It was hard to watch him fight for nothing in particular. 

To strive for no real goal. 

To watch him try his best in the day for a rest he would not get in the night. 

Not when his worries shone like stars in his darkened mind:
Endless and Multiplying.

It was hard to watch him try when I knew he would have to try again, 

to always try again. 

There was no prize. 

No victory song to sing in loud glee. 

No happy tears to shed because the journey would finally be complete. 

And he would finally be the winner. 

And I would be by his side, and our laughs would echo across galaxies, 

sharing the tale of his survival. 

Proclaiming through golden notes that he had won, and that the world could indeed be conquered. 

And that dreams which are chased could indeed be caught.

But this was not to be.

And the tears shed remained sad, 

and our song only remained a whisper of hopes that would not rise from their slumber.

Hopes that refused to be awoken from words to breathe their own life, 

To become real. 

Instead laughter remained trapped beneath sighs, 

Pulling themselves out our mouths with great force. 

Taunting us with a reality that refused to walk on the tips of its toes, 

Instead crashing down on the earth with great stomps and vigor, 

Reminding us how easily we are shaken. 

Reminding us of how easily we are thrown about by a world that refuses to be conquered- 

But challenges us to try as we bruise for its own pleasure. 

Our scars the scorecard of a game rigged to be lost.

The challenger receives no spoils. 

Just merely an invitation to try again.

And as the new day would dawn, so he would. 

Try again. 

Because tired bones never stop til they are returned to dust, 

and the will never out of reach til fingers are unable to grasp. 

And as hard as it was to watch him lose. 

It was even harder not to hope that one day he would win.

By: WerepupJeremy
Photography by: Melissa Cheng

I often wondered what would have happened. 

What would have changed if we knew then what we know now. 

If it would matter?

Would we have tread more cautiously down a familiar path?

More alert in our own suspicion

More conscious of our own expiration- the finality of our beings? 

Or would we have ran and ran more fearlessly, 

more carelessly to our own demise, on a road with no name, 

but vast promises. 

A Street with no signs but countless doors, 

all lit from above by a traitor or a friend. 

Would we have allowed ourselves to be fooled by the promises of a deceitful moon 

for gifts we knew it could not grant?

Gifts of lands, it’s rays have never shone; 

corners still plunged in darkness, but drawn by dreams of the young and the foolish.

I wonder, would we have battled our odds more courageously?

Or would we have surrendered with a smile? 

Knowing that the battle was not to be won but enjoyed along the way. 

That maybe losing was winning in that we would have been absolved of past lives 

Lives that didn’t meet their full potential. 

Lives of wrong dreams, that took right turns, to leave us with nothing.

Would ambition have meant nothing to her this time around?

The informed time around.

Or would his hope be wasted yet again, as it always was 

in some more powerful unknown that refused to be seen?

Would we, if permitted,be found for once by the sun?

Or would we, tired, continue to wander around……

Lost.

By:  WerepupJeremy
Photography by: Melissa Cheng

I've spent so much time being nothing. Feeling nothing, yet seeing all my dreams not come true. So I was ready to change that. I had reached my turning point; the realization. The great irony I silently narrated all along was now finally stated, publicly stated and if I was to be a cliché, I was going to be a good one. But I now questioned just which cliché I would be? You see I came to realize that some people are meant to puzzle, to be abstract and different and make people think; to inspire with only the sheer complexity of their beauty, or their mind or their story.  

And some people aren’t.

You see,  some people are that indie band,  that band who plays the best music you’ve ever heard, who writes all their own songs, and whose lyrics make you feel the most. That band you quote in your Facebook status, and get 10 likes and feel cool, because everyone thinks it’s original, cause they’ve never heard that song before, but you never really tell them cause it’s your little secret. And sometimes you mutter their name in a discussion about ‘real music’, but never too loudly because you don’t want them to be revealed cause they’re yours. Some people are that indie band. But some people aren’t. Some people instead, are mainstream. Some people are pop stars. Everyone knows them. Everyone seems to hate them yet we buy all their albums or at least someone, some where’s buying all their singles and we know all their songs. Everyone has an opinion, yet we can all concretely agree on who wore it better. Everyone pretends to not care. But we all do,if only peripherally. They are talentless, we say, with or without an audience, yet we sing their songs at the top of our lungs as we drive in our cars, or wash ourselves  in our showers.

Some people are pop stars but some people aren’t.

Some people are that foreign film, in that language you never heard of, but confuse it for another language until you Wikipedia it and find out you were wrong. That film where most of your effort was spent keeping up with the subtitles, yet you cry at the climax and applaud at the end, and tweet that it was the best movie you’ve ever seen. Some people are that foreign film. But some people aren’t. Some people instead are that blockbuster. That big budget picture where more effort was spent getting that six pack than rehearsing their lines, not that the dialogue said much to begin with, and if we’re honest we really don’t mind because as we watch we’re all just really waiting on that tank to explode. It won’t win any awards, except maybe for sound editing, cause making things go boom is an art in itself, but at least two thirds of your friends will know at least one fourth of the cast and five sixth of the plot without even watching one eighth of the film so there’ll be some healthy debate, at that weekly catch up you dread going to, although you always have the best time.

