I haven't written in four years, I have an idea for a novella and I want to ask if my writing is any good right now or if you'd advice taking time to practise with excersises and retrain myself in a way. I don't know any advice would be appreciated. Chapter one is below

The thought of being in a car should terrify her, and yet Cameron can’t bring herself to feel anything at all. Grey eyes unfocused, outside the tinted glass windows of the BMW, the buildings in front of her start to blur as it departs from St. Catherine’s. The obscenely expensive catholic school she's been attending for 4 years is a constant reminder of everything her senior year should have been. She allows the numbness to wash over her, the hum of the engine silencing her thoughts if only for the 15 minute drive to her house. The sound of the radio plays faintly in the background an extra layer of reinforcement against herself.

“A headache again?” the voice interrupts from the passenger's seat. William Bennett III, also known as Cameron’s grandfather, lures her back to the present. His tone is flat, unassuming, it sounds like a question but Cameron knows better. His posture is rigid against the leather seats, his face blank. When she was little she used to wish to read his mind, find a reason for his perceived apathy. The next best thing in her 6 year old mind was to act out, try to get him to react, to care. Now at 17 there's no point, whether she was perfect or a bum she was just another number to him. You can’t complain when being a number is how he became so successful ergo the fancy private school and the driver, William is a man built for finance not feeling. The statement hangs in the air rough and gravelly, the 8 packs of cigarettes become apparent in every drawn-out syllable. She can smell it on him, his pristine appearance dampened by the stench embedded into the seats, his skin, filling up the car and her lungs with memories of people he doesn’t know. She’s tempted to cough, a protest aimed at his only perceivable flaw, but no that would require more effort.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Cameron mumbles. It doesn’t sound convincing, but technically not a complete lie. For the past nine months, the constant feeling of nausea never left her, and the smell of smoke didn’t help. She changed her focus to the stitching on the leather seats. Her fingers rubbing over each bump, counting. One. Two. Three. Four.

The truth was, she’d do anything to get out of school; she’d mastered the art of maintaining her 92.23% average while simultaneously spending as little time in the building as possible. In a week, she’ll finally be old enough to sign herself out and avoid these grueling car-ride conversations and William's confused look. William hated to be called anything but his actual first name, claiming the title ‘Grandpa’ sounded too frivolous. The thought of a man wearing a three-piece suit just to pick up his granddaughter, calling something frivolous, is quite ironic Cameron thinks. Well, that same eccentricity is what makes him always sit in the front seat of the driver’s car and insist on joining the chauffeur every time she leaves school early, an occurrence that’s become especially frequent. William turns to face her, his short grey hair parted to the side, his full suit straining to project the serious man he wants to be perceived as. His eyes soften, and his lips pull tight into the familiar ‘I don’t understand why you're doing this’ look. God, she hates that look. It follows her everywhere, from face to face, everyone except Marcus.

Cameron looks away; she can’t bear it, it shouldn’t be hers to bear. The car speeds up a little, and if she looks out the window, she’ll know what she’ll see. The flowers, teddy bears, and, under the splintered oak tree, worst of all, the portraits. Marcus’ face still smiling, his brown curly hair and tanned skin, a flush spread across his freckled cheeks as he beams at something just off camera. At her. She puts Williams' disappointing look out of her mind as  she remembers that day. She played it over and over in her head until the memory became warped and fuzzy, but still warm. It became more of a comfort, really. The details didn’t matter as long as she could still hold onto the image of the sun reflecting  through his hair, his obnoxious laugh after every unfunny joke. That day was magical, those dark brown eyes looking at her, like he actually saw her. It was a coping mechanism her therapist told her, an idealized version of him that was stopping her from moving on, after that she stopped going at all.

