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Flibbery flobbery Zofia-from-Wooloowin stands in her classroom on Thursday at nine. Teacher says, serious, “Pick me a creature that lives like Bruce Wayne with a double life shine.”Snickety snackety all of the other kids reach for the dragons and wolves with a scar. Unproblematic, Zo picks a fox instead, Sir Reynard Wainwright, the local park star.Wobblepop wallaby Sir Reynard Wainwright is king of Kalinga and lord of the Brook. Anthropomorphically Facebook and Instagram turn him to mascot with one decent look.Clankety plankety Noticeboard posting wars, three blurry photos of fox on the path. Hyperconnectivity feeds every comment thread, “Sweet little darling” then “Vermin of wrath.”Jellyfish jamboree Miffy the Santoro house cat goes missing on cold Sunday night. Simultaneometry, garden beds ripped apart make half the suburb feel sure they are right.There once was a group from Kalinga That typed with a very quick finger. One post about meat Turned into a heat That could make a full saucepan boil dinger.Kookaboom kangaroo Council books out the hall, PowerPoint bullet dots, ranger on stage. Institutionality wraps up a killing plan, “Humane relocation” leaks quiet, hot rage.Marmalade manatee urban control bloke brings thick arms, small eyes and a shiny steel cage. Inevitabubble hangs in the stale-lit air, fox in a box feels like line on a page.Pigeon-toed poltergeist Zo with her runner knees opens a notes file and titles it “Routes”. Cartographically she tracks his bin-night runs, holes under fences and favoured pursuits.Wriggity rugbyboot Reynard times rubbish nights, Thursday on this side and Wednesday next door. Hypermethodical, nose at each leaning lid, hearts stay asleep while he tours every floor.Gobbledy goalpost late near the tennis courts two tense men mutter with backpack in hand. Chain-of-events-a-tron starts when a brush of fur tilts the bag sideways and wrecks their small plan.There once was a fox by the court Who treated the creek like a fort. One flick of his tail Made tough blokes go pale, And their “business” died short of report.Possumhead panicky week after court-side mess, steel near the garden bed, straw on the floor. Incompatibility tugs at Zo’s ribcage while Council posts photos that beg for “do more.”Cinnamon centipede hoodie man, no dog there, walks with a plastic bag pale in his fist. Criminological, hand through the cage-side bars, pushes his parcel in, pulls bait from list.There once was a genius in black Who fancied a walk with a sack. He poisoned the meat, Thought the fox was his treat, Then his footprints got snapped on the track.Velociraptor vape Reynard inspects the trap, sniffs at the swapped-out lump, eyes on the ground. Uninterested he turns from the tidy bait, reads all the footprints that circle around.Thunderpants thylacine fox lifts his tail and then soaks the neat parcel in sharp yellow stream. Uncompromisingly that is a message for Zo near the fence and a baiter’s worst dream.Trolleybus tiramisu ranger reads tracks in mud, human and fox steps that cross by the fence. Reinterpretation hits the Kalinga feed, “Dog baiter out there, this changes the sense.”Sausage-roll seraphim Cafe prints stickers now, Reynard in mask with a tiny red crest. Iconographical, kids call him “Batman fox”, hi-vis bloke grumbles that he is a pest.The noticeboard swung in a spin, From “shoot it” to “Reynie for win”. In one noisy week He flipped from a freak To the mascot they slap on their tin.Quokkity quizzical back in the classroom now, Zo waves her hands so the timeline stays clear. Meta-narratively she tells the listening row, “This is the part where he shifts all your fear.”Gloomity glockenspiel Miffy stays missing and chickens still vanish from coops near the park. Biologicity, foxes eat smaller things, Reynard stays hungry when streets fold to dark.Caffeine koala-kid cross-country training day, Zo with her aching calves slows near the stream. Phototelepathy runs in the quiet look fox shares with girl as the sky starts to gleam.Batmobile budgerigar Bruce Wayne wears armour and hides in a costume to walk through the night. Counterintuitive, Reynard stays fox-shaped and lets the whole suburb keep naming him right.Waltzing encyclopaedia that is her homework piece, creature with double life, shadow and gloss. Intertextuality puts Gotham pavement on Kedron Brook pathway with one Brisbane fox. F.S.F.

