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I. I named him once; this fevering god; not ambition, no, but a dragon with blood-stained wings circling the altar of my sleep. I had called him drive, as one names a tempest weather, as one names collapse progress. But no more. He is flame without hearth, he is thirst with no cup, he is motion's ghost, eating the still.II. I lived in the cathedral of Next. Each step a sermon. Each goal a stained-glass hunger. And the silence between bells; that was failure. That was death dressed in leisure. I feared a day without striving more than a night without stars.III. Oh, how dopamine chimes! It sings not peace, not home, but faster, farther, again. I drank that music as if it were wine from God’s own wrist, but it was saltwater. And my lips cracked with longing. And my bones turned into calendars. And my prayers became metrics.IV. I never noticed the children in the garden. I never touched the moss beneath the bench. The lovers left, not with anger, but with weary eyes that could no longer watch me sprint toward a finish line I kept moving.V. One day, the ache arrived early. Before coffee. Before emails. Just there; like a bruise on the part of the soul that once laughed. It asked nothing. It just waited.VI. So I stayed still. Not as punishment. Not as rebellion. But as liturgy. I did not write. I did not solve. I did not climb. And the world; the damn stubborn, holy world; did not end.VII. Now I journal what I didn’t do. Celebrate naps. Kiss slowness on the mouth. I track laughter like prophets track stars. Ask not what earns love; but what feels like it.VIII. To those who cannot stop, who fear the quiet room, who dream in spreadsheets and die in calendars; I say this: your soul is not a resume. You were never meant to achieve your way into being loved.The dragon is not slain by swords. But by stillness. And the ache that waits behind the silence, ready to show you, you are already whole.F.S.F.

The Arsonist of Becoming

they came innot with jackbootsbut spreadsheets;clean lines,quiet shoes,PhD mouths. no one voted.they just arrivedlike mouldon bread left outduring a heatwaveof apathy. they said:"democracy was too slow,too stupid,too full of youruncle’s opinions." they weren’t wrong. I saw a man eat a lightbulbon Facebookfor likesand then askif COVID was real. so now the machines buzzand the men in vestssip proteinand solve societylike it's a maths problemwith no remainder. they smilelike dentistsbefore the drill. they call it"Technocratic Caesarism";like that's meant to soundbetterthan"you shut up nowand we’ll do the thinking." they send me alertson how to feel,when to sleep,how much waterto drinkbefore I earn the rightto masturbate. they tell meit’s efficient. and it is.the buses runon time.the pigeons salute.even my neighbour's dogstopped barkingand enrolledin a coding bootcamp. but I missthe ugliness.I misssome fat bastardin a pubyelling aboutthe moon landingwith meat pieon his lipand madnessin his eye. now all the madnesshas beenoptimised. I livein a pod.eatin cubes.lovethrough filters.dieon a timelinemonitoredby a man named Kylewho thinks “stoicism”is a mood settingon his Fitbit. you will live,they say,like datain a vault;safe,silent,sorted. you will like it,they say,you peasant,because it will hurt lessthan thinking. and maybe they’re right. but I keep a packof smokesand a dirty poemin the drawer just in casethe grid goes darkand the poetsgetone moreround. F.S.F.

