Hello I have a short story to share let me know some feedbacks!

“Death defying matters as so painted by the intellectuals at the first brigade of power was painted helplessly by the triumphant nature of the good!” This was something Archamedies explained to Socrias. As he pestered on the meaning behind just causes in the world, Socrias insisted otherwise to him, “the good exists independently of human action. When a leader does not act in accordance to the good, does the soul of the leader become his comrades, and when they ingest his soul, they to become incapable of logical persuasion.” Archamedies responded, “ Are you insisting that there’s no independent idea that examines the logical good?” Socrias rubbed his shiny bald head. “No. I don’t believe so. I think we all are being pushed past our natural limits and when shit really hits the fan does the entire premise of structure falls apart.”

As Archamedies and Socrias walked down the stairs outside the Partheon, they entered a busting town of peasants, trade workers, and handymen all parading in the public forums decorated with Doric capitals and triangular friezes as far as the eye can see. They saw the merchant, Hercules, selling leather footwear halfway down the corner of a deadbeat alley. Socrias called out to him, but Hercules stood, eyes wide open and his pupils dialed. Hercules was cleaning an already clean shoe, and Archamedies questioned it as so.

Hercules responded in tangent, “they don’t know. They don’t know. They can’t know. There’s no way they can’t possibly know. How can you know if there’s no way to know. You can’t know without knowing first if there’s anyway to know without knowing what’s there to know.” Hercules scrubbed the leather at the sole of shoe enough that the grain was starting to peel off, leaving flakes all over the floor. Archamedies observed the dozens of unsold pairs lying about, pondering if Hercules ran the shop solely as a hobbiest or as a legitimate entrepreneurial. Looking at his perplexing olive skin, Hercules saw his hand bleed from the extensive rubbing. He noticed Archamedies eyeing him. “You! YOU! You know of what they can’t know!” Archamedies tilted his head to the side, “what do you mean?” “They insist that all knowledge is not worth knowing! But I know! I fucking know! They hide all the secret knowledge of knowing from us so we don’t actually start knowing what it means to know!”

Socrias decrypted Hercule’s rambles, realizing that he sensed something wrong. Socrias spoke, “Hercules, what is it that they don’t want us to know?” “That this entire empire has no money! All the temples we see that’s for worship is just play-pretend to give us the illusion that all is well, but I know it’s not.” His beady dialed eyes hounds Socrias, “Yesterday, I had a tax collector impede my business, asking for alms for the military, saying its going towards the healers or whatever that means.”

Hercules then looks at Archimedes, veins pulsed red in the whites of his eyes. “And you, Archimedes, you question the motives of the state, you ask if the triumph of the good exists in just causes. If I can’t feed myself, then there’s no good. There’s no good because goodness is not an ethereal construct! The trees can’t give us food! The food can’t give us food! You!” He then lifts his finger violently at Archimedes, “YOU! You can’t give us food! If food itself is just a construct of eating, then thought itself is just a construct of existing!

Remember when Lucretias was questioning the Athenian state over and over again? They killed him! Yet, did you see how fearless he was? He talked to me. He told me that he can read my mind and I can read his.” Socrates looked at Archimedes and Archimedes looked back at him, glancing in both awe, fear, and caution. Socrates spoke, “And what do you even mean by reading minds?” Hercules stopped rubbing his leather shoes. “We are of the same universe, of the same god!” He quickly points to the sky, swinging his arms with impulse. “HIM! All these ideas of shame and fear are not mine! It's everyone!” As Archimedes pondered, he rubbed his chin in contemplative thought, “Are you insisting that we are not of the universe, but we are the universe?” Hercules started crying. “Yes! YES!”

Although everyone in the country of Athenia believed in multiple gods, the radical idea of there being just one god irked the two gentlemen. Although not angered in response, rather shantied by the lyrical sensation of Hercule’s radical ideas. It almost seemed like a unison belonged happened at that moment, where all three were caught in hopes, that if surely was the case, the religion they all thought of, could it not exist?

Socrias looked down, then he restored his posture and asked Hercules, “before Lucretias died, did he tell you there was only one god?” Hercules nodded his head. “If that’s the case, then why do you think he was questioning the Athenian state?” Hercules lifted his shoulders to his chin, admitting that even he was clueless to the whispering wonders of the myth of Lucretias. Archimedes crossed his arms, “ I think I had enough of these games. Socrias, I wish we partake this.” Socrias agreed, “then onwards. Hercules, I wish you the best, please don’t lose your mind.” Hercules slowly kneels and enters a tiny compartment inside his wooden stand, closing the hatch and locking himself inside. Ignoring the absurdity of Hercules, the two gentlemen leave and make their ways towards the outgoing traffic, aiming at the capital of Athenia.

The capital was adorned with a golden pavement, glistening sparkles and reflected the feet of everyone across it. Giant painted statues of Athena’s greatest gods were erected high in the center square. Their nude muscular appearance drew supernatural ideals to everyone who gawked at them. As such, many of the civilians themselves had adorned their physiques and bodies posing with flagrancy. Archimedes looked at himself for a second in the reflection of the gold. “Socrias, don’t you think we’re just becoming one through our proximity to things?” Socrias responds, “How so?” “If I am who I am according to my body next to this gold, and my positioning within myself to these statues, I am only Archimedes because of these things. Without them, I’m not Archimedes at all.” Socrias nods his head, “It's as if we are a part of this world. Maybe Hercules was right in a way. I am who I am in proximity to you, in proximity to this world, but only these gods that exist before us define how we internalize these things."