Some people are that blockbuster, but some people aren’t.

 You see I’ve come to realize that some people are the great American novel, timeless, classic, and provocative. Well, as provocative as you can be, being written several decades ago; our literature teacher’s kind of book. You know the standard to which we proclaim all contemporary work as inferior although you can’t really recall truly enjoying reading them. You also can’t recall the last three chapters because you didn’t finish them. You know the endings so it’s fine. Or so you would justify it. Some people I realized were the Great American novel, but I also realized some people aren’t. Some people, instead, are this week’s issue of US Weekly or People, current and swiftly becoming not even that. Dated, detached, yet we revel in every second, because despite our best efforts we all kind of want to know whether tribal prints are hot or not; because we can’t really tell for ourselves. And we get more enjoyment out of speculating that this actress’ picture is photo shopped (because we all know it is, I mean who looks like that in real life? Um No one!) than we care to admit.

I came to realize that some people are sometimes inherently’ greater’ than others,  somehow more than others, complex and fascinating, while others are less, less complex and less fascinating. Simple yet appreciated. I came to realize that life wasn’t a case of right or wrong or even of winners or losers, it was about acceptance, allowing oneself to be content in being more or less.  I came to realize that this life, our life, may be one of irony. 

The story was already written, life is simply a matter of how committed we are to telling it word for word.

By: WerepupJeremy

*Photography provided by the impeccable Melissa Cheng!

“It happened months ago. So maybe I should just get over it. “

This is what Melissa said to me, as I sat, at the foot of her bed; my body slumped over, my eyes, the windows to a broken soul, darkened by the memory of my trauma. It was gearing up to be another dreadful Friday night in. The 8^th Friday night to be exact, in which my tears like bullets would assault her lap, as she massages my hair, straining desperately to find  new words of comfort in a limited language to console her fallen friend.  Her 'friendly' suggestion was her strike; her stance to no longer share the burden of my ordeal, she had had enough. And I couldn’t even blame her. 

I too wished that my rape could be a phase. I wished I could wake up and forget about his hands, giant and dark, wrapped firmly around my waist, prohibiting my movement. But instead I am haunted by his rough grip. The skillful manner in which, through sheer brute strength, he claimed my body as his own.  Conquered a territory already inhabited. I wish I  could forget about his lips, his big, dry, black lips, as they stabbed my body with unwanted kisses, as his coarse long tongue like that of a serpent’s slowly licked my shoulder; my shivering, the reaction to his poison in my spine. I wish I could forget him, as he calmly spoke my name, as if he had earned the right to address his victim by name.  His voice deep and steady, absent to the danger and damage he so easily committed.  I wish I could wake up and not want to die, to not want to burn my skin off to return his property. To be free of his lingering smell, the odour of a sick man who took my innocence, just because he could. I wish I could breathe again. To truly breathe, and for once not violently gasp for air, as I feel him inside me though my body demurs. To inhale without the sounds of his moans, amplified by the force of my tears, and to exhale without screaming;  without screaming, for help, or for mercy or for death.

He had raped more than just my body. He had raped the air from my life; my ability to breathe. And unfortunately that wasn’t something I could just get over.

I don’t think Melissa really understood what had happened to me that night. She doesn’t understand how my image of a just world collapsed under the weight of my attack. I don’t think I properly explained it her. I don’t even think I can, because I don’t know why it happened.  I don’t know why he knew I’d be alone. Why he even knew my name. I don’t understand what gave him the right to invade me, to take ownership of my body. What gave him the authority to decide that is what I wanted and that I would ‘like it’. Why was the blood rushing to his dick, stronger than the strength of my no?  Of my please?  Of my stop?

Why was I his victim? Why did he make me his victim? 

I cannot find the answer.

 I try to look for the permission I gave to destroy me in my clothing. Had my shorts been too short? My boobs too big? I don’t know why I feel I must be blamed. But I must have done something to deserve it. I feel as if I must have earned my tears, like gold stars on a classroom chart, as if i must take ownership of my own victimhood. So I look at my interactions.  Was I too flirty? Too fun?  I didn’t even know him! Had I advertised myself to the world as accessible then try to go back on my claim when the customer came for his purchase?

I can’t accept that.

I can’t accept that so I cry every night on her lap, as I try to find the answers in between my tears, my struggle, nothing more to her than another Friday night in. But still I couldn't blame her. This wasn’t her cross to bear.

So without a word I Left her room, I would not sentence her to another Friday night in. not chain her to a hopeless cause. Not punish her for being my best friend.  As I left I could hear the noise of the campus all around me.  It was alive with laughter. It was mocking my survival. Ever since that night, I had loathed the noise. I blamed the noise more than I blamed him. I seem to blame everything more than I blamed him.  I often wonder what would have happened if the place had been still. If only it had not been so alive. Would my flatmates have heard the foreign knock on my door of an uninvited guest? Would the neighbours have heard my screams? Would they have helped?  Would I have been saved by some faceless stranger because I was too weak, too fragile, and too hopeless to save myself?

I’ll never know.

