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Unreliable-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Dealing with Mr. Blue-Fiction by Michael Lemieux
iFriend-Fiction by Jeff Dosser
Till Human Voices Wake Us-Fiction by John Post
Tape-Fiction by Will Bernardara Jr.
Dead Drunk in Glasgow-Fiction by j brooke
The Spot-Fiction by Rick McQuiston
Wait Until the Ice Melts-Fiction by Hillary Lyon
Tattooed Love Boys-Fiction by Greg Smith
The Losers-Fiction by John Short
Anger Serves a Greater Purpose-Fiction by Heather Santo
Odium Pentothal-Fiction by Steven M. Lerner
Finally Adopted-Flash Fiction by Tom Fillion
Boxing Day-Flash Fiction by K.J.Hannah Greenberg
Godmother-Flash Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
First Communion-Poem by Tom Fillion
Almost Gone-Poem by Henry Bladon
Foa Da Price of One-Poem by Joe Balaz
a few haunting memories-Poem by J. J. Campbell
Pressure Lines-Poem by Meg Baird
Work it out-Poem by Meg Baird
lily pads open-Poem by ayaz daryl nielsen
a melodious voice from the reeds-Poem by ayaz daryl nielsen
a cobblestone trail-Poem by ayaz daryl nielsen
A Beautiful Madness on Mallory Square-Poem by Dr. Mel Waldman
A Beautiful Death on Mallory Square-Poem by Dr. Mel Waldman
A Luminous Metamorphosis on Mallory Square-Poem by Dr. Mel Waldman
Cartoons by Cartwright
Hail, Tiger!
Angel of Manslaughter
The Gazing Ball
Strange Gardens
Gutter Balls
Calpurnia's Window
No Place Like Home
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

Art by Steve Cartwright 2019


By j brooke


Dead fucking drunk in Glasgow, set ‘em up Joe, you hooligan bastard, a drink, the pause that refreshes, you know, something, anything to keep my hands from shaking, a hard, 100-proof nail gun to bang those neurons into my stem cells, preventing my rotating bobble head from shearing loose from it's moorings...Come on my brotha', a little liquid lovely libation to crank my nerve endings in, something distilled, a bitch libation to help bezel in the demons tonight, late night, every night.

Your fly, me mate, give it up ass hole, some wine, tequila, vodka, rubbing alcohol, lighter fluid, make some fiery shooters and shots and slammers and fuck it, I don't give a damn. Gimme some asbestos to re-coat my exposed 220 frying nerve wires that are smoking and sparking, flaming out like one of those Space NASA fuckers roaring, rupturing, belching jagged flames out of its asshole as the violent bitch blasts past the vomit of the atmosphere, into deep black space.

Come on, let’s roll, help me make those son-of-a-bitch yips leave me alone this full baying moon lonely evening, so much like everyone before it. Top her off buddy, a little ice, a rack of gin, make it neat, on the rocks and plain and the cool lingo, oh yeah bar keep, settled in tonight, sittin' at my favorite haunts watering hole, got my seat belt cinched here at my very own monogrammed bar stool.

Glasgow Baby, a Warsaw Ghetto of madness, pain and post card flashes before ya got the morning yips, knives, clubs, street brawls and thugs puking their guts out everywhere, ain't no jewel, same to a drunk as a Hell's Kitchen slum and ain't it cruel. Livin' the gutter life, an alley or a suite in a padded cell, sipping martini's right here next to the pubs lit and jeweled pretty Frankie Avalon juke box machine, hey my man, my last five quid, hold the rocks, keep it cool and lean.

Blue light special, DT's and Happy Hour, blood on the walls, falling to sawdust floors, caviar and Bentley Town Cars. Boooooze baby, main line it, taxi cab confessions in a paradise of vomit blues, sick, crazy this alcohol, so familiar and last ditch a mate along a wayside stop. Come on dude, neon on a needle point, a gram of H, a line of coke, just one more for the road, you know, just to get me through the night, to jack me right.

HEY, don't I know you my bonnie lass, flashing back, moments, memories, who can tell, sex giggles and all, didn't I ass fuck you last night?...Were we that drunk, that stoned, that fucking wasted?...HUH, memories, moments, misery and mysteries I will never have, you see, let me have my drug, a cocktail or three, two fingers up, sure man, make it EZ. I know you understand, were all members of the band, junkies stringing ourselves out for one last stand.

