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“In Extremis by Stewart Stafford Saturnalia's trumpets sound, The ancestral chorus song, Time's gold web drawn back, For the stocks' denizen throng. Bawdy knights of the feral feast, Daze of snoring stranger sloth, As contagion's banquet guests, Sipping end times' galling broth. Bean found in fortuitous cake, A fool crowned Lord of Misrule, The meek's pantomimed throne, A drone in a queen bee's tulle. Fatted calf, societal scapegoat, Chattels mopping festive vomit, Charon coins on bloodshot eyes, Execution dawn to a dark comet. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”

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“The Dead of Winter by Stewart Stafford In truth, winter is the dead's season, Their graveyard chill touches Earth, The skeleton moon's danse macabre, As the darkened Sun heralds rebirth. Wild hunters of Christmas Eve skies, Mighty Odin or Arthur leading all, Hellhounds, fiery steeds, chase, To feast in a Valhalla or Camelot hall. Assemble at the hearth, my kindred, Share unnerving tales of gothic fright, Raised pulses as spectral guests join us, Frayed nerves spiked on this haunted night. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“The Cliffs Of Consolation by Stewart Stafford Don't fall meekly off Life's precipice, With Death stamping on weak fingers, Cling on, scream, fight the inevitable, For gravity’s jury's karmic reprieve. Souls crash in the surf beneath, The perennial tide of plankton orbs, In effervescent flows above the bluff, Doves flying back when the flood's over. If beyond salvation, down you plunge, Assuage yourself with lifetime efforts, All is pardoned, wiped clean in death, A phoenix risen from bodily constraints. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“Proscenium Panther by Stewart Stafford The actor missed his line, Whispers from the wings, Deafening silence hanging, Another cue came briskly. A pregnant pause of years, The frozen player’s lips moved, Offstage, a mock post-mortem, The thespian grinned impishly. After the audience’s first line laugh, He racked his brain for more jokes, Flouting the text and all the cast, O, limelight, of hot-headed hydras. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“One by Stewart Stafford Death riding a pale horse, Warned it was time to leave, No hiding place as dice rolled, I sank to my knees to grieve. Six hundred and sixty-six morticians, Greeted the thing from the sea, Scuttling sideways down the road, It headed for Washington D.C. Navel-gazing, not my thing at all, But the Day of Judgement came by, Grabbing my phone lightning-fast, A dying breath to scream goodbye. Firestorms, tsunamis, the dead resurrecting, The sun shattered into nine, Winds that flayed skin from bone, Jester bells at dawn's last shine. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“The Manhandling of Gilbert Gripes by Stewart Stafford Scrummage in a birch wood, Pyrrhic rut for an oval prize, Grinning studs rake my face, A flayed Garryowen as sport. Cauliflower ears throb with fear, Thunderous hooves charging, Poleaxed by a car crash tackle, Nosebleed kiss tickles my lips. The rite of passage staggers on, A butcher's initiation of brothers, Cutthroat razors kindly supplied, Wealthy primates whoop in safety. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”

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“Imperfect Silence by Stewart Stafford The new roommates were, The noisiest people alive, Sandwich-making became, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Is that dishwashing? Or a battle reenactment? Vibrations from videogames, Shook the hollow home. Then the 7 a.m. rite again, Pianos dropped as you slept, And their jumbo jet snoring, Blew you out of the bed. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“Insignificance by Stewart Stafford From the emerald Draco star, Fell the coiled Rosslyn figure, Unwinding into elongated form, The golden crozier of St Patrick. Faded gods upon ruined temples, All came alive, screeching creeds, Overwhelming minds and bodies, Fanatics expiring from confusion. In the shamanic ritualistic dance, Of an in-out, Hokey-Cokey culture, Spins the stained mah-jongg piece, The missing link apes checkmate. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“Son of Jaws: Final Flush by Stewart Stafford The toilet monster is dead, He’d been looking flushed, A plunger sucked its face off, I don’t miss it, I’m not pushed. The innocent never had a clue, Sat on the porcelain throne seat, They'd kissed their backsides goodbye, Derrières on rows of razor teeth. A call of nature, but none returned, After closing the bathroom locks, Shoes and knickers found later, Twisted around frantic socks. The awful beast left the building, No critiques of the notorious dead, But words can't describe the relief, When I sit down now to use the head. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“The days of passengers sitting still during plane hijackings ended with 9/11. Before then, the worst that would have happened was that you'd probably spend a few days on a runway in a banana republic while the hijackers made their demands. On September 11th, 2001, it was just fireballs of instant death as the planes got deliberately crashed by the terrorists. From that point on, passivity was never an option again.”

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“Roadkill Rocker by Stewart Stafford I ordered madness on toast. My reflection pooled on the floor, splashed around in it for ages, until room service imploded the door. “Time to pay the piper, son,” it growled — “It’s my record label’s tab, you’ll find out!” They clay-pigeoned my sandwich at me, my last morsel before getting kicked out. Housekeeping surveyed the wreckage, this one-man party animal slunk to his feet: “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” “Yeah — I’m roadkill from down the street!” © 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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“When I first started following writers on social media, I imagined a deluge of profound quotes, writing tips and insights into the plight of wordsmiths. There was some of that. Mostly though, my timeline was taken up with their obsession with coffee: 'I want coffee/I'm having coffee/I've had coffee.' Then came photos of their favourite coffee mug/pot/shop/barista. So, if you've enjoyed a recently-published book, give credit to writers: the vampiric aficionados of the coffee cherry.”

