The heat could be felt, slowly rising from the hot black tar. The houses on either side sat solemnly as the sun beat down mercilessly on the empty culdesac street.

Besides the occasional cry of a crow and the soft clicks of cicadas, the street was baron. House after house seemed to be locked away…not a soul in sight. Nothing except for a young brown boy, no older than 5, circling the light grey driveway of a red-bricked house. His face was locked in concentration.
His brows furrowed and his tongue sticking out of his little mouth, his hands grasping the handles of a little blue bike. With each push of his feet, the bike lurched forward. But it didn’t go far before it’d wobble to one side forcing him to quickly stick a foot out to stop himself from falling.

The afternoon’s effort at riding his bike without his training wheels seemed to be an effort that would take more time than he thought. Sweat began to drip from his eyebrow as he turned back at the training wheels he had muscled off himself, not an hour before. He angrily bit his cheek as he remembered why he did, to begin with.
He wanted to play with the older kids. He dreamt of it all day as he waited for them to pass his front yard with primal yells and mischievous laughs.
Mum wouldn’t let him…too little she said.
But she didn’t understand…all he wanted to do was to be out there. To ride with them, to pedal at furious speeds down the hill two streets away. To stream through magpie territory, narrowly escaping the divebombing gangsters that reigned hells fury at anyone that came near their nest. He wanted to let the hot summer air slide away as the strong wind of speed replaced it.
He wanted to feel older…less helpless… less weak.

He looked back at the front window. Ma was standing there. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hair tight in a bun. The glasses, on her face slightly askew.

“Please be careful!”
She yelled. “I’m going to be in the kitchen so you’ll have to come inside soon ok?”

Her voice rang out into his ears. He furrowed his eyebrows but nodded yes. She didn’t seem too convinced but slowly she stepped away and disappeared out of sight.

He was alone again. No one in the street. No one watching over him. He let out a deep breath and pushed his feet onto the pedals, hoping to get one last effort to ride.

Suddenly, laughter broke the still air. Not too soon after, whooping and yelling streaked into the street. They were followed by the screeching of bike tyres that stopped onto a driveway nearby.
The little boy’s head snapped up as he watched a gang of older boy’s stop at the house opposite to his. They surrounded themselves around a water tap. One boy in a fading black shirt and long brown hair threw his bike down and opened up the tap.
A gush of water splattered on the ground as he cupped his hands beneath it and brought it to his mouth. One by one each of the boys followed. They washed their face and their knees as they stuck their necks out to whatever breeze might pass through. It wasn’t long for them to step back and continue their laughter.

The long brown-haired boy jumped back on his bike and straddled it between his legs as he laughed and poked fun at his comrades.
They all joined in as their front tyres edged around, forming a circle.

IN the distance the little brown boy watched on. His eyes never lost contact as he longfully gazed at the freedom they had. Their shirts were matted and old, the tap’s water spread over all over their front. Their shorts and shoes grass-stained and worn down. Their faces grinning with brown smudges and the occasional thin scratch…probably from whatever bush they had stolen berries from earlier that day.
Mum wouldn’t have let him out like that, the Boy thought. If she had ever seen him in that state, she’d grab him by the ear and drag him inside, forcing him to endure the heavy scrub and harsh cold water that would make him squeaky clean.
She wouldn’t ever let him ride.

He let out a deep sigh and bent his head over the handlebars. He gritted his teeth and tried once again to push off. It didn’t take long for a yell in his direction to break his effort.

His head shot up. The 5 boys were riding over to the mouth of his driveway. They were so quick and must’ve noticed the creak and push his efforts.

“Whatcha dooin,” the brown-haired boy snickered.
He had a toothy grin that looked happy but his eyes had a flicker of nastiness.

The Little Boy said nothing. His lower lip dropped slightly and softly panted from the effort of trying to stable his bike. His gaze never dropped from the leader’s eyes.

“I think he’s tryna ride,” chuckled a pudgy one to his right.

Slowly the beady eyes of their leader locked onto the bike.

“Yea, I think it’s his first time as well…I usually see ‘im with ‘is mummy helping him with those training wheels,” The wiry boy at the back of the pack spoke up.
He nodded passed the brown boys head to the little black training wheels dumped behind him.

The little brown boy furrowed his eyebrows and felt his teeth grit. Ma did help him, but he thought no one could see…he hoped no one could at least. She would watch him from the garage door and yell out for him to be careful, making sure that he didn’t venture out onto the road…he was never allowed on the road.

“Awww little boy can’t ride without mummy to help him aye?” Pestered a voice.

The group snickered in unison…all except their leader, his wicked face still locked on.

“Well you know that’s no way to learn…you cant stay on this nice safe driveway,”

His voice was steady but baiting. His eyes never lost contact.

He nudged the boys around him and motioned them to move out of the way. The rolled their bikes back between their legs and created a path up the middle.

As their smiles leered down on to him. The leader spoke up again.

“You’re not scared are you?” he asked.

The little brown boy hesitated. His eyes never blinking nor breaking contact. A moment passed as a rare gust of wind swept through.

Slowly he shook his head.

A wicked grin tore open on his face.

“Prove it…go down the road, as fast as you can,”

The little brown boy had no response. His hands whitened as they tightened around the handlebars. He dropped his gaze for a moment and turned his head to the window behind him.

Ma wasn’t there anymore. But the window was still wide open. He could see her figure in the distance…a pot attached to her hip and what looked like an apron floating behind her.

“Looking for mummy to help?” Piped up the pudgy boy. “…maybe he doesn’t have the guts,”
Another set of laughs broke out.

The little brown boys head snapped back, this time determination in his eyes. His foot struck the lead peddle of his bike and he edged forward through the group of boys. He could smell sweat and dirt as he passed by them one by one.
The pudgy one smelt like old cheese and he could see his yellow teeth as he made his way passed their leader.

“There we go…. now it’s not too hard, just push off and pedal,” The leader’s his voice made it sound like a taunt. His grin still cascading down at him as he edged to the hot black road beyond the driveway.

Slowly the little brown boy crept onto the road. He circled his bike around and faced it down the street. The slope of it seemed to be daunting…almost dangerous.

“Whatchu waiting for!” the pudgy boy’s voice sneered.

With a sudden flash of anger and frustration, he pushed off.

He could hear the whoops and jeers of the gang behind him. But as he gathered speed they started to fade away. A wind picked up as he rode down and with each push of the pedal, the flow of the bike became easier and easier. Any noise that seemed to have come from the crowd seemed to fade away. His legs were working, his face fierce with determination…until the pedalling became easy…way too easy.

The speed was too much. The little brown boy’s face changed from determination to joy and then to fear as he realised he couldn’t control the bike. He panicked…the breaks seemed to be completely absent from him as he started to breathe faster and heavier. The curb at the end of the street came closer and closer.
There was a swift movement of panic as the boy’s feet slipped off the pedals and skated the road in an effort to slow down.
Finally, some sense seemed to get into his head as he grasped down on the handlebar brake.
It was too late. The front tyre of the little blue bike buckled against the curb and tipped over. There was a yelp and a hard thump and crunch as he hurled over in a heap onto the grass. The bike skated to a halt in front of him.
His eyes fluttered open. The whoops stopped as wicked jeers of laughter broke the still summer air. He could see the group howling as their leader stood still. He couldn’t see from a distance…but he knew that same wicked grin was slathered on his face.

He closed his eyes to brace the stings of pain that sprung from his knees and chin.
Tears began to fill his eyes as he curled up to deal with the pain. His lip quivered as he could taste blood from a cut that had opened up.

The noise seemed to stop…but the soft buzz of some nearby flies still rang. He opened his eyes, his head still on the ground.

The group had dispersed…in what seemed to be panic.

They spread off in different directions as a figure was hurtling towards him. A big mass of black hair waving behind its head…and what looked like an apron whipping behind it.

His eyes closed again as the figure came closer.
Within moments he felt a soft hand on his arm and down his face. The hand was warm…he could smell some unknown spices as it touched his lip.
Slowly some fingertips wiped the tears away. He felt himself being hoisted up and his head finding comfort on a soft neck.
The slow hiccupping of sobs seemed to find there way out as a hand patter his back. There was a movement that seemed to stoop over, seemingly to pick something up.

A couple of moments passed as the steady pace trudged up the road.

The little brown boy’s eyes fluttered open.

His soft cries and sobs slowly continued as he peeped at what was behind him. He looked down and saw the little blue bike, grasped firmly in a hand, softly bumping the hip of an apron.

He turned his face towards his mother’s neck. He felt the tears from his eyes bunch upon his cheek and rub against her skin.
Then he felt what seemed to be sweat on his neck. He looked up and passed her chin where tears were now streaming.

She let out a short sniff before gazing into his eyes.

“I told you not to go out on the road,” she whispered.

A sense of guilt seemed to wash over him as he nestled back into her neck, his sobs stifling any kind of apology he could make.

He felt her lips kiss his head as they continued up the road, the little blue bike still firmly in her grasp.

Clubs always had filthy floors and odd smells. A mash of people’s preferred perfume. Armani, Calvin Klein, Dolce & Gabbana, Hugo Boss and Paco Rabanne. Anything expensive and obvious enough to flex on the fashionably dressed sexual object you’ve been eyeing ever since you first stepped in.
Posers.
Sam thought.
It was all for show.

