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Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

noise & spectacle

Posted in Writing, tagged , , , , , , , on May 27, 2026| Leave a Comment »

It was an evening with the taste of late June, though the calendar still swore it was May. Heat clung to the town like a bad decision. Humidity fogged the front windows of the old bar while the ancient air conditioner rattled overhead, fighting a losing war against the thick Midwestern air.

Still, cold beer made up the difference.

Wednesday regulars occupied their usual stools like inherited property. A few townie college kids drifted in from the sidewalks outside, escaping cramped apartments and unfinished lives. The old place hummed with low conversation, neon light, and the occasional crack of pool balls from the back room.

Soaky sat beneath the tired beer sign near the far end of the bar, turning a shot glass between his fingers like it held state secrets. Two more sat beside it, untouched, like old drinking buddies patiently waiting for their turn to speak. A tepid beer sweated beside his notebook.

The television over the bar suddenly exploded into patriotic music and rapid-fire announcer voices.

“THIS JUNE… HISTORY ENTERS THE OCTAGON…”

The room paused.

Not fully.
Just enough.

Sandy looked up from drying glasses.

“No way that’s real.”

The TV flashed images of the White House South Lawn beneath spotlights and digital fireworks.

“UFC FREEDOM 250 — LIVE FROM THE WHITE HOUSE.”

“Oh, it’s real,” muttered Earl from two stools down. “South Lawn. June fourteenth.”

One of the college kids laughed.

“That’s actually kinda badass.”

The commercial rolled on.

STREAMING EXCLUSIVELY ON PARAMOUNT+ — NO PAY-PER-VIEW.

Another kid snorted.

“Well, hell, even freedom’s subscription-based now.”

That got a laugh.

Soaky finally lifted his eyes toward the screen.

An animated octagon appeared superimposed over the White House lawn like a Roman coliseum sponsored by energy drinks.

He exhaled through his nose.

“Course it was inevitable.”

“What was?” Sandy asked.

“The octagon on the White House lawn.” He shrugged. “Rome had lions. We got streaming rights.”

A few people laughed into their drinks.

The announcer’s voice boomed dramatically:

‘THE MOST HISTORIC SPORTING EVENT OF ALL TIME!’

Soaky blinked slowly.

“Most historic,” he repeated. “Buddy, we put a man on the moon. We stormed Normandy. We invented jazz, blues, and high cholesterol.” He nodded toward the television. “But apparently civilization culminates with a scantily clad ring girl crossing the White House lawn beneath sponsorship banners and drone cameras.”

The bar cracked up.

One guy near the jukebox raised his beer.

“USA! USA!”

“Yeah,” Soaky nodded. “Nothing says constitutional republic like two featherweights elbowing each other unconscious beneath the Truman Balcony while senators hunt shrimp cocktails.”

Even Sandy lost it at that one.

Outside, thunder muttered somewhere beyond the river bluffs.

The commercial continued.

ILIA TOPURIA VS. JUSTIN GAETHJE.

ALEX PEREIRA VS. CIRYL GANE.

The crowd noise from the ad echoed through the bar speakers.

Soaky watched quietly for a moment.

“You know,” he said, softer now, “that used to be a Rose Garden.”

The room settled again.

“Not that long ago, that lawn was where presidents announced treaties, victories, hard truths.” He motioned toward the television. “Now we’re putting an octagon next to it, sponsored by gambling apps and testosterone supplements.”

Nobody said much after that.

Then the TV shouted again:

BROUGHT TO YOU BY DRAFTKINGS.

Soaky leaned back against the booth.

“There it is,” he murmured. “The bald eagle finally landed at a casino.”

A younger guy at the end of the bar shook his head.

“Man, you make everything sound like the fall of Rome.”

Soaky smiled faintly.

“Empires don’t notice the collapse. They’re too busy cheering at the games”

Silence settled over the room.

Just the hum of coolers.
The exhausted groan of the air conditioner.
Ice shifting in glasses.
Cable news glows blue across tired faces.

Then Sandy smirked.

“You still gonna watch it?”

Soaky lifted his warm beer.

“Oh, absolutely,” he said. “Empires always throw their best parties right before the ceiling caves in.”

Found later during cleanup, crumpled into a damp cocktail napkin beneath the register:

“Every empire mistakes noise for permanence.

The lights.
The crowds.
The games.

But the Stoics knew better:
Everything ends eventually.

Wisdom is not fearing the collapse.

It is remaining human while everyone else is still cheering.”

SxC

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spectacular

Posted in Writing, tagged , , , , , , , on May 27, 2026| Leave a Comment »

Brothers and sisters of the flickering faith,
we gather now in the patriotic glow.

Come stand within the new age American cathedral,
where the lights burn brighter than memory
and the speakers thunder louder than doubt.

For tonight,
the drums of freedom beat again.

The lights dimmed slowly,
not out of reverence,
but for effect.

Darkness rolled across the multitude
until only the ring remained,
glowing beneath cathedral lights,
draped in red, white, and blue

Faces turned toward the ring,
where heroes and villains
would soon parade themselves
before the faithful.

The old symbols lurked,
old weary birds lingered in shadow,
its wings remembering a sky
the crowd no longer looked toward.

In some forgotten vault,
a tattered ancient script lay folded,
Impotent with promises,
with no eyes left to read it.

For the congregation had lifted its gaze
to the performers.

And lo,
through smoke and thunder
Strutting beneath the holy glow,
preening before the faithful
gladiators

Each gesture sharpened by cameras.
Each flex received like scripture
by a crowd desperate to witness strength again.

Feeding on the supplicants,
they grew larger
through applause,
through adoration,
through belief.

The congregation poured its longing into them
until they swelled
with the need poured into them.

Patriotic Icons.

Circling beneath the lights,
playing to cameras
their bodies living advertisements
for power itself.

And the faithful came not for violence

They came for theater.
For certainty.
To be told who the heroes were,
and who to despise.

from the great illuminated stage
arose the prophet himself.

And the multitude stilled
then rose as one,
unasked.

Not a statesman.
Not a servant.

A performer.

And his voice rolled through the speakers
smooth as polished steel,
proclaiming unto the crowd
that greatness was returning,
that strength was virtue,
that doubt was betrayal,
that the spectacle itself
was proof the nation still lived.

And the people shouted amen
Because cheering filled the empty

And somewhere behind the lights,
nearly swallowed by banners and smoke,
stood the old house,
now just another smaller ring
beneath the cathedral lights.

And above them all,
the colors danced
red for sacrifice,
white for purity,
blue for belief.

And truth stood quietly
beyond the glow,
outside the cathedral,
outside the music,
outside the chanting.

Watching.

Truth did not interrupt.

For truth had learned
that no one hears whispers
inside an arena.

And as the chants rose upward,
truth turned from the stage
looking beyond the reach of the lights,
how many still remembered
that republics are not audiences,
freedom was never meant
to be performed beneath spotlights.

Then the music ended.

The congregation drifted home
satisfied by spectacle,
hungry again soon.

For need, once fed by lights and noise,
rarely sleeps for long

The stagehands swept the scattered remnants
of noise, paper, and devotion.
The lights cooled.
The screens went dark.