Bay-Bee, porque no, por favor, re-freshen my glass, fulfill my dreams, extend my nightmares, got it, fuck, were those my screams?...Make it cool and real, a brown paper bag holding Satan and Hell and a pub image of paradise reflecting from an empty bottle of Muscatel...Breath it's sweetness, it's bitterness, it's still early, you know, sure you do my friend, drunk wards and straight jackets and padded cells and I love U.

Drinks amigo, for all a my new pals...Set them hard, don't be remiss, shots and gimlets, highballs and low balls and very chic names. You know doll, Guinness, Tequila Sunrises, Manhattan Iced Teas, California Coolers and Sea Breeze, you tease...Johnny Walker Red you fool, Wild Turkey, Dewar’s will do too and don't forget my buddy Margarita Ville...It's all good, beautiful and just so, so fucking cool...Big glass, small glass, lick it off the floor, suck it off the bar and who the hell cares, fill her up bro, I got major wild men with spears to chase away, you comprende my tears, my hero?

Merlot, Cabernets, Burgundy's and Beaujolais and billboards flouting lies of young gorgeous drunks frolicking on beaches, discos, lithe bods pretty and tan, bullet proof beauties living false Cosmo lives, while the drunks are shrieking from nightmare boogie men. Pretty lost models screwing in iron lungs, all while the booze and cigarette men, joke and jive, seven deadly corporate goons before a Parliament dog and pony show of sin, hawking disposable people of busted dreams within their creative lies, where does the Conga line begin.

Coffins, corpses and pain left for hell, weeping kids within the underworld of deceit, morticians, Parliament pimps and the politico's, Dukes, Earls, and peers and The House of Lords, who will pay when the final bell tolls, they’re not paying, they’re too busy buggering young lads in the toilet stalls. The poor foot the bills for a nation’s woes, nada the elite who cruise on corporate jets above the flak, while the disenfranchised sick and addicted vaporize and welfare checks and everyone is on the dole paying the price of cancer wards and chemo creeds as one hundred million corpses line lobbyists pockets filled with greed.

Silk ties, tailored suits, shiny shoes, Lords, Sirs and politico pitchmen oiling the gears and cogs and secrets harbored within walls of gold, where are the goddamn firing squads?...Morticians, pretty white-wigged whores, where does the truth lie, these men, these hollow digital pimps, soiled in their own piss as victims are crippled and bent and broken, rotting at the end of an Alki's cell call. Strung-out skeletons lay naked in trash heaps on skid row ‘cause some crazed poet thought it romantic and swee,t being an alki on some MTV video...that in reality was more a visual Methadone blip gone wrong, than any other lost and forgotten sweets of the twisted anthem of their melodic song.

Big business, Seagram’s, Coors and Scottish stills and TV models with country club smiles...and what about Thunderbird and White Lightening turpentine blues, lets cruise, grin amused, as the assembly line cranks out distorted souls and massive profits for Wall Street Thrill Mills, my man chill, this Bud is for you.

But I don't fucking care no more, no more, cause I'm trippin' and dippin' and I'm boozin and I'm losin' my soul and tearing my broken heart apart and now as the drunken moon grins, oh well I say no more...Cause I got my bottle tonight, my fix, my liquid mix...And I dream drunken Dreams...And I smile drunken smiles...And I stumble drunken steps...And more than likely, I die tonight a drunken death.

J brooke is a writer with over 100 credits, and never lists them. It’s simple for j, for it’s never what you have already written, but what you are going to write next. Contact info: jbrooke2001@yahoo.com

It's well known that an artist becomes more popular by dying, so our pal Steve Cartwright is typing his bio with one hand while pummeling his head with a frozen mackerel with the other. Stop, Steve! Death by mackerel is no way to go! He (Steve, not the mackerel) has a collection of spooky toons, Suddenly Halloween!, available at Amazon.com.    He's done art for several magazines, newspapers, websites, commercial and governmental clients, books, and scribbling - but mostly drooling - on tavern napkins. He also creates art pro bono for several animal rescue groups. He was awarded the 2004 James Award for his cover art for Champagne Shivers. He recently illustrated the Cimarron Review, Stories for Children, and Still Crazy magazine covers. Take a gander ( or a goose ) at his online gallery: www.angelfire.com/sc2/cartoonsbycartwright . And please hurry with your response - that mackerel's killin' your pal, Steve Cartwright.

In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2019