Steve B. Howard's Blog, page 157

Thanks for the invite.

Thanks for the invite. This sounds like the type of publication I would love to write for. Very much in the spirit of Bukowski I think!

Thanks for reading and commenting.

Thanks for reading and commenting. She killed her because she was rude and insulting and because she was a Ninja. The Iga region used to be famous for them.

Wash Your Hands of Her With Toxins

Photo by Bianca Jordan on Unsplash

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 canceled 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 Tokugawas 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.

Wash Your Hands of Her With Toxins was originally published in The Weekly Knob on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Excellent descriptions and dialog.

Excellent descriptions and dialog. Sounded very real. Looking forward to reading more in the future.

That would probably be a fun and very interesting read.

That would probably be a fun and very interesting read. I doubt I’m the only writer out there that feels this way.

The Query Letter I Really Want to Send Out

CCO

There are no fucking vampires, wizards, murderous clowns, spunky, plucky, or resourceful fucking male or female main characters. No simple A-Z connect the dots fucking plot lines either. You won’t be able to classify this novel in an easily digestible and ready made marketable genre. It won’t easily morph into film and you ain’t getting a line of toys out of it neither.

My novel has broken concrete and ground up glass in open wounds. It has warts and blisters, and oozing sores, needle tracks and dead hookers. There’s murder, there’s rape, there’s drug abuse, attempted suicide, and a couple of horrific accidental deaths to boot. But none of this gets wrapped up into a nice happy little horse shit package in the end that will make the reader think, “Oh, how nice. You see everybody, things works out for the best in the end.” Nope. My shit is REAL!

Over 100 of you have had a shot at representing me and so far my original query letter has gotten nothing back but fucking crickets. So, this is it! If you fucking gatekeepers can’t or are unwilling to see the potential this novel has then fuck you! I know the readers for my novel are out there and I’ll find them my damn self!

The Query Letter I Really Want to Send Out was originally published in The Junction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Thanks for reading and commenting on my stuff.

Thanks for reading and commenting on my stuff. I appreciate it. I disagree that praying will do much good for the people committing atrocities or the person doing the praying. I respect you as a person and as a writer, but I’m an atheist.

Thanks so much for reading and responding. I appreciate it.

Thanks so much for reading and responding. I appreciate it.

Tricking Yourself into Higher Self-Esteem

Photo by Brian Wertheim on Unsplash

The game is pretty easy. Just skim through the daily news
until you find the ones worse than you

the ones that have hurt children, hurt animals,
the rip off artists at the corporate level down to the dirty
parking lots of a local 7–11

the dictators, capitalist and communist, suicide bombers,
lone wolf mass shooters, and soulless killer drones,
election riggers, human or AI,
religious leaders that womanize and rape

the entire sick parade is there everyday
to help remind you that you are better than those
you pissed the day away reading about on the internet.

A couple of other things I wrote this week for you to check out if you are interested.

The Creative Spark is Only the StartThe Fear of ObscurityOver If you enjoyed this please check out my books at  Amazon .

Thanks so much for reading and commenting. Glad you enjoyed it.

Thanks so much for reading and commenting. Glad you enjoyed it.