And somewhere,
just beyond the reach of the dimming glow,
truth waited in the silence,
hoping someone,
anyone,
might still be willing
to stand in the dark
and listen

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the long weekend

Posted in Writing, tagged , , , , , , , , on May 22, 2026| 2 Comments »

The river moved slowly that afternoon, wide and brown beneath the Memorial Day sun, carrying driftwood, broken branches, and whatever else America no longer wanted to think about.

The levee was crowded.

Families unfolded lawn chairs near the water while children chased gulls through the grass. College kids carried coolers down the bike path toward the marina. Motorcycles rolled through downtown in loud patriotic packs while rooftop patios spilled country music, laughter, and beer into the warm spring air.

American flags were everywhere.

From boats.

From bridges.

From pickup trucks.

From storefronts.

The whole river town looked wrapped in red, white, and blue beneath one of those impossible Minnesota skies that only arrived after long winters, as if the world itself had finally forgiven everybody for something.

Which made the headlines feel even stranger.

Soaky sat alone on one of the old steel patio tables chained permanently along the levee overlook, occupying that sacred river-town distance, close enough to sneak a beer from the bar near the floodwall, far enough away to hear the river over the televisions.

A half-finished lager rested in a sweating plastic mug beside the newspapers, the kind local bartenders handed out on holiday weekends with an unspoken agreement not to wander too far with it.

The metal tabletop still held the afternoon heat through his sports coat. Soaky leaned back with both feet resting on the adjacent bench, balanced in that practiced posture of a man intending to stay awhile.

The faded remnants of clown makeup clung faintly around his eyes like old bruises. His hat sat low against the sunlight, the small forget-me-not flower pinned to the band fluttering softly in the river breeze.

Beside the beer rested three folded newspapers weighted down by a silver flask.

Not hidden exactly.

Just discreet.

People passed in waves.

Some ignored him.

Some stared too long.

A little girl pointed openly.

“Why’s that clown sad?”

Her mother hurried her onward before Soaky could answer.

He didn’t seem offended by any of it. He simply sat above the river watching the Mississippi roll southward with the patience of a man who had long ago stopped expecting history to improve itself.

A barge moved slowly upriver against the current like an exhausted animal.

Behind him, someone cheered loudly at a baseball game playing on a rooftop television.

Then came the voices.

“You think that’s actually him?”

Soaky closed his eyes briefly.

College students.

You could always tell by the sound of unfinished certainty.

Four of them approached from the walking path carrying iced coffees and the awkward hesitation of people unsure whether another human being was dangerous, famous, unstable, or all three.

The first was a girl carrying her sandals in one hand, barefoot from the grass. Beside her walked a tall boy wearing sunglasses backward on his head despite the lowering sun. Another student, a nursing major, judging by the scrubs tied around her waist, looked exhausted in the way only people entering caretaking professions could look at twenty-two.

The last walked slightly behind the others.

Quiet.

Close-cropped hair.

Old Army backpack.

Observant eyes.

The barefoot girl slowed first.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “It is him.”

The boy frowned.

“Who?”

She looked confused by the question.

“Soaky the Clown.”

“…that’s a real person?”

Soaky sighed toward the river.

“Unfortunately.”

The students laughed nervously.

The quiet one with the backpack smiled slightly.

The nursing student tilted her head.

“You’re not what I expected.”

“So are tornadoes.”

That earned a genuine laugh, and the tension loosened.

One by one, they settled near the chained tables and concrete benches surrounding him, not invited exactly, but not unwelcome either. Around them, the city continued to celebrate itself in perfect weather.

Boats rocked gently beneath the bridge, moored in uneven rows where sunlight shimmered against their hulls and radios carried faint country songs across the water.

Music echoed from open patios.

Someone nearby grilled onions and bratwursts.

A pair of veterans in old VFW caps sat silently beneath a flag near the floodwall without speaking to each other at all.

The boy with the sunglasses pointed toward the newspapers.

“You actually read those?”

“Only during national emergencies.”

The kid grinned.

“So… always?”

“Mostly.”

The barefoot girl stepped closer.

“I’ve read your Notebook posts.”

Soaky winced faintly.

“That’s also unfortunate.”

The students laughed again, though softer this time.

Not mocking.

More relieved.

The strange old clown by the river was somehow funnier and sadder than they expected.

The nursing student leaned forward enough to glimpse the headlines.

Tax immunity.

Settlement controversy.

A triumphal arch.

Executive overreach.

Constitutional questions.

The same story wearing different neckties.

“You think any of this matters anymore?” she asked, pointing lightly at the newspapers.

Soaky looked at her carefully before answering.

“You asking morally or historically?”

She hesitated.

“…I don’t know anymore.”

“That’s usually how it starts.”

The breeze strengthened off the water.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

The students watched the crowds moving along the levee:
tourists,
boat owners,
sunburned families,
Young couples taking photographs beside giant flags hanging from downtown buildings.

Everything looked painfully normal.

That seemed to disturb them more than the headlines did.

The boy with sunglasses finally shrugged.

“I mean… presidents getting away with things isn’t exactly breaking news.”

“No,” Soaky agreed quietly. “But public exhaustion is.”

The nursing student studied him.

“What’s that mean?”

Soaky gestured lazily toward the waterfront.

“Rome had corruption,” he said.

A roar of laughter erupted from a nearby patio.

Someone uncorked champagne on a yacht below them.

“This…” Soaky murmured, “…this feels like fatigue.”

The quiet student finally spoke.

“My dad says every generation thinks the country is ending.”

Soaky nodded.

“Your dad is right.”

The students exchanged looks.

“But every generation usually believes somebody will eventually fix it.”

That landed heavier.

The nursing student stared toward the river.

“We don’t really think that anymore.”

“No,” Soaky said softly. “You were born after the trust died.”

The words drifted into the warm afternoon air.

None of the students argued.

That was the unsettling part.

No outrage.

No ideological defense.

Just recognition.

The barefoot girl tucked her hair behind her ear.

“My professors don’t even talk like things can get better anymore. They just explain why everything’s broken.”

“Broken things are easier to explain than hope,” Soaky replied softly.

The boy with sunglasses laughed uneasily.

“That’s depressing.”

“History usually does when you’re living it.”

Motorcycles thundered across the bridge overhead, dozens of American flags whipping violently behind them in the sunlight.

Everyone stopped talking long enough to watch.

The sound faded northward slowly.

Then the quiet student spoke again.

“My grandpa died in Fallujah.”

Nobody moved.

The river breeze shifted softly through the flags along the waterfront.

Soaky leaned back slightly against the chained steel table and reached for the silver flask resting beside the newspapers. He loosened the cap with one thumb, then lifted it gently toward the student in a quiet salute meant for someone no longer there.

Not theatrical.

Just enough.

Then he took a small sip.

“He’d probably hate what this holiday turned into,” the student said quietly.

The river carried silence between them.

Behind them, somebody shouted happily from a rooftop bar:

“Best Memorial Day weather in years!”

Laughter rolled across the waterfront.

Beer bottles clinked.

Country music drifted through the breeze.

And for one strange moment, the entire nation felt suspended between remembrance and consumption.