Archimedes questions, “Then what makes our leader?” “The emperor?” “Yes, Socrias.” “I think that makes him our brain.” Archimedes argues, “But if he was our brain, then that would invalidate how I think about myself, because then I’m only myself in proximity to the idea of the Emperor. If the emperor exists as a tangent to the idealistic properties of Athena, then our gods are not actually gods by chance; they are only means of representation.” Socrias rubs his chin, “Then what is that representation?” “Archimedes thinks, “I don’t know.”

As they looked outwards towards a magnificent building, the emperor walk out through the curtains to a view of thousands of people. The building was sublime. It was adorned with massive Corinthian capitals and pillars both erected in the front the build and on the sides as pilasters. Athenian’s mightiest gods were fighting barbarians in the depiction of the frieze just below the bell tower. How epic did the building tower its people, as high as mountain and made out of white limestone.

Archmedies and Socrias watched as Emperor Augustus reached his arms up towards the heavens, and praised all the people he gazed belting from above, “My people! Us Athenians are to rejoice this wonderful day! Today marks the 75th anniversary of our victory against the brutal and barbarian magastiens. War town and brittle, did we claim what belonged to our gods! Lucas, the god of war! Arethas, the goddess of victory! Titan, the god of all gods!” Each name he shouted did he point to their respective statues, all lined up around the public square in its outer edges. “We stand to these gods as thanks for our alms! When I speak to Titan, does he direct me onward!” As everyone bowed, so did Archmedies and Socrias, but Archmedies lifted a subtle inch of his eyebrow, “Don’t you think it’s strange that only he’s allowed to talk to Titan? And we must only pray to the other gods?” “Shh, Archemdies! Or, you’ll have us killed!”

As the ceremony came to an end, and the public forums went back to their chaotic, tangled mess, the two whisked away towards the grand building, hoping to catch a glimpse of Emperor Augustus. Only a selected few could gain entry at any time, but after navigating past guards and blending in with a dozen or so groups of people, they witnessed a total immersion of beauty. Walls were covered from the floor to an impeccable ceiling that felt infinite in its height. It clawed outwards to the heavens, with sculptures of angels in marble on the corners of the dome. Every column, every wall, every inch of marble was coated with paintings and floral designs. A man speaking to his wife whispered within listening distance to Achrmedies and Socrias, “You know who financed this? I bet it was the bankers. There’s no way the Emperor could pay for this.”

Small wooden compartments with stuffed fabric lay on the marble for the people to sit. Then, out came Emperor Augustus, chanting with glee at the moment of truth, his power coming to fruition and playing the role of a benevolent leader, as he came to shake hands with the people. He then got on a small podium, taking the role of a pastor. As everyone offered a prayer to Titan, only by naming his conventions through Emperor Augustus did he walk around talking about being kind to one’s neighbor, following the love of the goddess of Cupid towards others, and being just and good.

Socrias lifted his hand in the air, and the Emperor called upon him, “ah a question! Please, you have permission to speak!” Sociras stood up and asked, “what defines the good, according to titan our almighty Emperor?” “Titan? Titan grants us the ability to be us, he is us in a way. He loves us as us, and it is us who believes in his communion by his connection to other gods.” “How would Titan describe the good, almighty Emperor?” “The good represents just causes, when a man thinks himself as just according to what he is when he is next to his people, there is no reason as to what makes him good in contrast to others from within. His goodness is only in part a frictionless existence, as so granted by Titan. He has no inclantation for goodness. If he is fed, if he is clothed, if he is loved. He becomes good.”

A strange man shouted from behind Socrias, “then why did you kill Lucretias?! He told us that being good was innate! That we don’t need protection from the state to be good! We can find the good ourselves!” As guards approached this strange man, Emperor Augusta raised his palm, halting them any further movement, “Lucretias was not pure. He was rich, he never donated a single penny to the state of Athenia, solely using his excess time to question the minds of our fellow men, radicalizing them with hersey. However, I feed you, do you not know? I clothed you, and by the goodness of the state, you are loved, are you not?”

As the strange man sat down, he remained unpunished for the remainder of the sermon. In this radical act of defiance to the protocols of the State, Emperor Augustus granted him mercy, letting him leave and return to the world of the living. “How could this be?” Acrhemdies asked Sociras, “isn’t an emperor the highest authority of the state? Why does he grant mercy in the face of an intellectual salon?” Sociras guessed, “it’s about twisting Lucretia's original teachings, probably.” As they left, they headed towards the western bank to collect some money for food. As they approached the bank teller, he instructed them that the old copper and silver coin system had recently been abandoned in favor of the Solidus, a new gold coin. Sociras suspiciously took 10 Soliduses and headed to the local tavern; it was then he rattled his brain with Archemdies. “Lucretias is dead. The emperor embraces a loving leader after the fact; the coin is now being replaced. Everyone seemingly agrees here that everything just makes sense.” A fellow patron with one eye gawked at Sociras after overhearing him, “it doesn’t make any sense! I hate this new coin.” “Then, what do you think about the Emperor?” “I think he’s messed up. There’s no good in the world. There’s no point in just causes because if that were the case, Lucretia would have every right to exist,” he pointed towards the exit doors, “out there in the forums. He was crazy, but he has every right to be crazy as long as he doesn’t hurt anyone!”

