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Short Memories We Australians file the past like tax returns; out of sight, deemed compliant. So we point, smug as Border-Force beagles, at an orange-tinted Yankee who wants a crown, forgetting the peanut farmer we embalmed last decade; whose oils still linger in the archives. Outsider Joh in dust-kicked Kingaroy: plain bloke, Bible, bulldozer. Donald in gold-leaf Manhattan: tie like a warning flare. Different pinstripes; same cloth. Each swore the system was a crooked poker table; only his hands were clean enough to shuffle the deck. Feeds “Don’t you worry about that!” Joh chirped, scattering crumbs to journos he called chooks. “Fake-news media … enemy of the American people!” tweeted Donald, barrelling through the coop with a bullhorn. Two verses, one melody: shoot the messenger, hum the tune yourself. Marches Joh outlawed protest with a shrug: “Protest marches are a thing of the past.” Donald winked at the Proud Boys: “Stand back and stand by.” Brass-band bravado for muzzling dissent; civic space shrinks to the size of the leader’s ego. Folksy Autocracy “I always talk in a way they can’t understand!” says Joh, a coy confession dressed as hillbilly charm. “I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody…” boasts The Donald, borrowing Joh’s pistol, upgrading to Broadway lighting. Against such paternal confidence, we’re children at bedtime: “Hush now, Daddy’s got this,” the story goes, and the moral is always trust me. Swamp Joh: “You don’t tell the frogs anything before you drain the swamp.” Donald: “Drain the swamp!” on a merch cap near you. Same amphibian, same plughole, same applause. Only the souvenir stall has changed hands. The Four Step Shuffle: Invent the peril. Vilify the watchdogs. Promise simple salvation. Punish the sceptics. Repeat until the crowd forgets Verse One. Finale If you’re waiting for the credits to roll, beware; this is not a film but a touring show. Strongmen exit, leaving their catchphrases to haunt talkback radio like earworms. My slender comfort, dear reader, is statistical: the world has always been certifiable, yet somehow you’re still here; scribbling in the margins, counting the rhymes, keeping the playbook where everyone can see it. F.S.F.

