J3RKO

(Highly Commended - Newcastle Herald Short Story Competition 2026)

The ghost of your burner’s still here, bro. Top right corner at Queens Wharf, under a Wilko cap. Wilko will never be more than a toy; thinking he can cap your tag with the courage of a street feral marking a power pole when the big dog’s out of sight. Word is Wilko got rolled the other day spraying a nightclub door. Thought you’d like to hear that. Tash reckons he was being paid to do it by another club owner.

Whoever said life in Newcastle was hard? Life’s sweet here so long as you’ve got coin.

I was thinking about Station Street the other day. You remember when we bombed those walls? Nobody could walk to the interchange without tripping over your ego. We crushed every surface in reach and ran out of cans before the end. Always gave respect. Never capped a good piece already there.

And all those trains. Walls of grey stretching further than we could be bothered walking. On the train day you became a legend.

But there’s one night that won’t let go. The bridge tunnel behind the servo. Full moon, echoey as hell, and that copper stink rising off the Hunter River from the west. You were working a chrome and black outline, big wildstyle, and the hiss of your can was the only thing breaking the silence. I remember the way you shook the tin, little tap-tap-tap, like a ritual. You said the wall had to earn it.

I was new and shaking a bit from the cold or the nerves. Sirens drifted in from Hamilton, faint and distant. Smirking like the god who stole fire, you said to me, ‘Don’t paint scared. Paint loud.’

And then you did. Big colour burst across busted brick, heart pounding, stinking of aerosol and adrenaline. Somewhere behind us, a train screamed past. You didn’t even flinch. You never said it, but I think you were scared that night. Not of getting caught but of being forgotten.

Or that time the cops caught us drinking in the park. The others stayed frozen on the ground, while the dogs shot past, too busy chasing us. Fox chases the rabbits and ignores the sitting does.

We should never have stopped running. Sometimes I think we didn’t. I can still feel that iron grip on my pants and the smack to the back of the knees. You and me staring at each other, expecting any minute they’d whale into us with their sticks.

St@xxx told us it’s a golden rule that you don’t run. But you and me, we’re maze runners.

And now St@xxx has gone too. Said her mum’s been crook, and her brother’s working out west. She’s back in Raymo. Before she left, she gave me a stick of skunk and kissed me with second-hand McDonalds. At least I got to see her go, unlike you.

Haven’t seen your sister in months. She used to ride past here on her way to TAFE, always with that same chipped helmet and a busted pink milk crate on the back. I keep half-thinking I’ll see her pedal past, head down, pretending not to know me.

Here’s the Stockton Ferry cutting slow across the harbour like always. It smells like salt and rust and wet rope. Seagulls scream at each other like they’ve got something worth fighting over. A couple of kids are skating down near the benches; wheels clack over the gaps in the old timber boards. Across there’s someone tagging the bin with a white-out pen, slow and scratchy. It’s not yours, but it’s something.

I ran my fingers over your tag earlier. The wall’s rough as always, salt-stung and blistered. Your letters are fading, but they’re still loud. Chrome cracking in the corners, ghosting behind the black line like a halo.

I stood there longer than I meant to. Hand on brick, feeling dumb, like I was waiting for you to say something.

You should’ve been here.

I keep thinking if I stay in the right spot, or if I tag something loud enough, you’ll come back. Like maybe I never heard the real story. Like maybe you’re still out there somewhere, laughing behind a mask and waiting to see who’s loyal.

But I know better.

That wall’s cold, and you’re gone.

Do you remember my first full burner? I was shaking like hell. You stood behind me, steadying my hand while I filled the red. Said my lines were garbage but my colours had heart. You fixed the outline without even asking. I pretended to be pissed off but I was stoked. That wall stayed up for weeks. I went past it every day like it was a mirror.

Things are different now. They paint murals with council funding and QR codes in the corner. The same walls, but with smiling faces and corporate logos and safety ladders. Even the old writers are selling books, giving talks at libraries. Tash says it’s progress. Maybe it is. Maybe we won. Doesn’t feel like it. You’d’ve called it wall cosplay.

Wherever you’ve gone, bro, I wanted you to know it’s not the same without you.

We’re at the reserve tonight, in memory of J3RKO the great. There’ll be a few of us. The real ones, the old heads, and maybe a couple of new kids who’ve only seen your tag on stickers. No cans, just beats. No speeches. No flyers. Lowkey, just the way you would’ve wanted it. Tash will bring a speaker and that jungle mix you used to love. St@xxx messaged. Says she wishes she was here. Even Wilko messaged, weirdly. Said he ‘respects the scene’. Don’t worry, I left him on read.

I’ll take a silver can. Might not even use it. Just want to hear it rattle. That sound you loved. Like something trapped in the can, clawing to get out.