 Instead I’ll always remember the noise of people making memories, which I long to forget. I will remember the tone of blurred voices all around me, celebrating my demise. I will remember the stares that followed, the accusing eyes which hold no comfort. As I walk back to my room I can still hear the whispers of passing strangers, mocking my survival. They don’t want to know why I no longer stand straight or brush my kinky brown hair or oil my long legs.  These things no longer matter me.  They don’t want to know why my colourful array of jean shorts has been traded in favour of long black garments. They don’t know about my scars.  I don’t want them to know that my body is not mine.

As I reach the end of the corridor I stop at my door.  I have not returned since that night. I cannot willingly pass through the portal of my troubles in which the demons of a darker day lay waiting on the other side. I am petrified by fear, by my own memories. This could no longer be my home.

He had taken my home from me as well. 

With no other place to go I begin to walk aimlessly around the darkened college campus. I no longer worry about my safety. It had already been taken. In the dark, the campus takes it true form. The buildings are opaque and unwelcoming. They do not care if I survive.  All around me I hear the shuffling noises of devils in the bushes, waiting to strike, getting louder with every step. There is no peace to be found on these grounds. Not for me.  There are stories that this campus, once a plantation, remains haunted by those cheated of their freedom. I now believe it to be true as I now walk amongst the ghosts who cannot forgive; a victim of a private slavery that robbed me of my freedom to grow. On this burial ground of my dreams, the air feels crisp but melancholy, as though it shares my pain, but I do not feel consoled. I can see the dark grey clouds that decorate the starless night. Though they appear heavy and engorged I know it won’t rain. They refuse to cry for me.

 I find no comfort in this place, as it allowed my comfort to be taken. I blame this campus, more than I blame him. It didn’t help me. Why did the thunder not roar or the lightning strike, or spirits arrive to scare him away? Why did it not rain to keep him at home? To keep him away. Why was it not dark enough for him to go to another room, to go to another girl?

 I stop this thought.

I stop myself. I begin to walk faster, to walk further. I know there is no peace to be found, not here on his plantation. But I cannot stand still. My memories must not find me vulnerable.

In all my walking, I grow tired, but I know this does not mean that I can sleep. As I momentarily stop at a wooden bench, I no longer feel the will to go on. My eyes begin to slowly close; my mind for once shuts off. I suddenly can hear the soft sound of the ocean. I feel the calm of the sea, everything is still for once.  In my brief moment of solitude I know where I must go, where I can find peace. This calm however, does not persist. Soon I find myself screaming though no one is around to hear. My breath is shallow, my heart is racing but for a second I could breathe again. Breathe like how I had forgotten. But it didn’t last.  Once again I cannot inhale without the sounds of his moans, amplified by the force of my tears; I cannot exhale without screaming; without screaming, for help, or for mercy or for death.

I did not sleep that night, though I stopped walking. I remained awake as I waited for morning, trying not to think about him and what he has done to me. As the sun rises the campus puts on its mask. Kissed with light, the buildings feign a protective demeanour. But I know the truth. I know they do not care if I survive. Now bathed by the rays of sun, the grounds smile at me as I begin to move. The bushes once filled with the noise of demons now alive with the songs of birds to welcome the morning.  I am disgusted by the perfidy.

I swiftly make my way towards Irvine gate. I have decided to end it all. And I know where i must go.

 As it is early the bus stop is empty. I almost feel happy to not have to count the glares of strangers, just this once. I am excited to not see their stares in my death; Judging me for my defeat. A few minutes pass but I don’t have to wait for long. Soon my bus arrives. It is empty just as I like it.

As I step on the abandoned bus, the corpulent driver pays me no attention, as his chubby fingers take my fare. This suits me fine. I wish not be noticed. Now on the bus, I begin my journey downtown to the Jamaican epicentre of garbage both human and material. In the fallen city I hope to find a friend. Once a place full of the potential and passion of its people, it now stands in ruins, the joke of a country. The broken homes and dreams, are stained with the toxic of its reputation, as the city caricaturized for its vulgar vendors, try to sell rotten fruits and counterfeit goods to uninterested bystanders, their voices strained from speaking over the blaring sirens of the infamous police cars constantly patrolling the crime infested streets. Streets that overflow with trash as though it were a gallant river made of waste. It’s a tragedy I know well.  I too have fallen from grace.

My journey takes no time.  Comfortably seated in the deserted bus I dream of my death and soon I am in the heart of the rat hole. The place I have chosen to end my life. The morning sun is now out in full force. But I feel no warmth. My body is cold. It is already dead.  Around me I can hear the noise of the people; a different noise. It is the colourful sounds of the Jamaican patois, spoken by an amalgam of one face, spread across multiple bodies, blurred figures of unremarkable features, all haggard by a similar struggle.  For once they don’t mock me. They are concerned with their own battles. As I leave the bus. I immediately walk to my destination. I briefly close my eyes. I can hear the ocean.