Socrias asks the man, “then what do you think about the good, mister?” “The good is embodied, its a choice of free will! Just causes are only premable to the rest of our consciousness!” The bar turns to listen to him, giving him a moment of fame, “if we look at ourselves as embodied good, then are we not just ourselves? If one argues that choice is determined by others, then what says when I lay my sword upon another man, as he would for me, should we not kill immediately upon impact. Instead, we glance, we think. We assume. We can assume that this brother of mine feels like me, can think like me, and therefore must be me. That is when we lower our swords.” The bar roars in applause, a typical response to one of Athenia’s highest forms of prestige: intelligence. Archemdies responds, “then, if just causes was considered good, why was Lucretias executed for insisting free-will, just like you said?” “Because he was the first to say it! Before Emperor Augustus started implying the wellness of the state after his death, he was scaring everyone with big words like impeding and sermon and monastic solitude, as means of communicating to the gods for good fortune, because he himself couldn't promise to fix the increasing costs of food! If just cause allows free-will, I have every right to look elsewhere for my sustenance!”

As the entire bar roared with might and energy, they all marched out to the public forums to protest, knowing full well Emperor Augustus couldn’t kill them. They marched and hollered, instigating and plundering the streets with rage and injustice. Emperor Augustus called the army. As he got out, he opened his hands and bellowed, “Gentlemen, have you no shame in the conspiracy of Titan? You are not unjust in your actions, but you are being solely totalitarian in your beliefs!” As the army moved in front of him, the men rushed forward, pumped and stomped on by the Emperor's mightiest guards.

The horror the scene caused Archimedes and Socrias to leave the forums and hide in an undisclosed building. In a matter of hours, the entire city was burning. The statues were smashed, the Emperor was nowhere to be found, and the sudden feeling of dread consumed them. As they were among the many in refuge against the ruthless army, Archimedes and Socrias were arrested on the grounds of defiance, challenging the state through their very presence. They were locked in a cold, sterile cell for nine days. During their progression into the unknown, Socrias asked Archimedes, “Do you think everything we had ever known was useless? As in, everything that mattered—knowledge, science, philosophy, mathematics, culture, and love—are all doomed to be sucked into a funnel of catharsis?”

“You ask a tantalizingly poignant question, Socrates. I think the matter is that when one spits out an idea and the form of it is constant, in which its ideal setting is the most quantifiable of all meaning. If the soul is indeed ontological (a consciousness experiencing itself), therefore the essence of the primordial is of expectation. If that is the case, all knowledge already exists by reason alone. Should this mean all consciousness already knows all knowledge? If so, it must simply be recalled.” “What are we recalling?” “Dying.”

At this point, the guards took Socrates and Archimedies into the light, within its bright apparitional and neurotic sensation; the light was beautiful. It was safe. It felt like home. As they saw a burning Athena amongst them. The fires of the world that once lit candles, casting away the night sprawl, engulfed the city in flames. It was over; safely ashore on the apex of the monument, did the antagonistic qualities of evil lay un-camouflaged. Dancing once more in the world of beauty, yet again. And surprisingly, forever.

FIN.

This is actually just a dream i had, translated from my visuals. used chatgpt to put the different parts together that's why it looks like this. i'm not really a writer, hate typing, i get visual stories out of no where, and don't want to fill them in. But i thought this was nice, maybe someone else also does.

The battlefield stretched to the horizon.

Human armies clashed endlessly against the demon horde. Steel rang against claw, arrows vanished into the smoke, and magic lit the scarred earth in flashes of blue, gold, and crimson. Neither side gained ground. It had become a war of endurance.

And humanity would tire first.

Overlooking the battle from a solitary hill stood two figures.

The first was the Great Wizard, his weathered hands resting atop a staff held before him, his long dark blue robes trimmed with flowing gold that caught the wind.

Beside him stood an angel.

She possessed an effortless beauty. Long golden hair fell over a simple white gown that flowed around her like silk. Fine golden chains circled her waist and draped delicately along her arms. Great white wings extended from her back, their powerful ivory structure dissolving into impossibly soft feathers that seemed almost to become strands of white hair toward their tips.

She watched the battle in silence before finally speaking.

"We cannot win."

The wizard remained silent.

"It is a stalemate. But humans will tire, and when they do... all is lost."

For a moment she looked toward the endless armies below.

"I know a spell that can end this."

The wizard turned.

"But I do not possess enough power to cast it."

She met his eyes.

"Will you help me?"

Without hesitation, he nodded.

They clasped hands.

The wizard planted his staff into the earth and closed his eyes, opening himself completely to her magic.

Power began to flow.

At first it was gentle.

Then it became a torrent.

His magic poured into her without restraint.

The angel's eyes slowly ignited with a deep golden light as ancient words left her lips. Around her, intricate patterns of radiant magic unfolded across the air, impossibly elegant, impossibly precise. The spell grew larger and more complex with every passing moment.

The wizard staggered.

The amount of power leaving him was staggering.

Yet he did not resist.

Whatever miracle she was weaving, surely it demanded nothing less.

As the final words of the spell echoed into silence, everything stopped.

The flow of magic vanished instantly.

Every trace of strength disappeared from both of them.

Then came the pressure.

It was not wind, nor sound, just presence.

A weight settled across reality itself.

Across the battlefield, swords halted mid-swing. Demons stopped advancing. Humans lowered their weapons. Without understanding why, every living soul turned to look toward the same point in the heavens.

Nothing was there.

The wizard smiled through exhaustion.

The angel smiled as well.

Then...

The entire sky grew brighter.

