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 (29)
Stories (1332)
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Close Enough
Dark Memoirs - Index "And at last, becoming a complete misanthrope, he used to live, spending his time in walking about the mountains; feeding on grasses and plants, and in consequence of these habits, he was attacked by the dropsy, and so then he returned to the city, and asked the physicians, in a riddle, whether they were able to produce a drought after wet weather. And as they did not understand him, he shut himself up in a stable for oxen, and covered himself with cow-dung, hoping to cause the wet to evaporate from him, by the warmth that this produced. And as he did himself no good in this way, he died, having lived seventy years;" - Diogenes of Sinope
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Chapters
Errors That Persist
Dark Memoirs - Index "Human nature is evil, and goodness is caused by intentional activity." - Xunzi People seem fascinated by the idea that there must be a hierarchy — that I must be damaged goods or working for a “big bad.” This is the real world, of course. Besides, I lack nothing — money, freedom, or immunity from consequence. Why would I need a financial backer, or why would I blindly follow the directions of another?
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Chapters
Pulse Ledger
Dark Memoirs - Index Many are the paths the destitute and desperate can follow to reach me. Some whisper my name like a prayer; others barely dare acknowledge I exist. In ancient texts, you may find my name murmured beside Anubis and Hermes, though I was never simply a guide. Their devotion to peace is unbecoming. My interests are entirely self-serving, a hunger dressed in the robes of ritual. I eat the insincere, the spineless who parade their postulation before neighbours, playing priest to their own hollow lives. I drink the essence of a life the way men drink wine — blood drawn warm, direct from source.
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Chapters
Pared to Truth
Dark Memoirs - Index "Death may be the greatest of all human blessings." - Socrates The irony isn't lost on me that people like Socrates love to share their thoughts and feelings on death. Living, breathing people feel they have an intimate understanding of death enough to give a fair assessment of it.
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Chapters
Fair Exchange, No Robberies. Top Story - January 2026.
Dark Memoirs - Index There are at least two kinds of people in the world: those who write this half-arsed kind of intro to a story that looks to separate the rare and the norm, and those who realise it's an overused framing device and don't.
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Chapters
Onboarding
The Corporation would like to start this onboarding process by thanking you for choosing us as your lifelong employer. We trust you will find working for us to be a time-consuming but structured career. Please be sure to complete all parts of this induction before logging into your work area.
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Fiction
Tears
I spend far too much time pouring over things in my mind because the alternative is to just forget, and I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to wake and find the entries gone and lost like a plane to sea or a boat to air The many tears I cried over nothing That nothing was once something Or should I say someone, not nothing Many many are the tears I shed In grief, disbelief, and despair
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Poets
Until My Coffin Ignites
I spell out myself Or is it I spill out myself All in the hope Of nothing That's not true There's always A purpose A goal To flexing linguistics Lyrical gifts Syllabic clippings Or entrails of my Ego, superego and Id Or collected scraps On that old dustpan In the corner Set aside until The bin is changed Space among The wrappers and rubble — It's hard to be afraid Of monsters And distant etchings Of humanity When you know How capable I am With tools of Chiseled deception And lingering lies — Sometimes The pen has A mind of its own But often that's Spin Like an announcement You wanted to make But didn't want to feel so blase So you covert it How did that get out Did my feelings run amok I know they didn't # Going with the flow Means you know Exactly where Your words may take you But go there anyway Because reverse Is not progress Regression Is not digression # People often say Your work got darker Less hope Less light Is it midforty crisis Or dead dad dichotomy I wonder So much Until I don't care — Squelching dragon Forlorn kitten — I end this year as I started it Naked though not actually Exposed though nothing changes Unsure if I even want to be your hero Of word and phrase Plot and human emotional dissection # But I do Of course I do I always do # The myth is the cover story The spin — I'm just in it for the dance and the dabbling With my two right feet Because no one is brave enough to say that Always two left feet — Self inflicted Ars poetica Like arse I used to when it was firmer # Control v leakage The dance of the poetics When you find p words instead of d words for poetry For that last bit you fumbled # The search for the dilettante led me Like pencil shavings To versifier But troubadour is what we hope for — The Boss internal That bleeds American dreams Even in Scotland Tales of hope and the other thing My friend the despair — Dead dad dichotomy Dead dad dichotomy I am sure # No one ever gets out of this alive And I am not done Until my coffin ignites # I am Not Horace your poetic horse but I am I am what I am not I am not Othello Always Iago Or the picture of Dorian Not the man —#— Strong like Roman Ego Greek Scottish pride Diatribe Noise moist Maker breath Taker Dead dad vulnerability Dead dad inevitability * Author’s Notes: Aspen Marie deserves a shout-out, because this only formed after we comment-chatted. So thanks, lass.
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Poets
The Work is Received
As I wake and feel the sun has not forgotten me, I rise and meditate, trepidate. I let the brightness cast shadows against the wall behind my bed as I reflect. Another day. Another chance. I take my leave from the bed and prepare a soothing balm. I apply it daily, morning, noon, and night, using the preserving solution I was taught to prepare, along with cleansers of aloe vera and coconut oil. I tend the flesh to keep it lean, to keep it fresh.
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Fiction