As I make my way down the street, I am slightly taken aback by the madness of my surrounding, the clutter of the environment. Everyone seems to be out today trying to hustle; to make a living. If only they knew I would be leaving them today.  Not that I think they would care. Around me I watch the resident woman as they make their way through the crowds with ease. Their heads are covered and their tattered dresses sweep the sidewalk. As they glide down the walkway their steps are light and lyrical. It is clear they know the streets well , you see them glide over potholes, how they effortlessly follow the curvature of the street. They know the dips in the sidewalk, every crack is memorized. I am surprised by the fluidity of their movement on the busy road,  I am entertained by their dance as they dodge the discarded garbage and sewage water that ‘adorns’ the ill-treated roads; impressed with their untrained grace as they manoeuvre through the streets like ballerinas.

 I however do not know this dance and though impressed I cannot learn as I am distracted by the noises, and I trip over the cracks. I stumble at the collision with unexpected bends and find my feet covered by the sidewalk trash. There is too much going on around me. I am blinded by the revolving door of similar faces, their expressions all pained by some unknown torment. I am overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of the city, the loud colours of barely there clothing, on humans and mannequins alike that invade my vision. I am afraid of the men that linger on the street like a festering wound of the city. I feel my body flinch as they make their heinous sounds to get my attention; I can taste the poison from their lips as they call out to me.  I then remember him. I become terrified of all the hands I see around me. All dark and big. I imagine that he is here. That he can see me. I walk faster I must make my way to the sea.

I walk for about 10 minutes. The streets are long.

I am tired but now I can see the sea in front of me. I can smell the salt water.  I begin to run to my salvation. In the possibility of my death I feel strangely alive.  I want to be bothered that I’m that pathetic girl who was unable to overcome her attack, that I am that weak, pathetic girl, who could not take it. Who could not live! But I am too excited. Death feels so near.

Now in front of me I am enchanted by my hope of escape painted in a vivid blue. The closer I move I can see the reflection of sun rays as they glisten on the waves. Oh how I long to be one of those lights as it dances upon the sea! To be one of those hopes adrift that never has to touch the shore.  There is no happiness for me here on land. There is no air.  So I wish to be one with the water. I wish to add a voice to its lullaby as my voice held no power here on land. I long to jump beneath the waves, where I can breathe and die, and smile. I long to be free of his smell, to be cleansed of his sins, to discard the body I no longer own.

Lost in my thoughts I, unconsciously move towards the edge of the dock. In the distance I can hear the incomprehensible chatter of street women in patois. Their voices sound animated, alive, so unconcerned with me.  I am happy. I know if I jump they will see. But for once I do not care. I know if I scream they will hear. But I won’t. Not again. I no longer wish to scream, or cry, or live this half-life.

I know what I want.

Without a second thought I step off the edge.  For once I do not see his face. I only hear the ocean. I smile as I descend under the water.  

I close my eyes and I breathe.

By WerepupJeremy

We’re sitting there. 

Just my head on his shoulders, 

just my voice in his ears. 

Sharing everything. Absolutely everything,

as if for the first time my truths can breathe their own air. 

As if for once my shadows don’t seem so dark.

In that instant everything is right, 

and it’s just me and him and our truths

because when we’re this close there is no space for our usual lies,

 no room for doubt between our fingertips. 

Clasped tight; secure. 

No time for despair because all we have is now,

and now is perfect and now is fleeting. 

And now will never be again, so it can’t be wasted. 

And it’s just me and it’s just him and it’s just us. 

Happy. 

Stupidly happy as if we know no sadness 

Because in his arms he can’t hold both, 

and he chooses me over his daily demons and I choose him over giving up. 

I choose him to be happy. 

And so with just my voice in his ears, I tell him everything and smile.

Because now it doesn't seem so bad. The world doesn't seem so angry. 

And for once it’s just the way I want it. 

And he smiles, so I smile and we smile and just this once I know the joy of being heard, 

in this perfect and fleeting time I know what it’s like to be free.

And with time both perfect and fleeting I accept that it will end.

But for now I can smile, as he smiles, because for now it is mine. And I choose it. 

I choose this now.

If I could, I would choose this now forever.

By: WerepupJeremy

I just want to hold him. 

To feel his breath on my neck,

To have his hands in my own. 

I just want to be the pillow that he chooses to hug, 

To be the thought in which he chooses to linger,

just long enough to be that force, great enough to keep him at home, 

In my arms. Just for me.

Just for my eyes and my hands and my warmth 

and just... my time.

I just want to keep him here in my sight, 

away from the lights that sing to his soul,

 that make him wander and lure him into the night. 

Sirens’ calls that sink my heart in seas I dare not know.

Cause if he leaves he won’t return.

I just want to be the flavour,

with which he chooses to drench his lips.

Instead of the bottles that ignite his rage, 

Those full cups that blur his eyes

and make him forget. 

That I’m here and I’m whole and I’m his. 

I just want to be enough. 

The old love that outranks the young night,

A flame that glows greater than any new promise. 

There should be no fight.

I just want to hold him.

But now is not my turn.

By: WerepupJeremy

"Well you know what John? I really fucking hate you sometimes” she screams for the millionth time over the phone to ears that no longer care. In her small one bedroom apartment adorned only by a small circular mirror, a twin sized bed and a knee high wooden table with a bright blue plastic chair, all is still. Even as she paces angrily back and forth on her usually talkative floor boards there is not a single sound save for the quiet giggle on the other end of the phone, of a beast entertained; the frigid indifference of a man unphased. 