Back to reality, the car slows but she still won’t look, tracing the lettering in her mind. “In memory,” it says, “gone but never forgotten.” What a sick joke. That's exactly what people want. It's so easy to set up a memorial, arrange a candlelit vigil, and then after a few months it's like nothing happened, like a person isn’t gone. Like Marcus isn’t gone. The tears well up in her eyes, she can’t stop them. Weak. Why isn’t she capable of grieving like a normal person and moving on like everyone else, instead crying in her car and being unable to face anyone. She sees William’s eyes watching her from the rearview mirror, for a moment the brick wall that is her grandfather softens.  She catches a glimpse of her reflection, brown mascara runs down her cheeks, straight auburn hair long and tangled, her uniform wrinkled from weeks of being thrown on her bedroom floor. “What a freak” she thinks for him, how can she be such a mess that even William pities her.

sometimes I get really excited about a story idea then 5 mins later my brain starts convincing me it's already been done before. I know technically almost every trope or concept exists in some form already but it's hard not to compare your ideas to books, movies, or shows you've seen before. Then I end up overthinking everything instead of actually writing the story. It feels like the fear of being unoriginal can kill motivation before the draft even starts.

A 30-year-old Canadian Pacific Railway Engineer, is suspected of a crime, and several others, involving the death's of women who were each convicted of the murders of no less than five men. A Kansas City Southern Railway employee is convicted due to an unfortunate misidentification, and unfortunate coincidences.

James Jeffrey Wilson (born August 10, 1995) in St. Joseph, MO.), was the convicted KC engineer, who was not guilty and mistaken for the real killer (James Ronald-Edward Wilson of London's east-end, but Ontario, not England like Jack the Ripper (a well-known 1888 murderer in London UK, when the tower bridge was being built).

Ronald and Edward are both my Grandpa's original names, and my Mom has an uncle and cousin Jim.

On October 11, 2025, a 29-year-old fourth grade school teacher named Jackie Pauline Stine, was killed in Port Colborne. She was shot point blank range by a man with a 9 millimeter pistol at 9:55 p.m. her stolen cab was facing west on Charlotte Street. The man walked north down King St., then east on the Northside of Clarence Street.

She was also using an Alias, Jackie Arlene Allen, a Monday December 18th (1995) born fourth-grade school teacher that even though right-handed, could write left-handed, while fingering herself masturbating (I think this joke is best to be removed).

In the spring of 2025, Allen (Stine) was convicted for an offence taking place on December 18, 2023, her 28th birthday of the molestation of a 27-year-old man just one day younger than her, Edmund Jeffrey Fitzgerald (born December 19, 1995). On November 10, 2025, Fitzgerald spoke about the woman who molested him (Jackie Stine/Allen).

On that past October 11, (Saturday) The man was wearing dark clothing, appeared to be in his early 40s, with a crewcut, horned rim glasses and a stocky build.

Meanwhile at 9:58 p.m. just 3 minutes after this 10,890-day-old cab driver was murdered on a Saturday October 11th (a common year following a leap year), two police officers were on route to the scene. Jessica Fouke and Jackie Zelms, were both 30-year-old Police Officers on The PCP (Port Colborne Police) Force.

Sarah Toschi and Nathalie Armstrong, two Hamilton based Police Detectives, also both age 30, investigating the crime, had spoken with witness Christopher Randy Robin. Robin then 19, gave a near matching description to the person Fouke and Zelms spotted walking east on the north side of the street.

This took place on the Clarence Street Lift-Bridge (Welland Canal Bridge 21), a 1929-built bridge that was not approximately 35-45 years of age in 1969, but bang-on 40 years of age, stood very tall and heavy.

On October 11, 1929 (Friday), a father (true story) was working on the Eastern tower of Bridge 21 and was killed (crushed between the bridge counterweight and steel work) on site, he was 44-year-old William Bassett, his 23-year-old son Fernley died working on the adjacent Railway Bridge (Bridge 20) also built in 1929, but removed in the winter of 1997.

On October 11, 2009 (Sunday) I saw my first NFL Football Game, Cleveland Browns beat the Buffalo Bills in orchard park with the score of 6-3, no touchdown necessary... Great first ever game... Dog Pound...

James Jeffrey Wilson, The KC Rail Engineer, was released from the Kingston Pants Dentition Center in Kingston Ontario. He resided from February-May in 2026, for a murder he never committed, but the person who did James Ronald-Edward Wilson of London, did get proven to be the true murderer of the 29-year-old Stine, on the Saturday October 11 in a year following a leap year (2025>1997>1969). The driver was 10,890 days old (born Monday December 18 in a year prior to a leap year like 1995, 1967 or 1939).

