National Debt Token

Don’t Take Any Wooden Nickels

When members of Congress adopted the strategy of refusing to raise the debt ceiling to gain political leverage, the idea of minting trillion dollar platinum coins to finance government was suggested. And so the Ronald Reagan One Trillion Dollar ($1,000,000,000,000) National Debt Token was born.

Psyche being carried off by Zephyrus


The story of Cupid and Psyche has been analyzed from a psychological perspective – exploring archetypes, family, marriage, love, relationships – and it has been examined from the feminist perspective. With that in mind, I don’t think it’s purely a prurient subject choice…

Silent Night Short Story

Silent Night

She pulls the string all afternoon, forced to maneuver past Carl whose legs are propped up on the coffee table in front of the couch where he reads. His spot to read has been chosen by his parents, as Carl has been grounded for quite some time

Reluctant Liberal

Reluctant Liberal

Grandpa always kept a trunkful of bottles and cans, especially pickles and he always set the cruise control at just under 100 miles an hour. For some reason he thought that cruise control was automatic pilot. He would recline his seat, often steering with just the pinky finger on his right hand, or not at all when engaged in an in-depth discussion on the facts of life…

Sea Goddess - Short Story by Sean Ward

Sea Goddess

When I first met the sea, I ran to it, my initial steps awkward, then welcoming, like those of a foal. I chased morning’s tide, then waited, fleeing as it swung back for me, and later, I let it wash over my ankles, pushing me gently into the cool mud and foam underfoot.

I Want my Meat - a cat story

I Want My Meat

She invites him in and the cats scatter like a handful of marbles. One peers out wide-eyed from inside a box. Alex looks around. There’s a smell of incense, jasmine, stale, makes the room smell damp, like after a rain.

sean ward - poems

valve lash

The shop is a man’s place, a lonely place, and
there’s nothing to think about other than the
length of a rod, the way a piston fits a cylinder,
the gap of a plug, the opening and closing of a
diaphragm, the correct order of things, quitting
time, or the hem of a skirt.

The shop is a noisy place, with the hum of the lift
as it raises and lowers, the whir of a socket on an
air-driven drill, the clang of a wrench as it bounces
from concrete, the foul mouths of mechanics with
blood on black knuckles, and the rhythmless crackle
from stereo speakers, attempting to cover the drone
of the shop fans, set high in the walls.

In the shop, things are done by feel, with
fingertips, and by hands with metal extensions:
Unclip valve cover clips. Pry valve cover off.
Ease in feeler gauge. Gauge should slip with a
slight drag. If not, loosen rockerarm nut, tighten
locknut, readjust. Ease in feeler gauge again.
When finished, check gaskets. Spill oil accumulates
in valve covers. If gasket leaks, loss of oil
may be disastrous.

In the shop, an experienced mechanic doesn’t check
the rotor to see if it points to the spark plug
contact of the cylinder of the valves to be
adjusted. He doesn’t remove part of the fan
housing to check the mark to see if the piston
is in the top center of the firing stroke. He
doesn’t start with a cold engine. He turns the
key to start her, to warm her. He listens to her combust
internally, slips the feeler gauge in as slick
fluids flow through her, and sets the valve lash
by her tone and vibration.

In the shop, the only sweet thing is whatever sweet
thing comes through the shop door or passes on the
street. No time is taken to consider Pandora or
Pandora’s box or Eve or an apple or whether or not
the shop’s dog has been named after a saint who is real.
There’s just that whistle or hey baby! Or a tap on the
shoulder and a knowing nod as they break for a moment,
their ratchets in their hands.

If Midas were a mechanic and not a king, everything
he touched would turn to grease and not gold: the
door to his home, the white linen sheets in his bed,
the veiled face of the woman he marries, her heart.
Cupid doesn’t often fire arrows in the catcalls of
oil stained men. Men regarded as thieves. Men
envisioned as remnants of broken dreams with alloy souls
who scrape at their own locked existence in the bowels
of a transmission. Men who might know Blake’s angels,
and for whom the mermaids sometimes sing.

sean ward - poems


The neighbor’s dog lifts paw to ear,
scratches at the jeweled movement
of the day, as summer weeds bend slightly,
then stand at ease, and leaves rustle
like golden sleeves of wild Burmese silk.

A lone birdsong, slow, melodic, metronomic,
carries with it the story of us, the
inner workings of our place in this time,
our crescendo, decrescendo, the rise, the
fall, each breath, distinct and forgotten.

You move me, in ways I am not prepared
to move, in ways I am afraid to go, yet
I grow the way an oak grows, and shed
skin like leaves to welcome your
feathered touch among my boughs.