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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Warmth of the Snow
"Pretty!", Jonathon remarked as he turned from Sandy to look out onto snow-covered grounds of the hotel. They had been forced to stay together after all transport had been cancelled out of town. "Pretty vacant..." Sandy responded, full of sarcasm.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
The Decree
Breathe. Breathe my son and know you are my son and my greatest success. Even after my death, you shall be the torchbearer, the match paper our crooked world needs. The sunrays through the darkness. My father's words echo through my head, when the pressure gets too much. The pressure to make change, to be change. For everyone. Verbal contempt. That's what anyone would call what the team had for me. Verbal contempt and actual cerebral hatred. There was no escape from the truth. Though the team would have been drowned under the pressure of banal prowess, but for my presence... my presence fuelled group repugnance towards me. Reasonable rancour may have been argued by some as reason for the words and thoughts. For the hardest of taskmasters, they came to know me. That has always been a problem, for people of my status. When you set yourself up as the leader of a worthy cause, you place a target for hauteur. When your followers cannot fully comprehend all that's necessary, the arrogance, the haughty ego of those who have the greater purpose of change. My mother always told me my future would be full of greatness, full of excellent endeavours and good for our people, our race. My father's shadow has followed me, led me, taught me throughout my years as a young boy, teenager and the adult that stands on the edge as the spearhead for the change our people want... no need. By self-assurance younger me was beaten. For not only was the future of our people on my shoulders, but so was the legacy of my ancestors. Change would always come, but as sure as the blood pumped through my body, change would come by my hands. However, the well deep scorn and barely masked obloquy they held onto, was beyond reasonable. They just had no respect for my role at the heart of the success of all we had done thus far. Rather than show any acknowledgement or thanks, they were more than happy, comfortably content even, a refusal to accept any part as leader. When asked for thoughts on each conquest that ended successfully, they would generally cower and utter rehearsed words of severance. A cop-out would be to say they feared me. Why would they fear me? They were the same as me and from the same background. They were not the target of my abhorrence. As long as they obeyed orders, worked for the cause and showed no mercy towards for our opposers, the lesser, they would see another day. Cruelty was never levelled at one of our own. Unless, of course, they erred. Complete support was necessary. Our new order could, would not be marred or polluted by our enemy. For the goodness and pureness of our race, we had to conquer all who stood as opposers to the new world. We had to clean the muck of our ancestors who danced among those of a lower class and stand. Too often when complacency has been allowed to take root, even on the cusp of greatness, a revolt could damn our endeavours to hell, the hell where our opposers, the mar, the smear, the dye to the naturalness, wholesomeness of our blood, our land. That, the clearest of goals, was why my team of expert commanders and veterans were treated as such. Though they were above the rats and the scum that had populated our land for too long, they were under my rule. The bold new world mapped out from my plans was of my own construct. As the sun sets on the new world of tolerance, tomorrow's sun shall blanket over the return of the old world. The one we lost. On the eve of war and the recommencement of what we had, my men look to me, not as a comrade, but as the one who, no matter what stands as an opposer to our cause, shall lead us from the darkness of complacency and so-called freedom of speech and thought. "The Decree" - as penned by our leader.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
Of Past and Grief. Content Warning.
It may be a foreign country, but still its culture impacts. For good or bad, bad or good, the past leaves its mark—undeniably indelible. Whether you lean into it or run from it, it shapes and forms your future. It can secure or derail that future. Just as we can't bandage over the past and hope it disappears, we can't live there.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
Knocked Loose - You Won't Go Before You're Supposed To - Album Review. Content Warning.
I love heavy music, and while I know it isn't for everyone, I find it deeply compelling. The naunces, the raw, often unapologetically unfiltered emotions, and the technical prowess that is so often on display thrill me. I know lots of people miss that and that's fine.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Beat