He knew he was being hypocritical. He too was wearing an expensive perfume…the YSL was a gift from his older sister…an effort to make him a little more different from the rest of his brown, Hugo Boss wearing, fade having, Drake copying, peers. He’d also been wearing the same scent for a couple of years and he sorely needed a change. But despite his excuse, even he knew that it was all just the same.

His leather jacket, however, was something he had eyed and bought himself…granted it took him a while and ate a whole chunk out of his bank account, but even so he still didn’t regret it. The paisley shirt half-tucked into his black ripped jeans were a gift from his ex, because why not try and impress with something his bitch of an ex-girlfriend had bought him. I mean it was a good shirt…he wasn’t going to chuck it away, that’d just be stupid.

He couldn’t deny that he looked good. Hair was longer than usual but he maintained it well, slicking it back and applying just enough product to make sure it didn’t puff up or frizz like it normally would. The bags under his eyes were slightly overshadowed by the use of a face mask, as well the coffee scrub and moisturizer he vigorously rubbed into his face after he got out of the shower.
He did his push-ups in the morning and doubled down on a light workout to get a pump that afternoon. He had left three buttons undone on his shirt, just so everyone could tell he put the work in.
In reality, he wasn’t much different to the other guys there…but he didn’t wear the same clothes, nor did he shave his chest with his mum’s razor…he had outgrown both. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t a hypocrite for judging them…even he knew that.

Sam had had enough. His mood matched his overall demeanour. Exasperated.
It was 11:30.
He was tired and done.
A full week of work and no downtime should’ve meant that he spent the weekend doing what he wanted to… which was laying in bed and getting so fucking high that he could sleep till Sunday. It was what he needed, just as much as it was what he wanted…but not what he got.

He looked to his right and watched Rohan continue to grind on the same girl he bought a vodka raspberry for, not half an hour beforehand. For his standard’s…that was pretty slow, but Sam still thought it was impressive. The girl had a cute little belly piercing on her slim stomach. Her top was white and stopped right above it, and by the way she was dancing, she seemed super comfortable in the six-inch heels she was wearing.
She moved rhythmically while Rohan’s head had found a home on her shoulder.
Sam smirked as he turned away just as Rohan’s head started to shield the girls pretty, made-up face from view.
He didn’t wanna look back. Partly because he didn’t want to cringe…and partly because if that girl saw him looking at them, she’d be immediately turned off, and Sam would have to collect an earful all the way home for “cockblocking”.

He sipped the whiskey-coke in his hand, still trying to figure out where Aryan and Arjun were. Peeking around the corner, he saw the twin brothers chatting in and amongst a group of girls. All of which looked like teenyboppers at a BTS concert…but Sam couldn’t blame them for being excited.
Aryan was set to play juniors for a big cricket team as a promising bowler, while his brother was now finishing up his internship at one of the largest four companies in the state…and he had made an impact, which meant he pretty much had a job.

Girl’s loved success. And the Bakshi Brothers were on set to become very successful, and it was incredibly obvious.
Sam watched their mouths open and close as they directed their gaze at all of them, making sure none were left out.

How inclusive of them, Sam thought.

He couldn’t help but admire their charm and the effects of shoving self-confidence down your children’s throat from a young age, yielded.

Broad chested and fashionable, their parents didn’t waste any time in trying to make every other brown mum or dad feel shit about their own underachieving children.
It’s not like the boys liked it, but in the end, they weren’t complaining either.

Sam shook the image out of his mind and turned away from them. He looked around for Shalani, hoping she was with Kiara,  doing something way more interesting.

But it wasn’t long before he was disappointed. Kiara was now bending over the bar and cheekily grinning at the tall and tattooed bartender opposite her. And Shalani was already convincing another tattooed girl that her sexuality needed to be questioned.
As the bartender handed over three gin and tonic’s, Sam watched Shalani place a hand on the girl’s waist, winking at Kiara as she continued to flirt with the guy serving them… a clear prompt to try and grab some free shots to help seal the deal. Without thinking she turned back and flashed a smile before effortlessly squeezing her chest together, beckoning The bartender forward.

Sam looked away before catching Shalani whispering in the ear of her companion, and a subsequent laugh afterwards.
It had been years since Shalani had come out. Her parents weren’t that supportive but it didn’t seem to matter. With two older sisters and two younger brothers, any kind of disappointment was left on deaf ears. She stopped caring, and that was reflected by her choice of friends.

Because it wasn’t long before she’d had enough. She shed the white group that had welcomed her as their token brown doll and decided to stick to her childhood best friend instead. Something about faking became tiresome, and it was something she knew wouldn’t help anybody. Keeping up with a group that didn’t really understand her had become a burden and it caused a lot of expected loneliness.

Fortunately, this came at a time where Kiara was on the outs with her parents too.

She started off being a model brown daughter. Straight “A” student, no drugs or  alcohol and a pretty amazing career ahead of her as she finished off an already impressive degree at a top tier University.
It was obvious… Kiara was a perfect specimen. Till she got around boys. She was easily smitten and reckless…but how could she not be. Young, carefree and incredibly beautiful, it was her right to live life the way she wanted.
But things took a turn after one bad decision.

Having been caught making out with her then-boyfriend on a security camera near her garage late one night, she was forced to deal with the onslaught of an overprotective father and overbearing mother.
She wasn’t to be trusted anymore.
But Kiara had had enough…in a heated confrontation which consisted of screaming and shouting that would’ve easily been heard in the Motherland itself, Kiara had made her stance. And for a whole year, she was on the outs, barely speaking and barely batting an eye at her parents, as they passed each other in their once-perfect home.

But Shalani somehow saved the day.
A really good job at her firm convinced Kiara’s parents that she’d be safer and busier living with her, a responsible adult who was also happened to be a close family friend.
It took some time. And a fair amount of long-sleeved tops to make it very obvious that Shalani would be a good influence on Kiara.
And so they came to an agreement.
Daily checkups were a must, and Sunday lunches were non-negotiable…and eventually, it all worked out. They had their beautiful daughter back…and she got to live freely.

Sam was in shock when they let him know. To this day he still thought it was bizarre that at one time they were shouting and screaming at how disgusting her behaviour was…but at another time, allowed her to go off somewhat on her own.
To be fair, Shalani was a master convincer and had a way with words. Nevertheless, Sam was convinced it was a miracle.
And so, with a concerned look on their faces, Kiara’s parents waved goodbye to their daughter, as she left to do whatever and whomever she wanted.

For as smart as brown parents are made out to be…they sure are oblivious as hell.

Sam smiled as he remembered crashing at their place, not a month or so ago. He woke up hungover and watched both girls escort their “conquests” out the door. He listened to them detail their exploits at breakfast and watched them laugh hysterically at Sam who had blown it with a girl that night as well.

Sam exhaled, looked up and around at where all his friends were.
Once again he was left to his own devices. He tried being interested, but the sticky floor made him rethink going back and enjoying the music. He was thankful that he didn’t have to deal with the backlash afterwards of not finding anyone to make out with.
The guys would harp on him for a few minutes before trying to flex who got the hottest girl.
The girls would probably just annoy him for a cheeseburger afterwards and thank him for being the only sober one.

It wasn’t as if he had struck out…he was just done. He didn’t need to think with his dick anymore, because he was tired. There were better ways to spend his time…and he sorely wished he was doing it now.

He slowly leaned against the black wall behind him and took a sip of his drink. Maybe he could kill some time on his phone while they all moseyed away trying to get laid. He did have a couple of saved videos on his Instagram he didn’t get a chance to look at. There was also a couple of shirts he had saved away that he wanted to maybe treat himself with.

How sad was that…he thought. At a club, trying to have the time of his life, and he ends up online shopping.

A soft poke on his arm shook him out of his train of thought. He looked up and was surprised to see a girl he had never met before, smiling at him.

At first glance, she looked like everyone else.
But as he looked at her he realised she seemed a little more…nice. She had a slightly pronounced nose, and her eyes were a piercing light brown. A slim figure that complimented her height well, and he could tell she looked after herself because he could make out the lines of abs underneath her tight Black Boohoo mini dress.

He checked himself for knowing that…but Kiara had forced him to look at the very same when she considered buying it. He imagined it’d look good on her…but it looked even better on the girl in front of him.
She was clearly ethnic…but he couldn’t tell if she was Indian or not. She had all the features of being mixed race…but he had a feeling they shared a motherland, especially since her brown skin tone seemed to push it more in the Indian favour. Also, she approached him….white girls with an ethnic fetish and other brown girls that have seen him on Instagram before, were the only ones to do this.
She opened her mouth and gripped his arm as she leant in.

“You’re Sam, right?”

He was surprised by the odd positivity in her voice. He could smell the soft vapours of alcohol on her breath but she didn’t giggle or look at him like she was about to start the flirting game.
She was just…there… Upfront and for some reason radiated a kind of openness.

Sam decided to tease. It was rare for him to be approached by such a good looking girl, so he figured why give her a boring answer.

