“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.”
America crouched on the wooden floor of a Philadelphia print shop, the musk of ink and sweat heavy in the air. She cradled the freshly stamped parchment like it might burn through her hands.
The printer’s apprentice — a Black boy, maybe twelve — glanced at her as he swept the corner. She smiled. He looked away.
Outside, Jefferson handed her a quill with a bit too much ceremony.
“It’s a new world,” he said.
America raised an eyebrow. “New for whom?”
He cleared his throat, smiled, didn’t answer. She didn’t press. Not yet. She was still so full of light she hadn’t learned to squint.
“No person shall be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law.”
The battlefield stank of ash and mud. America stood ankle-deep in churned red earth, her hem soaked. She leaned against a busted fence post, chewing a sprig of bittergrass and pretending she wasn’t watching the surgeons.
A man wearing a stovepipe hat limped toward her. Lincoln. His coat flapped in the cold wind like a worn-out flag.
He didn’t speak at first. Just looked past her at the smoke crawling across the trees.
“I freed them,” he said finally.
“You signed a paper,” she replied.
He winced. “It’s a beginning.”
She studied him. Deep lines had carved themselves into his face since she'd seen him last.
“You believe in beginnings too much,” she said.
Behind them, a woman sobbed over a soldier’s body. Neither checked which uniform he wore.
“Equal protection of the laws.”
The surf dragged half a helmet back out to sea. America stood at the edge of the water, boots half-buried in sand. Shrapnel buzzed somewhere behind her, but she didn’t flinch.
Private Jackson dropped beside her, bleeding through his sleeve.
“Didn’t think you were real,” he muttered, breath hitching.
“Some days I’m not,” she said, crouching to press a rag against his wound. “Stay awake.”
His eyes flicked toward the ships. “Am I fighting for the good guys?”
She hesitated. “You’re fighting for the promise.”
He snorted, then coughed. “You know I can’t even buy a soda in Georgia without getting jumped?”
She kept pressure on the wound. Said nothing.
He died before the tide turned.
She found his dog tag, then the letter in his pocket. It was addressed to his mother. She read it once, then slipped it into her coat. That pocket was getting heavy.
“Justice for all.”
The protest had spilled onto the courthouse steps like a slow tide. Banners flapped in the July heat. America sat in the shade of a statue, green copper eyes blindfolded above her, and watched.
A teenage girl stomped up to her, tears streaking her cheeks. “You’re full of it,” she snapped.
America blinked. “Hi.”
“My friend just got deported,” the girl said. “And my brother got pulled over again just for having a taillight out.”
“That shouldn’t happen,” America said.
“But it does. All the time.” She shook her head, mouth tight. “You don’t care.”
“I do,” America said quietly. “I just don’t always show it.”
The girl folded her arms. “Then get out of the way.”
America stood. Her knees popped.
“I can’t do that,” she said. “But I’ll walk beside you, if you’ll let me.”
The girl didn’t answer. But she didn’t walk away either.
The ideals still hung in the air, high and sharp as stars. America couldn’t reach them. Not yet. Her hands were cracked, her coat worn thin.
But every morning, she still woke up.
She still tried.
And somewhere between the slogans and the screams, she hoped that would be enough.
Curious how much is AI? Read the prompts here.