Steve B. Howard's Blog, page 136

That would be great.

That would be great. I noticed my Pintereset account is getting 65k views a month, but I only have around 400 followers. Probably because I barely do anything with it. I bet your book could help change that.

It is debatable if Jesus even existed.

It is debatable if Jesus even existed. Though Constantine I did make up some pretty good stories about him.

And considering where we are at with Climate Change a society of survivalists is probably way too optimistic. If we don’t make massive and drastic changes very soon extremophiles will probably inherit the earth.

The Only “ist” That Will Matter

Photo by Kathy Toth on Unsplash

I think we are rapidly moving away from a time when claiming any “ism” political, religious, or ideological will matter in the face of the horrible truth of having been forced into a world in which being a survivalist is the only “ist” that has any value.

The Only “ist” That Will Matter was originally published in The Junction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

What was the name of the book? Sounds like a good one to read.

What was the name of the book? Sounds like a good one to read.

Congrats! That is so awesome and inspiring.

Congrats! That is so awesome and inspiring. I’ve had a Pinterest account for years, but I don’t spend any time on it at all. I think I need to change that ASAP!

A Soft and Short Affection (Haiku)

Photo by Steve Halama on Unsplash

gentle hand on tired
cheek, twenty good years and
still the deepest love

A Soft and Short Affection (Haiku) was originally published in P.S. I Love You on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Ebook $0.99: Something Gaijin This Way Comes

Something Gaijin This Way Comes

$0.99 ON AMAZON AND OTHER PLACES NOW! A Great Little Collection of Short Stories at a Great Price!!!!

Broken, blistered, and busted tales about life in Japan. Take a look into the darker seedier side, an old woman waits to die in the summer heat, a homeless man flees Japan rather do prison time, an old man argues with his wife and things go really bad. These stories and many more.

Ebook

Available now at your favorite digital store!

Paperback

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1731422164

Excerpt:

Wash Your Hands of Her Toxins

The first clue was her use of “chan” instead of “san” or even “sama” considering the circumstances. Japanese social etiquette demanded that “chan” was only used for small children, young girls, a younger sister, and for a very close female friend, not for your 87 year old former neighbor who was three years your senior.

Your neighbors had moved into a new house with their son’s family six months ago after living across the hallway for thirty years in apartment #402, a unit just as dilapidated as yours was.

A week before they moved she’d given you her old washing machine saying, “Oh, we won’t need it in my son’s new house. He has a brand new one. You can have it.” You had smiled and graciously accepted it. It was brown and ugly, but newer than the ancient Mitsubishi you had. It was slower and less powerful than than your old machine and you regretted accepting it a week later.

The day she left you had watched from your kitchen window as her rickety old hunch backed husband and her, with her newly dyed hair and a sun dress much too young for her frail and sunken frame got into a taxi and followed the moving truck to their new home just outside the city.

Then, out of the blue she had called you. “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience,” she said. “My son’s washing machine broke and my daughter in law wants to wait until the New Year’s sales to buy a new one, so I will need my old one back until then. I’m sure you understand.” You had said little, but made arrangements with her to have the washing machine removed from your apartment.

Two days later three rude young men in a ratty looking delivery truck arrived ten minutes earlier than the agreed time to take the washing machine. After they had left of course you called her and used slightly less than polite language to let her know the washing machine had been picked up and that you had indeed been inconvenienced.

Social protocol demanded that she make this right and she promised to visit you soon. You set a time and date for the meeting over the phone while slicing fugu for lunch, expertly removing the poisonous parts, of course.

You weren’t surprised at all when she cancelled the day of the meeting using “chan” again as she said, “I’m terribly sorry, but my husband has a headache today and needs me here.” Social status established she happily agreed to visit you next week. You accepted with barely noticeable ice in your voice.

She arrived by taxi a week later ten minutes late. Upon entering your apartment she mentioned what a long drive it was here from her new house and how she forgotten how painful it was on her knees to walk up to the fourth floor of your apartment building.

Social formalities met, a cheap bag of crackers from her offered, you invited her into the living room near the one window that faced the street below. You offered her matcha and she accepted since your chanoyu skills were mildly famous in the area.

As you both sat sipping tea she prattled on and on about her new house, her son, and worthless daughter in law as if she hadn’t lived as the wife of a failed industrialist in these apartments for thirty years before moving out. Then she mentioned some family heirlooms indirectly indicating she was descended from samurai. A very minor branch of the Tokugawa’s you knew, as you had heard her brag about it a hundred times before.

“And where are your family from again?” she asked with barbed sweetness. You had chuckled and said, “Oh, we’re a bunch of nobodies from the country.”

Then much sooner than would have been expected she said she was feeling a bit tired and should return home. You saw her to her taxi and noted her less than respectful bow before she got into the taxi.

It wouldn’t have surprised you to know that she lay down in the back of the taxi half way to her house due to sudden fatigue. And it wouldn’t have surprised you, unlike the the mortified taxi driver, to find her stone dead body in the back seat of the taxi when it arrived at her house.

It had been child’s play for you to add just the right amount of Puffer Fish toxin to her matcha to stop that bitch’s heart. You had always told her you were a bunch of nobodies from the country side, but you never mentioned your clan was from the mountains of Iga where deception and assassination are a way of life

The Blackness that Brings Light

Photo by Mike Yukhtenko on Unsplash

I’m not a gloomy down in the dumps bummer
of a friend type usually. But often when
I feel like the writing is really ready to flow,
like the Muse is ready to rock and roll
it’s the downbeat of a rough idling
’68 Dodge Hornet with broken lifters
kind of mood that gets my ass in the writing chair.

Often times I need the broken glass
and festering wounds rubbed through
an indifferent godless universe
to bring out my best work.

That last desperate pint of rubbing
alcohol filtered through a loaf of
bread and poured blindly down the
raw burning throat of my soul is my
creative impulse’s elixir.

The Blackness that Brings Light was originally published in The Creative Cafe on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Hard Rocking Arthritis

“person next to coconut tree on sand” by Jeff Kepler on Unsplash

When you’ve headbanged since the early 80’s
it takes a toll on the joints. But bass player in a
hotel band in Tokyo ain’t a
bad gig if you can get it.

At the clinic, the Japanese doctor struggles
in English to explain the side effects of opiates.
I stare down at the tattoos that cover my
forearm that once hid the needle tracks
and struggle not to laugh in his face.

Hard Rocking Arthritis was originally published in Written Tales on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The High Achiever’s Murderous Failure

Photo by Victor Rodriguez on UnsplashSuccess! Goals! Progress! Ambitions!

Pursue them all with the single
minded determination of a sociopath
who’s fear and concern for consequences
has been turned so low that cannibalizing
all that he loves seems like a rational decision.

Your money is better spent on a cord of kindling to
warm yourself with rather than that self-help
book that only fans the flames of the guru’s ego
and does nothing to fix his AI-like Asperger’s.

Mediocre isn’t so bad as long as you’re free.

The High Achiever’s Murderous Failure was originally published in P.S. I Love You on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.