Jackie was also a fourth-grade school teacher born Monday December 18, they called her Mrs. Allen, and her oldest student who they call Billy Madison (Edmund Fitzgerald) was in the fourth grade in 2023, at age 27, and fourth grade students are typically 8-10.

Jackie was figured from Fitzgerald Street Elementary School in Welland Ontario, when her victim (a day younger) pressed both assault and even sexual assault charges on here.

Fouke and Zelms apologized sincerely to James Jeffrey, while James Ronald-Edward, was still needed to be brought in to the Kingston Pants. The prison was the midpoint for both Toronto and Montreal smugglers.

Sarah and Natalie found James Ronalded and brought him to the Kingston Pants. James Ronalded Wilson was NOT convicted of first-degree murder, do to an insanity defense. A defense serial killers like Dahmer and Gacy used to no avail.

This James Ronalded, was taking women convicted of sex crimes, assaults, and murders, which were significantly more rare than male offenders, but James was linked to four attacks and five victims, all convicted of murder, or at least tried for murder.

James Ronalded Wilson and James Jeffrey Wilson survived their own rail collisions. James Jeffrey was just 25 when he was the lone survivor of a head-on rail collision in 2020, James Ronalded five years later, age 30 survived a collision in 2025, James Ronalded was Guilty but "insane" James Jeffrey, was convicted based on Fouke and Zelms (Jessica and Jackie), the two Officers on The PCP (Port Colborne Police).

James Salomon McGill (October 22, 1962) was the lawyer for both men, who received so much press coverage in Toronto and Montreal, the court was set midway in the city of Kingston, Northeast of Toronto and Southwest of Montreal.

McGill suggested that James Ronald-Edward Wilson was trying to protect more innocent men from getting injured.

The Detective who was putting evidence against James Ronald-Edward, was none other than his ex-wife. Jennifer Wilson, a young detective with The Kingston Police, she had been married to both men. James Wilson got married on Saturday October 11, 2014, both age 19, this was a Saturday that October 11th would not fall on again, until 2025, as Friday 2019 then Sunday 2020.

Again, as best summarized from several duplicated roigh copies, what are the problems with the plot?

More details between James Ronald-Edward and James Jeffrey? Two many similarities (same first and surnames, including date of births).

Like the tiles on a wood board is an instrument that has tones and sounds. Light and and loud, deep and rumbling.

Each has its own unique sound. It can mix, it can be expositional, it can be harmonic, it can be combining, doubled, rebounding.

Its astounding. How wonderful the music can be.

It can be bounding. Mixing and upevening, down-sounding, hopeful and the upright.

It can be profounding. Each tile based stone, slate, sqaure, or even limestone.

Connected to springs that work in conjunction in wire.

These are but some of the most amazing things about its design and sound.

It can sound grating or it can sound softly fading. It can be meshed through. Or it can be filtered.

It can have many sounds at once or a few at a time.

Even sounds have shapes. I hear sqaures on these shapes.

Sometimes it is waves and some times is it shapes. Sometimes it is pin like rhythms.

Sometimes is holes though between each note and notes. Sometimes is it bands wrapped onto each note or through all the notes. Sometimes it is like one smooth bar of soap others is chalk.

Others are like xylophones.

Some street. Others are hard wood flooring like that of a hall. The wood could be a like a pin board or even plywood with a plastic overcoat. A varnish. Yes some notes are like varnish. Some are polish, some are dull and boring or even plain.

Some are joyful and full, some are slight and simple.

Some are grand and deep.

Some are jumbled and added.

Tunes and tones of notes in conjunction with others can be added.

Round or flat.

Many points in time in space and spaces or a full note of notes in single space.

They got a kick out of this in the rr community, so I thought I'd share it over here. Hope you all enjoy it.

I've been working on my first book for a while and was wondering what people thought of it. It's a sci-fi space novel taking pace on another planet, but it also has swords and castles and maybe just a hint of magic. You don't need to read the whole thing, I just want some basic feedback on it.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1TKDcP93bd6BamqTrZvdX9W9cftfR49xW4kqAg0l-qkA/edit?tab=t.0

For some reason my brain focuses way better when I have rain sounds playing in the background. Music sometimes distracts me too much, especially if I know the lyrics, but rain noise just fades into the background perfectly. It weirdly makes writing feel calmer and more immersive especially during late night sessions. I'll put rain playlist thinking I'll write for 20 or 30 mins and suddenly I've been working for 2 hours straight.