Technocratic Caesarism

Let me first say that I'm usually not inclined to share stories that end with me being punched out by a midget. Not because I’m embarrassed, though, to be fair, who wouldn’t be, but because any time I’ve tried telling it, people are sure I am making things up. I can hardly blame them. After all, it sounds like something concocted by a drunk uncle who’s run out of wedding anecdotes. But hand on heart, this one’s as true as a bus timetable in Tasmania. It started badly and got worse. A mate’s funeral in the morning, followed by a humiliating drubbing on the rugby field from those bastards at Glenorchy, left me emotionally primed for poor decision-making. Naturally, poor decisions always seemed easier in the Mayfair Hotel, a Hobart establishment frequented by ex-private school boys, footballers drowning sorrows, and university types discovering creative ways to vomit on shoes. The Mayfair was split in two: upstairs, a dancefloor circled by a bar; downstairs, a cave-like cocktail lounge complete with stone walls that jutted out dangerously, decor likely inspired by someone who had never met a sober customer. Downstairs, Sterling, Dennis, and I were performing the delicate ritual of securing drinks. Sterling had just elbowed his way to the microscopic bar when a shrill voice pierced through the clamour. “Get the fuck outta my way! Move!” Sterling, ever diplomatic, ignored it. A mistake. Seconds later, a sharp kick to his Achilles forced his attention downward, to where the angry stare of a tiny, seething man awaited him. “One more word,” Sterling growled, “and I’ll give you a flogging.” The diminutive pugilist narrowed his eyes, smirked, and scampered off up the spiral stairs. Five carefree minutes later, he returned, trailing behind him a figure conjured straight from Nordic nightmares. Picture Thor after a decade-long meth binge, all beard and muscles and leather. This Sasquatch scanned the room until his tiny companion jabbed an accusing finger at Sterling. “You insult my friend?” he roared, voice rattling whiskey bottles. Sterling opened his mouth to protest, but the creature launched a haymaker so forceful it would’ve registered on seismographs in New Zealand. Sterling crumpled like cheap patio furniture. Dennis, our cranky lock-forward, decided bravely, foolishly, to intervene. His punch landed like a gentle breeze; the retaliation lifted Dennis by his throat and dropped him with a skull-splitting headbutt. I stood there, heart trying to flee via my mouth, watching my friends demolished. Bravery, rum and stupidity mingled within me, resulting in a feeble kidney punch I immediately regretted. Thor barely noticed, didn’t even waste a proper punch, swatting me away as effortlessly as a horse swishes flies. I soared backward, colliding skull-first into the decorative rocks, the decorator’s revenge on drunken idiots. Stars exploded in my vision. Semi-consciousness settled over me, a soft haze like waking from surgery or receiving an ill-advised boot to the head during rugby. Just as reality was returning, I felt a sharp, tiny jab to my temple. “Take this, bitch!” yelled my assailant, now standing triumphantly on the bench, fists raised like a bantamweight champion. “Oh, Christ, no,” I whimpered, but mercy was absent from his miniature vocabulary. Punches rained down on my head, each delivered with theatrical gusto, punctuated by knees to my face and humiliating roundhouse kicks. My pleas devolved into pitiful babbling as I endured a world-class thrashing from an enraged hobbit. Finally, the Sasquatch growled something, calling off his miniature accomplice. They vanished upstairs, leaving me beaten, bruised, and emotionally scarred for life. I spent the next two days in The Royal Hobart, nursing my pride and various fractured body parts. Months passed, and memories blurred, until one night, back at the Mayfair, fuelled by rum, vengeance, and testosterone, Sterling and I spotted our pint-sized nemesis strutting confidently, no mythical bodyguard in sight. Sterling shadowed him into the bathroom while I stood watch. A minute later, Sterling’s muffled voice beckoned me in. I entered cautiously, witnessing Sterling reenacting a boarding-school torment upon our miniature adversary, who seemed decidedly less brave without his Nordic protector. I tapped Sterling’s shoulder. “Mate, that’s probably enough. Let's go.” We left hastily, laughter and adrenaline masking our fear, confident justice had been served, only, as we exited, we locked back and noticed something unsettling: The midget was smiling. FSF