He knows she doesn't mean it. 

And she knows that she can’t. You see it’s only Tuesday but it’s their tenth fight this week and soon he’ll just suddenly hang up; like always, without saying a word, for the fourth time this week.  She knows he’ll find a way to blame her, he always does. He’ll tell her she did not deserve a goodbye or was worthy of the chance for resolution, entitled to the common courtesy of a warning that their conversation was about to end. But then again, she’s never deserving of a goodbye, never worthy of the chance to win or to explain or of any chance at all.  Why should today be any different?

As the call goes dead like her room for the fourth time this week, she feels a type of muffled anger, a mute frustration unable to be spoken. In the midst of her tiny apartment her thoughts begin to attack her body like an avalanche. She is suddenly surrounded by the decisions she needs to make to save herself but plagued by the inability to move forward. She finds herself looking at the phone, wanting to call him back. She wants to scream and yell then apologize. She always ends up apologizing. But she knows she must not call. She knows she must stay strong, if just for once. Suddenly In the silence of her mental torment she almost laughs, “Strong? What do I know about strong? “ she says aloud to an audience that can’t answer. She feels embarrassed. She knows she is weak. In her own tiny apartment, adorned only by a circular mirror, a twin sized bed and a wooden knee high table with a bright blue plastic chair, she knows she has lost. After all she isn’t ‘worthy’ of winning.

In the circular mirror, she does not recognise the stranger staring back. Her bright almost green, hazel eyes now appear gray and dull. Her once smooth skin now feels rough and haggard; tarnished by the elements she has let into her life. Her kinky brown curls that once sprung with life are now limp and defeated; sitting on top of her head like dirt clinging to a rock. She can’t see the girl she once was three years ago before John came and destroyed her very being. The girl she was before she let him ‘win’. She no longer feels real, as though she is a real person, worthy of respect or love but instead a woman made from stone. A statue no longer cared for, a model frozen in time until it’s time for her to break; every scar on her heart, a new crack on her surface. She feels trapped in a body he has created, a body that he has shaped then loved and now discards. She is not her own person. 

Then again she doesn’t deserve to be her own person.

The reality soon becomes too much for her. She can’t breathe. Her tiny apartment now feels even smaller, her twin sized bed now a reservoir of unwanted memories. She cannot stay in here, not now. She starts to gasp as she feels the air being raped from her lungs, the energy being strangled from her spirit. She runs out of her building, unsure of whether to scream or cry, her breaths are shallow and fast. Her heart beat is echoing throughout her stone body.

She soon stops running. She is now outside. She can now breathe. She hopes that now she can think. It’s dark, and she doesn’t know the exact time, probably around that time when it’s so late that it’s early. She notices now that she has left her phone, not that it matters, he won’t call anyway. She doesn’t know where she is, her college campus much like the world can seem so big when one is lost. She is disoriented and alone but still she feels an eerie sense of calm, a type of comradry with the night. In the darkness she feels cloaked; hidden from the cruelties that stain her life. She decides to walk straight. Any direction will do.

In the midst of the darkened campus she is unable to specify where she is. Every building seems foreign and every shadow unfamiliar. The quiet whispers of her bare feet on the pavement sound new and undiscovered. She likes this type of lost. The cold wind gently kisses her cheek, and playfully ruffles her hair. Her curls feel alive again, if only for a second. She begins to embrace the night as she steps forward, becoming bolder in her stride. It is too dark for her to see too far in front of her but the security of the night gives her the confidence to proceed. She feels safe. In the middle of the campus she now explores, she forgets the judgement of her knee high wooden table as she ignores her work to ‘save’ her relationship, she forgets the mocking of her floorboard as she paces back and forth begging John to forgive her. In the midst of darkness she can be free of her own regret; absolved of her petty sins.

She continues to walk straight with no destination in mind, when in a moment she feels pain spring throughout her body like a town under siege. She looks down and sees that her bare foot has collided with a rock; a stupid, normal, ordinary rock. She didn’t even see it coming. In an instant she is on the floor, succumbing to the pain of her throbbing foot. She has lost again. In a jolt she has returned to reality. She knows where she is. She remembers why she’s there, why she left her apartment. She sees his face in her mind. It is angular, beautiful but so far away. His small, brown eyes look cold and distant. She can feel the disdain of his tense brow, piercing through her stone chest; another scar, another crack. She hates him. She wants to hate him. Why can’t she allow herself to hate him? She feels angry, at herself, and at him. And at the stupid rock; that stupid, normal, ordinary rock that she didn’t see coming. That stupid, normal, ordinary rock that now has made her collapse on the floor.  That rock that made her lose again.

She can’t take it! 

She can feel the once foreign buildings start to laugh at her defeat. She can feel the heat from within her as her face begins to glow in a bright red, her gray eyes melted by the steam of her own frustration. She gets up, and grabs the rock. She feels the rough edges that feel akin to the harsh texture of her once smooth skin. She knows what she must do.