“Depends…who’s asking?” he retorted, smiling.

She smirked and let go of his arm.

“I’m asking,” she clapped back. “My names Arunima,”

Sam looked at her quizzically, he had heard the name before but couldn’t place where.
He opened up his mouth for a second as he tried to badger his brain to come up with where he had.

She giggled at him, probably because he looked stupid trying to figure her out.

“Don’t worry, we haven’t met before….but we kinda know each other…”

“Aw yeah?” he replied, still unsure. “And how’s that?”
His lips parted as gave her a cheeky smirk.

Sam had his suspicions. This chick probably was a friend of a friend of someone who knew something about a hook up he had.

Since being single, he’d been out and about trying to find some solace in other girls…but to no avail. He didn’t care, he knew he was better off by himself anyway…and it showed.
Nevertheless, He had been busy, taking as much advantage as he could with the free house he always had…but he hadn’t bothered to learn much about the girls he spent time with. How could he though…whenever they came over, they never really talked much.

Sam took a deep breath and lifted his drink to take a sip, ready for an earful from a girl he had never met before.

“Yeah, your ex, cheated on you, with my ex,”

Sam’s stomach sank. He could feel his jaw tighten. He clenched his fist and lowered the whiskey-Coke from his lips.
She could tell she took him by surprise…he could see the little satisfaction she had in her eyes as she continued to stare at him.

Sam looked away for a moment before bringing his eyes back to her face.
He could feel the tight ball of hot anger boiling in his chest.
He knew his ex had cheated on him. He found out and they broke up. He didn’t let her see any pain. She didn’t deserve the time or energy.
He just laughed and called her a selfish bitch before walking away from her easy front of crocodile tears and hollow apologies.
She was a waste of space and a waste of time. Two years, to be precise.

And so the story went, of how Sam Mathews, the quiet South Indian boy from a modest home and warm family, left his cheating ex-girlfriend in a train station parking lot, with a smile and a cold “go fuck yourself”.

Everyone assumed he was happy it was over…everyone assumed that it didn’t take long for him to get over it.

But no one knew that he went home that night, gunning it all the way back in his Subaru Liberty…how he screamed into his driveway, quickly slipped through the front door and up to his bedroom. How he locked his door and spent the next week dishevelled and broken. Not speaking or eating with his parents, didn’t say a word to his friends and refused to see anyone. No one knew he went 5 days without sleep…all they knew was the next time Sam was seen, it was in the city on a Friday night, with another girl wrapped around his face.

He copped judgement and a lot of shit-talking. But he paid it no attention. He knew that the guy she cheated on him with was a medical student from Newcastle. An attractive specimen to the world around him. He also knew that the guy also had a girlfriend. But that was it. Didn’t bother with his name or his face…he just got over it.
OR so he thought.

No one had spoken to his face about it, no one who he knew well anyway. And besides…it was 6 months ago. It was old news.
Which is why he wondered why the hell this chick was talking to him now.

“Damn, sorry about that…” he started.

She cut him off
“Don’t bother apologising,” she said, a smile still on her face. “You didn’t fuck my boyfriend,”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at her bluntness. Her voice wasn’t hollow or sad…it was firm and steady. She seemed ok. But she never broke eye contact with him. She just kept staring…

Sam felt uneasy.

“Look, I’m sorry anyway…but there’s really nothing much for me to say. If you want details you should ask her…”

She cut him off again.

“Oh I already spoke to her, she didn’t say much, just mentioned how you dumped her and how she was sorry she did what she did…” her voice for the first time wavered. She seemed to catch herself before continuing, taking a breath and starting up again.
“…about three months after you dumped her, she got with Akash and they’ve been together since”

Arunima capped it off with a slight smirk.
Sam guessed that Akash was the guy.

The ball of anger in his stomach sparked up to his throat. He hadn’t heard that she had moved on. Something made him hope that she was still in her room, too embarrassed by her stupidity. He had hoped she was still being rejected by anyone and everyone.
But at least he knew his name now, he thought sarcastically.

How easily this girl had skimmed over naming her ex.
It made Sam wonder…What type of girl just walks up to their ex-boyfriend’s, new girlfriend’s, ex-boyfriend.
It didn’t make sense…it was awkward as fuck.
But then again what type of person would that situation make. Something about the cold reality of imagining those two people together. Lips locked, naked as the day they were born, smothering eachother…. and then each going home to two different people. That image haunted Sam for weeks…

“Don’t worry, you can do better.”

Sam looked up, he realised that his face was tight and his eyes were glazing over. He blinked twice before looking back at her.
Her hand was now back on his arm. She was squeezing it as he slowly relaxed.

She was still smiling.

“Listen I’m done with this joint, I can’t stand watching my mates make out with  absurdly tall white boys with the same shirt and cheesy brown boys with the same haircut,” she paused before taking a sip of her drink. “…. grab a kebab with me?”

Sam didn’t know how to respond.
He was frozen stiff and watched her walk in front of him, finishing her own glass and starting for the exit door.
Odd, he thought, the way she knocked back whatever it was in that cup…it was like she wasn’t trying to get drunk. She didn’t wince at the burn he was sure it had. She just took it and continued on her way.

She glanced back at him and gave him a look of confusion.

“You coming?” she called.

“ah…its just my mates..” he started.

She shook her head and laughed, looking right back at the twins before stepping her way back to him

“I already asked your boys…that’s how I knew who you were,” she said, nodding back at the group surrounding Aryan and Arjun. “The one in the lilac top is my best friend…I think she’s smitten with your cricket player,”

Sam looked over and spotted a small girl with a glowing look on her face. She was watching everything Aryan was saying…

“Yeah… he has that effect,” Sam responded.

“So you gonna come or do I have to sit and eat by myself?”

Sam took one last look at the twins…then to the girls at the bar. They were still flirting away.
He turned over to Rohan who was now pinned up against the wall, buried deep inside the girls face.

Sam downed the rest of his whiskey-coke and followed Arunima out the exit.

He couldn’t complain…kebabs sounded good.

“It’s going to rain soon!”

Joshua twisted his head back quickly to the door where the voice came. His mother was pulling her hair back into a bun as she nodded towards the sky overhead.
With his hands still covered in paint, he cupped his right over his eyebrows and looked up at the sky. The sun was still shining but he could see the clouds starting to roll in.
As he dropped his gaze to the horizon he could see a smother of grey slowly beckoning forward.
The wind around him was picking up, but he remained steady as he looked down and rubbed his arm, checking to see if any flecks of rain had started coming down without him noticing. With a look at his mum, he went back to the drying green stains over the makeshift crate he was working on. The colour was perfectly lined by brush strokes and was almost finished, but with a crease in his eyebrows forming it was clear he didn’t want to risk the rain ruining what still needed to be dried.
He licked his dry lips and tasted salt. Even though it looked easy enough, it had taken some time and he’d been under the sun for hours, sweat was still dripping down his forehead and under his arm.
He wiped what he could, careful not to get paint on his face and looked over his shoulder to the now empty doorway.
His mum had gone back inside…her vocal memo still rung in his ears as he turned back to the work in front of him.
Finding two dry spots on the crate, he picked it up and walked it over to the pergola ten feet away. He was careful to make sure it didn’t get paint on the white wall it slightly rested on…if it did he’d get an earful and a half for the rest of the week.
Making his way back he could see the shade circling down from the clouds ahead.
It was weird how quickly everything changed. The sun was still beating and the heat was still warming to his singlet…but there was wind whispering in the trees above now, and he could feel the ever so slight change in the weather around him.
Taking advantage of the now cool shade in front of him, Joshua dropped to the grass in one last huff and puff.
The grassy spikes prodded his toes and he could feel its acupuncture on his thighs and hands. He looked over to where he was sitting not two minutes before. There were still flecks of green paint that could be seen on the already green grass. It looked artificial and out of place…but somehow reminded him of the work he’d put in.

Joshua grabbed the large glass bottle of water that had now been baked by the sun. In the last chance to cool off his skin, he pulled off the bandanna that kept the hair out of his eyes and soaked it briefly with a little bit of the water.
He slapped and tied it around his forehead again as he guzzled the last few mouthfuls of what was left.

Draining the last of it, he slumped his head into one of the patches of sun that were left.

He slowly dropped down, eyes closing ever so slightly onto the grass under him. The familiar sharpness of it dug into his neck and hair, tickling at his ear.
It has been years since he’d done this. Just laid on the ground and enjoyed weird serinty. Even his parents couldn’t annoy him when he found comfort like this. Even when it rained, they had to yell and scream for him not to get sick, pulling and twisting his ear while he was fully soaked and smattering the wooden floors with mud and wet grass.

He smiled softly and squinted his eyes open, raising his eyebrows at what he saw. The clouds were starting to make way again. Sun starting to pour in and down.

It quickly warmed the deep brown skin in his face. He could feel the itchiness of the sweat slowly fade away as everything began to come at ease.

Then shade…and nothing but shade.
Moments passed as he lay there, watching the clouds get darker and darker, leaving less and less sun to peer through.

