Author: Admin

Ken Wetherington/Fiction

One Night in Las Vegas   Jackson and I pushed our way through the crowded casino to the table where Marcos dealt blackjack.  We stood among the spectators, watching as his deck diminished.  When a dozen or so cards remained, he scooped up the discards and began to shuffle. Jackson edged forward and gave the sign.  Marcos’ sharp eyes caught the movement.  Jackson held up two fingers and tilted his head toward me.  Marcos nodded in response and from his vest pocket drew two green tokens.  Jackson stepped closer and accepted the tokens.  Marcos gestured toward the bar and mouthed the name “Frankie.”  Jackson backed away, pulling me with him. “See, I told you.”  He handed me one of the tokens.  “You can get anything in Vegas.” I examined my token.  It resembled a typical gambling chip except for a large “2” on both sides.  Jackson pocketed his.  I did the same with mine. Saturday night brought in an amazing variety of patrons.  Tourists overwhelmingly dominated the floor, but boozers and cruisers mingled as well, along with a few serious gamblers.  A red-headed woman, wearing a tight, electric blue dress, screamed as we passed the craps table.  Was it a cry of pleasure or despair?  I couldn’t tell.  We made our way to the bar, and Jackson motioned to the tall, slender bartender. “Frankie working?” The bartender shifted his...

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Fiction/Allen Davis

  Fireball   by Allen Davis “Hey chief,” says the big guy in dirty, mustard-colored overalls as you walk up to the store in the village. “Come ‘ere for a sec. I wanna ask ya somethin’.” He’s got a bloodshot face, a bushy, Santa Claus beard and gray-white hair to his shoulders. A huge, cloudy mass covers his left eye where the pupil and iris should be and you try not to look at it. He holds out some change, twenty or forty cents. “Do me a favor. Get me a nip?” His bad eye bores into you like a ray gun while the bloodshot blue one has a hopeful yet faraway look about it. Twenty or forty cents won’t be nearly enough. “What kind?” you ask. “Fireball.” The special brownie you ate an hour ago is starting to kick in and you’re feeling good so you ask the Indian guy with the red dot on his forehead for three Fireballs and get a six-pack of beer for yourself. The red devil on the front of the bottles is breathing fire. You hand the small brown bag to the man outside. When he discovers it’s more than he asked for he booms, “I love you man!” and wraps you in a bear hug. You sit down with him on the sidewalk with your backs against the wall of the...

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Alexis Rhone Fancher/Poetry

LUNATIC POEM #1   “Would you be a moon for the lunatics here?”*   I’m already looney. Pick me. The luna plena sneaks in from the high window. You burrow between my legs, howl and howl. Some people can turn into wolves just by wanting to become one. I bet this happens all the time. You’re Nicholson and then you’re the wolf. No one ever mentions the bite – the ecstasy of the wounding. At no time do I stare you in the eyes. I bare my throat to you. Then I disappear.   a line from “After The Tour, or A Tirade on Shitville,” a poem by Michael Farrell.     LUNATIC POEM #2   The Downside of Love I’ve had better-looking suitors. Better mannered. Better dressed. They know to wipe their feet at the door, to rise when a lady leaves the room. Punctuality is always a sore spot between us. Easily distracted, he can detect pussy a mile away. I’ve been treated better, too. Been taken out for dinner instead of having it dropped at my feet. Even that might be okay, but it’s rarely just the two of us. The thing about wolves? They run in a pack. And if I manage to pull him away, those yellowed fangs! That gamey breath! Try, just try to get him to the dentist. Truth told, his hair’s too wiry,...

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A Crack in the Sidewalk/Barbara Rosenthal

    Is There a Universal Esthetic? Naifs, Innocence, Education, Esthetics   by Barbara Rosenthal Contributing Columnist NYC, Jan 1, 2018. It all comes down to the same question every time, doesn’t it? No matter where we start, even in the middle here like this. Always, communication, especially in the arts, comes down to the question of universal vs. specific — of whether what we are transmitting will reach the mind/heart/soul/psyche of its perceiver because a) we share a common human trait (or/and/but if so, in what measure) b) we share a common element of culture. (Certainly not limited...

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