Author Archives: Paul Steven Stone


My eyes chanced to fall upon this photo in my home office yesterday. What’s the big deal, you might ask, since the photo is there everyday for my eyes to see? Yes, it’s there, but rarely do my eyes see it. Even more rarely does seeing it cause me to think about the photo’s meaning in my life, or the cry of pain and defiance it signifies. 

The photo, appropriately drained of its original color and punch, captures the four of us a mere two or three weeks after I separated from the mother of my children and moved out of our home. 

Yes, there we are, Dad and his three children. All of us, like a party of lost explorers, searching for a safe path through the thickly overgrown jungle of challenges and emotional hardships that come when a family breaks up; when divorce irrevocably pulls it apart. A time also when a father and mother no longer choose to live together or jointly supervise the unspooling of their young children’s lives. Me, center right, proud and lovingly their father. A man without the security of a wife or the family foundation that once held his life together and unshakeable. A man alone and bereft of the persona of both husband and full time father. And, though you can’t readily see it in the photo, a man trapped and surrounded by the considerable debris of a broken heart.

In short, a man deeply hurt and depressed. 

And there, too, my three children, Jesse, Kristin and Katie, ages 5 to 10, living in a strange new world without the dependable and comforting presence of both their parents in their daily lives. All of us bound to an every-other-weekend routine that flimsily holds together our ideas of the healthy, loving connection that should exist between a father and his children.

I had this photo taken back then, over 35 years ago, to make our connection seem more real and palpable on the physical plane. To prove something to either them or myself, I guess, or perhaps to both. After all, with this photo I could now see, or display, proof of my success in holding onto my children, even if I didn’t see them every day. Or every week. The fact that the photographer was an attractive—and available—single mother herself had little to do with my motivation.

You can’t tell from the photo, but I can see the pain hidden in each of my children’s frozen stares. All of us, perhaps with the exception of daughter Katie on the right, who did little to conceal her jealous antagonism towards the attractive photographer, clearly signal through our eyes and facial expressions the uncertainty of the moment, and the confusion that hangs over all aspects of our newly forming family life. We were Orphans of the Storm frozen in time and captured on photographic paper; cast offs from a way of life that would never return, or ever be successfully remastered.

Funny, how much you can see in a faded photograph!


For eight years, the forces of deceit, greed, chaos and destruction have been blowing across America, a storm so large and angry it will take years before its fury can be fully spent.

Only formally upgraded to hurricane status on the occasion of the former president’s fourth and most sweeping indictment, for attempting to steal the 2020 election, Hurricane Trump has proven more dangerous to America and American democracy than any external threat or storm condition. 

Clearly, the first casualty of Hurricane Trump was the Republican Party, a body of politicians forced to abandon the Constitution and the rule of law to protect and serve their boorish master. 

Gone are the days when unwary citizens could turn on their television sets without witnessing hurricane force damage to the truth, our criminal code, our historic traditions, our way of life and our ability to live in peace with one another. 

Also, in the wake of Hurricane Trump, we can no longer live without fear of our neighbors, or trust our leaders to speak the truth. Nor can we rely on those neighbors and leaders to resist the pitch of a grifter whose lies speak most powerfully to their meanness, their anger and their petty grievances.

When asked to respond to Hurricane Trump’s imminent threat to the fabric of life in America and to our country’s most beloved institutions, a Republican spokesperson offered his party’s standard response… 

“But what about Hunter Biden?”


I was dreaming of bees; thousands upon thousands of bees—buzzing, swarming, droning—descending from the sky like an angry summer’s storm. I wasn’t afraid, merely curious as to why they had all banded together to drop like a blanket upon my house. As the buzzing, swarming droning horde fell through the open skylight, I felt a hand gently pulling on my sleeve.

I opened my eyes and saw a peacock feather cutting a wide arc in the air. Once released of the feather’s hypnotic affect, I followed the long solitary plume to its source, a round green cloth hat banded with a brilliant green ribbon.

“Oh, excuse me,” a voice beneath the hat said as she lifted the cuff of my pajama sleeve. “I only wanted to see the price. They said to check the sleeve for a price.”

“Price?” I repeated groggily. “What do you mean—price?” A moment later, the bees were gone and I was awake to a limited understanding of where I was. “What are you doing?” I asked with growing surprise. I was now sitting up in bed, pulling back on my arm.

My interrupter was a kindly looking woman in her early or middle fifties, the kind you find manning the pie booth at the church bazaar. Her grip, however, was of iron, and it would not relent.

“What are you doing?” I asked again, pulling even harder now. “Let go!” I insisted, “and get out of my bedroom!”

Without a word, she released my sleeve. Her face turned reproachful as she leaned away from me.

“It’s not right to leave things unmarked,” she tutored with repressed righteousness. Turning her head, she relaxed her features into an accountant’s fixed stare.

“I’ll give you $25.”

“For my pajamas?” I asked.

“For the bed,” she answered.

“Who’s selling the bed?” I inquired, looking towards the door through which I could now hear voices approaching. Perhaps the voices of her keepers, I imagined.

