A.T. Steel

Writer | Artist | Aesthete

A.T. Steel is a literary artist born and raised in New York City. He defies his upbringing of Bronx homeless shelters, Harlem ghettos, Brooklyn Brownsville projects, and the Manhattan piers of yesteryear to write literary fiction that often centers on the lives of ethnic, inner-city queer and trans characters. His work appears in Narrative Magazine, Foglifter Journal, and West Branch. He resides in Queens, New York. Connect with him on Instagram: @oldxanadu



Check out all his stuff:Β Linktr.ee

β€œCulture changes through education, and art has always been one of the great educators. I believe that it has the power to change the character of mankind. Please allow my art to speak for itself.”

Work:

β€œHoney Buns and Cream Soda in the Stairwell” Story of the Week in Narrative Magazine (June 2025)
β€œWaffles & Ice Cream for Breakfast” in Foglifter Journal (May 2025)
β€œHarlem, Summer 1991” in West Branch (May 2024)

Many thanks to @narrativemag for making this piece Story of the Week. To read β€œHoney Buns and Cream Soda in the Stairwell” is to know me intimately as an artist. Being in a top ten lit mag like this is a dream come true! Spend a day with trans teenage castaway Alma Castillo during the Summer of 1991 from a hopeful start to a careless assault, and the fallout of her unhealthy and self-destructive coping mechanisms. CATCH IT ON THE MAIN PAGE OF NARRATIVE MAG FOR THE NEXT WEEK! ✨😌✨ #litmag #urbanfiction #lgbtq #comingofage Thanks to @foglifterpress for giving this story a comfortable home. Our art must be held sacred now more than ever, informed by our lives and (so) many little deaths. Spend some time with Alma Castillo as she navigates life in the springtime of her youth in New York City’s underground queer community in the early 90s in this latest issue of Foglifter Journal. #lgbt #writing #literaryfiction #urbanfiction #litmag 🌞

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Why?

I started this blog in November of 2021, a year after the death of my mother and a month after completing my first manuscript and crawling out of the murky depths of self-deprecating depression. I didn’t know in whose hands all of the musings I’d filled my journals with would end up, but I knew that I didn’t want to speak to myself anymore.

I won’t always be interesting or have something important to contribute, but I’ll contribute anyway, into the void, so that, maybe, someone will find it and feel validated in like-minded company.

Once upon a time, I was. And I had something to say.