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They carry the weight of knowing, a curse dressed as a blessing. the sharp-eyed see the cracks in every foundation, where others find comfort in lies, in the sweet ignorance of easy laughter. understanding breeds loneliness, truth carves its own prison. they sit in rooms full of chatter, watch the mouths move, but the words are hollow, like prayers tossed to gods who stopped listening. they see the patterns, the strings pulling the puppets. history repeats itself while the world claps along, cheering progress with blindfolds on. they feel the crush of existence mortality, absurdity, the gnawing question: why? while others kneel at altars of tradition, or the bright glow of a shopping mall, the intelligent look deeper and find nothing waiting but silence. cheap comforts don't sell here. "everything happens for a reason" rings false, like a secondhand promise. truth-seekers reject the easy bandages because they see the wound beneath. they dream of what could be and wake to what is. the gap between is a chasm they cannot cross. they think too much, feel too much, a mind outpacing a heart until both collapse in the race. their empathy hurts they carry the world’s sorrow in their veins, knowing they can't fix it, knowing no one can. so they search for something real a touch, a word, a moment that doesn’t feel like a trick. and in the end, happiness isn’t a lie. it’s a choice to stop running, to stand still in the chaos, and watch the light bend through the cracks.FSF

Sharped eyed curse

<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));">In a quiet Brisbane suburb, two small-time criminals, Steve and Gaz, are strapped for cash. They come up with what they believe is a foolproof plan: kidnap the daughter of a tech entrepreneur and demand a ransom. Their target? Etta, a spirited 9-year-old girl who lives in the smart Woollowin neighbourhood with her dad, Sam a local tech entrepreneur.Steve and Gaz do their homework. They watch Etta riding her scooter in Kalinga park each afternoon, laughing as she does daring tricks. “Easy target,” they think. Little do they know, they’re about to regret every single decision that’s brought them to this moment.On a sunny Tuesday, the pair pull up in a beaten-up white van with tinted windows. Steve lures Etta with a story about a “lost puppy,” while Gaz waits to grab her. But before they can even complete the act, Etta hops into the van herself.“You’re the kidnappers, right?” she asks, grinning. “This is going to be so fun!”Steve and Gaz exchange confused looks but quickly drive off, thinking the easygoing child will make their job a breeze.The trouble starts before they even get out of the suburb. Etta opens every single window in the van, shouting, “HELP! I’M BEING KIDNAPPED!” Passersby glance over, but instead of intervening, they just shake their heads at what looks like a dramatic kid.When they arrive at Gaz’s dingy flat in Fortitude Valley, Etta refuses to walk upstairs. “Carry me,” she demands. Steve rolls his eyes but complies, only for Etta to slap him on the back of the head. “That’s for kidnapping me,” she says, laughing.Once inside, she takes over. &nbsp;She insist they call her Donkey Junior and within an hour, she’s hacked into their Wi-Fi to play Roadblox on Steve’s laptop. She leaves a trail of glitter from her backpack all over the flat. Gaz tries to get her to sit quietly, but Etta insists on doing “TikTok dance battles” in the tiny living room, forcing the two men to join in.Exhausted and ready for the ordeal to end, Steve and Gaz craft a ransom note to send to her father. They demand $10,000, confident that Sam &nbsp;will pay up immediately for his darling daughter.To their horror, Etta reads the note over Steve’s shoulder. “ten thousand? That’s all I’m worth? My dad spends more on his latest computer gear.” She grabs a pen and crosses out the amount, writing “500,000 thousand” instead. “Make it worth his time.”They reluctantly send the updated demand and wait for Sam’s reply. In the meantime, Etta decides she’s the boss of the flat. She orders pizza on Steve’s credit card, challenges Gaz to an arm-wrestling contest (she cheats), and forces them to play hide-and-seek. During one round, she hides so well that Steve and Gaz start panicking, thinking she’s escaped.Finally, Sam replies to the ransom demand. But instead of agreeing to pay, he has a counteroffer:“I’ll take Etta off your hands—but only if you pay me $5,000.”Steve and Gaz are dumbfounded. Surely this is some kind of joke? But as Etta sets off their smoke alarm while trying to microwave popcorn, they realise it’s no joke at all.“We can’t do this anymore, mate,” says Gaz, holding an ice pack to his head after being whacked with Etta’s scooter. “Pay the guy.”That evening, they drive Etta back to her house in Kalinga. She spends the entire ride singing at the top of her lungs. At one point, she insists on taking over the aux cord to play her playlist, which consists entirely of remixes of “Baby Shark.”When they arrive, Sam is waiting at the gate, sipping a coffee. Without a word, Steve hands him $5,000 in mixed notes, and Sam nods.“Thanks for babysitting,” Sam says with a smirk. “She’s got a lot of energy, doesn’t she?”Before Steve and Gaz can answer, Etta hugs them tightly. “Best. Day. Ever,” she chirps before running inside. As the door closes, she shouts, “See you guys tomorrow!”Steve and Gaz drive away in silence, vowing never to commit another crime as long as they live. FSF