The dark grey puffs in the sky started to roll by and Joshua watched as little droplets narrowly missed him.
AS the clouds got darker, He watched them in slow motion as each and every drop started to hit its target…his forehead, his cheek, his neck and his feet.
Slowly his body began to feel agitated.
A tight ball formed in his chest as he slipped the hands from underneath his head and by his side.
It was telling him to get up and go inside. To forget about the sun that was just there…to know that rain was coming instead.
But he didn’t. In a flash, his mind saw a young brown boy yelling and cheering in a downpour….he saw him waddle through a doorway, drenched in sky water and smiling sheepishly to his now furious parents.

Joshua let the tight ball fade as the droplets kept coming. As it grew heavy, he felt his fingers twitch from the cold. Breathing out once again…he smiled. He could feel the water on his teeth as he watched the clouds spit down on him…unafraid of the downpour it might bring…

Jayson kicked his Continental GT 650 ignition, roaring it to life. His dying light blue denim jeans barely shielded the heat from the exhaust, but he smiled nonetheless. It was a while since he had taken the bad boy for a spin, and the familiar smell of the Royal Enfield calmed him from any discomfort he had.
His palms were still blistered and red from the wooden crates he had been putting together all day.

He looked back to admire his handy work.

The splinters from the makeshift plant box that his father and he had been tasking away at for the last three hours were now being swept away by his mother. She gave him an apprehensive look as he winked at her. His dad was two feet away from her, admiring their handiwork. His light blue t-shirt clung to his ageing body from sweat and his grey hair flicked his eyes brow as he let out slow and emphatic breaths.

One hand was nestled over his hip, flicking the belt loop of an identical pair of dying blue jeans. The other slowly piloting a mug of tea up to his lips. He could see the effort of trying to shave away the grey beard had become futile, the 5 o’clock shadow now littered with flecks of sawdust.
Jayson whistled for his attention.
His mother shot up and cast him a deathly glare.
She fucking hated whistling. But his dad brought his head up and smiled. He lifted the mug in a cheers as he stepped forward next to his wife.

The long strands of black hair on his mother’s shoulders swayed as she sighed heavily, eyeing the steel horse between Jayson’s legs.
She raised her eyebrows and stubbornly started sweeping again.
Jayson smirked and pulled the deep brown leather riding gloves over his beaten up hands, kicking back the stand as the bike rolled forward.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and shot back to see his mum holding the broom in one hand and his helmet in the other. She said something as he took it in his hands and fitted it over his head. It was all just a deaf muffle amongst the engine, but he gave her one last smile before sliding the black square aviators sitting on his shirt collar, up the bridge of his nose. The biked lurched forward and jetted down the steep street and Jayson looked over his shoulder to see his mother trying not to smile and his father saluting him off.

The wind rushed passed as the sun shone briefly in his eyes. He used the rush to guide him, decreasing his speed until he opened his eyes again. For a brief moment, he felt like he had let go. His spirit left its shell as his stomach lurched up, the sweat clinging to his neck and stained white shirt flicking up and away with the wind. As he opened his eyes, the light faded into the road ahead,…the black tar seemed like an old welcoming friend as the sound of tyre on road became one with the engine he sat on.
As trees and houses blurred by, a smile erupted from Jayson’s face. He could feel the rush on his teeth and through his mouth. The dryness that came was a welcome, another discomfort that seemed to be worth it.
He clicked the gear into second before letting go of the throttle.

A wisp of faces looked at him as he skimmed by what seems to be the space and time between them. Jayson kept going. He let the smile fade from his face as he locked onto the familiar black tar of the road in front. As each person wisped away, their faces plastered with shock and awe at his speed, he felt himself go. They were nothing. Just a faint imprint in his mind. They didn’t matter. They never did, not till this.

He turned and the handles every so often, into corners and down quiet streets. A group of kids playing street cricket stopped their game as they watched him swerve in between wickets. The ball and bat became less interesting as he winked and smiled.
Their wicked grins stretched out the dirt on their faces and the water from the local outdoor tap clung to their small bodies as they chased him out of their street. They waved him off as Jayson took a look back before heading up a steep hill. The houses made way for trees and fields as he climbed up a steep road.
With a final bend and circle around he slowly came to a halt next to a tree overlooking the small suburb he just came from.

The giant anthill filled with houses and street seemed so far away as slowly took off his helmet. Jayson exhaled before he wiped his brows and forehead. He rested the helmet on one knee and unbuttoned the wrist fold on his gloves. The white shirt still clung to his body but it soothed him as a firm breeze rolled by. Dismounting from the bike he kicked the stand back in and took out the keys. The grass beneath his black and white Converse’s welcomed him right under the tree as he sat down and rested his back and head on the firm bark behind him.

His arm slowly slipes into his pocket as he fumbles and pinches and then pulled out. In his hand, a black zippo lightly clicked open. Jayson softly brought his head down and pursed his lips over the other object in between his fingers. A small, off white, sliver could be seen his mouth and now in his cupped hands as it caught the light. As he clicked the zippo to rest, the soft sizzle of the joint in his lips sung to life. He waited a moment and extended his head into the air as he exhaled in a giant huff. In a moment the space in front of Jayson’s face darkened in a white and grey cloud before fading into the sun in the air.

Jayson let the buzz of flies fade away and turned on the picture view to his right. He gazed out onto the maroon, blue and grey rooves as they came in and out of focus.

AS he turned back to his front he could feel the little chips of wood dig into his shoulder blades, but he nestled in, showing no discomfort.
How could he?
The setting was peaceful.

It was perfect.

It always had been.

He breathed out and let the shade cool his body before letting the breeze soothe his eyes close.

The wind grazed the soft leaves of the Autumn day. Whatever sunlight crept through the ominous grey clouds overhead, touched the ground but gave little warmth to the four people in the park. The green of the grass was still eye-catching, but next to the deep and moist brown of the trees around, it seemed just as cold as everything else.
Amongst the brown, grey and green a pair of swing’s creaked in the distance of a nearby clearing. Two swings…one bare and alone, the other filled with a young boy. His deep black hair was of medium length, but one could still see the curls starting to form into what would be his wavy hair. His cheeks could be seen from afar, thick and chubby as young boys should be. Despite the health in his face his chin was tucked deep into his neck, His deep brown eyes were locked onto his knees as though something had burdened his small shoulders. His knuckles were wrapped into the cold chain that propped him a foot above the ground, hypnotised by its steady back and forth.

Finally, a stream of sunlight crept onto his skin from the clouds. He looked up. His eyes were somewhat dull…no sign of the sparkle that would normally inhabit most children his age, Instead, a sense of sadness…a sense of loss.
His head moved down from the sky and his eyes locked onto a park bench not too far from where he was swinging.
The bench, much like the swings, were sad looking. Whatever rain had previously fallen, made the wood turn dark brown with dampness. But unlike the swings, it wasn’t half empty.

Two women were sitting cross-legged, facing each other. One had a dark coat on, a colourful scarf was visible from underneath it. She had pale white skin and dark brown hair. Her features were pointed with a certain fierceness. The curve of her lips opening and closing as her eyes dug deep into the woman next to her. Occasionally she’d glance over to the boy in the swing, casting a small smile before turning back to her conversation.
The red-coated woman beside her had black hair and brown skin, listening intensely to whatever she was saying. Her face was rounder and was covered by a pair of sleek black glasses. She fidgeted with the sleeve of her coat every so often, her level of discomfort was slightly obvious. The deep brown eyes hidden behind her glasses, would wander now and then, sometimes to the green grass beneath her black flats, and other times over to the swing where the young boy was.

Almost at once, as though the sun had sent a sign, her eyes met his. It seemed like a fleeting moment where the two of them had nothing to say. And although the distance between them made speech improbable…

She smiled softly, a worried look still on her face. She noticed his cheeks. They looked cold…like the breeze took whatever warmth was left and left nothing else. His hair fluttered slowly, tickling the edges of his ears. She could see how he searched her face, taking in every last blemish and change in tone. She could feel his tiny gaze on her nose and her hair…like he was judging every little speck of DNA. But she knew he wasn’t judging…she could tell he was just curious, that he just wanted to know.

She knew that his eyes were searching for something.

After a moment Her eyebrows slowly gave way and relaxed. The young boy loosened his grip on the chains of the swing and let his mouth lop to one side.
Her lips moved, this time with a full smile as she turned her attention back to the pale woman next to her.
The eyes of the boy on the swing didn’t stare at his knees again.

I first saw Roman, chasing after his brother on the carpet of a dimly lit room. We had driven 3 hours to a remote little farm in the Southern Highlands. The driveway was long and rough, but the farm smelt like eucalyptus and flowers. The barking of dogs and the tinkle of chimes filled the air…it was both loud and peaceful. The place almost seemed like it was a metaphor for what the next 6 years were going to be like for us.

He was part of a large litter…most of them were adopted with only three of them left.
His sister was curled on the couch, fully asleep and his mother lay down not far from where her two boys were playing.
She watched them scramble around and besides raising her head to watch us come through the door, she barely moved a muscle.
She had given birth on Christmas Morning, 2013. And two months later, she was going to watch the last of her babies go to loving families.