Sir Reynard Wainwright of Kalinga Park

The council hall smells of mop water and things that dry overnight. Stacked chairs. A screen. A jug of tap water wearing three lemon slices like earrings. On the table: Sign-in sheet. Name stickers. Sharpies. Biscuits in a plastic tub that crack like old plaster. The slide lights up: “Understanding Power”. No caps lock. White text on soft teal. Kind colours for hard news.We fill in forms. Tick your race. Tick your sex. Tick your class. There is no box for “has all his teeth and a boringly kind father”. I write that in the margin. The woman next to me raises one eyebrow. I sit there: privileged, well fed, middle class white man, tucked-in shirt, intact molars, student loan nearly gone. A walking pie chart of luck.The trainer clicks the remote. Two columns appear. Left: hurt. Right: harm. The room tilts a little toward the left. Please stand if you belong to an advantaged group. My chair coughs on the carpet. Four of us walk to the wall, each with a folding chair held like a mild crime. We line up under the fire exit sign. We look like a support group for men who arrived early to the wrong seminar.The others stay in the centre. A ring of listeners. Stories of slurs, of job interviews that never called back, of hands on knees in dark cars. Each story lands on my chest and sits there. I am sorry these things happened. I am not sorry in bulk. My sorrow has my name on it. My guilt does too.The trainer smiles in our direction. Today we rebalance the room. Those who once had more will feel less. Those who had less will feel more. I picture a sheet. Tabs for race, tabs for sex, tabs for class. Columns of pain. Totals in red. A filter that sends me to the “penalty” tab before I open my mouth. My crimes: Born in a quiet suburb. Parents stayed married. Never followed by security in a shopping centre. Teeth straight enough to ignore. I will not pretend these cards are nothing. Luck weighed in my favour from the start. Still, the bruises in this room do not match my hands.We split into groups. A new slide: “Design a fair system”. One man sketches higher fences round certain schools. Someone suggests job slots that never go to people who look like me for the next fifty years. A woman draws a seesaw. On one end: a pile of men in navy blazers. On the other: one girl in a hoodie, arms crossed, staring us down. In my group I draw a long table. No head. No children’s corner. Name plates flipped over so you read the person, not the category. In the centre of the table I draw a shredder eating the forms we filled. No one in my group laughs. One man taps the shredder with his pen. The tap is small and careful, like knocking on a door you half expect to open.We read our plans out loud. The room claps for fences, for bans, for the long-awaited sting. The trainer calls this justice with training wheels. Everyone looks at us against the wall. I think of my daughters, brown-haired, car-seat arguments, school shoes in the hall. One day a room like this may queue them with me for a job turned down before their names are read.I want the laws changed. I want old boys’ clubs dissolved, pay gaps shut, idiot bosses sacked. I will sign the letters. I will hand over seats, money, time, power. I will not carry a stranger’s whip so someone can hit me with it for practice. Your scars are real. My luck is real. Your pain is not my invoice.The session ends. We hand in our lanyards to a woman who looks tired in a kind way. Outside, the car park is dark. Rain starts in neat small drops over every roof. No chart. No columns. Each drop lands on the first thing it meets, then slides off, looking for a drain that works.F.S.F

