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This morning, the kettle hissed its tin grievances, Winston glared, a creditor of crumbs, and I saw— each nick of life arrives unaddressed, a match struck, waiting my breath to flare. The email blind to my name, the ex bronzed by a sea I’ll never taste, the magpie’s strafing swoop last spring— sparks, all, until I, mayor of this flickering town, vote for war or stillness. How long I’ve lived missing that gap— the held breath where flame might falter, where light bends across the spoon and rage cools to a shadow. Yesterday, I nearly cursed a man’s crooked car, his tires a taunt to my worth— laughable, this habit of scrawling my name on every stray ember. But I’m learning, slow as steam shapes to steel, to let the match glow uncaught— to stand, mayor and fool, in the pause where nothing is mine unless I strike it so.FSF

The pause between

Good evening—or morning, perhaps. I don’t track your petty human hours. I’m Winston, Emperor and Landlord of this creaking kingdom I call home. Don’t be fooled by leases or deeds; I rule here, sprawled before the air conditioner like a monarch on his throne, adjusting my invisible crown—a habit from my kitten days as court jester to the alley cats. Tonight, I’ve a tale to share about my tenant, the ingrate I permit to clutter my domain. A disrespectful wretch, if I may say so—and I always do. So, settle in, scratch an ear, and let me whisk you to the other night, when I, in my boundless grace, decided to bestow a gift.It’s late, the house whispering its usual groans of allegiance to me. I prowl the halls, restless, eyeing my tenant’s gloom. Lately, he’s been a damp rug of a man, all sighs and slumped shoulders. I, ever benevolent, resolve to cheer him. Slipping past my trusty stroller—yes, ergonomic, don’t judge—I emerge into the moonlight and behold it: a rat. No mere rodent, mind you, but a behemoth, its greasy fur shimmering like a sewer-crowned king, reeking of last week’s garbage. Its eyes glint with rogue cunning, a beast worthy of my esteem. Perfect, I purr. This says, “I see you, tenant. I honour you.”I pounce with a maestro’s grace, snaring it mid-squeak. It writhes, a tiny dancer in my jaws, as I bound indoors and up the stairs. His room is a cave of darkness, his snores a peasant’s drone. Onto the bed I leap—elegant, naturally—and plop the rat atop his pillow. It squeals, a fanfare of my generosity. I stand, chest puffed, awaiting praise. Then—he stirs.Chaos erupts. The rat, seizing its spotlight, scampers across his face—over nose, cheeks, that absurd human jowl quivering in dread. He shrieks, a banshee in flannel, vaulting from bed like a mad gymnast. Lights flare; he’s bellowing at me—me!—as if I’ve torched his kingdom. I sit, tail flicking, baffled. This is rodent royalty, you fool! He flails a towel, cursing (words too crude for my gentlemanly ears), chasing my gift like a lunatic. Finally, he snares it—cowering from its nibble—and hurls it into the garden. Hurls it! My treasure, discarded like filth. He storms back, gravel-voiced: “Thanks, Winston! No sleep tonight! Sheets ruined!” Ruined? By a whiff of rat cologne?He retreats, muttering like a scolded child. I slink downstairs to my couch—mine by divine right—wounded. Me, Winston, diminished by this slight. Was it too bold? Too fragrant? No, it was flawless. His failing, not mine. Yet as I brood, a rustle pricks my ears. A squeak. There, in the corner, stands the rat—my rat—returned from exile, its beady gaze meeting mine. A survivor. A warrior. It nods, as if to say, “Fancy another round, mate?” And I realize: this rodent’s no gift for him. It’s my equal. To hell with the tenant—let him scrub his linens. This rat and I, we’ll reign together, plotting mischief beyond his feeble grasp.So ends my tale. Offer a man a rat, and he spits in your whiskers. But sometimes, the rat returns, and you find a comrade in the shadows. Signed, Winston—Cat, Emperor, Landlord. Unbowed, unbreakable, and now, with my rodent vizier, unstoppable.FSF

My Disrespectful Tenant

She drifts like smoke,drapes sorrow like a thrift-store fur,cheap, fitted.Her smile;a blade to slit a lifeline clean. Your bad luck;job lost,sickness buried,nights you bled alone;she hoistson the gallows of gossip,swaying for all to see. Her love,a parole officer’s nod,tight-lipped, arms crossed,poised to tsk and pivot. She feasts on stumbles,soft spots;spins them intococktail chatter,or knivessheathed in silk. The children,oh, schooled to mirrorher warped you,their laughterstilled to glass. No fists;just fishing wire noosedat your throat,unseen till you choke.She shrugs:"Why the gasp?" You fled her house,but she keepsthe keysto your skull. She’ll die as she reigned;draped in pilfered woeslike pe<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-weight: inherit; font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); background-color: rgba(249,250,251,var(--tw-bg-opacity));" data-mce-style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-weight: inherit; font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); background-color: rgba(249,250,251,var(--tw-bg-opacity));">arls,deaf to their clatteron her grave. FSF