I remember not feeling excited, nor did I feel a sense of happiness. I just marvelled at how little they were. They looked like overgrown, brown mice. And you couldn’t get a good look at either of them. They were too busy being rowdy amongst themselves.
Occasionally you could make out a face and hear a soft yelp as they bit and chewed each other’s paws and ears. But they were so quick to get back into chasing, that the large humans in the room didn’t seem to bother them at all.

The smaller struggled to keep up. And that was Roman.
His ears flapped about like Dumbo, and his feet were way too big to run around in. He kept falling over and tripping over himself. It didn’t stop him though, because he’d immediately get back up, shake himself off and do it all over again.
He was awkward, lanky and clumsy as hell.

He was perfect.

We chose him without much thought. Kevin had brought a friend of ours, Jeevan, to help with any kind of questions we needed to be answered. I thought it was unnecessary. I mean how hard was it to buy a puppy.
But as usual, Kev was right.
We were way too enamoured to ask the right questions.
Too enamoured with the fact that we had found a part of ourselves in a farm 3 hours away from home. So it helped to have someone to make sure that everything was ok. The right food, the right amount of exercise and what to expect on his first couple of nights in our home.
We weren’t too worried though…he was shy but he showed a lot of character.
That was all we needed to know.

When the other pups would go out and play on the grass… he stopped himself, watched them jet off, and then collapse on the grass and sunbathe.
It was easy to sit next to him and just enjoy his company…even at two months old.

And so we took him home. He slept on my lap the whole car ride back.

It’s like he was happy to be there. And although apprehensive at first, he snuggled in right between my legs and dozed off without another sound.
I couldn’t stop touching his ears and holding his paws.
They were so soft and warm… like they had been in the sun for hours.

He looked so happy.

 

Dad was mowing the lawn when he first saw Roman. He was covered in grass, sweat dripping from his forehead and a worn-out expression on his face.
I thought he’d get mad at us.
He never wanted a dog.
He advised us not to get him.
But when he saw him for the first time, it was like looking back at an old picture.
He was dishevelled and tired…but somehow a smile crept in.
It looked familiar; because it was the same smile he had in photos where he was holding Kev and me as babies.
I have a picture of Dad holding Roman’s head in his hands.
IN our family history it sits right next to the ones with Kevin and me.

Dad loved Roman…he was his son. He disciplined him, fed him, walked him and greeted him first every single day.
In the morning he would open up the blinds and listen to him bark at how cold or warm he was. He made sure he had his coat on and the hot water bottles were filled during the winter. And in the summer, he opened up the blinds, turned on a fan, and refilled his bucket of water with any chance he got.
Dad would sit on a milk crate outside, a cup of tea in his hand, and forget about all the shit that work had piled on him that day.
That’s all he needed.
Roman by his side and a cup of tea… the world didn’t seem so daunting after that.

 

When mum met Roman for the first time, it was like the wicked stepmother and Cinderella.

In retrospect, it seems unfair to use that metaphor. Partly because she grew to love him and partly because she was attached to a dog in her youth…one that tragically passed away.
And since then, the wound that was left behind never really healed. She didn’t want to attach herself to another one. She knew the work, the smell and the ruckus it would cause.
She told us straight away. She yelled and shouted when he peed in the laundry on the very first day he was here. He didn’t seem to know what was wrong. He had to go…and so he did. Right where the washing usually went.
I couldn’t blame him.

Despite her yelling, she made time for him. She took off the next couple of days from work because he needed someone home. Dad and Kev had work. I had uni.
She stayed behind.
And on my first day away….she welcomed me home with a concerned look on her face, as I raced to the backyard to watch him play. She stood by the doorway and would yarn on about how naughty he was. When she realised I wasn’t listening she said loudly that he wasn’t that cute.
I turned to her apprehensively and laughed as I saw her face.

She was bullshitting.
I could see it in her eyes.

As time went on, she showed him more and more love. From not wanting to be around him, to wanting nothing more than to have his company.
Ma had a new son and one that, in her opinion, was better than the two she gave birth too.

He was always excited to see her home…he always wanted to be with her, and he never complained about all those silly Indian drama’s she would put on the TV every single afternoon.
In the summer, they would lay down together on the floor of her bedroom under the fan, to try and escape the heat.
And when winter rolled around, he would always sit on the rug by her feet to help keep her warm.
She would call out to him throughout the day, and he would come. And even during the times he misbehaved, she still showed him Love.

She loved him more and more every day. And as his last days came around, she was always optimistic…teasing him for being sick, goading him to get better. Because even though things looked meek at best, she always held out hope, after all, at her worst, Roman somehow did the same.
He was what she needed.
Not what she wanted…not what she asked for, but what she needed.
What she loved talking to, every morning as the sun rose.
What she loved feeding when the rest of us weren’t looking.
And what she loved saying goodnight to as we put him to bed each night.

 

 

Kevin bought him, Kevin was his owner and it was Kevin’s idea to get a dog in the first place.
I couldn’t remember a time where he was so protective of something he didn’t make or create. Always letting him inside, always buying the best food, and always bringing him a new toy after being away for so long.

My brother had the brother he had always wanted. He didn’t chat back, He didn’t fight back and all he would do was follow him around.
Kev took the initiative to make sure he was ok at all times. Constantly checking in, constantly seeing if he liked his new dry food and constantly scolding us for anything that might have gone wrong.
He was as responsible as ever.

It annoyed me.
But I think that’s why Roman was so happy. I mean how could you not be with all that attention.
In his early days, we would take him to puppy school. I use the word puppy, as a technicality, in reality, he was as big as any of the other pups would grow. And even though he was less than six months old, he towered over all of the other dogs.

We had to use two hands to keep him by our side. And even when it came to play, he was way too rough for anyone else. Id imagine it was very funny to see a skinny Indian guy being dragged by a small brown bear on a leash.
Kevin found it hilarious.
We thought we’d found the most docile companion…but in time we realised he was just a young lion waiting to jump on anyone and anything.
We were lucky though.
People knew he meant well and that he didn’t know his own body.
And in time I think that’s why we loved him.
He was a goof…just like us.

Whenever he would get sick, Kevin would call. He got mad at me a fair few times because I failed to update him in different situations.
He yelled at me over the phone when I didn’t tell him that I had picked him up from his boarding after a holiday.

It was annoying…but looking back, I get it.
It must’ve been hard to not be around.
To be that far away from home.
To then hear that he was sick.
To hear that there was nothing you could’ve done or nothing you could do.
To hear that you have even less time with him than you thought you would.

He flew up when he found out. Worst two days of his life, he said.

But he was here.

Here up until we had to say goodbye.
Not many people would’ve done that.
But just like Roman, Kevin is one of a kind.

 

 

 

We were inseparable. There was no Nickin without Roman.
The tall, chiselled, big, brown, rakishly handsome beast…and his human big brother.
A duo that should make the pages of human history.
Along with the Wright Brothers, Han Solo & Chewbacca, Tom & Jerry, Lennon & McCartney, Shaggy & Scooby, Bert & Ernie and Peanut butter & Jam.
We were like twins. And even, For a time, we were the same age. I turned 21 in 2016…three months later, he also turned 21 (dog years of course).
We were right up there.
Nickin and Roman.
Pemulwuy’s Finest.

The truth is, he was a big part of who I am.
The first thing Id wake up to and the last thing I’d say goodnight to before bed. And as corny as it sounds, he completed me. Filled in and fixed the void I had felt for years.

We got him on a Saturday, February 22nd, 2014.
I was diagnosed with Depression and Social Anxiety a week before.
My doctor had become worried about my lack of sleep, anxiety and the dark places in my mind that I was describing.
She saved me. Because she found out the problem.
Roman saved me. Because he helped fix it.

For the first time in years, I felt like someone was listening.
He didn’t have to say anything and I felt like I was being acknowledged and heard.
A whole life living with a chip on my shoulder and a voice strained from trying to shout my thoughts and feelings, was finally put to rest.

We grew together.
I chose to leave behind an old weak version of myself by committing myself to become better.
And we both changed out of the lanky, awkward sleeves we called ourselves that we were born with.
He was my inspiration, my motivation and aspiration.
I wanted him by my side through everything.
When I would become a success.
When I met the right girl.
When I would have my first child.

It’s funny to think of all the fantasies I had that included him. And it’s cruel to realise how every moment we had together, now feels like it was just a dream.

I loved every moment with him, I wouldn’t change a thing.
From walking him twice a day, to trying to pull him away from any dog he tried to cannonball himself towards.
He was a rocket ship, a bullet and a kamikaze fighter pilot all in one. And although tendinitis seems to be something I might have to deal with … I couldn’t have found a better way to spend that time with.

He was great with the ladies…or rather great for me around the ladies. He caught their attention, reeled them in by pulling me towards them and did his best to make sure they stuck around.

Cute and handsome, warm and affectionate…he loved people.

He loved being around them, he loved licking their face and having his ears rubbed.
It was easy to smile when watching him around anything and anyone.
The vet would always call him the best dog they’d had. Whether or not they were telling the truth remains to be seen…but it’s hard to argue against it.