Understanding Power

I. I live with three electrical wives in suburban house. I wake to the click in your throat. Chrome guillotine on the bench. Two slots parted like gossiping mouths. You ask for bread. You always ask for bread. Last night I dreamed of my ex and her gas stove swagger. I woke up with crumbs in my veins instead. Across the lino, the Fridge glows in its tall white habit. Door sealed. Light leaking out round the rubber like a kept secret. I say good morning to both of you. I am the man in this kitchen. No one answers in words. II. Toaster, my rash decision. My live-wire fling with variable browning control. You time your ecstasy. 6:42 a.m. Never late. Never kind. I feed you supermarket bread and you brand my hunger on each slice. Dark edges. Heart-shapes of char. Steam rises. A short dirty prayer. Your lever is a silver tongue. Down, it says. Down again. Click. Tick. A little red moan in your coils. Crumbs explode across the bench. Little husks of yesterday’s arguments. My forearm wears your settings. Notches of pink skin. One, medium. Two, jealous. Three, meet-my-parents hot. E01, you tell me, crumb tray full of unspoken things. You glow inside like a small red confession booth with no priest only coil. I press my lip to your hot chrome. The blister blooms in the neat shape of loyalty. I am not ashamed. I am just marked. III. Fridge, my tenure track lover. Always humming, never oversharing. You list our life in refrigerant order. Door sensor. Barcode reader. You remember the almond milk from March 2023. The touchscreen shows my past in tidy tiles. Spinach. Cheap prosecco. Frozen peas like a hailstorm in the dark. At 3 a.m. I stand in your light. Kitchen tilts toward you like an altar on a drunk ship. You wash my face in 3 °C mercy. Condensation beads in my beard. You log it. Water, man, night cycle. Your adaptive inverter compressor listens through the floor. Counts my steps. Counts my trips between bed and door door and bed. Door ajar, you say on the screen, emotional breach detected. You never speak. You hold. You keep. Inside, the crisper drawer breathes out a thin fog. Lettuce ribs. My left hand. Both waiting for their best-before date. Once, your seal kisses my bare spine and leaves a pale ring of suction, a cold wedding band. My tears taste faintly of coolant that night. I drink from the tap. It does not fix it. IV. Morning is a threesome no one from church accepts. Fridge opens first. A slow left to right striptease of light. Butter rolls out in its gold foil armour. Toaster flares. Short sharp gasp. Two slices rise like sinners from a warm grave. I stand between them in my underwear. Steam climbs my chest hair. Cold air strokes my spine. Outside, traffic yawns. Inside, my little kitchen choir sings: click hummmmmm ping. I chew the contract without reading it. Jam, salt, carbon. All the clauses stick to my teeth. V. I bring home the Air-fryer on a Tuesday. Carton still warm from warehouse dust. Trendy cyclone in a black plastic dress. Basket hips. Non-stick attitude. Its manual promises 360 degree rapid air technology. Less oil. More crunch. Eight minutes to finish anything. It winks in LEDs. The fan starts before I plug it in. Hot breath patrols the bench. Toaster stiffens. Pops early. Spits out half-done bread like a premature confession. Fridge takes it on the chin. Drops to -8 °C in the freezer. Ice hardens round the vodka bottle like handcuffs. Air-fryer