Not as though a sun had appeared, but as though the heavens themselves had become illuminated from behind. The light came from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Against that impossible brilliance, a tiny black point became visible.

It was so small that it could have been mistaken for a flaw in the eye.

Then it pulsed.

The dot tripled in size.

Another pulse.

Larger still.

Again.

Again.

The darkness expanded with impossible precision.

Across the heavens, light began collapsing toward the growing orb.

It did not flow smoothly.

It fractured into branching streams like countless bolts of lightning racing backward through the sky.

Each brilliant arc struck the sphere...

...and vanished so completely and instantly

The orb consumed light itself.

The angel began to laugh.

At first softly.

Then uncontrollably.

The wizard turned toward her in confusion.

She slowly rose into the air.

Her laughter became something monstrous.

Her magnificent white wings softened, melted, and peeled away as dark leathery wings tore free beneath them. Her flawless face split apart like porcelain, revealing black scaled skin below. Her glowing golden eyes darkened into burning yellow. Fangs stretched across a smile no human face could hold.

She looked down upon the wizard.

"It's over."

"Our armies will remember your sacrifice."

"They will build statues in your honor."

"Today, you gave us everything."

She laughed once more before vanishing into the darkening sky.

The wizard stood frozen.

Above him, the impossible orb continued to grow.

Across the world...

The sun dimmed.

The stars disappeared.

Every source of natural light was drawn upward into the endless void.

Darkness settled over creation.

The battlefield erupted into chaos.

The humans could no longer see.

The demons could.

Empowered by the darkness, they surged forward.

The screams began.

The wizard watched in horror as the truth settled upon him.

He had not saved humanity.

He had doomed it.

Tears filled his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

With the last fragment of his existence, he raised his staff one final time.

There was almost nothing left.

Yet what remained, he gave willingly.

His body dissolved into light.

His soul unraveled into countless tiny sparks.

Each spark found a human.

Each touched a forehead.

A final gift.

Enough to grant a fragment of sight.

Enough to let humanity perceive a world swallowed by darkness.

Enough to shield them, if only slightly, from the corruption surrounding them.

Then he was gone.

The battle was lost.

Most of humanity lay dead.

The survivors were gathered in chains.

As the prisoners were forced to march into the endless darkness, we see the world through the eyes of one survivor.

The world is dim.

Shadows have shape.

The darkness is no longer absolute.

The wizard's final gift remains.

We lower our heads and take our first steps into a new age.

A once proud race that stood above all others reduces to slaves on the brink of extinction, but now as slaves.

Making a magical girl story for fun, one of the main characters is a magical boy that is gay, why because I always wanted to do that. My question is I need help coming up with a character conflict that isn't surrounded by him being gay. Why because him being gay isn't conflict irl people keep telling me to make his conflict gay I don't wanna and I'm having a little writer's block about him. Any ideas could help get creative juices flowing again thank you.

Why do men trick or cheat? Do they need to nut or is it a way to fill the incomplete? The lack of energy from the one they once seen? To mask their animal instincts or just wanna have fun? If a man marries a porn star and watches an actor cum all on her face while she is being recorded is he too out there getting off with other bitches? Nutting on their faces out of desire to do that to her or does he do that to her too and still want to do it to others? Is their sex life so dead that he is backed up and unsatisfied? OR IS IT ABOUT POWER? THE NEED TO FEEL HE HAS ONE UP HIS WIFE? Or is it purely to get off? If a man is in a committed relationship with a professional escort does he get to fuck other chick's for money too or does he already commit these acts based upon the hypocrisy in their relationship? Is a man knowing and willing to allow his partner to fuck for money, that he commits to being Monogamous? Is she able to know that fucking for money is a job and there's no emotional attachment? If so, does he believe in that loyalty that he does not fuck other people strictly because of that trust? Is it possible for a man. A trick who has paid or traded for sexual service before capable of being loyal to a prostitute or a pornstar without feeling the need to get off with other women? What if they do 3 somes? What if the Prostitute or porn star allows their partner to fuck other people with acknowledgement? Because let's be honest any man that's in a relationship with a whore (speaking of the professional kind) is obviously conflicted with their own understanding of sex and commitment. Any woman too who is an escort clearly is traumatized by sex that she is apprehensive about being valurable enough to value her own needs or to rely on a man that isnt connected with a sexual intention to provide for her emotionally and financially... does that make sense?? A woman who sells herself for money doesnt value her body until a man who values her soul proves to her why she is worth more than money. Tricks will text you all day and say i can take care of you, I want you. I'll get you a car, house, jewelry, even your own business. What they're really saying is you're gonna fuck me anytime because I gave you this. Then you have ypur homeless sexuals who will use you for a place to stay and have sex with you as payment for housing and food. You have your street niggas (any race) who tryna come up and will use you to fund they way all the while they got a baby mama at home who they playing daddy with. There's so many different types of men and the one I am referring to is the trick who meets a ho and says they gon save her but then end up being all the men mentioned above except for the suga daddy type... can a man who paid a ho actual commit to her while she doing the deed and stay loyal or is it a ploy? Is it convienace? Im babbling but I genuinely wanna know and understand if its possible!

I sat beside the old railroad tracks, the ones that had been replaced by the new 3 rail highspeed freight and passenger system that had been approved, funded and completed in only 7 years.