The nursing student finally broke the silence.

“So what happens now?”

Soaky stared across the river where sunlight shattered gold against the current.

Families laughed nearby.

Children waved little paper flags.

Boats rocked lazily against their docks.

Everything looked healthy.

Prosperous.

Safe.

And suddenly, Soaky understood why the whole thing disturbed him so deeply.

Not because America was collapsing.

Because it was collapsing comfortably.

No marching boots.

No cities burning.

No single catastrophic moment that people could point toward later.

Just endless accommodation.

Endless acceptance.

Endless beautiful weekends teaching people how to normalize absurdity one headline at a time.

A gull wheeled overhead.

Far upriver, thunderheads were beginning to gather quietly against the horizon, almost invisible beneath the brilliance of the afternoon sun.

The students waited.

Because, despite the makeup and the flask and the old newspapers, they had not found a clown beside the river.

They had found one of the last adults willing to say aloud what everybody else kept swallowing.

Soaky folded one of the newspapers carefully against the wind.

“Nothing,” he said at last.

“That’s the strange part.”

The students remained still.

Empires, they realized, were supposed to end loudly.

With fire.

With speeches.

With sirens and flags falling.

But the river kept moving peacefully beside them while patio music floated through the warm Memorial Day air.

Soaky lifted the plastic mug, watching the last light ripple across the Mississippi.

“Sometimes,” he said quietly, “a country dies during perfect weather.”

found weighted down with a rock by the levee:

The river does not care who governs beside it.

Empires rise.
Flags change.
Monuments are built by men terrified of being forgotten.

Still the water moves south without argument.

Perhaps wisdom is not believing decline can be avoided forever.

Perhaps it is learning how to remain decent while living through it.

Today the weather was beautiful.

That should still matter.

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a requiem

Posted in Writing, tagged , , , , , , , , on May 20, 2026| Leave a Comment »

Wednesday afternoon in the old bar downtown came wrapped in damp air and the smell of fresh rye bread from the deli half a block over.

The lunch crowd drifted in carrying paper sacks and styrofoam containers like office refugees escaping fluorescent captivity for exactly forty-five minutes. Turkey clubs. Italian subs. Roast beef, dripping horseradish sauce onto wax paper. Men with weathered hands and union jackets. Nurses between shifts. City workers pretend not to look at the time.

Cold beer before responsibilities returned.

That kind of afternoon.

Not joyful exactly.

But almost optimistic in the deeply Midwestern sense
that quiet belief that if you could survive Wednesday, Friday might still remember your name.

Rain threatened outside without fully committing. The old windows sweated from humidity and decades of cigarette smoke that still somehow lived inside the walls despite nobody being allowed to smoke there anymore.

Sandy moved behind the bar, polishing glasses that didn’t need polishing. Bartenders learned long ago that movement calmed people. The television over the liquor bottles muttered market updates and political chatter nobody trusted, but everyone watched anyway.

Soaky sat three stools down from the corner beneath an old Beer sign with his usual setup:
a tepid beer,
three shot glasses lined up like transparent little headstones,
and the battered notebook resting beside his elbow.

The forget-me-not flower pinned to his battered hat looked too alive for the room.

A contractor named Dean was arguing fishing conditions while a schoolteacher near the jukebox graded papers with the exhausted expression of someone trying to educate children during the collapse of an empire.

Normal.

Or close enough to fool people.

Then the red banner appeared across the television.

Not dramatic.

That was the worst part.

No sirens.
No music.
No breaking-news panic.

Just polished anchors speaking calmly about nearly two billion dollars.
A federal restitution fund.
Political targeting.
Compensation commissions.
Possible payments to allies and January 6 defendants.

Words so absurd they floated in the air for a moment before anybody could emotionally process them.

A guy halfway through a Reuben stopped chewing.

One of the nurses slowly lowered her beer.

Dean stared at the screen for several silent seconds before muttering:

“What the fuck…”

Not angry.

Not shocked.

Just exhausted in the soul.

The kind of “what the fuck” a person says when reality stops even pretending to make structural sense anymore.

The television kept going.

Smiling people in expensive suits debated whether the fund represented justice, accountability, authoritarianism, constitutional restoration, or necessary healing.

Every sentence sounded less like an explanation
and more like people trying to calm themselves down.

Every phrase scrubbed clean of actual humanity.

Sandy looked toward Soaky instinctively.

The room always did eventually.

Nobody trusted the clown exactly.

But they trusted him to notice things.

Soaky kept staring at the television with the expression of a man watching relatives quietly divide inheritance before the body was cold.

The electrician at the far end of the bar snorted.

“Hell.
Maybe I picked the wrong career path.
Shoulda become politically persecuted.”

A few laughs rolled through the room.

Hard laughs.

American laughs.

The kind people use to disguise fear from themselves.

Soaky didn’t smile.

Finally, he reached for his beer, took a slow sip, then set it down carefully.

“Empires always hit this stage eventually.”

The room quieted.

Nobody interrupted.

“First the laws become selective.
Then truth becomes negotiable.
Then eventually loyalty starts drawing interest.”

A younger guy in a Twins cap frowned.

“So what, now we’re Rome?”

Soaky looked at him for a long moment.

“No,” he said.

“Rome still built roads.”

That got a sharper laugh.

Even Sandy stifled a laugh before catching herself.

Outside, rain finally began tapping against the windows.

Inside, the television continued explaining why everything happening was perfectly rational.

Compensation.
Healing.
Restoration.
Weaponization.
Justice.

Words stacked carefully like sandbags against accountability.

The schoolteacher near the jukebox folded her arms.

“You think this changes anything?”

Soaky looked at the television.

Then at the rain.

Then at the people bent over glowing phone screens who were already downloading instructions about what emotions they were supposed to have before dinner.

Finally, with a sigh, he reached for the nearest shot glass.”

Cheap whiskey shimmered amber beneath the neon lights.

“No,” he said.

Then he tossed the shot back in one motion.

Not a celebration.

But, Punctuation.

The burn crossed his face without expression.

He set the empty glass down gently on the bar.

Click.

Small sound.

Heavy as a shovel hitting a coffin lid.

“That’s the part everybody misses,” he said quietly.

“This is what happens after things already changed.”

Nobody moved for a moment.

Outside, tires hissed through wet streets.

Inside, America glowed blue from television screens.

Dean rubbed his forehead.

“Feels like everybody’s selling something now.”

Soaky nodded faintly.

“That’s because they are.”

Dean stared back up at the television.

“Hell,” he muttered,
“maybe they’re just buying November early.”

The room got quiet.

Not because people disagreed.

Because nobody wanted to be the first one to say it out loud.

Soaky reached for another shot.

Two down.
One was left sitting lonely beside the beer.

Sandy was already refilling the empty one.

He held the glass in his fingers for a moment, watching the whiskey catch the television light.

“No,” he said softly.

“Buying’s the wrong word.”

Then he threw the shot back.

Quick.
Precise.
Like a man sealing an envelope.

He lowered the empty glass slowly.

“Buying implies a transaction.”

His eyes drifted toward the television.

“This feels more like laying away loyalty.”

He rolled the empty shot glass between his fingers.