“$30 and you deliver!”

“Deliver what?” I asked, trying to sound vaguely interested. I was biding for time, of course; the voices still traveling steadily in our direction. “Are we still talking about the bed?” I asked. “Or are we back to the pajamas?”

Just then I saw my bedroom doorknob turning.

“Your friends, I believe,” I said. Friends? Keepers? What was the difference?

“You’re right,” she answered with a forceful shake of her head. “Quick, give me a price on the bed!”

“Muriel?” called the first of the three women to enter my bedroom. Then, as if to answer her own question, she added: “New discoveries—good? Everything downstairs seems so tacky.”

“Tacky?” one of her companions questioned, breathing the word out with a mixture of incredulity and laughter. “The nerve of the prices. $15 for a broken blender. $10 for a chipped porcelain gravy boat

“Porcelain?” the third woman joined in, “I’d say ceramics of the poorest kind. Night school arts and crafts…”

Just then, three other strangers walked into the room. A woman wearing a khaki pith helmet was carrying the lamp from my den under her arm.

“Can you tell me what is happening here?” I asked Muriel. “Why are you here in my room—and these others?”

“Yard Sale,” she answered, looking at me as if I were trying to put something over on her.

“Yard sale?” I cried, disbelieving. “In my house? Without me knowing about it…Hey!” I shouted at the boy who had picked up my wife’s framed photo of her two best friends from college. “What are you doing? Put that down?”

“Isn’t it for sale?” he asked innocently.

I started to answer “No,” when a little voice reminded me how I felt about that picture and the two women it had kept immortalized in my bedroom for the last seven years.

“Of course it’s for sale,” I answered. I got out of bed and stepped around Muriel, who was reading the DO NOT REMOVE THIS LABEL stuck to the side of the pillow. “Excuse me,” I told her. “I just have to speak with this fellow…”

“Drawstrings?” Muriel noted with an appreciative nod, the new discovery clearly serving to heighten her interest in purchasing my pajamas.

It was then that I noticed I was standing on bare wood, and not the circular rug that was usually next to our bed.

There was no time to worry about the rug, or the other items whose disappearance I was only now discovering.

“Ten dollars for the picture,” I told the boy as I approached, pulling my pants on over my pajamas.

“Careful with those pajamas,” a voice behind me cautioned.

“Ten dollars!” the boy said, half in shock. “I’ve only got fifty cents to buy my mother a birthday present.”

“Fifty cents it is!”

“You can keep the picture,” the boy said. “I only want the frame.”

“You either take the picture or the deal’s off,” I warned him. “It’s fifty cents with the picture, or ten dollars without.”

I no sooner had the boy’s two quarters in my hand, than I rescued my hairbrush from a middle-aged man with hardly any hair on his head, then went off to find my wife, shouting “MILLICENT!”

Now I knew this was all a dream, of course. One doesn’t normally wake up to find the contents of his house up for sale without knowing about it in advance. Millicent and I might not communicate about little things, like passing on phone messages, but when it comes to big stuff like surprise yard sales, we usually confided in each other.

No, it was a dream all right. In fact, being a writer, I felt slightly embarrassed that I’d have to bring such an interesting situation to a conclusion with one of the oldest cliches in the business—the worn and threadbare hero-wakes-up-from-his-dream finale. Still, as I went from room to room shouting “MILLICENT!” without any success, I found literally dozens of strangers crawling over my possessions like ants on spilled ice cream.

Embarrassed or not, I was glad there would be a simple explanation, a simple solution. I only hoped it would come before Muriel ripped my pajamas off my back.

Of course, the whole affair seemed so real and inescapable that I couldn’t help but get angry when I saw the possessions I valued treated like second hand junk.

“Is that really necessary?” I angrily asked of a heavy-set man who was testing the strength of my father’s prized cherrywood desk by banging on it with his fists. “It’s an antique, you know.”

“For $50 it had better be,” was all the answer I was going to get from him.

Fifty dollars! Yes, this was a dream all right.

I weaved my way through the crowd, searching for any sign of my wife or the kids. The house must have had somewhere between 40 and 75 people inside, each one pushing or pulling or testing or smelling or feeling or lifting or trying on or carrying or kicking some item that I or some other member of my family once thought worthy of owning. Even to me, most of it now looked like trash.

Finally, I made my way into the kitchen, still shouting “MILLICENT!” I walked by our toaster-oven ($5, needs new plug), our kitchen table ($18, chairs incl.) and out through our rear mud room. Just before opening the screen door, I spied a sign over some of Katie and Kristin’s toys, which indicated that these items were not for sale. A moment later, I went out into the back yard carrying Katie’s Big Wheels plastic tricycle in one hand, Kristin’s paint set in the others. I sold the Big Wheels before I had a chance to set it down on the grass. The paint set I had to promote a little before I finally enticed a six year-old to take it for a dime.

The backyard was even more crowded than the inside of the house. There seemed to be hundreds of people—not one of whom seemed familiar—poking, sniffing and hefting the trash and treasures it had taken us years to accumulate. I was surprised to notice that much of it was actually junk, stuff we could easily live a good life without having it in our possession. Some of it was junk we had purchased at other yard sales. But then I came across my golf club bag, and the smile on my dream face fell to the drawstrings that were sticking up from my trousers.

