Steve B. Howard's Blog, page 144

This is a true story about the Vietnam War as far as I know.

This is a true story about the Vietnam War as far as I know. My dad was drafted and served in Da Nang from 1962–1963. He died of cancer in 1997, so I have been writing these short Haibun based on the stories he told me. I elaborate a little bit here and there when I don’t have all the info, but for the most part they are true. Thanks so much for reading, commenting, and clapping.

Great article and info!

Great article and info! I hope someone writes a similar article for fiction writers. I’ve read a lot of stuff advising Indie fiction writers to try and have 5–10 books available on Amazon and give at least 1–3 away for free as a draw to your other books. I don’t have enough books out there yet to know whether or not that is a good strategy, but considering how dismal my book sales are I’m willing to give it a shot at this point.

Bluey the Sad Beer Drinking Bear

“brown teddy bear on green grass” by Alex Blăjan on Unsplash

I can never remember the bear’s name. I think you said it was Bobo or Bluey, or something like that. It started with a “B” I’m pretty sure. From the time I was a little boy this story has stuck out. Maybe that’s why it’s the Vietnam War story of yours that stayed with me the longest.

Bluey the Bear was found in the jungle near Da Nang as a cub after a group of Green Berets mistakenly killed his mother during an ambush. Part of his right front paw was blown off in the assault. An EMT patched up his injured paw and used the rest of the gauze to muzzle Bluey and bind his legs so he didn’t bite and claw the shit out of them when they transported him the five clicks back to the base in one of the soldier’s backpacks.

do kind acts make up
for acts too cruel to ever be
forgiven for?

Back at the base Bluey had a king-sized dog house built for him near a stand of Chinese angelica-trees that shaded him when he lay down to sleep during the hot afternoons. A metal post was concreted into the ground so he could be chained to it.

“Can’t have a fucking bear running loose on the base,” a first Sergeant had growled when he heard about Bluey.

From an early age he started drinking beer. Two rattan chairs were placed in his area and in the evening soldiers would sit with him and down cases of pop top Budweiser. Bluey used his claws to rip the top off the tin cans and then he would cradle them between his paws and lean back in the chair to chug away. After about a case he would fall off the chair and sleep. During the rainy season no one would sit with him, but a case of beer was left near the entrance of his dog house everyday.

saved into slavery
and addiction is not true
freedom at all

One night some FNG brought Bluey a bottle of Tequila instead of his usual beer. Bluey tipped the bottle and sucked the fiery drink down his throat and went ballistic. The FNG made it out of the chair with a bad scratch and a crotch full of his own piss.

Bluey, having snapped his chain and now a mean drunk was still thirsting for his beer. Using his nose to sniff out the officer’s club’s stash he staggered to the entrance. Having no experience with doors, Bluey took violent exception to not being able to readily access the beer he could clearly smell inside the club house. A massive paw swipe knocked the door off its hinges and Bluey bum rushed in with a roar. A drunk Special Forces captain pulled his .45 and blew Bluey’s brains out.

How many sad victims of
our horrible wars were never
even known?

Bluey the Sad Beer Drinking Bear was originally published in The Junction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Pounding Hard Stone with My Passion

Hard Rock Cafe?
More like Hard Luck
Cafe.

I bet Hem’s Paris was a |
lot more fun even when he
was poor.

Run Gerald, run!!!!!! lol

Run Gerald, run!!!!!! lol

Thanks for the catch. I fixed it. And thanks so much for the read, comments, and claps.

Thanks for the catch. I fixed it. And thanks so much for the read, comments, and claps.

I Hate the Light Sometimes

“person behind mesh fence” by Mitch Lensink on Unsplash

My anger and resentment doesn’t
boil because of the crushing dark.
It’s expected and does its
job like a doomed soldier
crossing enemy lines.

No, it’s the dancing happy,
jumpy sparkly optimism that
drags me into the stratosphere
only to tell me as the strings are
cut and “there is no reserve chute sucker.”

I think without the rocket ride of
the highs it would be easier to
dig down deep into the soft earth
smells of the darkness and fetal myself
into the comforting dark refrigerator hum.

I Hate the Light Sometimes was originally published in P.S. I Love You on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Not for those of us that are creative writers from what I’ve heard.

Not for those of us that are creative writers from what I’ve heard. I’ve only seen fiction featured twice at the top of my page and both times they were hand-picked famous writers from outside of Medium. An extra $40 a month is okay, but me and a lot of other creative writers here still feel like second class citizens.

I tried but they seem like they want to buy back the rights or sue them to get the rights back.

I tried but they seem like they want to buy back the rights or sue them to get the rights back. I don’t think it would be worth the time and effort though.

Why Do I Watch It?

“person sitting beside street” by Rod Long on Unsplash

It’s only a face
plastered across
the screen.

Does the face change
when it’s eight years
old, from southern
Afghanistan, with lethal
shrapnel in the forehead?

Twain, Einstein, and
Vonnegut pretty much
gave up on us violent hairless
super monkeys.

Is the Dalai Lama
still holding on or will he
soon throw in humanity’s
towel too? Will he
duct tape TNT to his
midriff and storm an
elementary school in
China?

Or maybe gunships, errant
missiles, and friendly fire
would be more effective
for dolling out unsympathetic apologies,
presidential denials, and the
prevailing democracy at
2600 miles per second diplomacy.

I could click the off the remote,
shut the computer down,
and burn the newspaper,
but I know these things will
still happen.

Maybe it’s better
to be awake and alert even
though I find myself crying
too often these days.

Why Do I Watch It? was originally published in Resistance Poetry on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.