“Same as those old store layaway plans.

Put a little money down today…
come back and collect what’s yours after November.”

Nobody spoke.

Rain tapped harder against the windows now.

The television kept glowing blue across tired faces and unfinished lunches.

“That’s the thing empires learn eventually,” Soaky said quietly.

“You stop asking citizens to believe in institutions…
and start rewarding them for belonging to factions.”

The schoolteacher looked down at her papers as if she suddenly hated every word on them.

Without asking, Sandy poured another shot and slid it toward Soaky.

Bartenders understood grief before most clergy did.

On television, another commentator called the fund “historic accountability.”

Another called it “dangerous authoritarianism.”

Another called it “national healing.”

Three sales pitches.

Same product underneath.

Fear.

The teacher finally looked up again.

“So what are we supposed to do?
Just accept it?”

Soaky rolled the empty shot glass slowly between two fingers.

The clown nose sat crooked beneath tired eyes old enough to remember when Americans still argued about principles instead of branding strategies.

“No,” he said.

“You’re supposed to notice it.”

The room stayed silent.

Even the kitchen sounded farther away now.

“That’s how republics die today.

Not coups.
Not invasions.

People just stop noticing when power starts paying its friends.”

The electrician gave an uneasy laugh.

“Jesus Christ, Soaky…
you make everything sound like a funeral.”

For the first time all afternoon, Soaky smiled.

Small.
Worn thin at the edges.

“Funerals are honest,” he said.

His eyes drifted toward the television again.

“This?”

The commentators kept talking while stock graphics flashed red, white, and blue behind them.

“This is marketing.”

Nobody answered.

Rain kept falling.

The lunch crowd finished sandwiches that they could no longer taste.

And somewhere beneath the hum of refrigerators and the glow of cable news and the smell of wet pavement drifting through the door every time someone left, the old bar held that terrible modern silence:

the sound of people realizing the country had crossed another line nobody could clearly define anymore —
and understanding, deep down,
that tomorrow the headlines would simply move on as if it were normal.

found scrawled on a beer-stained napkin at clean up

I ask you to think:

What happens to a society when fear, anger, certainty, and power outrun humility, restraint, mercy, and honor?

What happens when victory matters more than wisdom?

When loyalty matters more than truth?

When belonging matters more than character?

When loyalty itself becomes a commodity?

History offers answers.

Most of them are written in ash.

The cell phones kept glowing well into the night

Nobody looked away.

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are we great, yet?

Posted in Writing, tagged , , , , , , , , on May 18, 2026| Leave a Comment »

Sunday nights were always strange in the unnamed bar.
Some stranger than others.
Sometimes, like the rain outside, the melancholy arrived as a slow drizzle before becoming something heavier.

Not sad exactly.
Not lonely either.

Just suspended.
Like time itself hesitated there before starting Monday.

The kind of night where nobody wanted another drink but accepted the refill anyway.

Where laughter arrived late and left early.
Where every stool carried someone trying not to think about tomorrow.

Rain wandered down the windows in crooked lines, dragging the neon with it. Outside, tires hissed across wet pavement while the town folded quietly into itself for the night.

Inside, Joe sat behind the old upright piano, nursing melodies softer than conversation. Even his music sounded tired. Not heartbroken exactly.

Just disappointed.

Sinatra drifted between notes like cigarette smoke from another decade.

Or maybe it was Joe drifting.

Half-hearted Sinatra interludes spilled from the piano in fragments, like he couldn’t decide whether to finish the songs or apologize for them.
A few bars of One for My Baby.
A tired stumble into Angel Eyes.
Then, silence long enough for ice cubes to settle in glasses.

Joe played the way men talk when they’ve stopped trying to win arguments.

Soft.
Resigned.
Honest.

Even the piano sounded exhausted tonight.

One key near the middle stuck slightly, giving every melody a faint limp. Joe never fixed it. Said imperfections made the songs believable.

Nobody complained.

The music fit the room too well.

A nurse at the corner stool stared into her bourbon like it contained instructions.
Bill the trucker sat three stools down in his faded red cap, scratching fuel costs against next week’s pay on a curled scrap of paper, running the numbers over and over as if the arithmetic itself would eventually show mercy.

Diesel.
Food.
Insurance.
Miles.

Each figure tightened his jaw a little more.

The red hat sat low on his brow, sweat-stained around the edges from years on the road. Most nights, Bill wore it like armor.

Tonight it felt tattered.
And heavier than that.

Two younger guys argued quietly about politics with the energy of people no longer convinced either side was listening.

Then Joe slid unexpectedly into That’s Life.

Only slower.

So slow it sounded less like defiance and more like remembrance.

At the far end of the bar sat Soaky the Clown.

Hat low.
Forget-me-not pin hanging crooked against the brim.
Two empty shot glasses sat beside one untouched shot he still seemed to be negotiating with.
A warm mug of beer sat near his notebook, faint streaks of old condensation still clinging to the glass from when it had once been cold.

The television above the shelves flashed cold blue headlines across the room.

INFLATION RISING AGAIN.

GAS PRICES EXPECTED TO SURGE.

GLOBAL TENSIONS ESCALATE.

Another war explained by polished people standing far away from it.

Maps.
Arrows.
Statistics.
Strategic interests.

No muddy boots.
No grieving mothers.
No empty refrigerators.

Not even the exploding speedboats had names anymore.

Bill looked up from his scrap of paper and shook his head slowly.

“Feels like everything costs more except human life.”

Nobody answered.

Because nobody really could.

Joe’s piano crawled softly underneath the silence.

The younger of the two men at mid-bar snorted into his whiskey.

“Every channel says we’re stronger than ever.”

“Empires always say that,” Soaky muttered, eyes still fixed on the untouched shot, “right as the cracks start showing.”

The room quieted.

Not dramatically.

Just naturally.

Like rain pausing before getting heavier.

Sandy leaned against the back counter with a rag over one shoulder.

“So what makes a country strong then?”

Soaky finally picked up the shot glass but didn’t drink from it yet.

Turned it once between his fingers instead.

“That depends,” he said softly, “on whether you think strength means fear… or trust.”

The television cut to footage of missiles lifting into the night sky somewhere across an ocean.

Nobody at the bar cheered.

Nobody at the bar fully understood it either.

The younger man frowned. “World’s dangerous. Maybe fear’s necessary.”

Soaky nodded slightly.

Pausing for a moment, he turned the shot glass once more between his fingers, watching the amber liquid flow against the glass.

“Maybe,” he said unconvincingly.

Joe drifted into another Sinatra phrase.

Funny how the music softened the sharpest truths.

“But there’s a difference,” Soaky continued, “between being respected… and being feared.”

Bill grunted quietly beneath the brim of his red hat.

“World doesn’t respect us anymore.”

“The world’s opinion changes with oil prices and elections,” Soaky replied. “That’s not the measure.”

He glanced slowly around the room.

“The real measure is whether ordinary people feel safer when power enters the room.”

Sandy stopped wiping glasses.

Even Joe’s piano softened further, barely more than rain against wood.

“The strongest hand in the world,” Soaky said, lifting the untouched shot slightly, “isn’t the one making a fist.”