In my worst times, I would find myself, head in my hands and knees clasped tightly to my chest.
Life was tough, but with a wet nose prodding your head and a strong paw scratching your shoulder, it didn’t seem so bad.
Id look up and see his big brown eyes staring at mine.
He didn’t know what was wrong. All he knew was that his mate wasn’t ok.
He’d lay down next to me and lick my knee.
And then be still.
And that’s all I needed.
The world wasn’t so bad after that.

It’s funny to think of something that couldn’t speak or communicate the way we do, to show so much love and kindness. I keep trying to rack my brain and find out what I meant to him and what he meant to me. And I don’t really know. Maybe, just like for him, there are no words to describe it.

When he was young, he would join me out in the sun as I wrote. He’d prod me with his nose, try and sneak into my arms through my armpit. When he couldn’t find a way in he would jump on my back and rest his head on top of mine.
When he grew bigger and older, he would walk in between my legs to let me know he was there, and rub his head on my arm whenever I sat down.

It’s like he knew everything I was feeling, everything I needed and everything I wanted to say.

He was like that to the very end.

On his last night in our home, he slept inside.
He hadn’t eaten, he could barely move around and he had no energy to stand.
Something was wrong.

That night, rain poured outside.
It was loud. But not cold.
There was no wind and everything was sticky and humid.
I slept downstairs to keep him company.
I use that word sparingly because none of us could really sleep at all.

We tried feeding him, but he wouldn’t take.
My eyes would glaze over and my voice would break as I tried so desperately to get him to eat something.
It’s hard to watch your friend suffer. And it’s hard to even fathom that this might be the last time you ever watch him at all.

We were confused and scared.
He was so young.
At 6 years old…he was supposed to be halfway through his life.

As I watched him from the couch, I remembered all the times he would bark and whine when we left him outside. I never thought id wish for him to do that again. For him to have energy, to be able to stand and jump and bark.
But I never heard him bark again.

We’d look at each other from across the room. I couldn’t say anything…neither could he.
At times he would get up and wander around. I suppose he was making sure we were still at home.

At 3 am and Almost at once, he sprinted up the stairs and into my parent’s bedroom. He didn’t lay down, he just watched them as they woke up from a shallow sleep, startled.

He wasn’t trying to get their attention, nor was he looking for a new place to sleep. He was checking up on them. Just like he had always done. He needed them to be ok.

When the morning came, the visit to the vet was tough.
It was the longest car ride of my life.
And it was also the scariest.
Rightfully so.
The vet confirmed our worst fears.
He told me he was sick. Really sick.
And I told my family.

He said he was sorry.
And I said the same to my family.

Sorry I couldn’t look after him better.

Sorry that I couldn’t help sooner.

Sorry that they had to go through this.

They said it wasn’t my fault, but it didn’t matter…he was my responsibility.

I walked him, I sat with him…and I knew him the best. I knew when he was hungry, when he was angry, when he was frustrated and when he was sad.
I could tell what he was thinking. And I knew what he was feeling.

He gave me a reason to come Home when it didn’t feel like Home.
He gave me a reason to go outside when outside seemed too much.
And He made me realise what it was like to love something that didn’t share flesh and blood…that didn’t speak or know things. That was living for the sake of living,  because its life was worth it.

A soaring kite in the hurricane of the world.

It was like the universe saw me in strife and gave me a little brown goofball to help ease the pain.
A blessing by every definition.
I hated the world.
The one thing I thought it couldn’t corrupt and rip away…it had.
The hurricane had twisted and broken that free kite.

I yelled and I cried and I cursed myself.

But my dad scolded me with tears in his eyes.
He said we gave him the best life and we should never, ever, feel like we let him down.
He said that he blessed us and we did whatever it was in our power to honour that.

At the time it didn’t matter. It didn’t save him.

But looking back, that thought gives me some comfort. Its what I think of when I feel angry and afraid.

We drove back to the vet. We didn’t know what to say.
Mum tried her best to make us all feel better.
It worked. Till we saw him again.

He wasn’t the same dog.
He had lost his majesty and his strength. He wasn’t clumsy or awkward…but sad.
His dignity was stripped from him and in his eyes, that familiar warmth was replaced with shame. It took him and tortured him.
How can we be surprised? After all, Cancer has its way.

 

We sat there with him.
We joked about everything he had done.
Recalled fond memories and made sure he was comfortable.

It was the least we could do.
No one ever tells you how hard it’s going to be.
To say goodbye to family.

In his last breath, I could see him watch Mum, Dad and Kevin.
I forced myself to look at him and knew that all he had wanted, was to come home…but he couldn’t.

And we knew that home would never feel the same.
I held his huge head as he went to sleep.
I could feel his heartbeat fading away.

My other hand on his back, right next to his collar… just so he knew I was there.
He needed me now…and it was the least I could do.

After that, nothing has been the same.

This might sound horrid.
This might sound dramatic.
But it’s hard to get up in the morning when the one thing that seemed to care about who you really are is gone.

Roman was more than a pet…he was a mate. He was my best mate.
I didn’t have to talk, I didn’t have to prove myself and I didn’t have to fight for my voice to be heard. The world around me made me do that enough.

He knew that.

He knew it the moment I would walk into the front door as he tried to wrench it open with his snout.
He knew it when we’d walk to the top of the lookout or sit lakeside near our home.
He knew it when I’d slip out the back door and gaze aimlessly at the wooden fence across our backyard.
He knew it on sleepless nights and tired mornings.
He knew it when he first came home in my arms on that sunny summer afternoon.
And he knew it up until he breathed his last breath.

And all he did was hang around, just to make sure I was ok.
He had my back.
Till the day the Cancer got him.
And the only solace I feel is that I had his… till his very last breath.

 

 

I write this because the world needs to know.
My world needs to know.

It needs to know, that pets aren’t just pets.
Dogs aren’t just animals.
They’re friends and they’re family. They are the unofficial guardians and the most loyal companion’s anyone can ask for.
They eat, sleep, walk and run, all for us.
They are a part of our world, but we are their whole world…and there is no amount of gratitude that will ever be enough.
I wish I had time.
I wish we could take one more walk. Sit down on the soft grass of our park or lakeside late in the afternoon…and watch the sunset one last time.

But I can’t.

So I’m telling you that I am screaming inside. Hating the emptiness that tortures our house.

I’m telling you to hug them while you can.

Cherish every moment.

Because I know the story that I’ll tell my kids one day, and it’s one I hold near to my heart.
The story of my youth.
A verbal album of every moment in those six years.

How I got out of a deep dark place that seemed impossible to climb out from.

How our family became even more loving and that much happier…that it was all due to one dog.
And His name was Roman, the Rhodesian Ridgeback.

I’m stuck on a plane.
On a flight to Bali.
For what is supposed to be a brilliant way to start my summer.
I find myself sandwiched in an aisle seat surrounded by people I don’t know,  thousands of kilometres in the air.
I thought I came prepared
I charged my earphones.
I packed my laptop.
And I downloaded the last two seasons of Peaky Blinders.

But four hours into the flight, my earphones are out of charge, my laptop is in my carry on that’s packed way too far away from me and the last two seasons of a show that I dearly want to watch, failed to download.

Thus, I find myself smiling awkwardly at the young girl seated adjacent to me as she drops her fur toy continuously and fighting the 20 something boy I’m sharing a row with.
He is listening to EDM and watching his mates smoke bongs on his phone, fighting me for what should be rightfully mine in a mutual armrest.

 

Life has a peculiar way of forcing you into uncomfortable situations.
Much like this one.
Often you find yourself with something to do.
People try and say that they love doing nothing, but in actuality they still do something.

Nothing isn’t Netflix and chilling.
Nothing isn’t napping.
And nothing isn’t eating Doritos with your favourite salsa.

What I’m doing now isn’t nothing either, I’m writing, or more accurately bitching, about being hurtled through the air in a flying metal coffin to paradise.

But an hour before I started writing this into the note section of my phone, I was doing nothing.

My mind drove itself insane as I watched the minutes tick away from what seemed like hours and I found myself wishing nothing more than the worst at Virgin Australia for there lack of in-flight entertainment.

But amongst my riff-raff and internal frustration, I found out how fucking childish I am.

First of all, the reason for my suffering doesn’t lie with the poor people at Virgin… even though they need to step their game up.
And it isn’t with the bloke sitting next to me.

I fucked up.
I Should’ve brought a plan C, D and E.
So in my self-evaluation and solution to my problem, I thought of what the fuck people did before technology. I find myself wondering, How the hell did mum and dad travel all that way without a screen in front of them?

I still don’t know.
But what I do know is my ADHD ass needs to find peace in the next hour or I’m gonna start going to some dark places.

First, I calmed myself…3 deep breaths.

And then I decided to do something I haven’t done in a while.

Something I used to do as a kid to help pass the time.

I started making up stories not just about myself, but the people around me.

 

 

 

 

There’s a woman who keeps going back and forth from the bathroom. She’s wearing a G-Unit extra-large shirt, washed-out jeans and a bandanna over her head. Apart from her eyebrows, which are faded, she has no visible hair.

I know she has cancer because of the way her husband looks at her when she takes a nap after she sits down.

Although she isn’t weak, her face is more or less soft and has remnants of once being full and much more vibrant.
He strokes her hand and barely watches his iPad as her eyes flicker in and out.
As she passes me by, again and again, she occasionally stops and coughs. She grips the head of my seat and I see tattoos all around her ear and down her neck.

