Steve B Howard
Steve Howard's self-published collection of short stories Satori in the Slip Stream, Something Gaijin This Way Comes, and others were released in 2018. His poetry collection Diet of a Piss Poor Poet was released in 2019.
The End of the World Stoners
My drug binge started on Friday night. Now, at 3:30 am on Monday all the competing chemicals were finally beginning to level off and I was facing the start of my sober work week again in less than four hours. A few green lights, psychedelic tracers probably, still drifted past my eyes. That was the last of my three day high though and now Skeeter and me were fast closing in on stone sobriety.
Fly Fishing Highway 17 in Eastern Washington
I’ve written about a lot of the spots I fly fish in Eastern Washington from the north where Highway 17 meets Highway 2 at Banks Lake just outside of Coulee City and south as far as Crab Creek (lower) close to where it dumps into Moses Lake. I wanted to write a short re-cap article that includes all the spots along this 50 or so mile fly fishing paradise that I have fly fished at. A few of these I didn’t include in previous articles. I have caught Crappie, Blue Gil, Rainbow Trout, Lahanton Cutthroat, Brown Trout, and Large Mouth Bass from these lakes and spring creeks. A few of the trout like those at Lake Lenore and Rocky Ford Creek were in the five pound range.
Full Circle Writing Platforms
It has been an exciting and somewhat strange ride on News Break for me since January. I was originally invited to write for them in 2020, not sure when. I didn’t publish anything there until December 2020. Because they stated they only wanted local news I was tentative, since I only had a handful of stories I’d published on Medium that I felt might be considered human interest stories.
Aspirations, Obsession, Destruction
Meditation Journal: Questions always arise. “Is my breathing too fast? Is it too slow? Am I hyperventilating? Why are my thoughts wheeling around my serious intentions?” I’m a pseudo Buddhist. I can talk the talk, but ask me to sit quietly counting my breaths and suddenly my dedication crumbles faster
Dialing For Derelict Homes
In the mid-70’s as a kid I lived about 30 miles southeast of Seattle. In those days the little town I lived in was considered the boondocks or living in the sticks. There is some truth to that since we lived in the foothills of the Cascade Range and deer, cougar, and black bears showing up in your backyard did happen on occasion, not something you would see in downtown Seattle even back then. I could walk to most of my friend’s houses in the neighborhood through thick stands of Douglass Firs, Cedars, and Pine Trees.
Trout Streams, Motion, and Memory
The desert of Eastern Washington is a place of dryness and death. Without water nothing can live here. The thin little stream that cuts through the harsh rock and sand provides nourishment for the willow trees and the grassy meadow. It is the single life-giving artery in this arid place.
A Change of Dreams
The air was different. Painfully clean, but not sterile. So unlike the dry stagnant air of downtown Los Angles, always tinged with dusty smog and semi-metallic brown acrid pollution. He coughed up beautiful healthy L.A into the rejuvenating elixir of Canada.
Out of Kindness
The camping trip was their idea. It was always their idea. Ever since I can remember my life was their idea. The camping trip was their way to fix my suspension from school for drinking. Not so much drinking as it was guzzling whiskey till I passed out. Some rich looking Alumni couple heard me choking under the bleachers at the homecoming game. Monday I returned to the scene of the crime with parents in tow to receive the judgment. Punishment would come later.