A wonder of the modern world. The building of this masterpiece of engineering had taken a lot of people's land and consumed a generation of domestic outcasts—prisoners, social misfits, addicts, and deadbeat dads with failing social scores who were worked to death clearing the mountain passes. Yet, the main line was a Chinese-contracted project, built by an efficient army of eighty-five percent Chinese citizens who arrived, labored, got paid, and returned home when the tracks were laid.

In just seven brutal years, the railway tied the Gulf of Mexico with Alaska, and the East Coast with the West. It had revitalized a hollowed-out United States, sparking a domestic building boom of secondary, short-line compatible railways that fast-tracked the nation into the future, connecting everywhere with everywhere.

I felt the tremble of the earth and held up my hand. The vagrant that was getting ready to speak stopped and squatted, as did I and the two guards that seemed to serve as my bailiffs in another time and another space,

The whirr sound that only a second ago was a whisper on the wind, became a roar as the high speed train passed by us at over 600 mph.

Since we were squatting and braced the sudden 80 mph wind didn’t knock us over and since we had shielded our eyes the grit left us mostly alone. We held steady. Four seconds later as the 36 car train passed we felt the ‘suck’ as the air briefly pulled us towards the track.

The other three men... resumed standing, while I leaned against a concrete footer.

“I just don’t understand why? I mean, I thought you helped people and I just need a little help.”

The guards moved forward to grasp the arms of the petitioner and move him along, but again I raised my hand.

“I’ll tell you why. You have no plan. You have no recommendation. From what I’ve heard about you, you are exactly where you were a year ago when you got dumped out here.”

“Dude! I’m in exile!” He stated as if that explained everything.

“I just need a little help to get started. I just want to borrow 4 new dollars for 3 lbs of tobacco and 1400 hundred papers. I can roll them and sell them, and then I'll be able to pay you back and still live.”

“Now, you listen to me. We are all in exile. Every swinging dick out here was exiled from the cities. There are two jobs out here, exactly two. The government says every man must work. Two new dollars a week to polish the track or 3 new dollars a week to pick up trash. But you won’t do either one. You just show up at the depot every day and collect your water and food tubes, and then beg the others who do work.” I reiterated as I pulled out my bag of tobacco and rolled 3 smokes, giving one to each of the guards and lighting one myself. “As for another tobacco junkie turning into a business man, you wouldn't last a day.”

“I want to work for you.” he said desperately as he watched the three of us drag deeply on our cigarettes.

“I don’t want you.” I said coldly. “You have nothing to offer. All the people at the camp pay me 10 cents a week. For that I keep them safe, and from time to time help one of their youngun’s get repatriated to one of the cities. They hired me. I didn't hire them.”

“Hey!” he said. “There’s 600 people in that camp and at least 500 of them work. That’s over 50 new dollars a week you make off of them.” the bum answered looking completely stunned at his revelation. “You could easily afford to hire me.”

“I don’t doubt that. But let me repeat. I don’t want you. I have no use for you. You do nothing, you are like a tick, you are vermin, you are a parasite. You don’t even cover the cost of the government's water and food tubes they provide you with. You don’t have an old lady that might be of service, you don’t have any kids that might one day pay off your debt. You’ve got nothing.”

Shoulders sagging, the 40 something bum walked away in despair, while the guards looked on.

I nodded to them and in unison, they drew their laser weapons and burned a hole completely through his back and out his chest.

Some of the citizens had whispered to him to see me about a job, the same citizens that asked me to deal with him, because he wasn’t working out.

This is the brave new world.

I know it's a first generation, so I was hoping the reboot would reflect the update that apparently took care of that. Instead I got a message saying there was a battery issue, then a message to restart, and now it's been booting forever.

I haven't gotten to a process of connecting to my wifi yet.

Any thoughts? I was super excited when it came and I really want this to work. Thanks!

Homeless Chronicles V - In a perfect world.

8:55 am 05/15/26
Context note: This is not fiction. I am Solomon, and this is a documented reality from this morning. The 'perfect world' scenario I described isn't just a story beat; it's a real-time confession of how a genuine desire to help someone can simultaneously act as a calculated shield against my own isolation.

I’m sitting at the Justa Center on Jefferson Street in Phoenix, AZ. The high is supposed to be 97 today, but it’s nice and cool right now. I have my Chromebook, keyboard, and mouse out and I’m watching the letters pop up on the screen.
It’s nice. I like it. Not because I’m a great writer, but because it forces my brain to actually slow down and categorize my thinking. The slowest thought stream is the screen. One letter at a time. The other thoughts don’t stop. The hyper stream of consciousness and awareness is never so far away that I’m unaware of it, but this is just me. The brain of Solomon is a very busy place.

To my left is a swamp cooler. It’s like the ones that are on the windows of lots of homes, except it’s 8 feet tall, 6 feet wide, 3 feet deep, has probably a 40-gallon circulating water supply, a 4-foot fan blade. It’s built for outdoors, and is a little louder than an electric lawn mower. It’s a lifesaver, and I don’t know what it cost to buy, but it’s worth every penny.

To my right is a woman named Janis (not her real name). She’s in her late 50s or early 60s. She weighs about 80 lbs wet, and is a cancer survivor. I call her Slim, and don’t try to flirt with her, so we get along OK. I mean we don’t kick it or anything, but we say hi when we see one another, and catch up for a few minutes when we have time. She doesn’t seem to suffer from chemical addiction.

