was it. The email equivalent of a raised eyebrow and a smirk to myself. I printed the confirmation when it came through, folded it neatly into my jacket pocket, and thought no more of it.Next morning. Pre-dawn. Brisbane Airport, haunted by blinking machines and half-awake travellers. I strode up to the Qantas counter, presented my ID, and declared:“Ticket to Melbourne. FS Forbes, or Francis Samuel Forbes.”The attendant tapped. Frowned. Tapped again. A pause.“Sorry, sir. There’s no ticket under that name.”I leaned in. Explained. Mentioned the admin team. Offered a winning smile.She frowned again, less apologetically this time. I handed her the printout from the admin, confident it would resolve things.She read it. Blinked. Then tilted her head with a weary sigh.“Sir... the ticket is under Fantastic Forbes. That’s what the booking says.”She showed me the screen. There it was. Like something from a dream you try to forget: FANTASTIC FORBES – MELBOURNE – 05:30I laughed. She didn’t.“Unfortunately,” she said, slipping into that firm, airport-legal tone, “without a ticket that matches your ID, I can’t let you on this flight. Even with the email.”And that was the moment I stepped through the looking-glass into the land of Kafka.What followed was a bureaucratic pilgrimage through Qantas middle management. She called someone who in turn, called for Barbra the ‘Verification Manager, Ticket Identity Escalations Division’, who appeared waring a lanyard with real purpose, and ordered me through to the back office. My luggage was forgotten, my coffee went cold. I was marched through grey corridors that smelt like printer toner and despair.Every new person I spoke to had to read the email again. Each one blinked at "the F is for Fantastic" like it was some kind of security code. Some laughed. Most didn't. One manager, clipboard in hand, asked me if this was “a known alias.” I half expected ASIO to be summoned.“Why did you write that?” someone asked.“Because I’m an idiot,” I replied. At least that part was clear.Eventually, miraculously, someone up the chain, possibly weary from the sheer absurdity of it all, stamped their bureaucratic blessing and whispered the magic words:“We’ll print the boarding pass... but change the return ticket. And next time—don’t be clever.”With minutes to spare, I sprinted to the gate, nearly dropping my jacket, my email, and what was left of my dignity. I boarded the plane just as they were closing the doors.And there, strapped in at 34,000 feet, I began to laugh. First quietly. Then uncontrollably. The sort of laugh that turns heads and makes flight attendants check on you. It was absurd. It was entirely my fault. It was... perfect.And so, Fantastic Forbes was born. Not from glory. Not from greatness. But from one too-clever line in an email to an admin girl with a sense of humour and access to Amadeus.The nickname stuck. It followed me around the office like a glittery ghost. People emailed me as “Fantastic.” Someone stuck a sticker on my monitor: “Fantastic or nothing.”Honestly? I deserved it. FSF

F.F.F.

In the early 90s, unemployment was my shadow. Loyal, broke, stubborn. With logic borrowed from a drunken gambler, I decided to start a business. How hard could it be? I'd never owned one, never planned to. My business skills matched my cash flow—zero. Still, I chose sandwiches.My business plan: bread from a bakery that believed baking was art, fillings from a deli with imported meats and cheeses no one could pronounce. Armed with a heat-sealed plastic bags, ice packs, and audacity, I marched into battle.Each dawn, stumbling in darkness, I loaded eskies with sandwiches priced like gold. My market research involved roaming Brisbane’s CBD, the Valley, and Spring Hill, selling style over substance to office workers with budgets bigger than sense. Astonishingly, they bought. Sandwiches flew off my ice packs faster than reason could catch up.Success arrived suddenly. Too suddenly. Soon, I had five sandwich routes, staffed by young women inexplicably content selling lunch. My empire, built on rye and salami, was as fragile as it was ridiculous.Then came the Melbourne Cup. And with it, destiny.The orders started early. "Can you do something special for the race?" they asked. "A catered lunch?" they said. I didn’t hesitate. I saw my moment. My magnum opus. The event that would take me from sandwich man to sandwich maestro. Visions danced in my head—linen-draped tables, platters arranged like Renaissance still-lifes, office workers gasping with joy as I delivered handcrafted lunches like edible symphonies.I poured everything into it. Bulk orders. Decorative flourishes. Extra napkins. Fruit skewers. Cheese cubes with little toothpicks. I imagined press coverage. Maybe a write-up. Maybe expansion. Maybe franchising. I didn’t sleep the night before. I was conducting an orchestra of bread and ambition.On Melbourne Cup morning, I stood over tables stacked high with food. It looked glorious. I believed. And then—it began to collapse.The scale was off. The timing worse. My team was small. Too small. There were no backup drivers. No buffer time. No contingency plan. Just me, a van, and an ever-growing mountain of sandwiches against a ticking clock. Orders backed up. Streets were jammed. Tears flowed. The city moved slow while I spiralled fast.We scrambled, flailing through deliveries like doomed marionettes. Some orders got there. Many didn’t. Most were late. Way too late. Customers fumed. Phones rang off the hook. My dream, once plated with garnish, wilted in the heat.By the next week, the dream was dead. Word spread. "He ruined our Cup lunch," they whispered, then shouted. Regulars vanished. Doors closed. "Two hours late," they spat. "Never again."I knew it was over. I knocked on café doors, selling off what remained. One café took pity, or saw profit, and bought the routes. I handed over the eskies. I walked away.Bruised. Embarrassed. A little wiser.Yet, walking away, I felt it shift. The thrill wasn’t the bread—it was the making, the spark. Maybe I’d try again. Not sandwiches. Maybe technology.Never bet your soul on sandwiches at the Cup. FSF