His fingers loosened around the glass.

“It should be the one reaching down to pull someone else back up.”

Nobody moved.

The nurse blinked hard at her drink.

One of the younger men stared quietly at the television where another panelist argued about leverage and deterrence.

Soaky chuckled faintly.

“Funny thing about greatness,” he said. “People think it comes from making everybody else smaller.”

Joe played three lonely notes.

“But real greatness?” Soaky continued. “Real greatness makes other people feel less afraid.”

The rain thickened outside.

Headlights crawled past the windows like ghosts searching for somewhere warm.

Bill folded the scrap of paper and tucked it into the pocket of his flannel jacket.

“So are we great now?”

That question settled over the room heavier than the weather.

Soaky looked around slowly.

At Bill, beneath the old red cap, counting miles in gallons and gallons in hours.

At the exhausted nurse deciding whether she could survive another week of doubles.

At Sandy, keeping the lights on, one drink at a time.

At Joe playing sad Sinatra songs for people too tired to admit they needed them.

Then Soaky looked toward the dusty flag hanging behind the liquor shelves.

His voice came out almost tender.

“Greatness isn’t something you declare,” he said.

“It’s something you practice quietly when nobody’s clapping.”

The television kept shouting.

The bar did not.

“You don’t become great because the world fears your strength,” Soaky said. “You become great because people trust your mercy.”

Joe finally stopped playing.

Complete silence settled into the room.

The kind that only happens when everyone suddenly recognizes themselves inside someone else’s words.

Soaky stared down at the untouched third shot for a long moment before finally tossing it back, a small grimace crossing his face afterward.

“And if your neighbors are drowning while you keep shouting about how magnificent your boat is,” he said quietly, “eventually people stop believing you.”

Nobody argued.

Outside, Sunday night drifted slowly toward Monday morning.

The rain kept falling.

The news kept spinning.

The piano sat still.

And inside the unnamed bar, beneath tired lights and fading Sinatra melodies, a handful of weary people sat together in the strange comfort of honesty.

Not hopeful exactly.

But honest.

And lately, that felt rarer.

from the Notebook:

A nation is not measured by how loudly it speaks of strength, but by how gently it carries the weak through hard seasons.

Any fool can raise a fist.
Wisdom is knowing when to open the hand instead.

The world remembers empires for their power.
History remembers men for their mercy.

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suspicion

Posted in Writing, tagged , , , , , , , , , on May 11, 2026| Leave a Comment »

It was a dark and stormy night.
Not storybook dark.
Not Halloween dark.

The kind of dark that settles into a town long before the rain arrives.

The air outside the bar hung thick and swollen, like the whole Mississippi Valley was holding its breath. Humidity clung to skin like guilt. The windows fogged from the inside while the neon beer signs buzzed weakly against the gathering storm.

Thunder rolled low somewhere beyond the river bluffs.

Not cracking yet.
Just a warning.

The kind of thunder that sounds like furniture being dragged across heaven.

Inside the old bar, people drifted in without much conversation, drawn by instinct more than thirst. Storms did that in river towns. Folks liked witnesses when the sky got mean.

Boots squeaked on warped wood floors. Wet denim. Damp baseball caps. The smell of fryer grease, old beer, and ozone slipped in every time the door opened.

Sandy worked quietly behind the bar, polishing glasses that were already clean.

The television above the liquor bottles glowed with another panel discussion nobody was really listening to anymore. Red banners. Angry faces. Poll numbers. Warnings about democracy. Warnings about fascism. Warnings about collapse.

Every channel peddled its experts.
Professional panic merchants dressed in makeup and certainty.

Every channel sold the apocalypse now.

Because the apocalypse had ratings.
The end of the world had become a subscription model.

At the far end of the bar sat Soaky the Clown.

Small red nose.
Forget-me-not pinned crooked to his hat.
Three full shot glasses lined up in front of him like old war buddies just waiting for their turn.
One sweating mug of cheap beer is going warm by neglect.

A battered notebook rested open near his elbow.

He wasn’t writing.

Just listening.

Another roll of thunder crept across the valley.

The TV host said something about “an Election Integrity Army” being deployed across all fifty states. Half the room ignored it. The other half pretended not to care while listening very carefully.

A trucker near the jukebox snorted into his beer.

“Ain’t exactly crazy to want secure elections,” he muttered. “Folks just wanna know every vote’s legit.”

A woman two stools down answered without looking up from her drink.

“Everybody’s protecting democracy from each other now.”

A few nervous chuckles drifted through the room like cigarette smoke from another decade.

Nobody really wanted the conversation.
But the storm had pinned everyone inside with themselves.

Soaky finally lifted his mug.

“Funny thing about republics,” he said softly.

The room quieted the way bars do when a regular starts talking truth instead of noise.

“They die from too many people trying to save ‘em at the same time.”

Lightning flickered blue through the windows.

Nobody answered immediately.

The trucker frowned.
“So what, we just trust politicians?”

Soaky smiled tiredly.

“No,” he said. “That’d make you stupid.”

The room laughed harder this time.

Even Sandy cracked a grin while drying a glass.

Soaky turned one of the untouched shot glasses slowly between his fingers.

“But when every election becomes a holy war…” he said quietly, “…eventually neighbors stop seeing neighbors.”

Another low growl of thunder rolled overhead.

“They start seeing enemy positions.”

Silence settled over the bar thicker than the humidity outside.

On the muted television, strategists argued over maps like gamblers carving up a carcass nobody in the room remembered voting to become.

County lines bent strangely across the screen.
Districts curled and twisted like hooked fishing worms pulled through muddy water.

Red here.
Blue there.
Move this neighborhood.
Split that town.

A man in an expensive suit smiled while explaining how “the pathway to victory” could still be secured.

Like democracy was less a public trust and more a geometry problem.

County by county.
Block by block.
Fear by fear.

Soaky watched the maps for a long moment before taking one of the waiting shots.

“You ever notice,” he muttered, “the people drawing the lines always seem real sure where everybody belongs?”

Nobody answered because nobody really could.

Rain finally began tapping against the windows — soft at first, then harder, until the whole building sounded wrapped in static.

A younger guy near the dartboard shook his head.

“I don’t know anymore, man. Every election feels like the last election. Every headline says democracy ends Tuesday.”

“Wednesday morning, they start fundraising for its survival,” Sandy muttered.

A few people laughed into their drinks.

The young guy kept going.

“You can’t even talk politics with family now without somebody thinking you’re evil.”

Soaky nodded slowly like a priest hearing an old confession.

“That’s because outrage became our national currency,” he said.

Another flash of lightning lit the bar white for half a heartbeat.

“We stopped arguing to understand things,” Soaky continued.
“Now we argue to audition for our tribe.”

Outside, the rain thickened into sheets.

The neon signs buzzed weaker.

One of the old-timers near the window stared into his whiskey.

“Feels like everybody’s being trained to hate each other.”

Soaky looked at him carefully.

“No,” he said softly.

The room leaned in.

“They’re being trained to fear each other.”

Thunder cracked hard enough this time to rattle the liquor bottles behind the bar.

Nobody spoke for several seconds.