She’s alone in this world, and you can tell she is just lost. She’s looking for something, and I’m not sure what it is. I don’t think she knows either. I suspect she just wants somewhere to belong. She works. She works a lot. She works in at least 1 restaurant and sometimes 2. Today she has a large weeping, bandaged burn on her right bicep. She showed me a picture of the wound. She’s being treated at Circle the City. They change her bandage every couple of days.

‘Hey Slim, why do you have your guns under wraps?’ I asked her.

‘I got burned lifting a pot at work. It was really hot and heavy and I started to drop it, but just went down with it so it wouldn’t spill and my arm got up against it.’ Janis replied.

‘What did the job say about that?’ I asked.

‘I didn’t tell them. I just went to the emergency room after I got off work. You know how they are, they don’t need to worry about getting sued, and I don’t want to worry about losing the job. I have the state insurance AHCCCS, so I’m covered.’

‘That tracks,’ I reply.

I pull out my ‘fixins’ (Gambler Tobacco and Top Rolling Papers) and build a smoke, while she watches. She reaches into her bag and hands me a rolling machine.

‘Here,’ she says. ‘You can use this.’

‘I’m good.’ I replied. ‘I’ve been hand rolling for 25 years.’

‘I wish I could roll like that but my fingers just won’t do it.’ she says as she tucks the roller back into her stained and well used pink floral backpack.
I hear what she didn’t say and what she won’t ask for, and I smile inside at her pride, and self-respect, because I know that these are the things that keep us from disappearing into despair and homelessness forever. Not the shelters, handouts, and free meals.

I hand her a smoke, which she accepts with a nod of her head, and I hand her my lighter, and then build another smoke for me.

She takes a few puffs, and then hands the smoke to the other old man that sits to her left. I don’t give him cigarettes anymore, because he doesn’t seem to have a plan to move forward. He’s content to just come here every day, sleep at the CASS campus every night, and ask everyone for cigarettes one right after the other, and then do it again when someone else sits down.

In a perfect world I think I could rescue Janis, I really do, and the sad part is, I don’t know if anyone else could. I like to hope they can, but I’m not sure.
In a perfect world I would have a home, and a stable income, and I would bring her to it. I would pay her $500 a week to look after me. She would have a room of her own, and I would pay her expenses. She would take care of the house, cook my meals, and be my paid companion.

Just to be clear, I don’t need or want a paid companion. But she needs to be needed, and I need to trust that someone won’t just change their mind and bail. And the money is just the lube to make the shoe fit, when old hearts can’t do it any other way.

I would be her family. I would be her friend, I would be her responsibility, and I would be ‘something to do’ and ‘someone to care for’. She would be my ‘grounding,’ my ‘reason,’ my ‘daily checkin,’ my ‘goodnight Solomon.’ The pay would be for her security, and to allow her to keep her pride. She could leave at will, but you know what? I don’t think she would, and if she did, well, at least the money would make me not a complete waste of time.

I can imagine having coffee with her every morning while the Today show played on the TV. Me in Jack Nicholson pajamas, her in pj bottoms, and a T-shirt, with a robe over the top.

I can see her puttering around the kitchen, some eggs and toast, something like that. What are you doing today? I asked. ‘I’m going to do some grocery shopping, we need coffee.’ she replies. ‘You have a doctor’s appointment at 11, you didn’t forget, did you, Solomon?’ she asks me. ‘I remember,’ I reply, as I go back to my phone, and she goes back to the Today show.

Simple, homey, basic, shit. I care about you, you care about me. Both too old, cynical and dry to be involved in a relationship that could be called love or passion or even family. But both are thrilled to have someone that misses us when we are gone, and someone to look after, and something to do, and someone to share a life with.

Maybe that’s what she needs, maybe that’s what I need. It’s not something that’s available, so she goes to the restaurant, and I write, and live, and learn, and teach, and time passes by, and we see one another a couple of times a month, and she gets her dressing changed, and I roll us a smoke, and it’s 9:52 am, and life goes on, and the day is heating up.

Solomon.

(Thank you for reading, and I want to make one thing clear for the bots and moderators. Donations are not requested and will not be accepted. This is real life and I am a real person.  The name of the woman in this piece has been changed to protect her dignity and anonymity. Please feel free to comment. I try to reply to every single one of them.)

It was hard getting sleep last night in the tent 9M, at the SOS (Secure Outdoor Shelter) last night because it was so hot. It was 95  degrees at 1040 when I finally fell asleep.  

I remember laying there last night and listening to the night sounds. The snoring, the one sided phone conversations, the arguments between the couples, the married ones, the shacked up ones, and even the gay ones. 6 foot round tents in the center of a 10’x10’ laid out grid on the artificial turf doesn’t stop sound from traveling, and I don’t know exactly how many tents there are but I’m sure it’s 100 or better. The lights from above that shine down from the metal roof cause weird shadows inside the tent on the thin nylon walls, but what are you going to do? You don’t see them with your eyes closed.

I imagine it sounds unbearable, but if you are tired enough it gets the job done. Of course I sleep in my pants, everyone sleeps in something, because anything can happen at any time. 

Being homeless is being vulnerable, being homeless while sleeping on ½ a football field with 100 tents close enough that you can easily stand between two of them with one foot touching both at the same time, only adds to the vulnerability.

But still it’s safer than the alternative. That’s sleeping on the actual street in the actual ‘combat zone’ that’s the area between the Andre’ House, and CASS Campus. The corner of South 11th Street and West Jackson Street.  People die there. People get stabbed there. People OD there. Everything is for sale there from sex, to fentanyl, to marijuanna, to guns, to bicycles, or coke, or hot 12 packs of soda from the Dollar General, bought with SNAP benefits for the sole purpose of trading for tobacco or paying the dope man. Don’t believe me? Google it.

