The Moon Zine #05 - Food (Jan 2016)

Issue

#05

/ Food

january

2016

Dear Readers and Moon Lovers,

Welcome to our 5th issue! Holy shit, can you believe we are still making these? They’re getting better each time. We rule.

The theme for this month’s Moon Zine is FOOD. Not surprisingly, this is our sexiest issue yet. When The Moon Zine hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that’s amore. Be sure to check out our second minizine contained deep within these pages.

Like our previous issues, the numbered pages feature original submitted content. The other pages are altered by yours truly and unique to each edition of the issue.

Check our social media for future themes and submission deadlines.

Thank you for taking a chance and picking up our zine.

Hold on to it, or pass it on to the hungriest zinester you know, as The Moon Zine is one of a kind.

Dig in!

The Moon

staff bios

Julie Davis - I’m not gonna be a Burger and you can’t make me feel bad about it.

Allison Sissom - Olive oil all over the floor.

Wes Harbison - I drink soup, okay?!

Lauren Kellett - Remy Girl staff picks: kitchen appliance

Julie - milk frother Allison - toaster Wes - electric kettle Lauren - broiler

Untitled

By Tom Martin pine-ladder high cranberry cream delight me river rock smooth as sunshine today I’m busy but later I won’t be

by Samie Knobbe **************

1

Food

by Niall Breen ************

2

How Many Calories Are There in Semen / by Keely Lubin

5

****************************************

Hot Dog Squeeze Me Baby

by Jacque Davis *******************

Allison K. Sissom’s List of Fictional Food, P t. 1 ɲɲ Dragon Burger

ɲɲ Romulan ale

ɲɲ Schnozberries

ɲɲ Big Kahuna Burger

ɲɲ Neverending Pizza ɲɲ Skip’s Scramble ɲɲ Krabby Patties ɲɲ Roast Beast

ɲɲ Blue Bantha Milk ɲɲ Chinese Gyro

ɲɲ Toothpaste Icecream ɲɲ Blue Raspberries

6

Night Buffet

By Jeff Denight Each night, I dream of your body. In this dream, my mouth flashes between wet and arid; my stomach shaking itself, attempting to loosen the anticipation.

My fingers twitch, they want to touch your torso, a piping hot loaf of pumpkin bread made with honey roasted flax seeds; legs as twisted bent, soft and doughy cinnamon pretzels with a French vanilla glaze; codfish balls seasoned with pepper embedded in your eyes; fried chicken arms and waffles for hands; penne noodles are your teeth, mouth dribbling out a four cheese sauce with artichoke and sage; the slate of your back is shepherd’s pie stuffed to the boiling brim with roasted and garlic’d lamb meat, slivers of carrots, minced head of broccoli, onion, peas and white beans. Your shirt opens and displays your chest is a filet mignon wrapped in fat-back bacon and basted in brandy; in my hands I toss your spinach salad chest hair, a salad that would have been simple if it had not been for the maple9

candied bacon bit nipples that garnish it; your abs are stone crabs boiled and then slathered in a mustard-mayonnaise sauce. You hold me tight.

You say, “I love you,” and I say, “I want to eat you.” Your heart, a deer sausage quiche, begins to race inside your chest; squash and spinach dip blood goes racing. Your tongue, a cinnamon sugar crepe with blueberry compote topping, plays soft against my ear as you whisper with snow ice cream, “Then, eat me, my lover.” Oh, how I'd love to, I'd love to! But where to begin?

Your fried rice and egg young foo beard, fried green tomato belly button, or buffalo burger feet under rye bread ankles? Would I be too brash to already ask to lick that puckered tuna salad sandwich anus, with morsels of basil and celery, which are calling and calling and calling to me?

You might prefer I start slow; I could start from your head, that big California tangerine, shoving a white-and-red stripped straw through your rind to suck out the juices and never spit the seeds. “You've a magnificent spread,” I tremble and mutter. “It all looks so tempting, just how do I choose?” “My pea sprouts and forest mushrooms are on a bed of linguini,” you tease.

“And my candied yams are drowning in yak’s butter.” I shake, grow weak. “Or, you could start here,” and, as your mouth smirks, I see for the first time that you have Hungarian goulash with peppercorn lamb cutlets dimples. I watch your hands dance towards your thin crust cheese pizza hips, fiddling at the waistband of your briefs. I can only image what's down there, what garlic potato dumplings or turkey a la king on toasted whole wheat rolls you've hidden! You turn away, shy, then slip your drawers low so I can see the pile of hot wings that make up your tush. You sweat a bit, beads of durian frozen yogurt drip down over toffee cake shoulders. Turn around!

Turn around! My belly rumbles. And you do.

It's an impressive feast below. The main course

is framed by neatly trimmed curly fry hair, the wafting smell of your honey mayonnaise scent.

From the way it stands firm, I can tell you're glad that I'm hungry. And, hanging below it, your testicles, of course, are meatballs, but much better than my mothers' meatballs because they are made with ground veal, ground boar, and ground venison rather than with love. I wrap my arms around your right thigh, a country cured ham with a mustard and molasses glaze, and the left, a chicken roasted in thyme and cumin and lemon and garlic and fennel-stewed lentils. I open my mouth, wider than I could ever imagine, and choke on the world's biggest breadstick, your breadstick. You giggle and scream and spew spaghetti with garlic and thinly sliced red chilies, chicken vindaloo and a glassworth of coconut milk, tomato soup from a can, hot spiced cider (what the spices are, I cannot tell), and salmon bouillabaisse straight into my mouth, down my throat, into my howling tum! My god! My god! We pant and laugh and I, such a messy eater but always polite, wipe my mouth and smile. Sitting back, I stare into your eyes, watch as peppermint hot chocolate tears dribble down. “What's wrong, darling?” I laugh and caudle your strong Chinese noodles jaw.

