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out of bed. out of bed again. the shower sputters. where’s the uniform? the sister's screaming— "she’s a biarch," teeth unbrushed, ipad dead. “can I get tuckshop?” “do I have to eat this lunch?” who ate the last damn avocado? it’s late. it’s always late. socks on. shoes on. kids yelling, "I want the front seat!" "No, I want the front seat!" the car groans. I groan louder. dad, my sister sucks. drive. “what’s at school today?” “nothing.” “nothing.” "bye, dad." "have a good day." but don’t park close, don’t let anyone see me. stop a block away. they tumble out. sigh. drive. gone.

School Run

Saxon stood in his small, windowless kitchen, the drone of street traffic leaking through the thin walls. The town house was an island of chipped paint and shadows, and the laundry basket stared back at him from the corner. It was too full, spilling over with shirts that had seen better days, undies with holes in them and socks that had given up their mates long ago. Fold. Sigh. Reach. The clock ticked slow, each second stretching like old elastic, and Saxon could almost hear the seconds creak as they passed. He swallowed a yawn that tasted like yesterday’s instant noodles and ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. The acid was supposed to make this better, add colour to the black-and-white monotony of a day of household chores. Something, he’d thought, anything but this grey grind. Tick. Tick. The tab had hit his tongue like a lie, but it was starting to spread now, creeping through the folds of his brain, waking up corners that hadn’t been lit in years. He folded another shirt, the fabric suddenly soft, delicate. The room shifted, as though a whisper had passed just behind him, and a chill pricked the base of his neck. Then it came, slow at first — a soft thrum, a baseline to a slow rock song. The pile of clothes moved. Saxon’s eyes darted, but he couldn’t trust them; his pulse climbed, a tight, uneasy tempo. One shirt flapped, then two, sleeves writhing like fish out of water. The basket glowed, the plastic turning translucent and alive, lit from within by some unknown fire. He backed into the counter, knocking over an old mug that crashed, unseen, to the floor. With a roar, the laundry leaped, taking the air in a mad cyclone. Socks and shirts swirled, pants twisted themselves into rigid lines like referees with whistles made of belt loops. The hum intensified, shrieking into a scream that ripped through Saxon’s chest. He felt small, insignificant, staring up at the whirling tower of fabric. The shirts, now fully sentient, descended into madness. Dividing into teams, sleeves snapping and flapping, forming patterns like battle flags. Before his eyes: rugby matches were breaking out among clothes that yesterday were just crumpled, lifeless things at the foot of his bed. The socks formed a huddle, their fibres pulling tight in anticipation, and the shirts, emboldened by some unearthly spirit, charged forward, tackling each other in chaotic beauty. Buttons popped like shrapnel, small plinks on the tiled floor. “Welcome to the Laundry League!” a Bruce Buffer sound alike bellowed, resonating from deep within the basket. It was the growl of something that had no business speaking, a nightmare tone that tightened his gut and sent his mind spiralling into questions. What am I seeing? A laugh, dry and cracked, fell from his lips. The laundry, his laundry, had become alive. And not just alive — aware. Competing. Knocking themselves ragged in a knock-out competition for reasons he could not comprehend. Panic bubbled up, hot and fast. What does it mean? Saxon thought. His pulse quickened as the realization landed heavy — that life, his life, had become no more meaningful than this; a stupid, shirt-on-sock brawl in a corner of an empty kitchen. Was he nothing more than a bystander, watching chaos unfold, a forgotten referee in a game that made no sense? The acid twisted this truth, writhed in his mind like a worm gnawing at the last thread of reason. He screamed, or maybe it was the voice inside that screamed, ricocheting through his chest and throat. The fabric armies surged, scored, and regrouped, careless of his existential terror. He wanted to stop it, stop the whole thing. But how? The room shrank around him, a pulsating prison made of cotton and sweat-stained polyester, and he dropped to his knees, hands in his hair, as the cheers of the winning shirts reached a fever pitch. Then just as he thought he could take no more, silence. The roar cut out, leaving a vacuum that buzzed and echoed in his head. Saxon blinked, ragged breaths slowing, eyes adjusting as reality crawled back, piece by piece. The kitchen was still, heavy with the weight of what shouldn’t have been. His hands were shaking, fingers tangled in his hair. He pushed himself up and stared at the mess he expected to see — but there was none. Instead, the laundry was gone. The basket stood empty and still, as if mocking him. He rubbed his eyes, muscles sore with tension, and turned, stepping over the shattered mug. The fridge door was open, and something inside caught his eye. Saxon staggered back, a new wave of dread rolling over him. Inside, where there should have been condiments and half-forgotten leftovers, were neat stacks of his folded laundry, socks tucked into corners, shirts stacked like files in a drawer. The fridge hummed its usual hum, indifferent, and Saxon let out a half-laugh, half-sob. Folding laundry would never be the same again.