The Emperor of Rhye

As a child, the place choked me air thick with pollen and unwashed wool, heads sunk, ostrich-deep, in dust.Chores bloomed like weeds after a hard rain, no end to their grasping roots. My words were moths they swatted from their light, each question a spark they doused with frowns.No face echoed mine, no path led out. With excuses thin as frost, I fled to cities where streetlights erased the stars, believing distance could unmake me.I found my kin in the hum of crowded nights, and for years, forgot the weight of where I began.But time stacks stones on the chest, sleep a thief, pulse a drum without rest. On a rare return, the irony unfolds: here, of all places, I breathe. Sleep wraps me, soft as the childhood I never held.Beneath this unyielding soil, peace hums, a root I never knew.FSF

Beneath familiar soil

A boy, they say, is cleverhis fingers dance on keys, &nbsp;not to weave a thought, &nbsp;but to summon a ghost. &nbsp;ChatGPT pens his plea &nbsp;to Grandma for a screen, &nbsp;and the crowd erupts— &nbsp;digital palms slapping backs. &nbsp;*What a kid!* they cheer, &nbsp;as if he’s cracked the code &nbsp;to some new Eden. &nbsp; I blink, adrift on this pixel planet, &nbsp;where thinking is a relic, &nbsp;and writing—oh, writing— &nbsp;is just a prompt to skip. &nbsp;Research whispers: &nbsp;*Writing is thinking, child.* &nbsp;Analysis, synthesis, &nbsp;a mind stretching toward the stars. &nbsp;But this boy’s outsourced his voice, &nbsp;a ventriloquist act for algorithms, &nbsp;and the stage is empty. &nbsp; Narrative, they’ve found, &nbsp;builds bridges to hearts, &nbsp;empathy stitched in scribbled lines, &nbsp;a child’s messy truth. &nbsp;But what’s a note &nbsp;that’s never been felt? &nbsp;A rough copy of love, &nbsp;warmth without a pulse, &nbsp;an uncanny valley of emotion,where sentiment’s just code. &nbsp; The crowd claps on, &nbsp;a sinister squad of smiles, &nbsp;lauding a lobotomy dressed as progress. &nbsp;*Such efficiency!* they beam, &nbsp;as neurons dim, &nbsp;as struggle—sweet, jagged struggle— &nbsp;gets swapped for slick ease. &nbsp;Bandura’s ghost nods grimly: &nbsp;*Growth is born in the wrestle, not the win.* &nbsp; I’m no AI foe,I forge its steel myself. &nbsp;But I stand here, squinting, &nbsp;at a world gone hollow, &nbsp;where cleverness is a slot machine, &nbsp;and depth’s a glitch to patch. &nbsp;Camus leans in, absurdly calm: &nbsp;*It’s not the tool, it’s us—* &nbsp;clapping as we melt &nbsp;into bundles of buzzes, &nbsp;addicted to the offload, &nbsp;allergic to the fight. &nbsp; Are we raising simulations? &nbsp;Yes, and worse— &nbsp;we’re teaching them &nbsp;to be human is to be fast, &nbsp;to feel is to prompt, &nbsp;to live is to optimize &nbsp;for Grandma’s click. &nbsp; The trick with tech, &nbsp;as light screams past, &nbsp;is to dodge the dark it drags,the lie that speed is meaning, &nbsp;that delegation’s wise, &nbsp;that a child’s soul &nbsp;can be compressed &nbsp;to a string of ones and zeros. &nbsp; So I ask, &nbsp;on this Earth-turned-circuit: &nbsp;What are we becoming? &nbsp;A flicker on a screen, &nbsp;efficient, hollow, &nbsp;and gone.FSF

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

Magnificent

Wi-Fi Wake

F.F.F.

The Emperor of Rhye

Beneath familiar soil

The Child as a Simulation