Rainy Night

By Robert Lackey

The litter-clogged drains overflowed onto the sidewalks. My left shoe let in the rain, soaking the shredded newspaper under my foot. I usually put my good sock on that foot when it’s wet out, but last night was mild. I still had my thin sock with the big-ass hole on my left foot.

Shit. Continue reading

Author Profile: Tamara Linden

How and when did you decide, or discover, that you were to be a writer?

I started writing stories almost as soon as I learned to hold a pencil, but I started writing “seriously” about two years ago when I started tutoring for a living. The flexibility of my job allows me to focus a lot more on writing, which we all know takes quite a lot of time and energy.  Continue reading

The Captive

By Tamara Linden

There’s food. They throw a few crusts of stale bread into the cage and laugh as we fight over them. A dirty, stubbled knee smashes into my face as I reach into the melee with one hand and shove aside a frail old woman with the other. My hand closes spasmodically around a small piece but, as I bring the prize to my lips, another girl tries to snatch it from me.  I jerk away and bite her grasping fingers, lips pulled back from my teeth. She glares at me and rubs her hand, like I’ve done something rude, like she has every right to my food. I glare back and chew as slowly as possible, both to make it last and to rub it in the thief’s face. I hope they sell her soon. She’s been a steadily growing pain in my ass for weeks now. Continue reading

Author Profile: Harvey Steinberg

How and when did you decide, or discover, that you were to be a writer?

Let me say what caused me not  to write, before I picked it up again. In my mid-twenties, married with two infant daughters, I quit my job, desperate to write a play — the first half of which I accomplished before running out of money. Scared, to say the least, I swore off creative writing until many years went by. So now I’m at it again, my grandsons in their late twenties. Continue reading

Norbert’s Memoir

By Harvey Steinberg

There was just enough space in the bank’s private lock-box room for Norbert to write his memoirs.

He finished a paragraph with: ‘I was an innocent child.’

Norbert mindlessly flipped open his lock-box Number 426.  He couldn’t resist thumbing through its documents. His bonds, his stocks. Mortgage papers, many papers. Papers, papers, a cascade that displayed what he had figured out, but not the boyhood that hadn’t taken figuring out.

Leaving quickly, he muttered, “Not again. Memoirs are too much for me,” his back in pain, and the metal box filled with his steadily maturing instruments felt heavier than ever.


Harvey’s widely eclectic experience — vocational, civic, personal — includes organization management, politics, writing, visual arts, teaching, physical tasks. At the heart of them all lie his never-still, fertile imagination and ethical commitment. Harvey is a native of New York City and in the latter half of his life resides in New Jersey.

Author Profile: Eileen Kimbrough

kimbrough

How and when did you decide or discover, that you were to be a writer?

I began writing fairly recently. I didn’t decide to be a writer. It just evolved. As a visual artist, I began incorporating letters and words into my paintings. I made sculptures from old books.

When I was going through some personal problems, I began waking with fully formed poems in my mind. I had to get them on paper quickly so they couldn’t float away into that vast sea of lost ideas. I don’t know where they came from. I had never studied poetry and didn’t read it much. I’m still puzzled that it came to me this easily. I was encouraged to write more and put some into my art. My self-published chap-book, was titled, “Painting With Words” after I discovered writing was very similar to visual arts. Continue reading

She

By Eileen Kimbrough

There she is. A silver Volkswagen makes a left turn. Yeah, one of those small cars that looks like it’s going the wrong way. I strain to see the driver. It isn’t her. I know she has a Volkswagen. I saw her drive away in it once, before I learned what happened.

At that time, she couldn’t drive. Twenty nine, and never learned. I drove her to job interviews, helped her shop for interview clothes, waited in my hot car until interviews were over. I regret that. Continue reading