Paul Stewart

Joined March 2021

1376 stories

Bio

Award-Winning Writer, Poet, Scottish-Italian, Subversive.

The Accidental Poet - Poetry Collection out now!

Streams and Scratches in My Mind coming soon!

Achievements (36)

Stories (1376)

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The Cure
The intensity was killing me. I woke to a thundering headache. My silent screams found no sympathy. I peeled my face from the sunken pillow soiled with saliva and droplets of blood from my tongue. I was alive.
By Paul Stewartabout 17 hours ago in Horror
Anus Horribilis: Tragedy Domestica
Anus horribilus If you don't wipe Not too hard tho Or the paper turns Well.. what? - brown plus red: Terra cotta Toilet Rosetta stone-like Parchment, Or scroll Of problematic bowels - Someone said annual I heard anal - Someone said therapist I screamed Sex offender
By Paul Stewart2 days ago in Poets
Afore The Tea Cooled
Th’ sun isnae ashamed the day. It rises. It is. It’s exactly whit it wants tae be. A saft breeze slips through, barely there.
By Paul Stewart3 days ago in Fiction
The Glens Left Quieter
The passage a’ time cannae erase the hurt— Ah want tae tak ye doon the past, tae darker spells in Alba’s legacy. ... Ah mind when the weans and families ootnumbered the bleatin’ o’ sheep— when the land lay rich and breathin’, afore it was reined in for profit dressed as progress, ower hill and glen, through bogs o’ reekin’ peat. ... We were lifted— hauled like cargo— flung ower the ocean tae a New World that didnae ken our names. ... As auld Field Marshal Raglan led men tae die in Crimea, many o’ oor ain were sent awa— the glens left thinner, quieter. ... And those that stayed— the lairds’ men came creeping, no wi’ banners, but wi’ papers and fire. ... They took the hames from lassies and weans, bold where there were none tae fight back— cowards, aye, that wouldnae face the men if the men had still been there. ... And when the soldiers, worn and torn, returned, what waited but the wind— slippin’ through emptied glens and valleys, where nought but sheep remain, and nae voices left tae outnumber them. * Thanks for reading!
By Paul Stewart4 days ago in Poets
What I Didn’t Say
I knew the name. I had seen Stephen A. Roddewig dropping sarcastic comments here and there. I didn’t know the man, though. We weren’t really in each other’s circles.
By Paul Stewart5 days ago in Motivation
Find the Rabbit
As red surrounded him. He tasted copper in the air. The door to Daniel’s other life closed before him. It was a one-way trip. That’s what the strange woman — hope fucked from her face — said. One-way trip.
By Paul Stewart7 days ago in Fiction
If It Looks Like Shite.
"If it looks like shite, it probably is." I saw what I've seen so many times, like a bad trip. Someone taking a jug of something that looked off. Not right. But they took it all the same. Drank it down like it was mother's milk.
By Paul Stewart8 days ago in Fiction
Paul and John's 47-Words Short Story Unofficial Challenge. Top Story - March 2026.
UPDATE - Republished to update the list of entries, with the 40 we've had so far. Completely smashed last unofficial challenge which recieved 31 entries. And there is still time. If you have yet to enter and fancy winning a bit of money or just challenging yourself or both or just making two old geezers job harder - please enter!
By Paul Stewart10 days ago in Writers
Burning Eye
eat the sun, eat her whole— the most powerful force in our universe, healer and destroyer . encircle her, blind her with your body—
By Paul Stewart11 days ago in Poets
Three Words Burned
Welcome to the sex… The note was unclear. But I went through the doors anyway. To a purple room. The air felt wrong. Like it was cut off before it reached my mouth.
By Paul Stewart14 days ago in Fiction
A Slow News Day
I long for a slow news day. You know the kind. - A story about a dog that behaves like a person. A day when death and destruction are treated as serious events, not constant background noise.
By Paul Stewart15 days ago in Poets
Ashtray Regrets
She had high hopes. Promises of potential. "Potential to be - someone." But high hopes and trauma don't mix. Regrets and ashtray full of smoked-out blunts.
By Paul Stewart15 days ago in Fiction