Their white people tattoos…corny hearts with weird roses, characteristically filled with names, probably of her kids.
As she waddles away back down the aisle I look at her husband. He has similar tattoos, all of which are complemented with a handlebar moustache and big scar on his shoulder that runs down his arm. I can see it because of the singlet he’s wearing which is also peculiar because he’s the only one wearing one on the plane.

I try not to stare at her as she walks passed again.
But my mind begins to wander, I imagine her, not with a bandanna covering her bald head but tied up in long blonde hair that has aged perfectly through the years.

I see her skin tanned and golden and her face and cheeks filled with whatever joy left her. I see a leather jacket flapping in the wind as her hands are cupped around the stomach of the man she loves.

His mo still white and grey but now smothering a smiling face and free of any look of concern. They’re on a Harley, loving life, riding along a highway that has the sea and mountains as its neighbours.

They laugh as he kicks the metal horse up a gear…and disappear into the sunset. Out of sight and not a worry in the world.

This makes me happy.

 

 

 

 

The little girl in the row next to me has fallen asleep. She watched Frozen then Toy story 4.

I know because I scabbed a couple of looks and watched it too. She looks at me every now and then and smiles.
She seems nice.
Well behaved, sweet and innocent.

Now she’s snuggled up in her mother’s arms and probably dreaming about Buzz Lightyear and Woody barely hanging onto the back of a truck.
She has the same sneakers as My cousins.
She even curls up to sleep, just like my cousins.
She is the same as my cousins.
She looked at me the way they do.
Wonder, curiosity and cheekiness.

I wonder if they’ll always look at me the same way.
If one day, they’ll stop looking.
If one day, they won’t need me to tell them that they’re watching too much tv.
Or to help them open up packets of chips, or carry their little bodies to bed when they fall asleep in the car.

I’m going to hate that day.
Hate it when I become another adult in their life.
A face in the crowd…another family member.

I’m going to hate that day.

For now, I find solace in that time being far from now.

And this makes me happy.

 

 

 

 

I flirt with the air hostess to make myself feel better about the flight.
After a lifetime of getting rejected by girls …this makes me feel a tiny bit better…especially when she touches my arm and winks at me as she walks passed.

She’s being nice.
I know she is.
It’s her job.

I know this because she’s doing the same thing to a bloke about 4 rows in front.
He’s white with a fade and hipster glasses.
He looks like the kind of Bondi wanker that I used to see at uni.

God, I hated those blokes.

He’s wearing an expensive watch …and I could tell he didn’t buy it.
He doesn’t wear it like he bought it.
He wears it like it doesn’t mean anything.
I know this because of the tonne of little scratches that I spy as he walks passed me to the bathroom.

This is why I know she likes me more.
Because of his loafers, boat shorts and expensive, button-up short sleeve.
I know it’s expensive because I have the same shirt.
It’s neatly folded in my suitcase on the way to Bali as we speak.

I also know she likes me more because I’m in trackies and a black tee.
My hair is a mess and my beard untrimmed.

I convince myself that she likes me more…but the truth is, she’s just doing her job.

I experiment and smile at the other hostess as she offers me water.

I smirk at her and wink…she smiles back and laughs loudly when I tell her I’m parched.
Now I know it’s just them doing their job…because that wasn’t that funny.

I still tell myself I’m a better guy.
Mostly because I didn’t stare at her ass as she walked by.

He did.

I know this because I saw him do it.

Fuck that guy.

Now, this, makes me happy.

 

Now having nothing to do isn’t so bad.

I was always told that losing was a part of life. That it was just another lesson to be learnt, another path to follow and another harsh truth to accept. Great athletes and inspirational people talk about how it stings and how it weighs on you, but they speak of acceptance and moving forward as well…sometimes portraying it lightly, misrepresenting how difficult the process of loss can actually be.

 

I remember losses all too well. For one season playing Club Soccer, we were Favourites to win the comp. Our team had been undefeated for a large portion of the season and we were on a good track to finally win a Final. Then, three-quarters of the way into the season, we buckled. Our team failed at working as a unit, we weren’t playing our best and we began to lose week in and week out. Slowly, we lost our place on the ladder, eventually falling out of Final’s contention.

WE had promise, and although in hindsight, it was just a silly competition we played on weekends …it still hurt. It felt wasteful, and years later, I still think about how stupid we were to not realise our mistakes sooner.

I still taste all those defeats, not just from that year, but every game I played in. The images of the field kicked up with mud and grass, the chilly mornings where fog would pump out of our mouths like clouds, and the pain of stripping away your socks and shin pads before climbing into the shower with whatever energy you’d have left, trying your best to wash away whatever disappointment you felt.

When I think back at how silly I must’ve been, slamming my door shut and screaming into my pillow, I also remember the bitter taste of watching the other team celebrate and I’m reminded of how unsilly it actually was.

Losses are important, yes, but when losing becomes a pattern, your energy for everything else starts to drop. Motivation becomes scarce and the world around you starts to feel a little dull and almost worthless. You feel nothing more than a sack of meat and bone…no light, no motivation and no spark. Losses make zombies out of us all, and regardless of how positive one looks from the outside, you can guarantee that those losses eat them up on the inside.

 

I think the main lesson to be learnt is how to deal with it, because despite being turned into a zombie, in and amongst the bitter pill is the want and drive to never taste it again.
To do better, one reminds themselves of how bad they once were. They remind themselves of the mistakes they made, the trials they’ve fallen short on and the world that punished them for it. Maybe that’s what makes the journey to win so much harder…and maybe that’s why it all tastes a little sweeter in the end.

 

When I started playing soccer I was shit. I picked it up because my parents wanted me to try something new. They felt that laziness and a lack of competitive drive would create a slob, but they didn’t sign up for the result of what came after. The didn’t know how personal every loss would become and how every win would feel afterwards…and even though we didn’t win as much as I would’ve liked, it still felt good to experience a little taste of victory wherever and whenever it came.

In the end, we never one a final. In the end, we all slowly went our separate ways and tried our best to forget all those days and nights.  But the reality is we didn’t …we merely buried those memories in and amongst the shallow graves of the kicked up mud and grass of our minds.
But every once in a while it pops up, like an old photo in a family album, we see it again. Sometimes we see it  at life’s worst…but sometimes we see it when we need it. In and amongst the grind and hustle of our lives.
We see a flash of muddy boots frustratingly being thrown into a brick wall, or an opposing team huddle up to celebrate a win…and then we remember why we keep working…to never feel like a loser again.

 

My whole life I’ve always wanted to be interesting… as a child, I would play make-believe in my backyard. The house was cramped and always wrought with the yelling and screaming of mum and dad. The T.V was always on, playing some kind of Indian movie, and it was a rare moment to not hear the whistle of a cooktop go off or the high melodies of a South Indian Song. Sometimes all my little head wanted to do was be a little free… to be clear and to not be bothered.

That’s why outside seemed so appealing…the noise seemed so distant when it was blocked off by doors and brick walls, and while the smell of spices and sight of my family’s faces always brought comfort, being in my backyard seemed to be my sanctuary within a sanctuary.

On a good day, id sometimes just walk in circles, waiting for my imagination to cook something up. Eventually, id find inspiration from any book or movie id seen that week, and some sort of story would form.
Looking back, I’m amazed at how well I’d was able to see these things…the world in which your mind can create seems so much more appealing than the world your body actually lives in. I’d pretend to be an astronaut, using the underside of our BBQ as a Rocketship Cockpit…fiddling away at makebelieve knobs and buttons, pretending to break through Earth’s atmosphere at incredible speeds.
Other times I’d be an explorer, pretending my school bag was filled with mountain tools and heavy winter clothes, then climb our big gum tree like it was Mt Everest.

I used to think my childhood was spent more in the clouds than anywhere else…and I find myself asking whatever it is that pulls and pushes the universe to make out what we call our lives, Where did that kid go?

Was he to only live and die in child form, to make way for a new more boring version of an adult to step forward?

Was he too innocent and needed to grow into something old and more capable for the world around him?

Or Was he so enveloped in fear and shame that he decided to just leave it all to be mediocre?

 

 

As a young man trying to make his way, these are the questions I ask myself daily…but I think trying the figure out your own journey takes time and a lot of long uninterrupted thought. Both of which seems seldom on even a good day.

Rarely does one get a chance to sit and think about their life as what it should be, which I believe should be a dedication to whatever and whomever you love. Whether that be the art you choose to practice, the job in which work, the family to which you are born to or the partner whom you love.

 

But as someone who struggles with the very concept of love, dedication and passion, it’s hard to even begin to conceptualize what I’m going to do with my life.

Do I work a 9 to 5, get married and spend my weekends at my kid’s soccer matches?

Do I travel the world, meet amazing people and take on a string of lovers from country to country?

Do I stay home every day…with nothing but pen and paper, scribbling away a world that was birthed from my imagination?

Or do I do none of those things, work as I work now, eat the same foods, talk to the same people and continue a life of perceived simplicity?