“Nothing, my love.”

You choke on a lie.

“Only, that this just is such a beautiful dream.” And with that, I awake. Your cornucopia long lost. I curse the busboys of fate, who have treated you like scraps and taken you away from me, again. And I curse the day's meals which await me; my choice: a bowl of Count Chocula or Kraft mac and cheese in the blue box.

CallMePumpkin

by Cara Walters and Emma Headley ****************

10

shr00ms

by Guillaume C Artis ****************

13

Allison K. Sissom’s List of Fictional Food, P t. 2 ɲɲ Soylent Green

ɲɲ Stay Puft Marshmallows

ɲɲ Mars Tomato

ɲɲ Red Pill

ɲɲ Mars Potato

ɲɲ Cheesy Blaster ɲɲ Golden Eggs

ɲɲ Spaghetti Taco

Curddle Buddy

by Kevin Kickham **************

15

ɲɲ Scooby Snacks

ɲɲ Wild Thornberries ɲɲ Lembas Bread

ɲɲ Vitameatavegamin

Cupboard

17

****************

by Niall Breen

********************

18

20

The Moon Zine presents:

22

star struck

by Taylor Kolkmeyer

Josephine the Dragon’s death was caused by a toxic curly fry. She had loved her body and loved it well because she knew it was hers and she could not leave it. Now Josephine doesn’t know what to love. She is the fly on the wall and she is the listening wall beneath the fly. The wall feels a certain way and the fly feels another so Josephine just floats on through.

She wants to be the talking wall. She wants to say hello do not be startled! I am the wall, yes! And I have seen it all.

I saw the tears that crept, the booger you picked and that joke no one laughed at. I know you were proud of that pun and I’m here to tell you I am too. I am not judging you at the tears I saw you cry, for I am just a dragon girl who’s already died!

25

Josephine has not found the opportunity to say any of this. Once, in this form she had felt like she did some good. It was early morning as she wafted through the walls of the world when she heard the screaming of a ready kettle. The water boiled, the steam sprayed. Two lovers in bed said “no, you get it” “No, you get it!” They smiled and kissed safely under the covers. Josephine touched the knob of

the stove and felt like she could move this physical thing. She really really thought she could. The lovers laughed in the other room and the kettle screamed in front of Josephine. She turned the knob softly and the whistling slowed and stopped. Powering down. Like the fuss of a child who had finally been returned to their mother’s arms. The lovers yelled “THANK YOU” to their roommate who was not home, for they did not need to leave the bed now. Who needs tea? Life as a ghost has been a confusing and aimless existence. Josephine wasn’t sure what type of beauty she could have in this form, but the kettle and the knob and the lovers is her start. How much time does she have here? Does it matter?

Josephine has a lot of lovely things to say. She is not sure how she feels about being a dead dragon but she likes the idea of being cupid. Yes, the dark overseer type of cupid- here she is:

and yes it’s true

if walls could talk

they’d tell you of

the love I’ve got

thinking of the way you walk

we can sit, drink some malts

I won’t ask you to smile

because that would be rude

I’m too shy to ask

If you admire me, too

She jotted it on a napkin in the best hand she could manage. Now, to slip it into a to-go bag? Re-write it onto a pizza box? She could copy it onto a bathroom wall and charm a lot of people a little bit, or charm one person a lot. Josephine floats on through our world and ponders the infinite amount of places to put this love note, and what it would mean if she did.

Josephine is in a rainy parking lot and two people are working behind the counter at a Starbucks. It is bright and warm-looking behind the window. She watches with her dead rose colored lens, she’s thinking about the painting called “Nighthawks”. You have seen it, it is the famous painting of the couple in the diner late at night. She knows there is no leisure behind the window in front of her.

They have not danced the night away, but they are just as classic. Starbucks’ star struck nighthawks. Josephine is existing out here on the blacktop, cold and corporate! But she is see-

ing past, she’s seeing culture. When they die, too there will be something to miss. “Yes I think I see it now” I see beauty now. Maybe they can be in love, she thinks they are close. Josephine watches them smile and make jokes.

Josephine places the note inside the backpack inside the cabinet inside the Starbucks. The two close up shop together. They wipe, sweep, bang cups, and count things. They are in route, muscle memory- clocking out and waving goodbye because they already had that conversation about how good their separate beds are going to feel. Goodnight, goodnight. He tips his ball cap like a cowboy and his colleague is too tired to laugh.

The boy fishes for his keys. They boy says, damn, there is a lot of trash in here. The boy grabs handfuls of paper.

Crunch, drop. Crunch, drop. Josephine watches his hand like the most evil claw machine she has ever invested herself in. Yes, he found the candy.

The note gets crumbled in his fist and is thrown away. It hits the rain-wet plastic of the trash can and soaks up all this dirty water. This is not a dream she says! She doesn’t have a foot to stomp she doesn’t have tears to cryshe cannot create beauty. Fuck Starbucks. Her soul sinks. It’s bored, more bored than anything. Josephine learns why the walls don’t talk.

26

Two People Disagree: On Some potatoes Field notes by Patrick Heidbreder & Wes Harbison

29

30

The Moon Zine presents: Connect the Dots (Bada-Bean Bada-Boom!)

33

potatoe

by Chris Moody ************

open

by Chris Moody ************

eat me

by Chris Moody ************

34

made in saint louis, missouri, usa

“The

moon

looked

like

melted

mozzarella to my bleary and blurry vision. Was I tired, intoxicated, or in love? Or was I sober, asleep, and alone?”

- Jarod Kintz

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