Life Sucks by PS Conway is a masterful blend of dark humor and introspective wit, capturing the absurdities of the COVID lockdown era with unparalleled candor. Conway, a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the 2024–25 Poet-in-Residence at The Fictional Café, transitions from poetry to prose in this debut nonfiction work, delivering a series of essays that are as thought-provoking as they are laugh-out-loud funny. Amazon +3 Goodreads +3 Goodreads +3 Amazon +2 Amazon +2 Amazon +2
Drawing from his experiences during 40 weeks of lockdown, Conway delves into topics ranging from the existential significance of a colonoscopy to the overlooked reality of “Manopause.” His unapologetically irreverent style offers a satirical lens through which readers can examine the shared challenges and idiosyncrasies of pandemic life. Amazon
Critics have lauded Life Sucks for its sharp social commentary and comedic brilliance. Asher Syed of Readers’ Favorite describes it as “snort-laughs and gasp-worthy wit,” while Grant Leishman likens it to “Monty Python with a colonoscopy.” Such praise underscores Conway’s ability to find humor amidst chaos, making this collection a cathartic read for those seeking solace in shared experiences. Amazon
For readers who appreciate a blend of satire, introspection, and unfiltered honesty, Life Sucks stands out as a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the therapeutic power of laughter.
Tea that’s been poured can’t be poured back- but we can find ways to enjoy it.
🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵
They arrived with quivering hands,
Asking me to pour away their pasts.
But my tea is neutral–
Without sugar
It doesn’t comfort.
🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵
The guests want to redo–
Come with words they dare not speak
Their lives, asunder.
But my tea turns not with time–
It flows with it.
🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵
Gloria came for a cup,
Head bowed, close to tears–
Pics of her better half–
Another–
Voice muted.
🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵
Tim sat at the table,
Head in hands.
A bank balance–
Nil.
A zero.
That he dare not tell.
🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵
I poured my tea,
Its taste raw–
Too subtle–
For Him.
🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵
He tipped it
On the table.
It could not flow back
Into the cup.
🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵
So he
Still sat
Head in hands.
🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵
Ash arrived.
Angry. Misread
She sipped–
My flowing tea
And sat–
🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵
Relaxed.
🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵
So my tea–
Not of tannin balm,
But forward pour,
That calms
With time.
🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵 🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖🫖 🍵 🍵 🫖 🍵
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The damselflies danced-until she returned. Michelle Liew
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May was tough for Eddie–he’d walk to the lake for conversations.
The damselflies there were partners.
They hung onto his every word. Pranced with his excitement. Buzzed with his fear. Their wings drooped with his sadness.
That May was different. The flies didn’t prance. They didn’t unfurl their wings.
They hovered above the lilies, fixated on Eddie as he approached.
With someone. Sweet. Dimpled. With lengthy, black tresses.
They kissed. The damselflies hovered closer, unblinking.
When they left, the flies disappeared. In their place stood a woman.
Pale, with black tresses.
She was his; before he made the lake her home.
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Past Crimes by John Jacob Dawson is a compelling fusion of crime thriller and speculative fiction that delves deep into the complexities of justice, grief, and the human psyche. The narrative centers on Michael, whose life is irrevocably altered after witnessing the brutal murder of his parents in 1979. Frustrated by a justice system that fails him, Michael dedicates his life to developing time travel, aiming to rectify the past and bring his parents’ killers to justice.writebk.com+4Amazon Australia+4Amazon+4Amazon+1Goodreads+1
Parallel to Michael’s journey is Cassie, a determined police officer grappling with the unsolved murder of her partner. Their paths converge as they collaborate to solve cold cases, utilizing time travel as their tool. However, their quest raises profound questions about morality, the consequences of altering the past, and the true meaning of justice.indiosyncrasy.com+4Amazon+4Goodreads+4indiosyncrasy.com+2Goodreads+2Amazon+2
Dawson’s writing is both engaging and thought-provoking, weaving a narrative that is as emotionally resonant as it is suspenseful. The characters are richly developed, each grappling with their own demons and ethical dilemmas. The incorporation of time travel is handled with nuance, serving as a mechanism to explore deeper themes rather than just a plot device.
