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“Don’t tell me you’ve assaulted someone over a button,” Cass said, looking up from her laptop as I stepped into the office.“Depends on how you define ‘assault,’ Cass,” I replied, shrugging off my jacket like I’d just won a prize fight. “I prefer ‘instilling manners.’”Cass’s eyes narrowed, catching the faint trace of smugness in my grin. “So, what happened this time? Parking ticket? Did you yell at another meter maid?”“Worse.” I leaned on the edge of her desk, which earned me an eye roll. “A Button Re-presser.”“A what?” she asked, her voice climbing a notch.“A Button Re-presser, Cass! The kind that watches you push the crossing button but decides their touch is superior, like they’ve been blessed by the gods of traffic signals.”Cass smirked, leaning back in her chair, intrigued. “Oh, this I gotta hear.”“Right, so there I am, storming out of the courthouse, fumes practically pouring out of my ears from the latest showdown with those corporate landlords. I get to the four-way near the park. Nobody there, clear as day. I press the button—twice for good measure. And out of nowhere, this bloke in a suit, real ‘I’m-the-CEO-of-smug’ type, leans in and gives it a couple of his own pushes.”Cass’s eyes lit up. “No.”“Oh yes.” I waved my hands for emphasis. “So I say, ‘Got a special technique there, mate?’ Real polite, too, considering.”“Let me guess, he said something charming like ‘I didn’t see you,’” Cass offered with a smirk.I chuckled darkly. “Better. He called me a ‘caffeinated woodpecker.’”Cass choked on her laughter, covering her mouth with her hand. “You’re joking.”“Wish I was. So, naturally, I asked if he was some kind of ‘Crossing Whisperer.’ Then, just as I’m mid-sentence, the man—no joke—goes for the button again.”“No!” Cass was grinning now, fully invested.“Oh yeah, he did. So I told him, ‘Touch that button one more time and I’ll show—’”“And?” Cass prompted, eyes wide.“And the bloke goes, ‘Stop me, Crosswalk Cowboy,’ and presses it. Twice.”Cass’s laughter exploded, echoing across the office. “Crosswalk Cowboy! I’m putting that on a mug.”“Make it two.” I couldn’t help but grin. “So, I did what anyone raised in the school of unspoken rules would do. Gave him a Liverpool kiss. Clean, efficient. He crumpled like a bad investment.”“Oh my god.” Cass’s laughter faded as reality set in. “Wait. Please tell me this didn’t end with sirens?”“Not yet, but give it time. I’m betting he’ll need to explain the nose job to his mates over lunch.” I straightened, heading toward my desk. “Anyway, if anyone asks, I’m catching up on emails. And no, I don’t want to talk about crossing etiquette anymore.”Cass, still laughing under her breath, called after me, “Remind me never to touch a button in your presence.”I gave her a cheeky grin. “Crosswalk Cowboy rules are simple, Cass. Respect the press.” I do wish this wasn't a true story FSF

The Crosswalk Cowboy

my shoes patter, metronome slow, a cadence against the path. then it comes— a stampede, two hundred strong, like a phalanx, a swarm of evening mosquitoes in Arnhem Land, thick, suffocating, weaving like a snake down the track. crossing it, a game of frogger I wouldn’t dare.at first, one beast— then, many creatures stitched together, a tangle of life. fit, expensive women wrapped in "Active-wear," their fabric confidence. others flop in baggy shirts, hiding what self-esteem they cling to. Boston Marathon shirts strut past, peacocking, bragging at a suburban 5K.shirtless men, their Tinder resumes on display, shoes black or white, because colour is war in the battle for manhood. earbuds plugged, men keep the silence, women break it with oversized headphones.the snake’s mechanics— pin-straight runners, gazelle-graceful, and the giraffes on roller skates, an injury waiting to happen. the effortless passers chat mid-stride, others pant, and some wheeze, baby seals clubbed by their own lungs.the snake disappears, fades into the distance, as my shoes tap, steady, metronomic, waiting for its return.

Run Fun

Ah, the cosmic dance of modern words— an intricate ballet, missed calls, voicemails, reality bending, folding under the weight of who dials next.You lift your phone, that rectangular oracle of fate, only to find the missed call: a ghostly whisper of being wanted, now drifting in the purgatory of connection unfulfilled.You return the call, defiance against the silence, only to speak into the void— beep. Unbeknownst to you, they too are casting their sonnet of longing into your own voicemail, their voice trembling, futile.Pause. Somewhere, in a parallel world, a pigeon with a tiny hat watches, nodding solemnly.Who breaks this Schrödinger’s loop, this mutual wait? Do you send a pigeon with a note of surrender? Do you stand beneath judgmental stars, waiting for whispers on the wind? Etiquette lies dead; what remains is the absurd theater of your ringtone, blaring as they call you back, even as your voicemail ponders existence.Ah, connection! So close.

