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 Blood of Water
The heavy cedar door with the rounded top sagged a little in its frame. Long years of facing tough, salty winter winds coming off the bay had pitted its surface. Paint that had once been bright turquoise had faded to a dull sky blue color. After forty years of abuse the little workshop where Bernie Levine Taylor had spent so much time tying flies and building fly rods for friends and customers was looking pretty decrepit.
Jet Skis of Death
The Sea Doo we are riding is considered relatively slow in jet ski circles. It was designed to hold three people and tops out at around 45 mph. Even still, when we hit the four foot wake of the big cruiser plowing its way down Indian Slough we still soar five feet in the air. The much faster and lighter Yamaha X520 traveling behind us at about 20 mph faster skies triples the height we do. The rider noses it down into a graceful fifteen foot decent and tunnels underwater after landing. Me and my girlfriend are laughing and having a fantastic time.
The Concord Avenue Car Crash Diaries
The screaming big block V8 rattled the windows on my Trans Am. The candy apple blue Chevelle sat in the right lane next to me waiting for the traffic light to turn green. I knew what this meant. He’d revved his engine as a challenge. If I look over at him and he has his pink slip dangling there it means, we were racing for ownership of our cars. If I look, nod, and floor it at the green light one of us would possibly be signing our cars over in a parking lot somewhere. Refusing to do so often meant a bad beating and bottles, rocks, sometimes baseball bats smashing your car to pieces. But if I ignored him, chickened out, I would be laughed at least for the rest of the night and probably a lot longer banishment. I wouldn’t be able to show my face out here again. And every teenage boy from San Francisco to Stockton knew that the hot girls that liked hot cars were out on Concord Ave on Saturday nights.
The Gangster Wannabes Get Roofed
Our Northern California neighborhood was white bread boring up until the late 80’s. Situated in a mostly a blue collar town with very little violent crime no one saw the wave of super crimes coming our way until it was so far gone most people thought nothing short of a Soviet nuke would clean it up.
Harold had labored in the same job, the same diesel grime and oil, for thirty-six years. Today he would retire. His world for the past thirty-six years had consisted of a four-way intersection and the three buildings attached to that intersection, the Danderwood Apartments, C.S.W Engine Repair, and The Jasmine Moon Restaurant and Lounge. Harold’s thinning hair had assumed a bleached-out canary yellow tint about six years after he moved into the apartment building. His thick beard, while fiercely retaining some of its original strawberry blondness, had also taken on the same yellow hue. Engine grease and years of smoking had worked together to turn his teeth and skin nearly the same shade of gray.
Getting My Novella Published Last Year Has Been Like Getting Kicked in the Nuts
Getting a book published after 13 years of trying and failing to do so should be that “Rocky dancing with arms raised in victory at the top of the steps” moment in every writer’s life right? Well, hold on there sunshine because reality is about to swing its concrete shin MMA style right into your jubilant metaphorical nut sack.