Empowerment

Dust FALLS off
If you were planning a big party for Easter, you might say to yourself, "Damn, I'm gonna' need a bunch of eggs!" That's perfectly fine to say when it's between you and you. However, if you let the statement roll off your tongue in a busy room, some genius may feel the need to remind you that bananas are sold in a bunch and eggs mainly come in a carton. Sorry to break it to you, Einstein, but you're the slow one here, not me.
By JeRon Baker2 months ago in Men
Moonlit Grapple
The porch wood groaned its nightly protest as Elias pushed off, boots scuffing the worn planks. The air bit hard, sharp with the smell of damp earth and dying leaves. Above, a full moon hung, bloated and white, bleeding light across the overgrown patch he called a backyard. Shadows stretched long and thin, like skeletal fingers reaching for him. He walked to the center, where the old swing set, rusted and silent, used to stand. Now, it was just a patch of flattened, dead grass, a bald spot in the wild. He always started there.
By HAADI2 months ago in Men
Whispers of Port na hAille
Arthur’s hands knew wood, knew metal, knew the stubborn refusal of an old engine and the yielding give of a well-planed plank. His workshop smelled of sawdust and oil, a familiar comfort, a constant in a life marked by quiet routines. Every morning, before the sun properly cleared the neighbour’s maple, he’d be there. Coffee in a thick ceramic mug, the low hum of the fluorescent light, the silent agreement with the tools hanging on the pegboard, waiting. He was a man of few words, his thoughts mostly private affairs, tucked away behind eyes that had seen forty-odd years of the same sky. The world outside his garage, the one beyond the town limits, felt distant, almost theoretical.
By HAADI2 months ago in Men
The Weight of Unspoken Ink
The dust in Frank’s study was a living thing, an ancient gray fur clinging to every surface, every book spine, every forgotten photograph. It settled heavier now that Mary was gone, a silent witness to his own steady decay. He’d put off clearing out the desk for months, maybe years, since she first mentioned it. His hands, gnarled and liver-spotted, reached for a stack of old utility bills, their edges brittle, ready to crumble. Beneath them, tucked into a deeper recess, was a smaller envelope, thinner, with a faded stamp that had never touched the postal service.
By HAADI2 months ago in Men
The Rusting Iron Road
The wind clawed at the gaps in the old station roof, whistling a low, mournful tune through the splintered timbers. Silas pulled his collar tighter, the threadbare wool doing little against the bone-deep cold. His breath plumed white, hanging in the frigid air like ghosts of spoken words. Around him, a dozen other figures huddled, mostly men, their faces etched with the same kind of weariness that had settled in Silas's own bones. Each one a shadow, a story he didn't want to hear, didn't need to.
By HAADI2 months ago in Men
The Weight of Unsaid Words
Arthur found it tucked beneath a stack of old blueprints, the paper yellowed, brittle at the edges. Not a treasure, not a forgotten deed, just a letter. His own scratchy handwriting, barely legible now, dated May 12th, 1978. Thirty-seven years ago. He hadn't meant to find it, just clearing out the desk in the den, a task his wife, Mary, had been hounding him about for weeks. He picked it up, careful not to crack the creases. The paper felt like a ghost in his hand, thin and impossibly fragile.
By HAADI3 months ago in Men
A Certain Shade of Bitter
Arthur always knew the exact moment the color blue would hit him. It wasn't the kind you saw in the sky or on a painted wall. This blue, it was a taste, something that settled on his tongue like dust, then seeped into his molars, down his throat, and straight into the pit of his stomach. It wasn't bitter, not like coffee left too long on the burner. More like… metallic. The tang of old pennies. The flat, dull ache of a winter morning when the light was grey, not even proper white, just endless grey-blue stretching out to nowhere.
By HAADI3 months ago in Men
A Chromatic Palate
The taste of the color blue. It wasn't a sweet taste, never that. Nor sour, not exactly. It was more like the cold, hard tang of old steel, left out in the rain too long, then brought inside to slowly rust. Frank knew it well, a persistent whisper on the back of his tongue, especially when the highway stretched out before him, a black ribbon swallowed by a night so deep it felt like an ocean. The truck, his old Freightliner, rumbled beneath him, a familiar beast, its cabin smelling of stale coffee, diesel, and thirty years of his own sweat.
By HAADI3 months ago in Men
The Gutter's Glare
Frank pulled the collar of his worn jacket tighter, the fabric rasping against his stubbled chin. Rain had been coming down for hours, a relentless, cold sheet that slicked the cracked asphalt and made the city shimmer with a greasy sheen. He wasn't going anywhere in particular, just away. Away from the stale air of his efficiency apartment, away from the silence that felt louder than any argument. The streetlights, the garish neon signs of the pawn shop, the greasy spoon diner, and the adult bookstore, all bled into the overflowing gutters, their colors warping into liquid smears of red, blue, green, and a sickly yellow.
By HAADI3 months ago in Men
The Weight of Quiet
Frank stepped onto the porch. Cold hit him like a fist, but it was a familiar one. The streetlights bled blurry halos through the falling snow. Fat flakes, big as dimes, drifted down, piling up fast. Already a good foot on the driveway, pristine, unbroken. Midnight. He pulled the old wool cap lower, exhaled a cloud, and walked to the garage. The plastic shovel was leaning in its usual corner, a silent sentinel. He gripped the handle, the cold plastic biting his palm, and pushed open the garage door, the groan of the rollers the loudest sound in the entire sleeping world.
By HAADI3 months ago in Men
The Weight of White
Frank leaned against the kitchen counter, the ceramic mug cold against his palm. Two-fifteen AM. The old house breathed around him, every creak and groan amplified by the unnatural stillness. He'd been awake since eleven. Eleanor used to call him her human alarm clock, always up before dawn, but these days, dawn felt like a betrayal, a reminder of the empty side of the bed. He’d tried reading, tried the TV, but the words blurred, the images felt flat. His own thoughts, sharp and relentless, were the only things that held any weight.
By HAADI3 months ago in Men
Picky Playerz
Before I get started with this message, let me emphasize one thing I firmly believe: Solid men don't fret for support. With that being said, try your best not to misconstrue the tone of what I'm about to write. I just happen to be a man that goes where inspiration leads him and I'm at an era of my life in which the selective nature of people keeps being made prominently obvious. Make no mistake, such a nuisance of habits is not new to me at all—just shockingly more apparent right now. To prove it, I dove deep into my timeworn journals for any text that shines light on the common person's deliberate manner of applauding or acknowledging others; Self-interested selectiveness. As I said, I'm no stranger to low vibrational games, so I'll kick off this topic with a journal I penned 7 years ago.
By JeRon Baker3 months ago in Men