Paul Stewart
Bio
Award-Winning Writer, Poet, Scottish-Italian, Subversive.
The Accidental Poet - Poetry Collection out now!
Streams and Scratches in My Mind coming soon!
Achievements (28)
Stories (1319)
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Love, Lithographs, and Lichtenstein
"Oh, Jeff... I love you too... but..." Jeff read in an undertone the message from his beloved Freya, feeling the eyes of his team fixed on him. The story still felt too melodramatic, even for him. For a long time he had pondered what her last words in her beautiful corporeal form had meant. All efforts to contact Lichtenstein before his death had been in vain.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
2024: The Year of Setbacks, Sadness and Hope. Top Story - December 2024.
There are so many things I want to say. So many things I want to express. I could write this a thousand times in a thousand ways and still not fully get my point across. So, rather than overthink it, I’ll just write it.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Motivation
poetry became—me
"Waking up, covered in sweat, aphids crawl in every crevice, dirt blocking out my vision. The little I can see is black, bleary and blurry. Where am I, what is this? There's something sniffing around my ears. Nibbling at the edges, playfully even, ticklish. Rats, mice or something. Maybe ferrets. There's that smell. Polecat, ferret smell. Worms slither in my hair. Trying to break free, can't move my arms, can't move my legs. Are they strapped down? Are they weighed down? By the dirt burying me head to toe. Does it matter? I can't move, I can't escape. Stuck in this hell, stuck in this prison. It feels like a container or box, or maybe coffin? Now I can't think of anything else but coffin, confining me. My nose is itchy, dammit. That seems unimportant but the itch is aggravating. Stuck in this hell, this prison. Who? What? Why? I could speak if I could open my lips. My jaw is sore. Even if I could vocalise what I'm feeling, how I'm reeling in terror. Maybe it's time to embrace it, give in, let it take me. Whatever it is, whoever it is. Fighting seems pointless, helpless, in vain. How can it be that it is how and also cold? There is something else... Spiders? Scorpions crawling and biting or picking at my skin and flesh. Why won't I wake up? Is this even a dream or a never-ending nightmare? I am not sure if I can tell whether I... am awake or not. Why is it getting warmer? Why is it getting darker?"
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
A Christmas Morning of Sausages, Bacon, and Love. Runner-Up in Tales of Hearth Challenge.
Angelika woke with a smile to the smell of sausages and bacon cooking. It was hardly the most traditional Christmas breakfast but had always been a much-loved aspect of a Higley family Christmas. "Nothing better than starting the festivities off with a nice hearty breakfast, darling," her father said every year. Although she was now, at 15, a little old to be getting up before dawn to shake and rattle presents under the tree, she still loved this day and time of the year. "Angel, breakfast's up!" called her mother, breaking the silence, she was enjoying.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Families
Eclipse of Shadows and Significance
Enter the night sky, dance with the bright star, encroaching as the tiger is, hidden the dragon will be. Eliasson, the little sun—"Every once in a while, there is a moment in your life, which stands as a marker for something significant. A time of change and evolution or devolution."
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