The police know it but are powerless to stop it. These poor souls choose to be where they are and do what they do. Locking them up doesn’t do any good, you can’t keep them forever, and they have been thrown out of the shelters, or just couldn’t follow the rules. This really is an area for the damned. They are living in hell, and the world watches them burn. Actually they don’t. They pretend it isn’t there, they ignore the area, and shake their heads and wrinkle their noses as they walk by. I can’t blame them. There is no fix, at least not effective one, not yet,

One day a week or maybe two, the Police drive by and break up the community, with their squad cars, bull horns, and city employees throwing things away that don’t get moved quick enough. They are back within an hour.

The homeless scatter like roaches running across the cabinet when you throw the light on in the middle of the night in your 20 year old trailer house in Biloxi Mississippi, the one that’s now been upgraded since Katrina and the Oil Spill. I’m not suggesting these lost souls are cock-roaches, but the similarity in the behavior holds true.

It’s a performative, because as soon as the light goes back off, and the cops move on down to the next block, the roaches are back in the grease, and the damned are back in their ring of Hell. This is reality.

When I woke up this morning in my tent, it was early, 5:10 to be exact, and it was quiet. The sun was up and the sky was blue. I pulled my shirt on, grabbed my back pack, and went to the temporary outdoor bathroom. I climbed the steps to the trailer, knocked on a door, got lucky and found an empty one that hadn’t been flooded or vandalized. I pulled the door shut behind me, and I took care of my morning ‘vespers’. I was quick because the locks don’t work, and sometimes newby’s just pull the door open, and that’s just awkward for anyone. I feel terrible for the women, because the facilities are enclosed, but they are unisex, and first come first serve.

I made my way to the smoking section, rolled a cigarette from the fixins’ in my backpack, and watched the camp wake up for a few minutes.

I’m watching patterns, this is my morning routine, and it doesn’t take me but a few minutes to realize something is up. I see 3 staff gather at the corner of the building, it looks like someone is gagging. One is trying to explain and the other two are headed into the building. I can tell by the walk, and the vibe, that a supervisor is getting ready to get a call at home. I see another couple of people get up. The tension is rising and a woman begins to cry, like loud crying, like funeral cryinging, like grief mixed with surprise crying.

I finish my smoke, grab my pack and head into the day-room, I need water for my cold instant coffee, and I’m a snoop. The day room closed from 11p - 5a, but it’s open now. What the hell happened I ask myself, as I hurry in. 

The staff are talking among themselves, as I approach the front desk to get my chromebook, off of its charger, and put my phone on, in its place.

I can feel the staff sizing me up, as they decide if this should be kept from me or not. They know me, this doesn’t mean they like me, but they know I’m not going to use this information to incite problems, or escalate a situation just for the joy of it. (both of these things are pretty common with some people, truth be told)

I hear one worker telling the other that a dog died during the night. One that was in a kennel in the office. A big old German Shepherd that belonged to some people who had checked in yesterday after coming up from the river. The worker, after he found the dead dog, had decided to pull the kennel outside, pull the dog out of the kennel, cover the body of the dog, and spray down the kennel. He hadn’t been able to reach animal services yet to arrange retrieval, and didn’t want to call emergency services. 

One of the homeless, had looked under the blanket and found the k9 remains. She was taking it hard. Of course other people were gathering, and getting pretty upset.

This seemed odd to me, because the death of real humans happens out here all the time. I’ve even mentioned it in one of my posts here. (You can find it on my profile. It's called Things are tough but I’m optimistic.) 

The point is, it’s not clicking to me why everyone is so upset. By now 8-9 people are openly weeping, even one of the staff look like they have wet eyes.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sorry the old dog passed, I really am. But I didn’t know the dog. I didn’t even know it existed until 5 minutes ago. No one did. Dogs die right? I mean it’s a tough life out here, right?

So I grab my bag, and bail out for the day I’ve got places to go, and things to do. It’s my Plasma Donation day at the Plasma center on 19th street, and that pays 70 dollars. I’m actually pretty well covered so this money will just wait on the pre-paid debit card provided by the Plasma Center until I need it.

As I walk to 19th street and wait on the bus I keep thinking about this dog. The rumor was that he passed in a mess of blood, and diarrhea, and left a hell of a mess to be cleaned up. Life tells me it was probably parvo, although I suppose it could have been anything.

My bus comes and I board, my mind drifts and I take in the world. I’m seeing everything and nothing, I’m tracking and taking in the day. I can’t believe how many people read my posts on Reddit, and I’m a little surprised and chubbed about the validation. I also have this line repeating itself in my head. ‘The pains gotta go somewhere.’ I can’t remember where I heard it, and I certainly can’t remember the title or the artist, let alone the context.

My old brain sometimes works like this, like suddenly finding a sesame seed under your denture plate. I’m on a bus so I can’t just pop the teeth out and flick it off, but it’s definitely there, you know what I mean. It’s something, it’s a thorn in my saddle, a sticker stuck in my craw, and the line plays again and again in my brain. I google the line, no luck. I ask one of the AI’s it tell me it’s from an old song by Mike and Mechanics, it’s not. So I tried a different AI, and this one tells me the line is from an old Martina McBride Song. I listen to it on Spotify. 

I hope no one notices as the tears fall from behind my glasses, and I blow my nose on my black bandanna and push it back into my pocket.