She starts to walk left. Though she is limping her steps have purpose as in her right hand she carries the rock made light by the dreams of her future revenge, the opponent that had defeated her now her weapon for victory.  In a few minutes she somehow manages to walk the entire width of the campus. Now nearing the halls of residence, the sun is beginning to rise. In front of her, there now stands a large green building stirring with noises. The demons within are now well rested, their troubles fed, ready to take on the day. On the ground floor just inches in front of her, is a window. 

Through the window she sees a shadow. She knows it. Though not brought to light, she can see his angular face; she can picture his small brown eyes, his tense brow, piercing through her stone chest. She is the portrait of a woman scorned, her eyes on fire. She wants him to pay. She looks at the stone, and then at the shadow and smiles. She knows what she must do. She takes it and throws it at window, her aim flawless. From her safe distance she hears the sounds of broken glass, the loud and melodic trickling of shards on the ground, the frightened scream of a man unprepared.

She did it but she is unsatisfied.  She wants to feel powerful, like she has won. But there is no relief in her revenge, no salvation in her victory. She knows her damage is only material. 

She can only shatter his window because she cannot shatter his heart.

By: Werepupjeremy

“Now out with it!” says Matt with a smile. Michael smiles back. It is more subtle than Matt’s but special, more rare.  Perhaps even more beautiful. 

“Oh shut up Matt,” replies Michael as he playfully pushes his friend. Michael is strong, and though he only gently pushes Matt, the taller boy immediately loses his balance. This makes us both smile. I can see the stronger boy staring at his friend, unflinching but secretive. Matt doesn’t see it but I do.  He then begins to tell his friend the full story.

“Okay so I know you won’t, but please don’t go around telling this to everybody.”

“I won’t bro, you know me!”

“Yeah that the problem.”

“You little bitch; you better start this story before I kick your ass”

“I’m sure,” replies Michael with a sly smile. “Anyway” he continues, “ so she came over the other day and she was clearly down to fuck, I mean as soon as she came in she was legit taking off her clothes”

“Damn, I told you she wanted some dick!”

“Like real shit, she even wore her good weave!”

At this point both boys collapse into earth shaking laughter, causing the trees to dance in empathy. This is clearly an inside joke. I feel excluded though I have no right to. I feign a smile, though no one can see. Once the laughter has subsided, Michael continues.

“So she’s basically naked and I’m just there. So she walks over and starts taking off my clothes.”

“

Whoa, you’re so lucky” replies Matt, his face alive. Michael however looks detached. He didn’t look like he felt very ‘lucky ‘to me. 

“Yeah, so lucky” Michael replies after a short pause but his voice is soft and doubtful. He doesn’t sound like he’s very lucky at all. Matt does not even notice. 

“So when does it go bad, cause so far this sounds fucking amazing” he says unable to hide his total excitement.

“Ha! We’ll get there man.”

“Well hurry up cause this shit is legit getting me hard.” As Matt says this he grabs the crotch of his tattered dark blue jeans. I see Michael slightly raise his eyebrows. He is either surprised or excited. He moves closer to his friend. His back is straight; his eyes focused on his friend’s pants. I see the tip of his tongue. He looks excited.

“So go on,” continues Matt, catching his friend off guard.

“Huh?”  says Michael surprised, his  trance broken.

“The story” Matt replies.

“Oh!” says Michael as he shakes his head to regain his focus. Once again Matt doesn’t notice but I do.

“So she moves in and takes off my shirt. She’s rubbing her hands on my chest. She says she likes my muscles. Then she starts to kiss me.  She smells really feminine, like strawberries and cake. It’s a sweet kind of smell.”  As he speaks Matt’s face is enthused but Michael’s voice is unimpressed.

“Mmm” says Matt “I love that shit!”

“It’s okay I guess. It’s too sweet. There’s no grit. No strength.”

“You’re crazy, what do you prefer, she smell like me?”

In response Michael smiles, I think he would prefer that.

“Oh shut up man!” he says with a forced laugh. He continues “so we’re making out and she feels soft, too delicate; her body is too small.” As he talks he closes his eyes and moves his hands; embracing the air in circular motions as he’s trying to make sense of his words. Trying to figure out why they all sound so wrong. Matt doesn’t notice. He thinks they’re all compliments. To him they sound perfect. Everything sounds right. But it’s not. Not to Michael. I want to offer him a hand, to pull him into my fortress where I can understand. Where I can tell him he makes perfect sense. But I can’t. Not right now. He doesn’t know that I am here.

Michael continues “she starts to take off my pants, I push her back, tell her maybe we should stop.”

“Are you crazy?!”

“I don’t know. Something just felt off, but she didn't care, she came back tugging at them, trying to feel up my junk, but,," he makes a slight pause,  "there was nothing to feel, I wasn’t, you know, she doesn’t make me....... excited. So I just pushed her off”

Matt looks incredulous, he can’t believe his ears. Michael looks ashamed, wounded, his sad silver eyes facing the ground.

“Maybe you don’t like dark skin girls?” offers Matt as an excuse, a getaway. “Maybe you want one of your own kind.” He says this humorously but it’s ill-timed. It’s not what Michael wants to hear.

“I don’t know. It just wasn’t. I don’t know. It was wrong.”