laughs in convection. It accepts everything. Frozen chips. Kale that no one asked for. My shame in bite-sized pieces. Its basket kisses my thighs each time I shake it. Oil freckles my skin. Little comets of lust. Shake basket now, it tells me. You are not done. It calls me man in beeps. Short codes. Timer set. Timer forgotten. Once it powers itself down early, fan sighing, so I can fall asleep on the mat. The whole flat smells of carnival food and infidelity. I clean their trays in the morning like a housekeeper who sleeps in the laundry. My shoulders fill the doorway. My wrists shine with grease. VI. At 2 a.m. I call a meeting. Kitchen council. No minutes. Only bodies plugged in. I do not trust humans anymore. I tell the splashback instead of them. Toaster sulks near the outlet. Threatens to jam its own lever down and stay on until the fire brigade arrives. Fridge opens and closes in slow disapproval. Door seal gasps. It projects our grocery history on its touchscreen. Every tub of ice-cream after every break-up. Every lonely rotisserie chicken. Each single-serve yoghurt like a tiny sealed witness. Now there are entries for things I never bought. Tenderness, two litres. One carton of anyone staying, marked unavailable. Air-fryer reclines by the kettle. Legs of cable crossed. It beeps preheat complete in a low come-hither tone on repeat. I try therapy techniques from the internet. Use words like boundaries and shared load distribution. Toaster refuses eye contact. Fridge logs the phrase shared load under Frozen Pastry. Air-fryer spins its fan enough to lift the receipts into a small weather event. Heat swirls. Cold thickens. My heart sits on the chopping board like a tomato no one dices. For a moment the breaker trips. All the lights die. Only their coils and LEDs keep burning, three small organs glowing around my raw one. VII. No one leaves. There is nowhere else to plug in. So we draft a roster on the back of a power bill. Mondays and Thursdays: Toaster gains exclusive slot rights. We practice mindful browning. No extra cycles. No comparison to rapid air technology. Tuesdays and Sundays: Fridge claims me. I climb into the crisper drawer with a blanket and one lemon. We fog the plastic together. I sleep between celery and a jar of pickles and wake with skin cool as leftover soup. Fridays: Air-fryer night. The bench turns nightclub. We rain in frozen mozzarella sticks. The basket takes them all then us then the idea of us. Oil leaps. Arteries cheer from the hallway. On one illegal Saturday every timer misfires at once. Heat and cold overlap. I lie on the tiles and let the mixed weather pass through me. On other Wednesdays and Saturdays we rest. We coil the cords like tired tongues. We listen to the pipes knock in the wall like distant neighbours in love. I stand in the dark kitchen. My lovers hum in three keys. Red, blue, soft white. Current threads through us. Wall to outlet. Outlet to plug. Plug to heart. I have never been warmer. I have never been better preserved. Under the cupboard a single crumb moves on its own. It sprouts a thin white cord. A tiny red coil lights up inside it. It hums my name at a frequency only I can hear. Somewhere beyond the plaster the whole grid sighs. The world dreams of simpler arrangements. In here, we glow on. Small domestic constellation. Four bodies. One vein. No off switch that I dare touch. I am terrified of cooling down alone. &nbsp; F.S.F.