Missed call

&nbsp; In the African fruit republic of Kabwobwe, leadership wasn't about policy; it was about who could shout the loudest and craft the most flamboyant sentences. The seat of power? A well-worn chair under a mango tree, affectionately known as "The Sovereign's Couch." Contenders for Supreme Leader included warlords, aging philosophers, and a man who claimed he'd once beaten a lion in a staring contest.&nbsp; Yet, it was the most unlikely figure who ascended to the throne: Basil Boffo, a former circus clown turned part-time weatherman. Boffo's rise began one afternoon during an intense leadership debate broadcast from the town's only television set. Basil interrupted with a grand proclamation: "Rain is just the sky auditioning for the ocean!" Silence fell. Then came applause. Why did they love it? No one knew—least of all Basil.&nbsp; Kabwobwe's citizens were weary of serious faces and heavy rhetoric. They longed for a break, for life to be, if not prosperous, at least entertaining. Enter Basil: perpetual grin, loud red blazer, and zero understanding of governance. But, oh, how he could talk! His voice had the quality of a cheerful brass band, momentarily making people forget they were hungry.&nbsp; Observers tried to explain the phenomenon. Evolutionary psychologists claimed that in chaotic times, people sought confident figures—even if that confidence was painted on. Basil's sheer audacity and verbal flair outshone the philosopher quoting Sartre or the general whose uniform intimidated but never inspired. People mistook Basil's bravado for competence. After all, only a man truly secure in his abilities would wear shoes that honked when he walked.&nbsp; Social conditioning had wired Kabwobwe's citizens to crave larger-than-life leaders. The village council, eager for stability but lured by spectacle, endorsed Basil. If a clown could keep a crowd's attention, they figured, maybe he could keep a nation's.&nbsp; And so, Basil Boffo was crowned Supreme Giggle Commander. His first decree? Replace military drills with synchronized laughter sessions. Oddly, crime rates dropped—likely from sheer confusion rather than reform. Philosophers wept, merchants shrugged, the crowd cheered. Basil, oblivious to his accidental genius, just kept grinning.&nbsp; Kabwobwe had chosen laughter over logic, spectacle over substance. And somehow, amidst the absurdity, life carried on. FSF&nbsp;

The President of Kabwobwe

There she is, at dawn, spine pin-straight, fingers laced around her coffee, an inbox like an avalanche— cleared before eight.She’s an iron tower, heels clicking, every hair shellacked in place. Each day, another framed award— Most Productive, Employee of the Month— a wall proving she’s untouchable.She smiles like reflex, like someone wired it to her jaw. A smile that says, don’t ask, because beneath the surface, there’s a pulse she’s smothering, a crack filled with gold.You see it if you watch close— a tremor when she checks her watch, a flinch when the phone rings as if it carries news to ruin her.She’s convinced herself perfection is the only thing keeping it together— the titles, the polished résumé, the corner office view.But every now and then, her eyes drift out the window, watching someone else’s life— one she lost in the climb.

The Woman in the Corner Office

Moses wasn’t some saintly hero. He was a tired, bitter old bastard when he dragged himself up that mountain. Glory wasn't what pushed him; it was that itch—the raw, relentless stubbornness that had burned in him his whole life. His bones creaked, his feet bled, but the demon in his gut kept whispering, "Keep climbing."So, he climbed.At the summit, there was no fanfare, no heavenly choir. Just dead silence, thick enough to choke on. Then, out of nowhere, came the voice. Smooth, deep, something ancient dragging itself up from the depths. "Moses," it drawled, "you ready to hear the truth?"Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. But he was there, standing like some ragged monument, staring into the void. The voice didn’t mince words. It laid it out—laws, rules, but not for bowing down. For standing tall, chest out, chin high. A code to live by where you didn’t kneel to anyone, least of all to some idea of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ cooked up by someone else.“Thou shalt indulge,” the voice began. “You’re born with teeth, so use ‘em. Sink ‘em into life. Feel the juice on your chin. Don’t waste it.”And something in Moses cracked. That old itch crawled up his spine. He looked around, chisel in hand, and a dark smile spread across his face. He knew exactly what he was about to do.He started writing—but not what he was told. Nah. The people wanted rules? He’d give them rules.The voice said, “Stand up for yourself.” Moses wrote, “Turn the other cheek.” The voice said, “Live without shame.” Moses carved, “Honour thy father and mother.” He hacked at the stone, twisting every word into obedience and guilt. Each swing of the chisel brought a dark thrill, the satisfaction of spitting in the face of sense and order. His weathered face cracked into a smile. This was what he lived for.By the time he finished, his fingers were raw, his back bent like a question mark. But he didn’t care. He carried those stones down the mountain, grinning like a madman. And when he reached the bottom, he held them high, thinking, “Here, this’ll keep you busy. A lifetime of rules, restrictions, and shame. Chew on that.”The people ate it up. They lapped it up like starving dogs. They kneeled. They wept. They bound themselves to the words Moses had twisted into stone. And all the while, he watched. Watched them turn those inverted laws into prisons, watched them bow and scrape, each lash of guilt one he’d handed them. Deep down, he knew—this wasn’t freedom, but it was power. A sour, twisted power he’d buried into the bones of humanity.Years later, when the high had worn off and he was just an old man, Moses thought about that voice again. The promise of living free. But the demon in him chuckled, leaning back in the shadows of his mind, whispering, “Nah, old man, the thrill is in the ruin.”And so Moses, saint of self-sabotage, godfather of contrariness, left this world as bitter as he’d come into it. He left the people shackled to a set of rules he’d made up, rules no one would ever escape.Because what’s freedom, anyway, but another kind of prison?

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

The Crosswalk Cowboy

Run Fun

Missed call

The President of Kabwobwe

The Woman in the Corner Office

Moses