 

I constantly struggle with these idea’s, each of which has its own level of appeal. The only reasonable solution is to try all of these things and find out which I like best…then go out and live it, day in and day out.

 

However, here in lies my biggest problem, I have always been stuck in the life in which I feel most comfortable.

I’ve rarely delved out of my comfort zone and I rarely have enjoyed the idea of what other’s may consider exciting. That’s not because I don’t want to ….more so, because I’m afraid to.

I’ve always been afraid of things I don’t know…I think as human beings we can all share in that. But my fear extends far beyond slipping and falling over once or twice…it goes as far as severely crashing and burning… Of mucking up my life so badly that I shame everything and everyone that has done any kind of good for me.

In my head, it comes down to one choice…one single decision that leads to a chain of events which in turn screw my life over…and that scares the shit out of me.

Before I started this, I was afraid of how I would be perceived, and as a result, my writing has been limited and caged.

I feared what people would say and of bringing negativity to something that was supposed to be a good thing, and rather than disregarding it, I chose to let it trap my work. I haven’t really delved out, explored new things or tried to actually do what it is I’ve always wanted to do.

This was supposed to be a space of creativity and yet I fear that it may become another cliché. A page filled diary that, although at times showed some kind of potential, will forever be a testimony of regret.

 

 

The truth is I don’t know. Maybe the damage is done…but a life filled with regret is a life not worth living. Because while I struggle with the idea of what to do next, there is one thing that keeps this alive.

 

The nightmare of laying on my death bed, waiting for the inevitable darkness and wondering…what if?

 

What if I just stepped out of my comfort zone that one time, tried something new and not cared what anyone thought?

 

What if I just left home and decided to roam the world, place to place, person to person?

 

What if I just posted that one story that I’ve been working on for ages,  a story from my own imagination from a world I created?

 

That haunts me more than anything. More than a little criticism and more than not being interesting. Not being able to somehow, do that little boy in the backyard justice. 

But the truth is that he might be long gone…and whatever remains of him, gone too.

Maybe the real world was too much for him, maybe he thought that being any of those things was impossible. Maybe the world grabbed his head from the clouds and beat him so far into the ground that whatever spark of fire that once lit him up now lay fizzled away in the mud and dust.

But regardless, one should still try, if anything to avoid that one dreaded question…What if?

 

 

I haven’t worked a lot of jobs. Nothing that seems majorly Career focused… mostly, just what I might find interesting. I never felt like, nor do I even want to feel that going to work would be depressing or live absorbing in any sort of way. I wanted so badly to deeply have a passion for whatever it is I chose to do. Whether that be part-time, casual, full time or whatever. I wanted to be able to say that I liked getting up in the morning and going to work.
Now I know that most jobs, whether you love them or not, will have bad days. Days where you dread what may come. Or days where you come home exhausted, mentally, physically and emotionally. But if that would ever be the case, id rather be sapped by something I love, than sapped by something I hate.

For me, it started with family. I think that’s where any drive for work comes from. I spent weekends, and holidays sweating my arse off stacking boxes and puncturing steel for dad. It was hard and the conditions were rough. With no heat or cool, the major seasons of the year would take the energy out of your body.
Little things like entering invoices and standing in front of a drilling machine were a chore. Mostly because your fingers were so stiff from the cold in winter and the summer heat made it feel like the sun was burning right behind you.

Despite that, I rarely complained, which if I’m being honest, is something I’m really proud of. I usually talk a lot of shit, but it was very easy to put what I was doing into perspective.
Dad did it day in and day out, year after year. So my thought process was that if he had to, then so should I.
Learning the ins and outs of how we got food on the table made me appreciate everything I had, and understand all the reasons as to why I didn’t have things that I sorely wanted. Every invoice I entered, every piece of metal I carved away at was money. It was dollar signs in our bank account, and no matter how small the work seemed to be, it all added up.

But I couldn’t spend all my days in a machinery house in Ingleburn. It’s not what Dad wanted, and it wasn’t really what I wanted either.
So I moved on.

For a short time, I worked for a not-for-profit arts organisation which lead me to my first actual job at the local museum, which isn’t what you might think it is. It isn’t huge, with hundreds of old artefacts or world famous paintings. It’s not full of wide open spaces and does not have the same upper-class appeal you may see in movies or television.
Quite the opposite actually.
It’s small and homey, with local artists and local heritage sites as it’s the main attraction. From our front desk, you can hear the traffic hustling and bustling by on the main road. The wind can be heard from anywhere because of the trees that have overgrown the place itself, and in the winter, the cold coats itself over everything…from the door handles that you try your best to open on a freezing morning, to the old desks that sit in an old heritage school building.

But you should see it when the sun shines…everything seems so peaceful and perfect. Little flowers blow out in the wind and onto the grass. The sun finds itself through whatever clouds are overhead and it’s so warm & fulfilling to sit down and just relax. The local families come by every now and then for events but for the most part its quiet with very few visitors. To be fair, I couldn’t have asked for a bigger stark contrast to the family business that I grew up in.

But despite the romanticized picture I just described, I knew the real importance of a place like that….that is the connection to the community. I learned a lot about the value of who and what we live around. The importance of local events and the social dynamic that bringing together a number of different people from different walks of life, creates. That idea, that lesson, is what lead me to where I am today. The library.

It’s oddly fitting for a guy like me to find himself here because the truth is that I grew up not around museums and paintings, but around books on shelves.

We couldn’t afford much entertainment growing up. The tv we had was busted and old. My pushbike was always banged up and its tyres kept getting wrecked, and there were only so many days that I could spend outside before getting bored.

So my earliest memories aren’t just of playing in the dirt or climbing trees. In fact, they are filled with my mum, brother and I, catching a bus or driving in our old Camry to the local library.

It was air-conditioned in summer and heated in winter. It had a kid’s section and an adult’s section, a study place for students and a bunch of cushions for kids to read on. I spent hours buried deep into comic books and small novels.
I lived lives in different worlds. I loved the bright colour of James and his Giant peach and found the tense lives Max Remy and Alex Rider’s teenaged spy adventures, exhilarating. I went to Hogwarts and travelled  Middle Earth. I watched Asterix and Obelix beat up Roman soldiers and looked for Red Rackham’s Lost treasure with Tintin and his dog Snowy.
George R.R Martin said that a reader lives a thousand of lives…I dare anyone to say that isn’t true.

For many ways…the local library was a sanctuary…but it wasn’t long before I became disinterested.

I think being a boy can be tough…because ultimately you have to be tough. You have to walk off splinters, scrapes and grazes. You have to hold back tears and yelps of pain. Grass stains and dried blood decorate whatever jersey, uniform or everyday clothing you wear, and your whole body becomes littered with just as many scratches and scars as there are words on a page.

But the shitty thing is that if you complain, you’ll never hear the endless banter and ridicule from not only your mates but, from girls, teachers, coaches and anyone that feels like you’re anything less than what you’re supposed to be.

So when I grew older and began to be exposed to more and more of the world, my interest in things that others may consider to be soft, dwindled. I spent more time outdoors collecting mud on my shoes and scars on my arms… the worlds I once were so eager to discover slipped away and into the past. Any dream I had of becoming a storyteller was beginning to fade away.

And I think that is where the real shame is. I was convinced that there was no real future for me in other people’s words. Novels were a great past time but writing and telling stories was to stay a hobby and never a passion.

And as tragic as that may sound I think that’s what makes me value the way things are, more and more. Without other peoples push for what boys were always meant to do, I would have never discovered my love for riding down a steep hill with the wind in my ears. Or playing backyard footy or soccer on a hot summer weekend.

But, there were times where I wished someone besides my mum and dad told me to write and read more. To go to the library, where it all started, and dig deep into the tales of so many talented people.
Maybe that outside influence could’ve made the difference.

But in all honesty, that’s probably why I’m back.
I understood that it doesn’t have to be either/or. I can have both. I can live two lives so long as I love them both the same. It’s my choice, and now I’m back to where it started…even if it’s a little different.

I have an I-pad attached to my waist that I wear like a cowboy does his gun in his holster. I walk around telling people to be quiet, instructing older people on how to print and making sure younger people have library cards to use computers.

I don’t mind it. Not one bit. It’s honest work. And it’s a massive service to the community…I can’t count how many times I’ve gotten heartwarming smiles from children as you find a book they’ve been searching for, for ages. Or when you take five minutes to chat with an elderly person about their day. Or even when you print off an assignment for a kid at 8 pm, who clearly doesn’t want to go home…whether that be because home isn’t the best place to be, or if they just really like the library.

I like it….but it changed. All it really does is make me wish I spent more time there and maybe less time worrying about what other people thought.

But even with all the countless lives I’ve missed out on living through books, I was still able to live mine. I guess that’s the saving grace. Maybe that’s the reason it all worked out.
Despite the drug dealers and rat pack hooligan kids that come in and cause trouble, despite the long walk back to my car at night, and despite the constant yearning to sit in a quiet area and just read a book.
I like it.
Just as much as the museum and just as much as carving steal.

It’s me.

Ever since I first stepped foot, with my hand grasped firmly around my mothers, my eyes already looking at which shelf to dive into. It was, for the longest part of my life, home. It was me then, and it’s me now…And I think it always will be.