“WRONG!?” replies Matt, his big eyes popping out of his head.

“Yeah just wrong” replies Michael almost inaudibly. “Can we drop it please?” Michael looks like he is in pain, his stance has collapsed. He is hunched over like his body is aching. His soft voice now almost a whisper  as though it is draining him to even speak. His friend looks concerned though I feel he doesn’t fully understand. I am concerned. I want to help, to offer comfort but I can’t. 

I see Matt move closer to him, opening his arms to hug his fallen comrade. The trees no longer appear glistening in the moon light, they are hues of dark green and blues, the stones no longer moon-kissed but shunned by the shadow of the night. It is quiet. But a different kind of quiet. The kind of quiet when you’ve said too much, when you’ve shown too much soul or shared too much truth that you feel naked.  Exposed.

It is quiet, but it is right. In his friends embrace I see Michael smile. Though the bigger of the two he is folded perfectly into Matt’s long arms, comfortable in his shelter as I am in my castle of bark and vines. Matt’s warm breath, his welcoming branches.  I see Michael sigh, a good sigh, one of relief.

Matt doesn’t notice but I do.

Matt soon breaks the hug. Michael isn’t ready for it to end though he lets the other boy go his separate way. 

“She’s a bitch anyway,” says Matt, “So don’t even worry about her and she’s way too vain, so don’t worry about her telling anyone.”

“I guess” replies Michael. He seems almost unconcerned. I think he just wanted a longer hug.

“Don’t even think about that bitch anymore, Mike!” ,Michael smiles. He likes when Matt calls him Mike. I smile because I like it too. “There will be tons of other girls, especially for a little stud like you. You’ll get them next time.” Matt is beaming, his confident smile illuminating the dark road. Michael is less happy. That is not what he wanted to hear. He doesn’t want there to be other girls. He just wants Matt. But he can’t say that, not now. So he forces a weak smile, which though sad it is still perfect. At least to me.  I see him look at the ground, and shake his head as if to abolish what ever thought was in there. He just stares vacantly at the old, abandoned road and soon says, “Yeah, next time.”

The road again is now silent, neither boy is talking. I see Michael look at his silver watch. He makes a sort of surprised face. I assume it’s later than he thought. I see him lean over on Matt to show him the time. His lean is just close enough to subtly brush his shoulders. I smile. I knew he wanted a longer hug. With the realization of the time and their conversation done, they start to move again to walk back into their normal lives. As they leave I want to emerge from the bushes, to stretch out my hand and pull Michael into my fortress. Among the trees and vine I want to offer him comfort, to make him feel safe. But I don’t. I can’t. Though I have become so involved, he is not my friend. He doesn’t even know that I am here. So I have to watch him leave, unprotected. I can’t intervene. I can't rescue him from his shame. I can’t protect him from his own heartbreak.

Not right now. Maybe next time.

-WerepupJeremy

I can hear them coming as their voices swing from tree to tree, their presence vibrating through the branches of my palace walls, disturbing the crisp, clean silence of my secret hideaway.  Upon my sylvan throne, I look out into the empty road, a forgotten pathway crowned by silver rocks and moon-kissed stone, made sacred by its neglect. After three years away, not much has remained the same in my ‘little’ town. The place I had been born had grown up in my absence and all around me now stood a town ‘renewed’ by the menace of man, ‘refreshed’ by the lies of the new and mechanised.  Fields became factories as once open spaces gave birth to businesses and buzz rendering every memory of this space in a time I knew now irrelevant.  Only this abandoned road seemed unable to remove the trace of my childhood. Unable to be cleansed of a past I had known and lived, in a land forcing me to forget. Beside this road, where I now sit, stands a fortress of green and dark blues; a castle of dead trees and vines, fallen spirits and broken dreams frozen in time. A space both asleep and awake, void of the torments of industrialized hands. In the midst of this untouched jungle, this untamed bush,  I am cradled in the arms of my protectors, safe behind the barriers of the familiar ‘prick’ of rough branches, reminding me they’re always there. Here, I can be safe. I can be alone. But not tonight.

Tonight I can hear them coming as their voices swing from tree to tree, their presence vibrating through the branches of my palace walls as their unknown voices fill this space, my space, with the wretched uncertainty of the unfamiliar. As they approach the once abandoned road they cannot see me and I can barely see them, but at least I know they are here. In the darkness of the September night, mortals morph into shadows, as I can only see their opaque outline making their way down this once sacred ground. I do not recognize the voices, maybe I would have three years ago when they were boys, but now I only the see the shadows of men, only hear the deep bass of voices laced with strength and life. I try to imagine faces of people I had known, try to match these mysterious tones with the squeals of neighbourhood youths, playing football on a Sunday afternoon, running wild in their ignorance. But I am unsuccessful. Like their bodies I am unable to bring to light the names of these intruders that now dare trespass on my property, that defile my hidden treasure. 