Donkey Junior

you sit there, drenched in the shitstorm of it all work, love, the endless noise of existence. the rain pelts you like insults from a drunken lover, the kind you almost believed you could save. but listen no storm has the stamina to go forever. the clouds get tired, even the sky has to breathe. so you endure it: the wet clothes, the cold skin, the mud pooling at your feet. and then, without warning, the drops stop, the sun elbows its way through the mess, and suddenly you’re standing in a world that survived. don’t make a big deal out of it. don’t preach or weep or dance just wring out your shirt and keep walking. there’ll be other storms, sure. but even the universe knows when it’s time to call it a night. F.S.F

The rain always stops

&nbsp;Kathryn had always been climbing. Out of the mud, out of the caravan park where the walls were thin and the nights smelled like mildew and dog piss. She climbed up through school, through a job at an office, through a promotion that became another promotion until she was Director of Projects, a title as heavy as it was meaningless. She bought a house that didn’t feel like home and filled it with sharp furniture she didn’t like. Her family called her a success. And then there was Sylvester. Sylvester was a man with restless hands. He built things that no one understood, machines and platforms that moved faster than anyone could catch up. His eyes always burned with the next thing, a thing that didn’t exist yet but would, because he willed it to. They met at a conference where he told her he was bored, and she told him she was too. They laughed at all the men in suits and all the stupid words they used to talk about things they didn’t care about. “You’re like me,” he said. She wasn’t, but she wanted to be. For a while, they were happy. Or as happy as two people can be in a world that doesn’t make sense. She brought order to his chaos, and he gave her the feeling she had always been searching for—the feeling that she wasn’t just climbing, that maybe there was something at the top. He kissed her wrist when she worked late. She sat in his warehouse and watched him scribble on napkins, muttering to himself. Her family hated him. They had climbed out of the same mud she had, but they were still caked in it—rich and bloated and loud, shouting at each other across dinners no one enjoyed. They didn’t trust Sylvester. They didn’t trust anyone. “He’s a fraud,” her brother James said, a man with shoulders too big for his suit and a voice too loud for the room. “He’s a parasite. He’ll ruin you.” Kathryn didn’t listen, not at first. Sylvester was building something great, he told her. It would change everything. Then the stories began. Small, like ripples in a pond. A competitor claimed Sylvester had stolen their tech. Anonymous accusations, forwarded by strangers, too vague to deny and too loud to ignore. His business wobbled on its feet, and Kathryn watched him late at night, hunched over his desk, his hands gripping his hair. “It’s your family,” he said. “They’re trying to ruin me.” She didn’t answer. Her family didn’t stop. James dug deeper, found debts, incomplete contracts, little threads Sylvester hadn’t tied neatly enough. They pulled on them, and the whole thing started to unravel. Sylvester’s people left him. His ideas turned to smoke. The press called him a failure. His competitors called him a fraud. One night, he showed up at her house. It was raining. It always rains in these moments, and Sylvester stood on her porch with his hair plastered to his face and his voice soft and small. “Tell me you believe me,” he said. But she didn’t say anything, because she didn’t know what to believe. Her brother and his friends came for him the next night. It was quick, and brutal, and over before anyone could stop it. The papers said they “found Sylvester’s body” outside Kathryn’s house. They said it was a tragedy. They said no one knew what had really happened. But Kathryn knew. She stood at her window and looked down at the street where his body lay. The rain had stopped by then, but the blood still ran into the gutter. Her family told her it was done, that they’d saved her, as if any of it mattered. The next day she went to work and moved her teams around like pieces on a board. The projects kept moving. Deadlines came and went. At night, she sat in her kitchen and listened to the house creak. Sylvester was gone, and his machines were silent. She thought about the mud, the climbing, the noise. There was no meaning in any of it. Her family was ugly and stupid, but they were alive, and Sylvester was dead. She was supposed to feel something, but she didn’t. Kathryn poured herself &nbsp;yet another drink and looked out the window at the empty street. The blood was gone now. It always washes away.