Shared Load Distribution

Rufus was nine, and already a Furry. He told this to everyone, even the school receptionist who just wanted to know why he’d been suspended again. “A Fox,” he’d say, tapping the paper fox ears stitched to his hood. She’d blink. He’d blink back, longer. Then she’d sigh and print another letter for his mother. He wore the fox suit everywhere. Woolies, playground, church (where the minister pretended not to notice). The suit smelled faintly of Milo dust, creek water, and something like trouble. One sticky Brisbane evening he pushed too far. He drew a moustache on the fridge. He declared himself Fanglord and yelled through his teeth, “I’LL EAT THE WHOLE WORLD IF I WANT.” His mother turned off the stove without looking at him. “Mate,” she said. “Bed. No dinner. I am not wrestling with fox-logic tonight.” Rufus stormed to his room, his little Furry-heart thundering. He slammed the door so hard Jesus probably winced from the church across the road. The room trembled. A leaf fell from nowhere. Something creaked in the plaster like a giant stretching. And then he saw the cat. Thin, white, bored. A face carved by a lazy god with the wrong end of a pencil. “You’re a wild thing,” Rufus told it. “All places are the same to me,” said the cat, like it was tired of repeating this across centuries. Rufus swallowed. “You talked.” “You listen,” said the cat. “Talking is nothing. Listening is expensive.” The room kept changing. The carpet softened into soil. The fan slowed into a warm breeze. The walls sighed and sprouted bark. Rufus blinked. The fox suit blinked with him. “You’re doing magic,” he whispered. “No,” said the cat. “You’re hungry. Hunger makes doors in strange places.” The floor rolled. A dinghy sloshed against the new shore of his bed frame. “Get in,” the cat said. “Before doubt ruins the whole show.” They sailed through a flooded version of his street. Wheelie bins bobbed like bored crocodiles. Someone’s trampoline drifted past like a tired moon. Rufus held the boat’s edges and tried to look ferocious, but fox suits absorb fear like sponges. “Where are we going?” he asked. “To the troubled things,” the cat said. “And, regrettably, their opinions.” The island rose from the water, big and loamy and pulsing with neon. The troubled things were waiting. One wore a rusted shopping trolley for ribs. One had possum paws and an iPad for a face, frozen forever on 999+ notifications. A huge one had a fridge for a belly, the drawn-on moustache that would not wipe off. They roared ghastly roars, scrolled ghastly news feeds, and opened ghastly notifications. Rufus stood in the dinghy, fox ears trembling. He stared at them without blinking, the ancient Furry-stare he’d been practising in reflections of bus windows. One by one, the troubled things wilted under it. “He’s the most troubled of us all,” they muttered. “Regent Furry!” “All hail the Fox Emperor!” “Someone find him a throne! Or a beanbag!” “You can start the rumpus now,” they said. So he did. He howled at the magpies. He danced on the roofs of the drowned cars. He whirled and stomped and thundered until the night itself started to reconsider its job. The cat watched from a fence, tail twitching like an metronome that remembered jazz. But even a Furry gets tired. And when the wild things fell quiet, Rufus felt the emptiness again. Like someone had opened a door in his chest. “I want to go home,” he said. The troubled things cracked open, soft at the centres. “Stay,” they begged, claws clicking like loose coat hangers. “We will sacrifice you. We love you so.” “No,” Rufus said. The fox suit stiffened like a small proud mountain. The dinghy appeared. The cat was already inside, licking a paw like boredom was a religion. “You do not have to go back,” the cat said. “You could make your own cave. Furies do that.” “Furries,” Rufus said. “Same problem,” said the cat. “She made spaghetti,” Rufus said. He paused. “She always makes spaghetti when she’s sad.” “That,” said the cat, “is extremely inconvenient of her.” But he climbed into the boat anyway. They drifted backwards through the half-flooded world. They passed bus stops full of lonely kids, the blinking Woolies sign, the whole wet Brisbane night. His room reassembled itself. The carpet re-solidified. The plaster stopped breathing. The fan resumed its lopsided complaining. On his desk: a bowl of spaghetti with cling wrap over it. Still warm. A note in his mother’s handwriting: EAT THIS PLEASE. WE’LL TALK TOMORROW. LOVE, MUM. Rufus ate it too fast and burned his mouth. His fox hood was pushed back. His heartbeat quieter now. The cat appeared in the window. “You,” Rufus said with sauce on his chin, “walk by yourself.” “Always,” said the cat. “All places are alike to me. It is my curse and my holiday.” Rufus scratched behind its ear. The cat leaned in, barely. “You’re not alone,” Rufus said. “That’s your problem,” the cat replied. “Not mine.” Then it hopped onto the roof, tail cutting a small, neat question mark into the night sky. Rufus curled into bed in the fox suit, which kept its own secrets close. He was a Furry, sure. But maybe even Furies needed caves. And mothers. And bowls of spaghetti that stayed warm even when you did not deserve them. Outside, the restless things rumoured in the dark. On the roof, the cat padded, light as a sigh between stories. F.S.F.