Dress Rehearsal for Kings Who Talk Like Dads

Gregor Niemand was not a man built for trends. He was created, rather, for the long, slow unravelling of things; novels without endings, symphonies that resolved into silence, arguments where no one won and everyone drank too much. He had once been a writer of some note; well, a footnote, more accurately; in the lit-crit quarterly Mauve Relevance. His debut novel, The Indifference of Rain, had been described by the New York Review of Books as “achingly unfinished, in a way that feels unintentional.” After a few years of grinding futility, Gregor had retired to a small, rented flat above a laundromat that mostly dealt in synthetic shame and lost socks. And so it was, one bleached Tuesday morning, that Gregor awoke with that unmistakable sense that the world had somehow clicked into a lower gear while he slept. A downgrade in firmware. A reboot without permission. Something… was off. Outside, between the ghost of a public transit stop and a vape shop called “Zen: Puff Peacefully”, stood a kiosk. It glowed like a migraine. Thin, tall, and glassy; like if a confession booth and a Tesla showroom had a child and left it out in the rain. It had no sign. Just a throbbing light rectangle, pulsing like an overly sincere notification. Naturally, Gregor approached. Because that's what you did when the world lost its plot; you follow the noise. Inside: a boy. No more than twenty. Draped in a toga (or was it an ironic bedsheet?), paired with designer sneakers that cost more than Gregor’s self-respect. On his head: a VR headset sleek enough to qualify as a cranial implant. He spoke to no one and everyone. “Today’s truth bomb,” he announced, arms outstretched like an Instagram Christ, “is this: Your trauma isn’t your fault; …but your healing is your job.” He winked, pivoted, and tossed a protein bar like it was communion. Gregor, stricken, leaned forward. “Who are you?” The boy's smile split like a well-funded Kickstarter. “I’m the Curator of Clarity. CEO of the Certainty Engine.” Gregor took a shaky step backward. He’d once studied Wittgenstein. He’d wept over Nabokov’s semicolons. Now here he was, being offered life advice by a sentient TED Talk with a mid-tier affiliate code. The boy gestured toward the kiosk. “This machine digests your doubt. Outputs certainty. It’s a vibe shift accelerator.” Behind him, a queue was forming: retirees in ironic t-shirts, yoga influencers with iPads, a hedge fund manager holding what looked like an emotional support cactus. Gregor squinted. “But what does it do?” “It reflects what you already believe,” the boy said, smugly. “Only louder, cleaner, with better lighting. And branding.” The queue murmured in appreciation. One man whispered, “It told me to divorce my wife and follow my purpose. I now own three NFTs and a stress-related ulcer.” Another, tearful, said, “It confirmed I am the main character.” Gregor tried to retreat, but his feet refused. The kiosk opened. Inside: mirrors. Not metaphorical ones. Literal. A hall of them. Every surface showed another version of the boy, looping his gospel on repeat. Each nodding at the other. Each affirming. Each more algorithmic than the last. Gregor, dizzy, turned to leave. But the hashtags had already found him. #HealTheHurt #UnfuckYourVibes #BiohackYourSoul #MainCharacterMode #CertaintyOverClarity The algorithm coiled round his ankles like Lantana. Soft. Smiling. Optimised. Gregor fell. “I have doubts,” he whimpered. The machine hummed. Lights flickered. Deep in the server stack, a moderation subroutine blinked and recalibrated “Doubt,” said the boy, “is low engagement. Try again.” Gregor choked back his reply. Was he mad? Was the world? Had everyone opted in to their own hypnotic loop of self-love and shrink-wrapped certainty? Was he the last man with questions, stuck in a time where questions had been deprecated? He looked around. The world didn’t look back. That night, as rain glittered on the kiosk like anxious sweat, and the sky blinked with satellites and dying stars, the boy turned once more to his invisible audience. “A hater commented,” he said. “That means I'm disrupting.” He smiled like a knife wrapped in candy. Inside the hall of mirrors, a faint silhouette lingered. Gregor. Still there. Or not. Hard to say. Had he walked in? Or had he always been part of the machine? [TO BE CONTINUED IN: "Certainty Engine 2: Feedback Loop"] Footnote: Gregor’s second novel, A Shrug Too Far, remains unpublished. F.S.F &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;

The Certainty Engine

In a year stitched together like thrift-store denim,&nbsp;he stumbled through corners,picking up story bits like beer caps in a parking lot.Days slid past, sometimes smooth, mostly jagged as hangovers. A digital whisper nagged,slick riddles in robotic hum,pushing him toward neon-lit truths&nbsp;and half-drunk icons. He hid behind a pen name,words mellow as bourbon,&nbsp;labels peeling,just cryptic enough&nbsp;to keep critics guessing. &nbsp;He conjured platforms&nbsp;like carnival rides,&nbsp;quantum sport and qubits,&nbsp;a picnic spread for ghosts&nbsp;with questionable tastes. &nbsp;Yoga found him,sweating gently,an awkward tangowith gravity’s unforgiving lead.Daughters broke free,unfettered from boarding-school walls,memories fogged like cheap motel mirrors. November’s a hard slap,&nbsp;his car hugged a pole,&nbsp;tender as a loan shark’s hello. &nbsp;Cannabis discarded&nbsp;like a bad jacket,&nbsp;veins etching age,&nbsp;a road map drawnby an uncertain navigator. &nbsp;He toyed with quantum dreams,visions scrawled like bar tabs,&nbsp;sports fusing with numbers,the math of hopeful gamblers. His cat watched,a sardonic guru,teeth nibbling softlyat life's bitter ironies. Stories unravelled across Ikea tables,&nbsp;scarves slung carelessly,&nbsp;love flickering like a broken neon sign. &nbsp;And still,a quiet shuffle of thoughts,the poet’s waltz,shambling towards tomorrowwith sarcastic elegance. FSF

The year my cat judged me

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

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

Dress Rehearsal for Kings Who Talk Like Dads

The Certainty Engine

The year my cat judged me

The Arsonist of Becoming

Technocratic Caesarism

The Midget