Steve B. Howard's Blog, page 150
September 20, 2018
Thanks for reading and commenting Tim. I appreciate it. Glad you enjoyed it.
Thanks for reading and commenting Tim. I appreciate it. Glad you enjoyed it.

I will definitely check it out.
I will definitely check it out. I’ve been writing a bit of cyberpunk recently, so the sci fi prompts would be very helpful I think.

Thanks for reading and commenting.
Thanks for reading and commenting. I changed the title and fixed all the embarrassing typos. I wish I earned enough on Medium to hire an editor, lol.

9 Facebook Writing Groups I’m a Member Of

I wrote The Internet Troglodyte’s Method to Get Your Work Noticed a few weeks back about using Facebook groups to gain followers for your Facebook author’s page and to find new readers for your work. I mentioned a few of the groups in that post, but I thought I would give a better description of the main ones I use.

And there you have it, the best 9 Facebook writing groups I know of. Join up and start building your reading audience!

9 Facebook Writing Groups I’m a Member Of was originally published in Publishous on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
A .45 in the Face

There were several stories you told about Vietnam that almost ended me. Or, I should say almost ended you thereby assuring I would have never existed. This time it was for a pair of socks. You’d returned to the barracks to get the green wool ones, warmer in the skin drenching monsoons while on guard duty. A drunk Green Beret is sitting on your bunk when you return. Dead cold eyes regard you, track you, so you ask him nicely to move so you can get your socks. And fast as a cobra strike, there’s a cocked pistol jammed in your face.
Urine ran down your leg, but it was so humid any sweat down your spine would have just blended. You said you didn’t know how long you stood there stock still like you were already a corpse; hunched over, halfway to your foot locker with that black pistol in your face, an inch from your nose.
Then there was a friend. His friend? Your friend? It didn’t fucking matter. The voice was calm enough to soothe the wild demons back into their dark caves. You got your socks, put them on over your boots, and spent your guard duty in pissed stained fatigues.
too late to understand
when the rabid dog’s bite comes
well before his bark

A .45 in the Face was originally published in The Creative Cafe on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
The Daily Corporate Zombie March

In the soft morning light, I see them walking
slowly towards the dark subway station. Dead
potential, a long line of Japanese salarymen
all dressed in dark blue or black suits, white
shirts, dark ties, dead-eyed and resigned.
Those thirty and over, I see it in their defeated eyes,
the fallen baseball star, the crushed manga artist,
the Judo master to beaten up to make the Olympic team.
But it in the young, twenty-two, fresh from college; that
small living flame scorching its way towards freedom
still cries out in the morning crush,
“I will find a way out of this!”

The Daily Corporate Zombie March was originally published in Resistance Poetry on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
September 19, 2018
I agree. I don’t have a choice about the continuous stream of stories that enter my head all day…
I agree. I don’t have a choice about the continuous stream of stories that enter my head all day long. All I can do is write them down and send them out into the world.

Satori in the Slipstream: My Short Story Collection

https://www.books2read.com/b/mZP7ap
EXCERPT From Shoe Horned:
I rolled out from under my newspapers and cardboard tent, thinking maybe today I could paint the changes into my life that I’d been dreaming of for the past fifteen years. I saw it all in my mind, but that’s about as far as it went. Under a little ray of sunlight that shone down into the alley, I called home. Ugly blotches and swirls or ink ran out onto the paper. I was trying to capture the change I wanted in my life, but I couldn’t get the picture to slide from my head, down through my scabby arm, and out of the pen onto the paper. It just wouldn’t come. Knowing my life as well as my art was at a stand still, at least for today, I put my pens away, and stepped out of the alley and into the street to make my living.
Street art is mostly survival art. Out here I’ve got the pictures I draw and my empty pencil cup for handouts, and sometimes a sale, but not much else. The setup’s the same every day. I come out from the alley, put my back against the wall of Johnson’s Grocery Store facing the busy sidewalk, lay out my newest pictures and all the ones that haven’t sold yet, put out my pencil cup, and wait.
People out here on the street, running from their business appointments and hair salons, are mostly dreamers. All my pictures of the celebrity faces showing them the lives they wish they could live are like a stop sign in the middle of their busy day. They pause in their steps, look at the pencil-drawn sports stars, rock stars, movie stars, and political leaders, and for a second, they’re out of their complicated little lives for a while; then they see me.
There’s a fly that sits on the wall behind me all day, just watching with those freaky eyes that see eight-thousand versions of me; but that don’t make me feel down on myself like the human eyes that stare, but can’t see anything. Even the blind man’s dog, that I swear can smell my soul, doesn’t judge like the blind man’s eyes do. I know what I am, but I don’t always want to be reminded. It’s the eyes turned down looking through me like I’m not even here that dig the deepest. I live in the dirt, but that don’t mean I am the dirt, even though I can feel it deep inside my pores.
If you enjoyed this excerpt please check out the rest of the short story collection here:https://www.books2read.com/u/mZP7ap

I hope so.
I hope so. It’s baffling and demoralizing to get ignored by agents and publishers and yet get so much praise for from people on Medium especially since most of them are excellent writers as well as readers.

Thanks for reading my stuff Alex.
Thanks for reading my stuff Alex. I appreciate it. I haven’t been to Sydney, but I visited Melbourne twice. Life on the streets is rough anywhere. Especially for those poor people who are suffering from mental illness like the guy in Eugene was. I hope he has since been able to find some help.