On television, a commentator pointed excitedly at a touchscreen map while words like fraud, protection, integrity, and threat flashed beneath him in patriotic colors.

The sound stayed muted.

Didn’t matter anymore.

Everybody already knew the script.

Soaky finally reached for the second shot glass.

Held it up toward the glowing television.

“To the last industry in America,” he said.

The trucker blinked.
“What industry’s that?”

Soaky swallowed the whiskey.

“Manufactured panic.”

A low murmur moved through the room.

Not agreement exactly.

Recognition.

Sandy leaned against the register.

“You think it gets better?”

Soaky stared at the storm hammering the windows.

The old clown nose looked almost tragic beneath the flickering lights.

“I think people get tired eventually,” he said.

“Tired people can go two ways.”

The room stayed quiet.

“They either remember how to be human again…”

Lightning flashed.

“…or they start begging for someone else to do their thinking for ‘em.”

The thunder came immediately after.

Closer now.

Like the storm had finally reached town.

Nobody moved toward the door.

Nobody checked their phones.

For one strange suspended moment, the whole bar simply sat together listening to the rain and the distant machinery of a country arguing with itself.

Then Soaky opened the notebook.

The pages were stained from years of spilled beer and river-town humidity.

He stared at the television for a long while before writing.

Sandy glanced down as she passed.

The page held only a few lines.

“Election Integrity Army.”

I keep turning the phrase over in my head like a loose tooth.

Integrity is supposed to be a quiet thing.
Personal.
Internal.

An army is none of those things.

Strange how frightened societies always begin militarizing virtues.

— Soaky

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big top gospel

Posted in Writing on May 3, 2026| Leave a Comment »

The tent goes up at dusk,
canvas stitched with borrowed stars.

The Ringleader has no name
only a thousand borrowed voices
threaded through applause.

He never speaks first.
He echoes.

And that is enough.

“Brothers. Sisters.
Look here.”

The crowd turns
always
toward whatever burns brightest.

Around the edges,
The sideshows murmur:
unvarnished truths,
soft-spoken and poorly dressed,
holding out numbers, context, consequence—

but no music.

“Pay them no mind,”
the Ringleader laughs,
already directing the light away.

A new spectacle erupts
fast, loud, certain
a story polished to a mirror
where everyone sees themselves as right.

It spreads like gospel,
passed hand to hand,
faster than thought,
faster than doubt can form.

Truth tries to follow
arrives late,
out of breath,
uninvited.

“Too slow,” the crowd decides.
“Too complicated.”
“It asks more than I have left.”

And so it fades
not silenced,
just…
left behind.

Above them all,
a shifting blue glow pulses,
feeding them what they need,
not what is.

Coins pass quietly.
Attention becomes currency.
Belief becomes proof.

And the Ringleader smiles
because he is nothing more
than their hunger made visible.

The tents rose in the night,
full and waiting
gone before the light could accuse them.

A few are left behind
not untouched,
just no longer entertained
picking through what’s left.

Fragments of something true,
too scarce to market,
too quiet to survive.

Read Full Post »

a kind of inheritance

Posted in Writing, tagged , , , , , , , on April 29, 2026| 1 Comment »

Sandy didn’t mute it this time.

That was the difference.

The king’s voice filled the room, not loud, not forceful, but measured in a way that made people lower theirs without realizing it.

“…our shared commitment to the rule of law… to institutions that endure beyond any one moment…”

A few heads tilted. Not in agreement. Just… listening harder than they meant to.

Soaky sat where he always did. Five empty shot glasses lined up in front of him, as if they’d been waiting longer than he had. His beer was half gone now, forgotten between sips.

Camo jacket was already wound up.

“‘Institutions that endure,’” he repeated, rolling the words like they tasted off. “Easy to say when you are the institution.”

No one bit.

Soaky didn’t look at him yet.

“Careful,” he said. “You might be agreeing with him.”

That got a glance.

“How the hell do you figure?”

Soaky turned slightly, one elbow on the bar.

“You think institutions are the problem,” he said. “He’s warning what happens when they’re gone.”

On the screen, Charles moved on—alliances forged not just in interest, but in principle… tested in times of uncertainty.

The younger guy at the end scoffed. “Principle. That’s rich.”

Sandy set a fresh napkin down in front of him. “You’d rather it just be about money?”

“I’d rather it be honest.”

Soaky nodded once.

“That’s the trick,” he said. “Principle is the honest part.”

The kid frowned. “No, it’s not. It’s the excuse.”

Soaky gave a small shrug.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Other times it’s the only thing left when the excuses run out.”

Camo jacket leaned in again, voice lower now.

“You hear the subtext?” he said. “Stay in NATO. Stay in Ukraine. Stay in everybody else’s business.”

“Or,” Soaky said, “stay in the world.”

“That’s the same thing these days.”

“Yeah,” Soaky said quietly. “It is.”

The king’s tone shifted, not much, just enough.

“…democracy is not a static inheritance… it must be renewed, protected… sometimes at cost…”

That line landed.

Not like a punch. More like a weight.

Camo jacket exhaled through his nose.

“There it is,” he said. “Cost. Always somebody else paying it.”

Soaky tapped one of the empty shot glasses, the sound thin and precise.

“You think you’re not already paying?” he asked.

“For what?”

“For the version of the world you want,” Soaky said. “Strong borders. Less entanglement. More control.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Camo jacket hesitated, just a flicker.

“Yeah,” he said, but softer. “Because that’s ours.”

Soaky let that sit.

Then:

“Funny thing about ‘ours,’” he said. “It gets real small, real fast.”

Camo jacket frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you start with a country,” Soaky said, turning the glass again, “then a region… then a town… then just the people who think like you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” Soaky agreed. “It’s just what happens.”

On screen, Charles was wrapping now—a friendship not of convenience, but of shared belief… a responsibility carried forward together.

Sandy reached for the remote but didn’t hit it yet.

Camo jacket watched the screen longer this time.

Long enough that it meant something.

“So what,” he said finally. “We just keep doing this? Forever? Every conflict, every alliance, every ‘shared belief’—we just sign up?”

Soaky shook his head.

“No,” he said. “We choose. Every time.”

“That’s not a choice if the answer’s always yes.”

Soaky looked at him then. Really looked.

“You think the answer’s always yes?”

Camo jacket opened his mouth—

Stopped.

Closed it again.

Sandy clicked the TV off before the applause.

The quiet came back thicker this time. Like it had something to say but didn’t trust itself yet.

Camo jacket rubbed his hands together as if trying to warm them.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. Not to anyone in particular.

Soaky didn’t jump in.

Didn’t rescue him.

Just took a slow sip of his beer.

After a while, Sandy leaned across.

“What’d you write this time?” she asked.

Soaky flipped open the notebook, eyes scanning what he’d already put down.

He read it once, then added a line.

Closed it.

“What?” she pressed.

Soaky slid the notebook back into his coat.

“They keep calling it an inheritance,” he said.

“And?”

He glanced toward the dark TV.

“Most people don’t realize,” he said, “you can refuse an inheritance.”

Camo jacket looked up at that.

“Yeah,” he said slowly.

A beat.

“But… you still gotta live with what you turn down.”

No one answered that.