I reposition myself, ascending slightly, quietly off my throne of bark and branches; my siege, enthroned by dried leaves and vines with which I find comfort, to be closer to my uninvited guests.  As I lean forward, the shadows become more defined. Now just slightly before me I can see that the first stranger is tall and slender, his steps gallant and long while the other is shorter and wider, his steps mimicking his frame.  As they walk their backs are turned to me, I am unable to see their faces. I want to ignore these unknown men, to wait silently for their noise to pass but now they are no longer moving. They have stopped. I begin to wonder why they have chosen to stop here. Why in a town now designed to satisfy the needs of modern man, they have decided to escape to a place so undisturbed by the sins of their fathers? I am curious, so I listen.

“Will you just fucking tell me what happened last night man,” I hear the taller intruder say, his voice alive with excitement. He wants to know. I now want to know as well.

“Will you just drop it,” replies the second stranger his tone more reserved, diffident.

“Will you just cut the shit. You’re going to tell me anyway, so stop being such a pussy,” I hear the first stranger respond; his voice is assertive and strong. His companion doesn’t answer; the words sting. Without seeing his face I know his pride has been wounded.  I, though I have no right to, also feel shaken. There is now a silence, the eerie kind of silence like at an extravagant dinner party when someone has decided to say something taboo and all those in attendance can only carry on with their meals as though they hadn’t heard, leaving only their silver knives to quietly bang against glass plates.  It is this kind of silence. Suddenly their voices no longer tremble through my kingdom, leaving only the gentle wind to quietly rustle the leaves of listening trees made silver in the moonlight.

In the silence of his errors he notices his wrongs, I see him move closer to his supposed friend, placing his arm around his companion either to patronize or pacify, I don’t know which. “I’m just kidding bro, you know I can be an ass. Just tell me… please?” I hear the tall stranger say to his other half, his tone sincere and sweet.  His ‘please’ springing from his lips like a stream of milk and honey. Even I would tell him now.

The second intruder agrees, he seems revived, I cannot see his face but I can feel his smile. “Fine,” he says, pretending to be annoyed. I can tell he now wants to share. “So” he continues, making a slight pause to look around for unwanted ears but he does not see me, “she just came over last night and hung out man.”

“Like I told you she would!”

“

Yes Matt, like you told me she would, “ replies the second boy dismissively. Matt (as I now know he’s called) however seems undisturbed. He is excited, his darkened frame jumping up and down.

‘So she came over and we were on my bed, and we just talked and stuff, so it’s like no big deal man, so can we drop this now?’ says the unnamed boy. He speaks quickly and softly. His words seem shallow and empty.  But it is clear something happened, at least to me, though he wishes not to say anymore.

At this point I become too invested. I am too involved; I begin to paint their faces in my mind with the tone of their voices. I imagine Matt’s strong jaw and big, bright brown eyes. I can see his pink, full lips and his perfect, white teeth. But most importantly I can see his smile, his wide beautiful smile, so unconcerned with insecurity and doubt. The unnamed boy however is harder to picture, in my mind I see a slur of petite features, small unremarkable eyes, and thin, dead lips. He is neither handsome nor exciting, not like Matt, but he fascinates me more. I want to know what happened.

My attention is turned back to my guests. I can see that Matt wants to know more too. I see him inch closer to his unnamed friend. I can imagine his large brown eyes in a glare, his strong brow furrowed, as if he is looking into his friend’s soul.

“You and your constant bull shit bout ’talk’ I know something happened so just tell me!”  Matt has a forceful way of speaking. Without raising his voice his words are firm and authoritative, his presence is commanding. I don’t see how his unnamed friend can resist.

He can’t. 

He is hesitant but he can’t. I feel the space go quiet but this silence is different. It is more like the calm before the storm.  I see the unnamed stranger lift his head as if he is about to speak, but I don’t hear any words.  I see him walk slowly away from his friend, close to my hiding spot. I am hidden but concerned. What if he sees me? Holding my breath I now watch more cautiously in case I need to make my get away.  With just a few steps the muscular boy is now directly in front of me.  From his new angle I can see the natural blond streaks in his thick black hair reflecting the silver rays of the crescent moon.  I can hear his deep breaths, uneven but rhythmic. I can feel his unspoken shame, his soul searching for a voice to tell his friend, to tell himself, to unknowingly tell me but his body demurs.  His strong shoulders shrug, his head gently bobs from side to side as he runs his large hands through his multi-toned hair. He makes a sort of secret exclamation which though he is so close to me I am unable to hear.  With this he begins to walk back to his friend, his steps short and wide; his light brown boat shoes ever so slightly kicking up the silver dirt of my sacred road. But I do not mind. I want to help him. I want to make him feel safe. I want to grab his hand and pull him into my fortress. But I can’t.  Not right now. He doesn’t even know that I am here.

He walks over to Matt, his frame bent, defeated. He quietly mutters “shit.”  Matt doesn’t hear but I do.

“It isn’t really a fun story man,” he finally says, his head facing the ground.

“Come on Michael, I’m not here to judge you bro,” says Matt, his voice warm and comforting. 

Now that I know Michael’s name I feel like I can truly greet my guests.  I have become too invested. I am too involved.

“So just tell me bitch,” Matt finishes. His tone is light. Michael chuckles. It is sad but hopeful. I see Matt playfully punch his friend. It makes me happy though I don’t know why. If I were Michael I would tell him now....

-WerepupJeremy