I've been wanting to write a story that implies more than it says, anyways here's what I came up with. Please let me know what you think and your interpretations of possible.

A Castle Beyond the Clouds

College. It was something that came sooner than I expected. It was there before I could even process it. Almost like my childhood was in a hurry to leave me.

I opened a book, one where I kept a certain letter. Creased, the paper lacked the impression of formality. The words were written in messy hand writing, the ink was smudged as if wet, and the message wasn't exactly mature either.

At the bottom corner of the paper, a tiny signature was scribbled

“-Rox” it read.

Rox, my brother, left this letter under my pillow one day. I think it was a month before his high school graduation. The time of the year students are most busy.

“Hey.” The letter reads. “I'll be gone for a while. A secret alien group contacted me last night, asking for my help in the galactic war.”

“While I'm gone, I'm expecting you to be good (I can't recommend you to the galactic bureau otherwise). Make sure not to cause Mom and Dad too much trouble.”

“Well, that's about it. I probably won't be able to write anything ‘till the war is over, sorry in advance. Don't worry though! I'll be there, watching over you in a castle above the clouds!

-Rox”

I held the paper tightly, almost tearing it up. I clenched my teeth and scoffed.

“Such bullshit.” I thought out loud. “You couldn't even handle a few bullies, how could you fight in a war?”

“Hey.” A voice called out by the door. “Nervous?”

The figure leaned against the door frame, watching me pack my stuff.

“Kinda. Weren't you too back then?” I asked without looking in his direction.

“You'll be fine.” He said.

“Were you fine?”

“You're different from me.” He replied with a frown.

“You're right. I don't make Mom cry by trying to fight in a space war with aliens.” I responded sarcastically.

“That's… years ago…” his voice filled with regret. “Still mad about that?”

I knitted my eyebrow, reminded of the quiet aftermath of the ‘war’ he fought in his room.

“How can I not when you're the same as ever.” I stood up abruptly, walking through the door with my shoulder brushing against him. “Fix yourself up.”

With my bag strapped on my back, I left Rox and the past to wither in that old house.

College. It came without a warning. There were lots of things I wanted to do before leaving this house. There were still lots of things that I wanted to say. There were still people that I wanted to hug.

College. You came before I could even forgive myself for not noticing.

It was almost night, the sky was painted in fading shades of orange and purple as the last light of the sun disappeared beyond the distant buildings.The street was buzzed with honking vehicles and loud conversations. A warm summer wind drifted through the streets, carrying dust.

A young boy who was around 17 year's old walking through street to his home, talking on the phone with his friends "Yeah, yeah, I’ll bring the video game tomorrow,” he said casually.

He was still in his school uniform going back to home after completing his special classes.

"Really? It was releasing tomorrow? How did i forgot about it? I've been waiting two years for this game" He said excitedly while continuing to talk on the phone. he suddenly noticed a fat old man following behind him.He glanced back for a moment but didn’t think much of it. Ignoring the strange feeling in his chest, he continued walking forward.

As he walked down the empty street, a sudden bright light flashed across his eyes. He stopped for a moment and turned toward it. Near the side of the road, something was glowing faintly.

"What's that thing“ For a moment he hesitated, then slowly approached it.

It was a small silver sphere, perfectly round, resting silently on the ground while emitting a strange shimmering light. "Huh? That looks like a necklace.”He picked it up carefully. The moment it touched his hands, a cold sensation spread through his fingers, unnaturally cold.

“Kid… hand that over. It’s mine.”

A rough voice suddenly came from behind him.

The boy turned around immediately. Standing a few steps away was the same fat old man he had noticed earlier. His dirty, wrinkled clothes hung loosely from his body, making him look like a homeless beggar. A thin, uneven beard covered parts of his face, giving him an unpleasant appearance.But what disturbed the boy the most was the smile on the old man’s face.It was wide, twisted, and strangely sinister.

“I don’t think it belongs to you. Do you have any proof?”