The Midget

The doorbell rings four times, not three, not a polite ding, but four. A herald of elbows and joy. That’s E. “You’re weird,” she announces, flinging off her backpack like it mouthed off. “So are you,” I reply, how love sounds when it's casual but true. “What are you doing?” She asks, already converting the living room into a command centre of chaos. “Roblox, Dad.” And just like that, I’m enlisted, in a war I don’t grasp, with weapons I can’t find, in a supermarket full of undead specials. “You’re so slow. Join me.” So, I do, fumbling my avatar like an old man in a nightclub, bouncing off walls, pressing wrong buttons. “What are we playing?” “Vampire Zombie Supermarket,” she says, like everyone knows this one. Of course. Of bloody course. “Dad, you’re crap.” “Stop dying, Dad!” Turns out, death is neither noble nor poetic when it’s digital and you’re being eaten by pixelated lettuce. “Didn’t you play games on your iPad as a kid?” I explain gently that my childhood was more Etch-A-Sketch and existential weather than anything touch-screened. We do almost nothing. No lessons, no outings. Just snacks, screen glare, and the sweet humiliation of being bad at something she excels at. But somehow, this…being called useless while she revives me from digital doom, feels like a perfectly spent Saturday. And somewhere, I imagine a man at a keyboard smiling at the absurdity, thinking: Let her drive. She's got this round. &nbsp; FSF

Weekends with E

In corridors paved with pending thought, Where filing cabinets sigh and rot, A clerk sits still. his name unsure. , Entrusted with what none endure.They spoke of colour, number four, Beyond the spectral office door, A shade not seen, nor rightly named, In systems never yet proclaimed.Trinary echoes shaped its birth, No eye beheld it, not on Earth. It hummed with taste, but not with tongue, A note of grief forever sung.It tasted, so the memos say, Of stars that dimmed and lost their way, Of neutron hearts that never fell To black hole’s deep, euphoric hell.Denied collapse, they simply burned, While time ignored them, clocks unturned. Their sorrow, dense, distilled, confined, A flavour borne in form of mind.The clerk, in ink, did try to speak Of flavour mournful, dim and weak: “It lingers like a law unsigned, A silence left for none to find.”His paper filed, his task complete, No answer came. Just dust. Repeat.FSF

The Flavour that Mourns

Good morning, you flickering bulbs, half-charged batteries sparking in rows. Sit. Screens off. Eyes sharp. This isn’t a lecture, it’s a live wire.Where chaos churns, profit hides, sharpening its teeth in the shadows. That’s the whole damn course. Etch it into your palms if you need to.Stalk any industry’s pulse. Hear the groan of rusted gears, the murmur of “That’s how it’s done.” That’s your cue, your target’s exposed. Take Devansh: no genius, just awake. Saw a process stumble, shouted, “Test the blood!” Cash flowed before the lab coats blinked. Point is: See. Speak. Win.Paul Christiano stormed theory’s temple, kicked the altar, said, “Your dogma’s wrong.” Redrew the map while they groped for stones. Lesson? Torch the script. Seize the chalk. Truth doesn’t bow to tenure.Some ideas sway like shaky scaffolding. Let them. A wobble reveals the cracks. Failure’s not a grave, it’s a scout. Every wreck pays tuition to brilliance. In short: Bleed for it.Path One: Committee. Smells of toner and fear. Produces safe, beige sludge. Path Two: Lone Torch. Stinks of burnt wire and coffee. Risks ruin, but sometimes, sometimes, it splits the sky. Choose. The market ignores fire drills. It crowns the arsonist who builds from ash.No spark? No blaze worth chasing? Fine. Rest. Learn jazz piano. Sketch crows. Curiosity’s the ember that never fades. Next term, the world might be kindling. Keep your matches dry.Not hope. Not prayer. Belief is facing a door and pushing because you don’t see a lock. If it splinters, you’ve learned its grain. Write the paper. Sell the splinters. In short: Push.List three processes on campus run like drunken emus. Write a one-page fix for one. Deadline: Friday. Budget: $50 and shameless grit. Extra credit: Prove me wrong. Win, and you’re at this podium next week.Professor snaps notebook shut, downs coffee. Questions? Complaints? Existential dread? Silence means you’re already rust. Prove you’re not.FSF

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

The Arsonist of Becoming

Technocratic Caesarism

The Midget

Weekends with E

The Flavour that Mourns

Break Glass in case of Insight