Blog

Six on the dot. The container shutter rattles up. Steam lifts. I tap, take the long black, step clear of chatter. Benches spread across the cobblestones; I walk the arc to the last one. I sit. Heat climbs the cup into my hand, throat, chest. Pen. Pad. Not a diary. A trap. Thoughts flare, then run. I net dreams, pin the dark to the margin, put a fantasy on shift. The council mower grids the oval. Dogs map their loops. I face the jacarandas. The page lifts, settles. I clock on to the quiet and let it speak.shutter up, steam threads jacaranda confetti ink squares the far bench F.S.F

Shift Commences

I would not stop for Death. He pulled up anyway. An EV idled at the kerb: two seats, window down; me and Forever.We rolled slow as a hearse. I silenced notifications, closed my tabs, folded work and play, laundry-flat.Past the school oval, magpies patrolling the boundary, kids orbiting a whistle; the future running drills. We waved from the wrong side of glass.We passed the paddocks, cane and cattle holding their stare, galahs lifting like thrown confetti. Fenceposts kept the tally. We passed the sun, or it passed us.Heat left the bitumen. Cicadas cut out at once. Dew at the verge needled ankles. My clothes were showroom-light, a veil against weather I hadn’t planned.We paused at a house no longer a house. Gum leaves ticked above it. The ground had swollen to meet it, roof reduced to a rumour, eaves already swallowed.Since then it has been months; they weigh less than the one second I first felt the stallions under the bonnet lean toward what we call forever, past jacaranda shade and storm anvils, into the long room with no walls.F.S.F.

Two Seats Only

The mirror wakes before you. Its grin spreads like a cut.You stand here, bleeding morning into the sink, thinking you own this hour. You don’t.The glass has been watching all night, its mouth fogging, its teeth clicking in the dark.You rise not for victory; but to keep from drowning in your own stillness. The dawn does not bless you; it peels you.Your scars gleam like cheap saints’ icons. You polish them because they are all you have. The mirror knows. It licks them clean with light.You crave collapse. The wreck. The bone-snap mercy of starting over. You love the burning more than the rising.The glass leans closer. Its voice crawls through your ears like smoke:"Bleed proper. Give me something I can drink. Or keep playing tame and I will drink you dry anyway."And then it waits, smiling, knowing you’ll come back tomorrow because it is hungry, and you are delicious.F.S.F.

THE GLASS THAT HUNTS

Pinned to the lab wall: Brave. Coward. Filed in triplicate, for the audit gods. Strength: volatile. Fragility: equal and opposite. Good-evil ratio: refuses to collapse to one value. Test subjects complain. Or they thank me. Or they think of their aunt’s dog. Result shredded per protocol. Some grow anxious. Some fall asleep. Both reactions logged as adverse events. Finding: You are statistically unclassifiable. Consensus is dead on arrival. Peer review tossed it in the bin. Directive: Proceed per self-authored manual. No ISO exists for specimen ‘You’. F.S.F.

Identity: Inconclusive

I Edmund locks the Inala place, pockets a ring of other people’s mornings. Family on the lawn: thongs, a scuffed Steeden, glare you can taste. The vinyl NO TRESPASSING goes on; a bubble traps air over the O. He reads the catechism the lender likes, eyes on the curb. The girl’s question doesn’t belong to any clause. He turns the key hard. Click. II “Not to occupy… penalties… clink.” Statute heat on tin. The father holds a kettle cord and one spoon. “Where will we stay?”-five years old, same number as the threat. No answer; the biro stays shut. He steps past the ball, the dead mower stripe. Keys knock his thigh toward the ute. The biro cap tests itself once in his pocket. Click. III Glovebox: felt pouch, oil, the small machine. One round where it has lived for seventeen mornings. Thumb, wrist, the practised cock; the cylinder whirrs dry air. Metal on tongue-coins and summer rail. Lorikeets heckle the verge; the ute breathes. Verdict not in paperwork. Click. IV Again. Nothing. Again. Nothing-the kind of mercy that doesn’t clap. He sets it down on vinyl, wipes his face with the same hand. He does not try a fourth time. That is the break. Indicator ticks; a neighbour drags a bin to the kerb. He cancels the blinker and watches the silence slot in. The stalk settles against its stop. Click. V Beaudesert Road to Ipswich Road to Vulture Street, over the river. No speeches; the wheel does the thinking. West End: a flying-fox mural, heat in the shade. Inside, cheap cork and crooked staples wait. VOLUNTEER ROSTER-columns, dates, empty boxes like small rooms. He uncaps the marker. The felt wakes and the cap lands. Click. VI E D M U N D-letters that haven’t done this job before. The bowl of the D darkens, a chamber he can’t fire. Someone hands him tea; steam climbs, steady as breath. Cup to saucer; a ring prints itself, brown and exact. Outside, the bubble over the O softens under sun. Inside, names collect-small circles keeping the lights on. Click. F.S.F

Rule Breaker

Spin [F.S.F.] 5:20 splits dark. Up.[Masochist.] Pain first, light later.[Both.] Shoes, door, cold tiles, knees. [F.S.F.] Carpark moon. The tribe gathers.[Masochist.] Raggle-taggle, watt counters.[Both.] Clip, fail, twist, swear, knees. [Instructor.] Up. Down. Faster. Harder.[F.S.F.] Hill. Flat. Breathe. Obey.[Both.] Legs burn. Wind leaves, knees. [Masochist.] Add load. Buy altitude.[F.S.F.] Hubris knocks: thunder costume.[Both.] Saddle sneers. Time blurs, knees. [F.S.F.] Leaderboard glares. I bluff.[Masochist.] Don’t chase names, chase edge.[Both.] Sweat pools small seas, knees. [F.S.F.] Minutes turn to rock.[Masochist.] Forty-five or forty-five years?[Both.] Lactic writes receipts, knees. [F.S.F.] Second wind; suspect, welcome.[Masochist.] Stay. Breathe like rope.[Both.] Cadence holds the freeze, knees. [Instructor.] Last track. Empty the tank.[F.S.F.] White noise. Leg strobe.[Both.] Stop lands like breeze, knees. [F.S.F.] Unclip. Wobble. Laugh.[Masochist.] High-five the wreckage.[Both.] Coffee buys reprieve, knees. F.SF

Writing, Poems and Rants

Shift Commences

Two Seats Only

THE GLASS THAT HUNTS

Identity: Inconclusive

Rule Breaker

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