Not even Soaky.

You always have a choice.

Not of the world you inherit
but of the part you play in it.

To accept it
is to carry its burdens.

To refuse it
is to carry different ones.

Do not pretend
you can stand apart.

You are already involved.

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certainty

Posted in Writing, tagged , , , , , , , , on April 21, 2026| Leave a Comment »

The bar didn’t have a name anyone used anymore.

Just the bar.

Tuesday nights came in slow—no rush, no edge, just a quiet kind of tired that settled into the wood and glass. The lights hung low and amber, like they were trying not to bother anyone. Joe and the band had taken their corner, easing into something soft and wandering. Piano first. Then the sax. Drums brushed, not struck.

Sandy dried a glass that didn’t need drying.

Soaky sat where he always did. Same stool. Same tepid beer.

Three full shot glasses sat in front of him, lined up like they were waiting their turn,
or maybe his.

Nobody ever asked who they were for.

They could’ve been judgment.

Or something closer to forgiveness… if he ever got that far.

The TV above the bar flickered, muted. Closed captions crawled:

“…weeklong Bible reading event…”
“…reaction from Catholic leaders…”

Nobody had asked for it to be turned on.

Nobody asked for it to be turned off.

A man in a red hat leaned forward two stools down, elbows on the bar like he was bracing against something invisible.

“About time,” he said. “Country needs God again.”

Across from him, a woman with a small silver cross at her neck didn’t look up from her drink.

“God was never gone,” she said. “We were.”

He gave a short laugh.

“Same difference.”

She turned then, looking at him.

“No,” she said. “Not even close.”

Joe’s sax curled through the air like smoke.

A younger guy at the far end watched the captions like they were subtitles to something he didn’t fully understand.

He squinted at the captions for a second.

“So what is it?” he asked. “Like a marathon reading?”

“Whole Bible,” Sandy said. “Start to finish.”

He blinked.

“Out loud?”

“Out loud.”

He sat with that.

“…why?”

Sandy shrugged.

“Depends who you ask.”

The red hat tapped the bar lightly.

“Because this country forgot who it belongs to.”

The woman with the cross inhaled slowly.

“Belongs to?” she echoed. “That’s not how faith works.”

“That’s how it’s written.”

“And who decides the terms?” she asked. “You?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“The Book does.”

She gave a small, tired smile.

“Funny,” she said. “The Book never seems to argue back when people speak for it.”

Soaky hadn’t moved much.

Just turning one of the shot glasses between his fingers, slow and deliberate.

The younger guy glanced over.

“You ever read it?” he asked.

“Parts,” Soaky said.

“Think it helps?”

Soaky considered that.

“Depends,” he said. “You reading it to listen… or to be heard?”

Joe’s piano slipped into something softer.

An older man at the end of the bar spoke without lifting his head.

“I served with guys who prayed every night,” he said. “Didn’t stop bullets.”

No one answered right away.

The red hat glanced over.

“Faith’s not about stopping bullets.”

The old man nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I figured.”

He took a long draw from his beer.

On the TV:

“…Pope calls for peace…”
“…criticism…”

The captions kept moving like they were late for something.

The woman with the cross watched the screen for a moment.

“That’s the part I don’t get,” she said. “You quote Scripture… then argue with the people who’ve spent their lives studying it.”

The red hat shifted.

“Maybe they got it wrong.”

She nodded slowly.

“Maybe,” she said. “But then who’s right?”

He opened his mouth…..

and then stopped.

Soaky finally looked up.

“Used to be,” he said, voice low but carrying, “people went looking for God.”

No one interrupted.

“Now… we invite Him to events.”

A faint smirk.

“Give Him a schedule and a microphone.”

He tapped one of the glasses lightly.

“Hope He says what we already wrote.”

The younger guy frowned.

“That bad?”

Soaky shrugged.

“Not bad,” he said. “Just… familiar.”

Silence drifted in again.

The kind that listens.

The woman with the cross hadn’t spoken for a while.

She’d been turning the edge of her glass slowly, like she was afraid if she stopped moving it, something else might start.

“That’s not what it’s supposed to be,” she said.

Not defensive. Not loud.

Just… tired.

The red hat glanced over.

“Then what is it supposed to be?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Joe’s piano filled the space for her—soft, unresolved.

“It’s supposed to be…” she started, then stopped.

Her hand tightened slightly around the glass.

“…smaller than that.”

The red hat frowned.

“Smaller?”

She nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “Not something you stand on top of.”

A pause.

“…something that changes you… not something you control.”

“So what,” the red hat said, quieter now, “you’re not supposed to be sure about anything?”

She looked at him.

“Faith isn’t certainty,” she said.

“So what is it then?”

She exhaled softly.

“It’s trust. It’s hope. It’s patience… without needing to be sure.”

Soaky reached for the glass.

No rush. No hesitation.

He tossed it back in one motion.

Set it down.

Empty.

The younger guy leaned in.

“So what’s the opposite of faith?”

Nobody answered right away.

Soaky turned the second glass slightly, watching the light catch it.

“Certainty,” he said.

“That doesn’t make sense,” the red hat muttered.

“Doesn’t feel like it should,” Soaky said. “But think about it.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“Faith leaves room.”

He held his fingers apart, just a little.

“For doubt. For questions. For other people.”

He set his hand back down.

“Certainty fills that space.”

The old man at the end of the bar let out a low breath.

“Nothing wrong with being sure of something.”

“Nothing wrong with it,” Soaky agreed.

“Until it stops you from listening.”

The TV flickered:

“…defending religious values…”
“…dividing communities…”

“When you’re certain God’s on your side…” Soaky said.

He tapped the bar once.

“…it gets really easy to stop wondering if you’re on His.”

He didn’t look at anyone when he said it.

He picked up the second glass.

This one wasn’t as gentle.

It went back harder.

A sharper sound when it hit the bar.

Empty.

“And once you stop wondering,” he continued quietly, “…you stop questioning.”

A pause.

“And once you stop questioning…”

He looked up, not at anyone, but through them.

“It gets easy to use Him.”

The younger guy frowned.

“Using Him how?”

“Like a tool,” Soaky said.

A beat.

“Or a weapon.”

The woman with the cross closed her eyes for a moment.

“You ever notice,” Soaky said, “how fast ‘faith’ turns into lines in the sand?”

He traced a line on the bar.

“Us on one side.”

He traced a line in the damp wood between the empty glasses and the one still full.

“Everyone else on the other.”

The old man nodded slightly.

“History’s full of that.”

“Yeah,” Soaky said. “And nobody ever thinks they’re the ones doing it.”

The red hat leaned in again, but softer now.

“So believing’s dangerous?”

Soaky shook his head.

“No. Believing’s human.”

He glanced at the last glass.

“Being certain you’ve got God pinned down…”

A pause.

“That’s where it starts to get dangerous.”

Joe’s sax drifted into something minor.

“Because once you’re sure He’s yours,” Soaky added,
“…it gets easy to decide who He’s not for.”

“And then?” the woman with the cross asked quietly.

Soaky met her eyes.

“Then it’s not faith anymore.”

A beat.

“It’s permission.”

Silence settled in.

Not empty.

