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Last updateTue, 06 Aug 2013 2am

Back You are here: Home Stories Bryan Howie
Bryan Howie

Bryan Howie

Bryan Howie always wanted to be either Batman or a writer.  Since he doesn't have the legs for tights, he started writing.  He now lives in the American Inland Northwest, where he has been searching for a muse to amuse in the trees and rivers. He loves photography and motorcycle riding, but has a hard time doing both simultaneously.

His short story "Your Mother's Smile" was featured in Volume 6 of The Best of Carve Magazine.  More of his work can be found at Solarcide.com and Redfez.net. 

Monday, 12 August 2013 22:34

Short Cuts

This is the stupidest thing to talk about.  But, fuck it.  One time, when the blood just wasn't enough, I pulled out a tooth.  I don't even want to tell this, but then I think, “Why not?”

            I think, “What's it going to hurt?”

            A razor blade is only sharp for one cut per edge.  Flesh dulls a razor quick.  I don't know why.  But the first cut, what I'd do is lay the razor flat.  No matter what I was feeling in my head, putting the razor flat against my skin would make me sick to my stomach, like I could almost puke if somebody just made that gagging sound.

Monday, 27 May 2013 22:53

Ride

Riding a motorcycle on old highways insists on danger. Deal with potholes, loose gravel, and patchwork asphalt splotches. Roads covered with fluids that trucks leak like open sieves. From shadowy trees, animals dart across the road constantly, but that's almost a good thing because it keeps you paying attention. But if you hit a deer in a car at 70, you are going to have a problem. And that's not including trying to track down and put that poor beast out of its misery with a dull pocket knife while it kicks two broken, but functioning, legs at you.

Monday, 20 August 2012 05:08

Every Mother's Son

Hospitals make me sick.  Every day, I walk through the emergency and waiting rooms, through bile, past head wounds and soft whimpers.

Following sneaker tracks through fresh blood, onto the elevator, up five floors to the oncology department.  Here, the patients wait as their bodies betray them.  Here, the red blood is swallowed up, digested, and expelled black.  Nothing smells quite like the cancer ward. 

Wednesday, 20 June 2012 15:18

The Fool

Leaving the subway at night, I take one step before the first bum asks me for a dollar.  In my coat pocket, I flip through a deck of cards and pull out a Three of Cups.  I toss him a five.  The next block, another person reaches out from the shadows of gray buildings and asks for a dollar.

He sees my darkened face.  Backing away, he says, "Never mind, man.  Just forget it."