For readers who appreciate thrillers that challenge the boundaries of genre and delve into the moral complexities of human actions, Past Crimes offers a gripping and introspective experience.
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
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In the sky kingdom of Aviar, feathers weren’t just fashion-they were the rule of law. Lord Vantrello was a peacock – a flamboyant figure. a shining star of Aviar’s aristocracy, he strutted about with bejewelled plumes turned Aviar and envious green. His feathers weren’t just ornate–they were his kingly decree.
Lord Vantrello had a reputation for strutting around the otherwise peaceful kingdom and declaring war on anything less than vibrant. All birds had to bow to beauty–or else. Pride was the currency in Aviar—and Vantrello was the richest. He was no ruler–just colourful plumes layered with scorn.
Nim was Aviar’s outcast–a plain Eurasian sparrow with feathers a shade of dull brown. But that plainness was anything but.
“One’s true worth lies beyond plumes,” was his gentle chirp.
That was the affront that sent hate waves through Vantrello’s feathers. He declared a public Challenge of Radiance, giving each bird just one short day to display their finest regalia/ He who collected the crowd’s loudest cheers won.
The air in Aviar soon shimmered with vibrant feathers, with all birds flaunting prideful plumes in struts.
All except Nim. In gentle defiance of Lord Vantrellos’ dazzling status quo. He brought with him–
Nothing.
So it was that Vantrello stood, a vibrant fan of shimmering plumes.
Pilfered. Yet beaming in their forbidden hues.
Nim just stood, sans feathers, save one quill from his supportive mother.
Given with the love she dared not voice.
So it was–a crown of prideful regality versus a crown of gentle defiance. One shimmered, the other spoke brilliantly–without words. Pride shone. But humility endured.
The phoenixes flew in, donned in pilfered feathers. With quick swishes, they reduced Vantrello’s throne to molten ash.
They turned to Nim.
Who had nothing to prove. Everything to teach.
Nim never ruled over Aviar. But he had followers, drawn to kingship without spectacle.
In his dull, yet gentle wings, quiet wisdom flew.
Bright plumes fell, and truth landed.
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If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶
s poem is for Ellie Hoov’s Wonderland Challenge (Whimsical) and Vocal’s I Didn’t Say that Out Loud Challenge
Chase the dreams you dare not speak of out loud. Michelle Liew
🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖
Chase the dreams you dare not speak of out loud.
There’s a place in my heart, in a corner so small,
Where the beats are fast, and ideas are tall
A council exists, though hardly invoked
Where dreams are filed and ideas are stoked.
🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖
Its head, made of china, Mr McTea,
Types notes on bread and six-year-old cheese
He stamps every wish with a raspberry seal.
Then tosses out those that fail to appeal
🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖
Mr McTea has with him a Cheshire Cat
With a grin that disarms and a tall, magic hat
His hat recites the bold thoughts that many misplace
Then shines on the ones that should be embraced
🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖
So when your mind is rife with the seeds of doubt
And the words of the world are way too loud
Just whisper the truths that you dare not reveal
McTea will find them. He knows how you feel.
🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖
🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Mayville appeared in all its fading glory each June, on the night the mayflies hatched–shimmering, ethereal, almost fading.
For one night only.
Then, it would fade into the dust, never to be seen for the rest of the year.
That June, Cara returned to the town, guided by a trail of flickering Mayflies. Her deceased grandmother intoned its name gently in her ears–Mayville.
It was the clock tower, erect. imposing, in the town square. Or at least a photograph of it. Her. standing in front of it. staring.
At an empty space.
The tower shimmered within a cloud. its clock ticking, Loudly. A sound only of the mind. She had stumbled upon it, led by the knowing glow of the Mayflies that had formed a glowing map across the highway. They hovered around her as the town beamed into life.
The sky turned a queer silver at midnight. Pale yellow stars emerged. tiny, blinking. watching.