Just… occupied.

Sandy set another beer in front of Soaky.

“You think that’s what’s happening out there?” she asked.

Soaky looked at the TV. Then back at the room.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Faith turned into certainty.”

Joe’s band eased into something softer still.

After a while, the woman with the cross spoke again.

“I don’t need them to be wrong,” she said quietly.

“I just need faith to be… something that doesn’t make me afraid of other people.”

That one stayed.

Soaky nodded faintly.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the version worth keeping.”

The third glass sat where it was.

He lifted it. Turned it in the light.

Took a small sip, just to taste.

Then set it down again.

Not finished.

Just… still there.

The TV kept talking.

Nobody did.

And for a moment, just a small one, the bar felt like a place where faith hadn’t been claimed…

just carried.

Quietly.

Carefully.

Like something that might still matter…

If you let it.

Sandy found it on a napkin after closing.

The opposite of faith isn’t doubt.
It’s certainty.

Doubt still listens.
Certainty has already decided.

No explanation.
No signature.

Just something left behind…
like the third glass.

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whose truth?

Posted in Writing, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on April 20, 2026| Leave a Comment »

Sandy said it was a quiet night, but quiet in that bar never meant peaceful. It just meant people were measuring their words, weighing them before letting them fall.

Soaky sat in his usual spot, third stool from the end. A tepid beer in front of him, sweating more than he was. Three shot glasses stood nearby, full and waiting, like patient counselors who’d seen enough to know most things don’t improve when you rush them.

The clown nose was on tonight. The flower too. Always the flower.

At the far end, a man had started talking louder than the room required. Not quite a speech, not quite a complaint—something in between.

“…All I’m saying is you can feel it. Something’s off. People know it.”

No one answered him. That was the first agreement, silence.

Soaky didn’t look up right away. He watched the bead of condensation slide down his beer bottle, slow as a thought he didn’t want to finish.

“I used to sit in rooms where a sentence like that would end up in a headline by morning,” he said, almost to the bar itself.

Sandy glanced over, a knowing look passing across her face.

Soaky gave a small nod. “You could watch it happen. Somebody would say something half-formed, something felt more than known… and by the second meeting, it had a shape. By the third, a tone. By print, it sounded like certainty.”

A couple of people nearby shifted, listening now.

“Didn’t always start dishonest,” he added. “Just… got polished that way.”

He reached for one of the shot glasses—not empty yet, just waiting its turn—and turned it slowly between his fingers, watching the light bend through it.

“We used to say—if you wanted people to believe something, it had to hold up. And if it didn’t hold up, it didn’t matter how good it sounded.”

He glanced up briefly.

“Truth came first. Everything else had to earn its way there.”

“There was a man I studied back then,” Soaky said after a moment. “Did the opposite of what we’re becoming.”

Sandy set a napkin down near his hand, quiet as a habit.

“Didn’t dress things up. Didn’t rush to make them louder than they were. Just laid them out clean and let the weight sit where it landed.”

The man at the end scoffed. “That was different. Back then, there were real enemies.”

Soaky looked up, not sharp, not soft, just steady. He tossed the shot back, a small grimace crossing his face as the bitter liquid went down. He set the glass back with a soft tap.

“There’s always something real,” he said. “That’s what gives the rest of it traction.”

The room shifted, like a chair leg finding level ground.

A woman two stools down leaned in slightly. “So what, you think people are just imagining things now?”

Soaky shook his head. “No. That’d be easier.”

He nudged the empty glass back into line with the others.

“Problems don’t disappear because you talk about them wrong,” he said. “They just get harder to see clearly.”

The man at the end took a slower sip this time. “Feels like nobody’s being straight about anything anymore.”

Soaky let out a faint breath. “That part’s older than all of us.”

A couple of low laughs flickered and died.

He wrapped his hands around his beer, as if it were something steady.

“What changes,” he went on, “is how fast a feeling gets turned into something that sounds like fact. Used to take a day. Then an hour. Now…” he gave a small shrug, “…sometimes it’s already decided before anyone asks a second question.”

Sandy leaned against the bar, arms folded. “So what, the newsroom just pushes it out?”

Soaky shook his head slightly.

“Not just the newsroom,” Soaky said. “Everybody’s a producer now. Stories don’t wait to be checked anymore—they just get passed along.”

He let that sit a moment. Then he lifted the second shot, held it there a beat, like he was weighing something, and tossed it back.

“Long as it lines up with how it feels,” he said finally, “and finds an audience… that’s usually enough.”

The woman frowned. “Goes both ways, doesn’t it?”

Soaky nodded without hesitation. “Always does.”

He tapped one of the remaining shot glasses lightly.

“Start calling people names instead of answering them, then you don’t have to do the hard part anymore. And once that catches on…” he let the thought trail off, “…you don’t really have conversations. You just have sides.”

The man at the end exhaled through his nose. “So what, we just ignore everything? Pretend nothing’s wrong?”

Soaky didn’t answer right away.

He picked up his beer, took a small sip, and set it back down more slowly than before.

“Let me ask you something,” he said.

The room leaned just a little without meaning to.

He looked at no one in particular.

“Are we still willing to be uncomfortable in the presence of truth?”

No one answered.

Not the man at the end.
Not the woman two stools down.
Not even Sandy.

The question didn’t ask for agreement.
It just sat there.

Soaky tapped the rim of one of the remaining glasses.

“That man I mentioned,” he said after a moment, “he understood something most people don’t like to sit with.”

No one interrupted.

“He wasn’t up against one person. Not really. He was up against the part of the country that had already decided how it felt—and didn’t want that feeling disturbed.”

The woman let out a slow breath. “So what do you do with that?”

Soaky smiled faintly, tired but not defeated.

“You leave a little room for doubt,” he said. “Not a lot. Just enough to keep you honest.”

The man at the end stared into his drink. “Feels like things are slipping.”

Soaky nodded once. “They always feel that way when you’re paying attention.”

He adjusted the small flower on his hat, careful with it.

“Every generation thinks they’re watching it come apart,” he added.

A pause.

“Some of them are.”

No one laughed.

Sandy reached over and turned one of the remaining shot glasses slightly, lining it back up with the others.

“You gonna drink that,” she asked, “or just keep thinking about it?”

Soaky looked at it for a long moment.

“Not yet,” he said. “Still working something out.”

Near closing, the room thinned the way it always did—quiet exits, soft goodnights, the kind of silence that settles in after people take their noise with them.

Soaky slid off the stool, left a few bills under his glass, and walked out—leaving the last shot unfinished, alone at the bar.

Later, wiping down the counter, Sandy found the notebook again, tucked behind the register like it trusted her more than the world outside.

A fresh page.

Two entries this time.

The first, written steadily:

Somewhere along the way, we stopped asking if something was true…
and settled for whether it felt like we wanted it to be.

Beneath it, added after—darker ink, a little more pressure behind it:

You let disagreement turn into disloyalty,
and you don’t have to prove anything anymore.

Accusation fills in for evidence…
and once fear takes hold,
reason doesn’t get much say.

-Influenced by the work of Edward R. Murrow and Marshall McLuhan—two voices that shaped how I think about truth, media, and the space in between.

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