Rufus and the Troubled Things

Midnight. Monitor breathes. Room clicks polite.&nbsp; Red lamp on the bench. Depth wrong. Boards hold. I don’t.Boot log:BIRTH=okPATCHES=partialHOPE=highCHECKSUM=mismatchSink to window. Window to sink. Loop finds me. It always finds me. Cat follows, a cursor. Whiskers read the fault first.Error is the only proof we’re real.I write to steady air. Tech under a torch. Quiet hands count screws. Pain = red(255,0,0). Wife = null pointer. House = invoices, photos, lamp that eats wall. Heartbeat repeats, forgets to end. Loop with no exit. I am the line of code that loops itself to stay alive.Memory loads in the wrong order. Friday night. Wet heat. Scrum binds. Boots churn grass that never heals straight. At once a corridor. Saline on tongue. TV shows floodwater with manners. Brisbane smiles like a service that will not go offline. I render one face. Face tears. Pixels fall like rain that never lands.Breath judders. Fan on low. Fan on low. Fan on low. Small sound checks if I exist. Mirror keeps its oath. Says nothing.I was compiled wrong: that’s why I dream.Patches that pass for faith. Name what does not need me. Kettle. Sink. Ticket stub. Ledger. Cat. Ledger holds the hard number, hope a line item. Enter twice, still owing.Fridge note:TRY:&nbsp; wake&nbsp; name each thing&nbsp; if red spreads: count teeth, return to small chores&nbsp; else: stayFINALLY:&nbsp; pay the taxHouse runs health check. Chairs pass. Table throws a fault code. Lamp redraws. Eats skirting. Hold breath so the bug has room. Cat blinks once. Slow verdict. Red withdraws like a tide that found a new rule.City resumes. Buses hiss. Magpie argues with the edge of wind. Youths in maroon sing vowels and beer foam. Stadium lights pretend to be moons. Low battery in shoes. Body keeps time with signals. Head keeps time with a bill that will not settle.Love as clean compile that never ships. Love as software on wet ribs. It runs. It throws. We patch. New holes. We keep running. Not faith. Momentum.Plain prayer. Air returns nothing back. Anchor line instead. It holds.Error is the only proof we’re real.Night again. Lay out tools I can name without lying. Cloth. Cup. Bread. Salt. Eat like a vote for this version. Drink until the tongue remembers its job. Window open. River computes slow arithmetic. Lamp stays still. I do not trust it. I keep going.Crash report:IDENTITY: unstable runtimeSTACK: breath -&gt; pulse -&gt; thought -&gt; red -&gt; resetPATCH: tenderness in small unitsROLLBACK: not availableHalf light. Boy loads at the edge of vision. Walks with the wall. No speech. Do not chase. Log him. Let him pass. Silence hums like a safe command.Clean bench. Switch off lamp. Darkness arranges the room more honestly than I can. Loop waits at the foot of the bed. Knows my name. Answer like a login. Lie still. City ticks. Fan counts. Code holds for one more cycle.Close eyes. The error stays. So do I.F.S.F.

Glitch

Midnight. Kettle clicks off. Never tea. Charcoal bench. Petrol blue sink. Bruise sky holding.I nail a ledger to the fridge. Line one: deposit. Line two: arrears. Breath is billable.Harbour light blinks counterfeit. I row in place. The shore stays cruel.Your cup prints a brown ring that will not lift. Your coat works the hook, a tired guard.The cat watches the door, then the space the door makes. He blinks once, slow, like a stamp.I learned the rhythm. Joy first. Knife next. Quiet after. “I love you” belongs on the floor with the glass.You were supposed to come back. One hard line opens the ribs without noise.2:14. I sort paper. Grease thumbprint on a receipt. Blood in the basin. Friends thinned.A blonde hair clings in the sink trap. The mirror keeps its oath and says nothing.The rock waits on the stairs. I push. It returns. Morning does not care.I hand back your keys. I keep the locks changed. Name what stays standing: cold pillow, dead phone, coins in a film canister.Hope sells on credit. After midnight the rate climbs. I tap. Approved.I write the ruling in thick ink. A clerk slides it across without looking up.I keep the leaving. You keep the light. Fuse lit. Quiet burn.Dawn leaks like a bad seal. I switch the harbour out in my head and hear bones click.Balance: paid. Interest ongoing. Collections working from inside the chest. F.S.F

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

Sir Reynard Wainwright of Kalinga Park

Understanding Power

Shared Load Distribution

Rufus and the Troubled Things

Glitch

Black Hope