The first time Richie and I showed up to play at the Central Park basketball courts by 85th street, we heard a collective groan from the regulars.
Ball Don’t Lie by Geoff Director
Unspeakable by Joyce H. Munro
In those days, he was always grousing about something. Misplaced glasses, cold coffee, empty sugar bowl. Then after a ten-second spiel, his annoyance would trail off like smoke
Body Economy by Audrey Granger Perry
The dressing room is full of smoke, half-naked girls, and overly sweet smells of cotton-candy confections and temptation.
The Heart’s Chambers by Patricia M. Dwyer
“In a healthy heart…” My cardiologist’s words linger in my mind. I listen carefully as she sketches an image of a heart on the back of her notepad. It looks something like a big beetle from where I lay on the hospital bed…
Review: Why I am Not a Feminist: A Feminist Manifesto by Jessica Crispin
Jessa Cripsin’s manifesto is not for the faint of heart. In a tell-it-like-it-is, don’t-hold-back way, Cripsin tells the reader why she refuses to call herself a feminist. And it’s not for the reasons you may think.
REVIEW: Smuggler’s Blues: A True Story of the Hippie Mafia by Richard Stratton
Reviewed by Jennifer JenkinsRichard Stratton started the 1980s as an entrepreneur. He sold drugs, mostly marijuana, but eventually branched out to hashish and others, with the noble credo of plant liberation for the hippie mafia. Then things went terribly wrong. In his memoir, Smuggler’s Blues: A True Story of the Hippie Mafia, (Arcade Publishing, April…
REVIEW: Among Other Things by Robert Long Foreman
One might consider the topics of his essays to be ordinary or mundane objects, but Foreman focuses on them with his thoughtful reflections, historical tidbits, and funny recollections.
Things Seen in the Dark: A Triptych by Mary Heather Noble
I thought I heard howling the other night. It startled me from a dream, and I raised my head from the indentation in my pillow to listen again —
Maybe We Can Make a Circle by Nicole Piasecki
I’ve started to write this letter at least 20 times in as many years. Just imagine me sitting alone in my office surrounded by crumpled pieces of paper.
Eastern Parkway by Ed Doerr
For a while after it happened, I would snap awake at night, clawing my stomach to staunch the blood I had dreamed was spurting out of me.