Social MediaVampiresWriters LifeSocial Media AddictionSocial Media AudiencesWriters InspirationCoffee QuotesCoffee LoversCaffeine AddictionCoffee Lover
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“The Janus Symbiosis by Stewart Stafford Ambition's fruition never matches, The reach of the expanding ego, Then its imperious Siamese twin, Savagely seeks sanguine satiation. Who shall be the meat for the feast? What shall the slaughter method be? A blood sport for the VIP Narcissus, Spitting bones through a rictus grin. Sycophants surround the Janus figure, Wheat and chaff to the scythe's blade, Starving out any vestiges of moral fibre, Lumps on the humps of the all-powerful. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved”

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“Something About Her by Stewart Stafford Her cemetery chill touch, Felt in porcelain hands, Vacant heartbeat stolen, Desert of smooth sand. Her eyes were portals, To a feral, scary land, With no outlet or relief, Automaton at her command. Yes, break the spell now, An eye blink from losing all, Just a heave and it is broken, New dawn beyond her thrall. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“Cathedral of Light by Stewart Stafford The wintry grey forest branches, Embrace freezing fog as build, Backlit by the pushy noon sun, Revealing a cathedral of light. An air frost of transient structure, Reprieve from a hangman's bloom, Naked limbs greeted the icy cover, The looming cape of ersatz foliage. Tongues of wind scatter the pop-up, Six sheep in a straight line saw it off, A still and sunny afternoon followed, Frozen matinee fades another day. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“AI is a tool and, like any tool, it can be used for positive and negative ends. It depends on the motives of the operator(s). There are benefits; it could revolutionise crime detection if utilized correctly, speed up and focus investigations and secure convictions. New technology will always be exploited before it is harnessed. That's human nature. With the internet as the perfect delivery mechanism, the effect of AI is multiplied infinitely. The danger is we may have invented our replacement that will one day outgrow us and evolve beyond us.”

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“The Icarian Impulse With fruit of the knowledge tree, We took a bite from our world, Gaining serpent's destructive kiss, Malicious shortcuts paved "good." The shock setting of a precedent, Akin to committing bloody murder, Shedding the skin of equilibrium, As a lethal new dawn descends. Promethean self-replicating beings; Sacrilegious idols mirror our image, Synthetic, unsympathetic sentience, Masochistic puzzles of self-immolation.”

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“Proponents of established norms often push rules like 'Write what you know' on new writers. In truth, everything we write is about us, whether we realise it or not. The texts and subtexts we create are layered with our worldview, imagination, passions, sense of humour, blind spots, biases, and fears. In my novel 'The Vorbing,' the opening vampire attack was something I only understood years later as my way of dealing with PTSD from a real violent incident, proving how our personal experiences shape our writing in ways we might not even notice.”

Creative ProcessWriting AdviceOvercoming FearSubconscious MindBreaking RulesCreative InspirationHow The Mind WorksPsychology Of The Creative MindThreshold GuardiansWrite What You Know
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“The Lion of Albion by Stewart Stafford Bell tolls on the second age of Elizabeth, As another reign of Charles commences, The Lion of Albion monitors its domain, With the steadying mending of fences. Acceding to the throne, León Coronado, History's weight on verisimilar shoulders, As the matriarch reflects in absentia, Crown jewel of memory to beholders. Over moor, loch, valley and causeway, Rises the realm of Charles Rex III, Phoenix feathers of noblesse oblige, For the Brexit nesting of a dove bird. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“Redrum by Stewart Stafford A Winter's tale of horrors profound, The haunted hotel's dark tapestry, Supreme isolation's moonscape snowbound, A father gripped by homicidal history. He sought to write, heal, absolve sins, Overlooked the hotel’s Redrum plans, Vomiting up daymares of phantom twins, His mind possessed by unseen hands. Room Two Three Seven, malevolent, Forbidden to enter its dark hole, Where ageless ladies bathed decadent, Luring caretakers to an adulterer's role. His wife and son sensed the danger, A bloody elevator with nowhere to run, A father's warpath with axe and anger, He became the monster, the devil's son. It might horrify 42 ways from Sunday, Only his shining son grasped the fact, May as well be across the galaxy, As in a labyrinth with that maniac. He failed to kill, he froze, met his fate, The hotel consumed his spirit as its own, Purgatorial torture in damnation's bait, He smiled in the photo, eternally alone. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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“Opposites Attack by Stewart Stafford Winter's eagle talons swoop, Scratching sweet faces raw, As battering waves file back, The coast's jagged teeth further. Concerts of hedgerow angels, Storm the dreaded demon field, Dispensing ancient retribution, Righting wrongs along the way. Gladiatorial combat in the Heavens, Lightning's fiery net crashes against, Thunder's convulsing cloaking shield, And the rainstorm's flogging garlands. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“Fortunately, time-travel does not exist. With it, the human race would try to solve past mistakes in isolation, erase any knowledge gleaned from making them, and create a chain reaction of unforeseen consequences. These could destroy the past, along with the present and future simultaneously. Time itself could become the ultimate weapon of mass destruction.”

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