I looked at the empty golf bag and the sign taped to it; 25 cents each! And I marveled at how Millicent was able to sneak inside my dream to pay me back for all those weekend mornings when I drove that bag and its former contents over the rolling hills of our local country club.

“MILLICENT!”I shouted, climbing onto our backyard picnic table ($45 w/benches).

Incredible as it seemed, neither she nor my two children nor, in fact, anyone in the world that I personally knew was at that devilish yard sale. It was just me and two hundred strangers, and I got so upset to think that I was alone in this Cecil B. DeMille epic that I again forgot it was all a dream.

“Leave that alone!” I shouted angrily at a nice enough looking fellow who just happened to be checking out my lawn mower ($20 w/gas). “It’s not for sale.”

I turned to a woman who was coming out of my house with three of my suits over her arm, and I began to growl at her.

When I felt hands start to grab hold of me, holding me back, my growling increased to a pitch that made them force me to the ground. At which point I growled even more ferociously and broke free of their grasp and stepped away from them just long enough to reach for my lucky fishing hat, which some nasty little kid had bought for thirty-five cents.

“It’s priceless!” I told him as he grabbed it back. “Give me another two bits at least.”

Angry voices began to rise up around me.

“Hey” one said.

“A price is a price,” added another.

“Who let him in?” someone else asked peevishly.

“How much for the slippers?” a woman asked. I couldn’t see her, but she sounded like Muriel.

The voices all lifted up from the bodies that surrounded me, and became a creature unto itself, a living herd of voices. A moment later, they transformed into droning voices, then droning bees; and a smile returned to my face as I realized this was still a dream and, better yet, the bees were coming back.

“It must be ending,” I told myself. “The dream must be ending. I…”

Darkness fell and it seemed to bring a limitless expanse of nothingness. I felt as if I were falling through space—perhaps through time as well, for I lost any sense of how long a fall could last. Finally, it seemed as if I had stopped falling, and there was a gentle tugging on my arm.

I opened my eyes and saw a peacock feather cutting a wide arc in the air.

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice said. “Were you able to find out the price?”


Stockholm, Sweden. This year’s Nobel Prize Committee today announced Ron DeSantis as the winner of the 2023 Nobel Prize for Fractured Logic. 

“No other candidate came even close,” the committee’s spokesperson declared. “Governor DeSantis, as the prime driving force behind Florida’s new guidelines on teaching racial history in the state’s middle schools, has stepped into world leadership as a proponent of fractured logic. “Pure genius!” the announcement declares. “By defying—and fracturing—logic in its new guidelines, the Florida Department of Education has vaulted Governor DeSantis to the forefront of specious arguments.”

In one bold move, Governor DeStantis shot ahead of Tucker Carlson who claimed the January 6th insurrection was actually a tour group visit to the Capitol. And also eclipsed Donald J. Trump whose logic in declaring his ability to mentally declassify state documents was thought to have stretched the limits in fracturing logic to a new world record.

“Governor DeSantis’ sponsorship of a guideline that insists slavery be taught as an institution fostering skills that later benefitted slaves, has shaken the foundations of logic worldwide and forever,” the Committee declared. To prove the validity of its statement, the Committee pointed out, “…within moments of the release of Florida’s guidelines on teaching slavery, lawyers for convicted felons filed suit in the U.S. Supreme Court claiming victims of rape, robbery and aggravated assault enjoyed untold benefits that were never considered at the time of their clients’ convictions.”

Many of the rapists were said to be hoping for a pardon should Donald J. Trump win the presidency in 2024.



That makes me tend to frown 

and often fret.

It’s recalling that my memory’s gone

Left behind in all the struggles and

The races I never ran

but still regret.


Had muscles, wavy hair and 

Unspent power that

Fueled my stride.

All receding in some cruelly ebbing tide

Leaving a shell that clings

With diminished self awareness and

Deflated pride.


That makes me question 

The young man that stands

Behind the eyes.

It’s living in a body that fails too often

And takes me out of service

With a sudden and disturbing 

Sense of surprise.

It’s feeling shackled and forgotten

In a prison of my Maker’s 

Cruelest device.

A prison whose walls crumble and fall

Once so proud and oh-so tall

Now projecting one’s 

Inevitable demise.


Of lovers whose final tally 

Will never change.

It’s the walls and fences 

Once there to jump

That leave the fading athlete

blushingly contained.

No more Siren calls to

Draw the man

In search of treasure 

Or hollow fame.

Not even when the Siren calls him out

By his once 

Familiar name.


Thoughtlessly squandered and 

Stupidly spent,

The races I now count as lost

Beyond repair

Whose echoing absence 

I sacredly repent.

Till I cannot count the years

That connive to outgrow my body,

Weaken my resolve and, yes, 

Haunt my soul.

They undo my plans and cause

Me to ask with grim reality, 

When did I ever get 

So fucking old?