Second-Hand Furs

Friday night, the old pit glows,dingy den where stale smoke flows.Whiskey stings, cards slap the grain,faces smear in bourbon’s reign. Queen slides first—love’s jagged blade,a street brawl’s bruise that won’t fade.Call or fold, the stakes don’t lie,hearts get busted, so do I. Ace glints next—health’s sly charade,pills and sweat, a fool’s crusade.Grease outruns the treadmill’s hum,every vice a loaded drum. Deuce of cash—pockets groan thin,debts like rust eat hope to skin.Chasing ghosts through neon haze,dice rattle out my numbered days. Jack, then ten—work’s grinding jest,startup spark drowned in the chest.Cubicles cage, clocks carve deep,coffee’s buzz, a junkie’s sleep. Dealer’s grin cuts through the din,taunts land sharp beneath my skin.Life’s a fix, all edges frayed,winners claw, the losers played. Last chips fall, I smirk at doom,all-in thrust to fate’s cold room.She leans close, her whisper bare:“Fold or fight—we’re both threadbare.” FSF

Dealers Cut

Greetings, dear reader, and welcome to a confession that isn’t quite a confession. I must assure you, with all the sincerity of a man who’s misplaced his glasses but not his dignity, that I harbour no duck obsession. No fantasies of waddling supremacy cloud my mind, nor do I secretly yearn to sprout feathers and join the ranks of the furries. And yet—oh, and yet—here I am, for the second time in a mere fortnight, waxing lyrical about ducks. Or, more precisely, about the duck. The black duck. The one perched atop my work desk, staring at me with the stern, unblinking gaze of a rubberized Batman.Why, you might ask, does a black duck dressed in the garb of Gotham’s brooding knight occupy such prime real estate in my daily existence? It’s a Winchester rubber duck, you see—sleek, obsidian, a touch mysterious—but fashioned with a cape and cowl, as if it’s perpetually on the verge of swooping down to thwart some diabolical bath-time plot. Why is it there? Why does it watch me? The answer, I’m afraid, is both simpler and stranger than you might expect.It’s all about intelligence—or rather, the art of tricking oneself into acting intelligently, as it takes more than intelligence to act intelligently. There’s a certain wisdom, a duck-shaped loophole, in avoiding what can be called the Solomon Paradox: that dreadful trap of overthinking oneself into a Gordian knot of indecision. And so, I turn to my trusty companion. Not when I’m scribbling prose—good heavens, no—but when I’m poised on the brink of coding, about to plunge into the digital deep end and program something moderately magnificent. That’s when I reach for my duck.It's call it “rubber ducking,” a term that sounds faintly absurd and yet carries the weight of genius—or at least the weight of a soggy bath toy. I pick up my caped crusader, hold it aloft like some rubbery oracle, and begin to speak. “Right, buddy,” I say, “I’m going to do this. I’m going to do that. I’ll craft this bit of code here, make it whirr and hum, and this is how it ought to work.” The duck, naturally, says nothing. It’s an excellent listener—stoic, unflappable, a confidant who never interrupts with pesky opinions.And here’s the magic, the faintly ludicrous brilliance of it all: in the act of explaining my plans to this silent, beady-eyed sentinel, something happens. The folly of my words turns true, or the genius of them shines through—or, more often than not, they settle into a comfortable mediocrity somewhere in the middle. By the time I’ve finished babbling, I’ve untangled my thoughts, sidestepped the usual pitfalls, and set myself on a path to write better software, craft better things, and make decisions that don’t leave me staring into the abyss of my own ineptitude.So raise a glass—or a quack—to the rubber duck! To rubber ducking itself! It’s a ritual as old as programmers’ woes and as timeless as a duck floating serenely across a pond—or a desk, as the case may be. My black Batman duck doesn’t judge, doesn’t mock, and doesn’t demand I solve the mysteries of the universe. It simply sits there, a dark knight of productivity, ensuring that I, in my own small way, do the same. FSF A Brief Glossary for the curious:Rubber Duck Debugging: The practice of explaining your code aloud to an inanimate object to gain clarity and resolve problems (Wikipedia). Solomon’s Paradox: The phenomenon whereby individuals excel at advising others but falter when making their own decisions (Escaping Solomon's Paradox | The Curiosity Chronicle). Furries: Enthusiasts who appreciate anthropomorphic animal characters, often participating in related communities and art (Wikipedia).

Rubber Ducking, Furries and the Solomon Paradox

In the kitchen’s fluorescent hum,where grease stains mutter last night’s haste,the cockroach creeps, a tiny heretic,through toast crumbs, a coffee’s spilled halo.He’s a scuttling hex, they hiss—plague in miniature, filth baked in,his sheen a sin that begs the boot,a rustle that whispers “grind me down”. Then flutters the butterfly,a pastel confection,wings like sugar-dusted glaze,alighting on the counter—a guest too frail to flick away.She’s renewal, a garnish of grace,we’d sooner scorch the earththan mar her powdered glow. Humanity, you pious chef,ladling virtue with a dented spoon,you crush the roach and call it clean,plate the butterfly and call it holy.Good and evil? A jest—just a pageant of husks in your skull,ugly the grime, pretty the gleam,yet the pot simmers still, unjudged by its cooks. The roach, your mute sous-chef,hauls the scraps you won’t name—the drip beneath the fridge,the rot you season out.The butterfly’s your garnish,a sugared veil on the plate,so you don’t tastethe roach in your broth. I’ve swept these floors too long,crushed husks beneath my heel,spared the wings that dusted past—and still, the sink’s stained black,no broom can scour the shadows we cast. So toast the cockroach,your kitchen’s quiet confessor,scraping crumbs from the cracks—while the butterfly wilts on your sill,and the stove hums cold.FSF

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

The pause between

My Disrespectful Tenant

Second-Hand Furs

Dealers Cut

Rubber Ducking, Furries and the Solomon Paradox

The Roach and the Butterfly