Laundry

I don’t fear nuclear weapons or the tools of man.the sharpest edge, the most powerful thing, is a story.the editor, king of distribution, sat once in that heavy chair, deciding who gets a voice and who gets dust.ideas? cheap. anyone can toss words like crumpled bills into the void.but who owns the press, who decides what makes the morning page? that’s the king of the universe.I can write a song about dangerous untruths, but it’ll die in the dark if the editor says so.tyrants, they wear ties called News Limited, called Facebook, saying, “We didn’t write it.” but yes, you put it on the front page of the Australian.there’s a line, barely visible, between free speech and truth.editors, they’re supposed to watch that line, give breath to freedom, but not fuel the flames of deceit.truth, it’s ugly. it takes work, bites back, and no one wants the taste.lies? they’re sweet, slick, cost next to nothing, glide down easy.so, we come to this darkest night. the biggest fear: getting so tangled in stories, deceptions, delusions, we lose the scent of truth, drowning in a global hallucination.midnight strikes when the algorithm sits in the chair, choosing the shiny things, pushing them into eyes and ears, and hiding the rest.it’s got no morals, just engagement. truth, rotting on the sidelines.and then we’re all fucked.adrift in a sea of lies, lost forever to the current that pulls us away from the shore.

The darkest night

300,000 km an hour,a rock with an inferiority complex, hurtling to nowhere in particular, dragging us all along like unwitting passengers on a cosmic bus with no brakes and a dubious driver. At 5 am. I stand here, an existential monument of half-sleep, lifting a kettlebell as if doing so might convince the universe to stop, apologize, and offer me breakfast. Up, down—again, as the mat below sucks in my sweat, sending dark circles to bloom and vanish like confused mayflies that can’t decide if life’s worth it. My body protests: a creak here, a click there, a symphony of joints staging their quiet rebellion, each micro-failure like a tiny, well-mannered anarchist reminding me I’m not quite Alice in Wonderland, who, as we know, did six impossible things before breakfast and still had time to argue with a rabbit. A sharp breath slices the silence; an inhale drags it back. This ritual, this absurd routine, as if each movement keeps the cosmos from folding in on itself like a bad tent. Spoiler: the stars don’t care. A groan escapes, half dismay, half disbelief, the sound you make when you realize the universe is probably in the kitchen rifling through your last jar of olives and muttering about late rent. The set ends. The kettlebell lowers, gravity wins another round. I look at the mat, at the sweating rings that disappear faster than a good idea. I wonder if somewhere, far, far away, the universe pauses too, smirks, and whispers— next. Because what else is there?

When the weight of the world becomes too absurd, And I stir at each sound, each trivial word, Haunted by shadows, the specter of fate, The looming disasters that knock at my gate,I steal from my bed with a sigh and a groan, Cradling my doubts like a prize of my own. Down to the pond where the wood ducks preen, Where the heron stands, aloof, serene.Ah, these are the souls untroubled by thought, Untouched by the fears that humans have wrought. No brooding on failures or worry’s cruel tease, Just ripples that dance in the arms of the breeze.And over it all, the stars in disguise, Drowsy, indifferent, aloof in their rise. They wait with a patience I’ll never possess, Untouched by ambition or mortal distress.For a heartbeat, I’m tricked into quiet release, The world and its jests forgotten in peace. And I, for a moment, allow myself glee— The scandalous luxury of feeling free.

Free

“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

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

School Run

Laundry

The darkest night

5am

Free

The Crosswalk Cowboy