Mayville began to dissolve. the walls of each home melting like wax candles. The glowing Mayflies rose. their combined glow a frantic shimmer a they encircled her.
Cara found herself at the clock tower again, but it was–different. The pale stones bore a name–hers.
The townsfolk’s voices rose in an echoing whisper: “You’ve come home.”
🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰
Cara didn’t stay in Mayville-she couldn’t. But she had left the town, and its people. Cara didn’t stay in Mayville-she couldn’t. But she had left the town, and its people. vacant.
Her grandmother still planted its name gently in her ears– Mayville.
The pale stars didn’t just shine–they yearned.
For her.
Mayville couldn’t be kept–it was the keeper.
And as she stared at the sign at the fork in the road. she knew.
And could only know–after she’d left.
That she hadn’t escaped Mayville–she had been entrusted.
The pale stars didn’t just shine–they yearned.
For her.
🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰
🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
A true queen is one when she’s not. – Michelle Liew
👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑
She moved in small steps, a gilded pawn,
A sheltered Queen, only her title shone.
With each small step, a risk to bear,
While her King stayed protected, his coat and hair.
👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑
She swept the board, her sword ablaze,
Though pawns blocked her path, she stayed unfazed.
She reached the last line, where she would be crowned,
But paused to cede her jewels, coat, and gown.
👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑
“I wear a crown not for my strength,
Not when the rules of chess are bent.
Let them be free so others may rise—
My throne means naught if they don’t survive.”
👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑
The crowd stood still, amazed, in awe,
Not of her crown, but of her law.
She was a pawn, but changed the game,
Became the Queen by her humble name.
👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑
👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Every May Day, Fernvale unfurled like clockwork. Children touched the homes, scattering wildflowers from doorsteps to the forest edge.
The threshold of number 12, Wren Street, remained deadbolted, its windows sealed shut for decades. The doors of the nameless house stayed closed…because no one dared knock.
A hush covered the house like a shroud-but one little girl wondered why.
Kit was like the other children of the small town–she slipped through the sleepy streets to leave baskets on doorsteps every May Day morning. She sneaked past its closed shutters, clutching wildflowers in one hand and a note in the other. She’d bless number 12’s doorstep with her offerings.
That year’s May Day dawned with a difference–it came in the form of a violet, dutifully pinned on her basket ribbon. Beside the basket was a set of clear footprints, not hers–it was another pair of soles.
Her baskets vanished–unopened, unanswered. But that violet was a first whisper. Gratitude flew in on the wings of folded paper cranes. Thanks arrived in the form of a torn journal page.
There was no question- Number 12 was the town’s eyesore. And the bane of Fernvale’s town council, bound to face the wrath of the demolition derby.
Not everyone wanted it to face that wrath. Kit stormed into the council meeting, wildflowers in hand.
“Someone lives there. They returned paper cranes. Thanked me on journal pages. For these.” She lifted the basket of wildflowers, her face drenched in tears.
The elders returned baleful eyes and scoffed. Kit fingered the single violet, bold, purple. She held it in front of her. “If you erase this house, you’ll erase the thank you, and the person who comes along with it. “
A sudden creak echoed from beyond the windows as she spoke. Soft, but certain footsteps. Every eye darted towards the door.
Then, a shadow stood at the door. But not of someone expected.
It was no ghost, Nor anyone elderly. A young man, with a fading mark on his wrist—the same symbol as the violet pinned to the basket.
“They told me that if I stepped out before I returned the 100th violet, the curse would restart.”
Kit stood, dumbstruck–then drew herself up. The violets weren’t rebelling. They were freeing.
“We’ve shattered your spell. The curse of blind convention. Of following…doing nothing.”
The elders remained, open-mouthed, at the table. They had embraced silence all those years–and lack. Not growth.
Tradition had sealed the door–curiosity turned its handle.
That evening. Fernvale’s children gathered on the porch of Number 12, wildflowers in hand. The young man stepped out of the door, his hands outstretched to finally receive the sun.
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 