Blood in the gutter

In the heart of the void, where silence shrugs, A chair sits jagged, with no need for rugs. Its angles absurd, its purpose unclear, It hums with the echo: A god was once here.This was the seat where creation began, Where a god sat briefly to sketch out a plan. Stars were a doodle, black holes an oops, Galaxies flung like celestial soups.But gods, it turns out, have terrible focus, Distracted by thoughts of their own magnum opus. So the first god rose, left the chair in dismay, Muttered, “Bugger this,” and wandered away.The chair remains in its cosmic abyss, A monument to something vaguely amiss. It glistens with rain, though there's no real weather, And shadows hang round, not doing much—together.Does it mean something? Or nothing at all? Was the chair just there to prevent a fall? The universe laughs, a vast cosmic jest, And the chair just sits there, unimpressed.So heed this warning, you curious fool, Don’t sit on the chair—it’s no ergonomic jewel. For the weight of the void and god’s careless spree Might just leave you longing for tea.And somewhere, far off, the god has a grin, Sipping a drink as the chaos sets in. “Honestly,” they muse, with a casual air, “Who needs eternity? I’ve still got the chair.”

The chair in the Void

I grow none of the food I eat,and the few scraggly leaves I do, well, someone else bred the seeds, perfected them, handed them down through history's dirt while I fumbled with watering cans. My clothes? Not a stitch by my own hand. I wear the ghosts of tailors, the sweat of factories, the nameless work of thousands. And here I am, thinking a good jacket makes the man. I speak a language I didn’t shape, didn’t chisel from stone or forge in fire. It’s all borrowed sounds, patched-up metaphors, the voice of the species whispering through my throat. Math? Forget it. I didn’t invent it, just follow it around like a loyal dog. Numbers and theories crafted by minds that long since left the building. I’m shielded by laws, freedoms, the great invisible nets woven by thinkers, arguers, fighters, and fools. I enforce none of it, just float on the raft of their sacrifices. The music moves me, a melody carved from air by strangers, pianos weeping, guitars screaming, voices haunting the silence. None of it mine, but God, it feels like it. When my body broke, I had no answers, no ancient healing rites, no magic hands. Doctors bent over me, did what they could— their brilliance, not mine. The machines I type on, the code I wrangle— all born of sparks I didn’t ignite. Transistors, microprocessors, the endless symphony of innovation, a genius beyond my grasp. And yes, some of us are bastards. Petty, small-minded, cruel. But look at us— a species so magnificent it’s almost ridiculous. We build cities from dust, write books that crack the soul, paint the heavens in oils and light. We’ve created things no one mind can hold, wonders stacked upon wonders, a cosmic joke we can’t stop telling. And despite it all, despite the ones who make me want to walk into the ocean, I love us. The dead, the living, the screw-ups, the saints. I owe them my life, my joy, and every borrowed thing that keeps me breathing. &nbsp;

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

Sharped eyed curse

Donkey Junior

The rain always stops

Blood in the gutter

The chair in the Void

Dependency