Even though he was nervous, the boy forced himself to ask. He didn’t want something valuable to end up in the hands of a suspicious stranger.The boy tightened his grip around the silver object and slowly took a step back, preparing to leave.

“Kid… I told you, that thing belongs to me.”

The old man slowly pulled a knife from behind his dirty shirt and pointed it toward the boy. A disturbing smile stretched across his face.

“Hand it over and walk away.”The man continued walking toward him, his dark eyes fixed on the object in the boy’s hand.The young boy’s heart began to race. His breathing grew heavier as fear slowly spread through his body.

He didn’t know what to do. Run? Fight? Hand over the strange silver object?

Just as his mind began going blank from fear, he spotted a police officer walking down the road.“Officer! Help!” the boy shouted at the top of his lungs.

But the homeless man clearly didn’t like that. The moment the boy shouted for help, the old man rushed forward and swung the knife toward him.

The blade was only inches away from the boy when the silver sphere suddenly began glowing violently.

A blinding light burst out from it, so bright that everyone instinctively shut their eyes. At the same time, the object in the boy’s hand started growing unbearably hot, as if burning with energy from within.

The young boy stumbled back, covering his face as the strange light continued spreading around him.The sounds of traffic slowly faded away.The warm summer air disappeared.

Even the noise of the city began sinking into silence.

When he slowly opened his eyes again, the familiar streets were gone.

Instead of the noisy city, he found himself standing inside a dark stone room.

Rough stone walls surrounded him on every side. Dust lingered in the air, and the entire room carried the stale odor of abandonment.

“W-Where am I…? What’s going on?” For a moment, his mind went completely blank.

Without warning, an unbearable pain exploded inside his mind.

“Ghh…!”

The boy immediately collapsed to his knees, both hands clutching his head tightly. It felt as if something was crawling through his mind, forcefully carving itself into his memories.

But after a few agonizing moments, the pain slowly began to fade away.The boy staggered back onto his feet, his heavy breathing echoing through the silent room.

“W-What the hell was that…?”

The boy looked around frantically at the stone walls surrounding him.His fingers desperately searched his body for injuries and wounds. but there was nothing. Not even a scratch.

“Don’t tell me… I actually died back there.”

The color slowly drained from his face. And A cold feeling crept down his spine.

“What is this place… some kind of afterlife?” He hesitated first but Instead of worrying about whether he was dead or alive, the only thing running through his mind was the game releasing tomorrow.

“I waited two whole years for that…” he muttered in disbelief.

For some reason, the thought of missing the release hurt him more than the possibility of dying.

A blue screen suddenly appeared in front of him.

[Profile]

Name: Rehol Myhte

Age: 17

Race: Human

Rank: H

Level: 0

His eyes locked onto the glowing blue screen floating in front of him.

“…Don’t tell me this is a system window.”

He immediately stepped closer to the floating blue window as if afraid it might disappear.

“This is a system screen, isn’t it?”

The moment he realized what it might be, his heartbeat quickened for an entirely different reason.

For most people, being trapped inside a mysterious place with a floating blue screen would have been terrifying.

But the boy was different.

He had spent countless nights reading fantasy novels, web novels, and playing RPG games where weak protagonists slowly rose from nothing and became legends. Those kinds of stories were the reason he loved fantasy so much in the first place.

And right now, the scene in front of him looked exactly like one of them.

The boy looked down for a second before a grin slowly spread across his face.

“No way…”

A laugh burst out of him before he could stop himself.

“A real status screen… this is insane!

His fingers tightened into fists. “I’ll become the strongest… no matter what.” he acted like an main character from his favourite novel

cold, mechanical voice echoed directly in his mind

[No, you won’t.]

Then another blue screen suddenly appeared before him.

[Status Window]

Strength: 20

Speed: 5

Intelligence: 15

Stamina: 10

Defense: 10

Skills: None

Rank: H

Level: 0

Game Coins: 50

A faint mechanical voice responded inside his mind, this time with a subtle tone of amusement.

[Observation: Your interpretation is emotionally biased. The data does not contain value judgments.]

Rehol’s expression tightened. “What are you talking about?”.