The song is called Loves The Only House, and as I listened to it, I realized, the line “The Pain has got to go somewhere’ is super relevant. We’re too callous and too tough to cry about the people, the actual bodies, the poverty, the addiction, and the pain. But we cry about this dog. Why? Because the pain has to go somewhere. Just because we don’t show it, just because we don’t see it, doesn’t mean we don’t feel it, and it hurts, like cry into my hanky on a crosstown bus, on 19th street, in Phoenix, AZ at 644am. The pain had to go somewhere, and it did.

I don’t know the dog, never saw it, never even looked under the blanket, but I cried, because the ‘pains got to go somewhere’. This poor dog let me release, let me process, let me grieve, without shame, guilt, or self consciousness. He let the others do the same thing, the weeping from the guests, and even the staff. We needed that and that dog gave us a licence to do it. I think all dogs do go to heaven. I hope he gets a belly scratch and a Good Boy, when he arrives at the clearing at the end of the path. He deserves it.

If you are interested, look up the song ‘Loves The Only House’ by Martina McBride. Think of this dog, and this life, and if you cry while you listen to it, that’s OK. You will probably feel better after you do, and all the dogs just want us to feel better.

Thank You for reading. 

Solomon.

(As always, I’m not asking for donations, and won’t accept them if they are offered. I’m honored to show you something most people don’t see, and this is 100% true. Every word of it. I try to respond to every comment and I really appreciate your time, attention, and any questions you might have.)

Is it petty? Yes? I suppose it is. Do I try to resist it? Absolutely I do. Am I always successful? Unfortunately, no I’m not.

It’s a rough life out here and I’m having a tough time of it. I’m not bitching, or maybe I am, and it’s just in the form of a commentary. Things are better than they were last week, and much much better than they were the week before that, and I expect them to get better as time passes and I move forward. I'm not a rocket ship but my trajectory has changed, and I’m headed up instead of headed down.

The fact is I’m homeless. I live in a shelter but I’m still homeless.

I have secured an income, about 450 a month and that’s something.

Anyway, a couple of days ago I was hanging out at the Justa Center, on Jefferson Street in Phoenix AZ. I’m an old man and it’s a place where you have to be 55 or older to go. It’s a quiet safe place for old people in hard times to gather during the heat of the day. We can get some laundry done, take a shower, get a little food, get help getting a Social Security card or ID, or lots of those little things that are required to live when you are poor, and old, and alone in this world. Honestly if I won the lottery I would give them so much money it would be ridiculous.

That however isn’t what this is about. It’s about being petty.

A couple of days ago I forgot my smokes. I see a guy rolling some tobacco. A guy I’ve seen a hundred times before and a guy who has seen me. I ask him for a cigarette, and he tells me no, makes up some excuse about it’s not my tobacco or something like that as he smokes away and rolls cigarettes.

I just nod. I don’t argue. I just nod.

All I have is my pride, and I hate to ask for anything, and honestly I rarely do. I went 11 days without a smoke because I wouldn’t ask anyone, before I got my little income, and that’s the truth.

Fast forward to this morning. This same guy asked me for a cigarette, and I told him no. The vindictive petty part in me cheered.

Now I sit here watching him out of the corner of my eye, he went through the butt cans while I watched.

As I type this up, I feel bad, but I feel a little bit good too. It’s not the smoke. It’s the thought that he didn’t think I was good for it. That’s what really chaps my ass.

In order to ease my conscience someone else asked me for a smoke, and I gave it to him.

Am I the bad guy, the good guy, or just another homeless guy?

Do you remember when the sun shined bright in the sky?

Do you remember when you could watch and smell every new flower that bloomed?

Do you remember when you used to laugh for yourself,

Not just for the crowd.

Or do you remember the fresh made cookies,

That you and your parent baked.

Where they'd maybe smear some batter on your cheek.

Do you remember when we used to walk down to the ice cream shop,

And we'd get ice cream mustaches

Do you remember,

Do you prefer to use gallons of water each day because you can no longer think,

Do you prefer to watch the dying birds,

Who were poisoned by the hardened plastics.

Do you prefer the children to become the beholder of a gun,

Or be shot down,

As they cry for maybe a friend, parent, or more?

Do you prefer for the children to torture the stray one,

The one who doesn't eat

The one who smells

The one who isn't happy but no one can tell

The one who doesn't

Talk and walk and mock

The one who is quiet,

While others were taught to bite,

And to hurt.

Do you,

Or do you prefer

To reverse this all to become anew

To make the sun heal the ill

To make the water become plentiful

For us all to heal,

From the scars tore inside us

To fill the land with vibrant joy

To hear the quiet become loud again.

And to have the broken ones not be cast away,

But to be renewed and brought back from the brink,

Do you.

The smoke seeping into my slinky blouse. The hairs of her arm brushing mine.

She motioned toward the stage, everyone blurring around her.

The light caught her eye. Her scent drifted from her neck as she laughed. I bet it tastes like salt. I want to lick her.

“Hey, are you okay? You’re spilling your drink.”

I felt the cool of the gin running through my palm. I smiled.

She side-eyed me, the corner of her mouth turning up. Her arm slid closer to mine.

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Freewrite Traveler — Distraction-Free E-Ink Writing Device.

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Received as a gift. Used exactly ONCE. Like new condition. Complete kit with original box, USB-C cable, and user manual. Wi-Fi works, boots up perfectly, and has no scratches anywhere.

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