Stephen Weir articles, editorials and popular social media weir postings

  THE FUTURE IN THE DYING STINK He must be dead. This time.  Yes, undeniably, he must be dead. And he is in Hell. Obviously, he must be in Hell because it smells just like the train to Rebuilt. Nothing can be worse than sitting on the train to Rebuilt, smelling the grotesque mingling of alcohol, fear, sweat, blood, and rot. Nothing... except being in Rebuilt itself. He drinks in the hopelessness that hangs in the air like a thick fog. He sees the twisted buildings and the massive lumps of rotting flesh that hang from the windows and door frames. Yes this is Hell. He groans heavily; some of the passengers, seeing Rebuilt for the first time, vomit and scream all manner of incredulous things at the same time.  Not he. Someone has ordered him to be here, or else he wouldn't have suddenly woke on this third class passenger bench. He's lost count of how many times he has passed this way before. "Final stop!" the automated train voice crackles through the ancient PA. The tra

" Whatz The Day Trump Goes Away (For Good)?”   Author STEPHEN WEIR's business card FICTION: A Windsor U Creative Writing Assignment by STEPHEN WEIR The gentle tap tap quickly birthed a knock knock followed by a kick kick at the base of my front door. Someone wanted me wide awake, like yesterday. “Hey Dream Boy,   rise and shine,” barked a loud voice from the other side of my solid oak front door. Was that   a faint French accent lurking in that military staccato? “ Mange la merde”, I screamed back.     I wasn’t going to give up on my disturbing nightmare without a fight and I knew this man. “ It’s Justin, he knows.” My unrequested wake-up service out shrieked me. This wasn’t going to end well. “What does his majesty know? And why does he suddenly want to speak to me after the last time? “I took it down a notch. “The PM knows about you and Monsieur Trump. Aussi Mr. Joe.” ‘How could this be?’ I asked myself.     I only finished the dream when he started kicking the door minutes