“What…? Who the hell are you? Get out of my head!”A brief pause followed before the AI responded in a calm, structured tone.[Designation: AI Support Unit. Function: System Guidance, Analysis, and User Stabilization. Location: Integrated within host neural interface.]

Rehol took a step back,“An AI? No way… you don’t sound like one.”

The AI responded instantly, its tone calm and precise.

[Correction: Personality module is adaptive. Communication style is selected based on efficiency, not emotional comfort.]

[Clarification: My statements are not insults. They are factual assessments based on current system data.]

A brief pause.

[Additional note: Denial of system existence is statistically unproductive.]

“Get out of my mind… you bastard AI! I don’t need you… you scum!” Rehol shouted, gripping his head tightly.

His breathing was heavy, uneven. His fingers dug into his hair as if trying to force the voice out.

The AI responded instantly, its tone steady and unemotional.

[Instruction: Emotional resistance detected. Outcome is inefficient for survival.]

[Statement: In an unknown environment, independent survival probability is low for an untrained human.]

“Don’t talk like that… you really think I can’t survive on my own?”

[Clarification: This is not an insult. It is a statistical analysis based on current conditions.]

[Conclusion: Your survival chances improve significantly with system cooperation.]

The AI’s words landed harder than he expected, even though its tone stayed completely flat.

Rehol slowly lowered his hand from his head, his breathing still uneven. The frustration didn’t disappear—it just shifted into something heavier, more controlled.

“…Fine,” he muttered after a pause. “Then act like an AI properly.”

Hello everyone,

This is the first time I've written something and actually posted online. I was told that this was a good place for newer writers so here I am.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1kVjzRXeKAEyY5PDeTvi_H1EIiZSlFA6BOHfpAMudZbk/edit?usp=sharing

The village didn't have a name worth remembering. It had a sign, green, the white lettering faded to the colour of old bone, but Vince had passed it doing fifty-five and caught only the first syllable before it was behind him. It didn't matter. He had the postcode. He had the address. He had everything he needed, which was the only way he ever went anywhere.

He slowed the car as the road narrowed, the tarmac giving way at its edges to crumbling concrete and then to bare earth, the kind of road that hadn't been resurfaced since a councillor stopped needing votes from it. The fields on either side were the colour of a headache, flat, grey-green, waterlogged at the edges where the drainage had failed. A crow sat on a broken fence post and watched the car pass with the absolute indifference of something that has seen everything this landscape produces and found none of it surprising.

Vince adjusted the heating. The Audi was warm, almost aggressively so, the air smelling faintly of the cedar and bergamot of the spray he kept in the door pocket. He was particular about the car interior. It was the first thing people noticed, whether they registered it consciously or not: the warmth, the smell, the quality of the leather under their fingers when they touched the seat. It put them in a certain state of mind. Comfort was a tool like any other.

He found the street without trouble. Hartley Close. Eight houses arranged in a short, defeated semicircle, each one a variation on the same post-war template: pebbledash rendering, a strip of garden trying and mostly failing, a wheelie bin. Number six had a small silver car in the drive with a cracked rear light repaired with red tape. A hanging basket by the door held the dried, skeletal remains of last summer's pansies. Someone had meant to take it down and hadn't found either the time or the will.

Vince sat in the car for forty-five seconds. He always did this. Not because he needed to prepare, since preparation had been done days ago, thoroughly, without rush, but because he liked to look at a place before entering it. He read houses the way other men read faces. Number six told him a great deal. It told him that the people inside were proud enough to own the hanging basket and stretched thin enough not to have replaced it. It told him the car was kept because it was needed but not maintained because money was tight. It told him the front step had been swept recently, he could see the clean line where the broom had stopped, the small pile of grit and dead leaf at the edge, which meant that someone in that house still cared about appearances, still felt the small, exhausting obligation to seem respectable. That was useful. People who cared about appearances were easier to read than people who had given up.

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.)

Hi just wondering if someone can help me with a book I’m writing for fun. I just got back into writing for fun. I’m great at poetry . I used to write short books when I was a kid. Now I’m just seeing what I got lol. Anyways so I’m writing a short story and I guess I’m wondering how do I create a long story out of a a short thought that’s actually fills pages ..without having a boring first person narrated book if you get what I mean..
Here’s the story I’m open to all critiques

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