I just returned from a work trip to Vegas and was reminded again of the immense darkness that lies behind the relentless marquees, the canned attractions, overdone resorts, and extraverted casinos. What intrigues me are the people, the ones who live off the scraps: the immigrants in stained shirts flicking pornographic cards at tourists; the oversunned men undoing the failed Harmon Hotel, tier by black-shrouded tier; the old men levitating objects on the sidewalks for spare change; the trio of girls in extensions and eyelashes who stood in the Cosmopolitan, smiling nervously at the men who ordered them. Those who have nothing extraordinary to show, or no money to buy the time and wares of others, are seen only in flickers: shadowy figures crossing the six-lane intersections, dragging their bags or carts or unresponsive limbs. They do not rest until the others have finished consuming and, when they do, they are always waking.
This issue is dedicated to the darkness—not necessarily melancholy or evil, but the unseen, quiet vacuum that lies between the attractions that compete for our conscious attention. From what do we turn when we look for diversion? From what do we hide when we fill our time with noise, with conversations, with souvenirs, with spectacles—with what I call the dimestore world?
~T.M. De Vos, Editor
Meat and three by Rachel Adams
Dim, but not darker than me and What he pawned was black by Ashlie Allen
Inviable and Who Was the Girl in the Window? by Maureen Alsop
Deciding When to Die by Paul R. Davis
Our Dimension by Peycho Kanev
Three Poems by Simon Perchik
Exhibit I[ntrovert] by Kristin Fitzsimmons
Sleep Paralysis by Valerie Borey
Public Viewings by Chase Eversole