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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?

Moses

It's 1984, and we're at boarding school. The debate about whether or not to dam the Franklin River was raging. This was a significant environmental issue in Australia, as the Franklin River was one of the last wild rivers in Tasmania. Conservationists, led by Bob Brown, were fighting to protect it from being flooded by a proposed hydroelectric dam, which would have destroyed its unique ecosystem and cultural heritage. Most of us didn't give a flying toss about rivers, dams, or Tasmania, for that matter. We cared about our sport, dodging teachers, and sneaking as much contraband as we could into the dorms—cigarettes, dirty magazines, and the occasional bottle of cheap booze.Yet somehow, the dam debate became the unofficial blood sport of the school. As my mate Lillee put it, it was a chance to "pick a side and chuck some fists." Back then, there were two types of people: the "No Dams" crowd and the "Dams On!" gangs. This split ran deep, like raw, adolescent tribalism. Say "Bob Brown," and half the school would yell "Legend!" while the other half would sneer or hurl something unpleasant from a lunch tray. None of us really understood Bob Brown's conservation agenda, but we knew he once socked John Howard through a car window, and that made him an instant legend.The "Dams On!" crew got their kicks modifying signs and stickers all over town. The "No Dams" stickers were fair game. Sometimes, the "No" was scratched off; other times, it was swapped for "Yes" or Lillee's personal favourite: "Dams or Die." We turned the river into a joke, our defiance spelled out in half-ripped bumper stickers. I’ll admit, I found it funny in the way a moth finds circling a lightbulb funny—irresistible, even if it meant getting singed.Then came that unforgettable afternoon when Tiny Marriott got nabbed by the local cop. Ironically, Tiny wasn't small; he just had a knack for slipping away unnoticed. But not this time. He was standing in plain view, hands all over a "No Dams" sticker on the back of someone's car. The cop appeared out of nowhere, like a phantom in blue. Tiny tried the old, "Just admiring it, officer," he said with a forced grin, his eyes darting nervously and his shoulders tensing up, but the cop wasn’t having it. He made Tiny open his bag, and out spilled twenty-three "No Dams" stickers—peeled off every car between here and the bakery.Tiny got hauled off for "petty theft of political paraphernalia." It was the most Tasmanian-sounding crime I'd ever heard—after all, where else would stealing bumper stickers about a river be considered a political act? When he came back, we paraded him through the dorm like a martyr. He’d suffered for the cause—though none of us could actually articulate what that "cause" was, beyond the thrill of getting our hands dirty and racking up detentions.It was my first taste of what they called "environmentalism," though our motives were murky at best. We didn’t know what we were fighting for, why we cared, or even what a dam really did. All we knew was it was a fight worth having, if only to escape the monotony of curfews and study hours. Looking back, I can’t help but laugh. There we were, tangled up in Tasmanian history, sticking our noses into politics like the clueless fools we were. But maybe that was the point—getting involved, even without fully understanding, taught me that standing up for something matters. Now, I see environmentalism differently; it's no longer just about the thrill, but about protecting what we have for future generations. For better or worse, we became part of something bigger than ourselves—even if it was just for the laughs, the bruises, and the stolen stickers.FSF &nbsp;

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

Run Fun

Missed call

The President of Kabwobwe

The Woman in the Corner Office

Moses

My Greta Moment