Issue
#21
/ TRAS H
May
2017
Dear Readers and Moon Luvers, Flip through and find trash as subject matter and medium. Our trash tells a lot about us. Contributors contemplate, ‘What’s worth keeping?’ ‘Who’s worth keeping?’ ‘Is this natural?’ This issue goes way back to our roots—like our first two issues, we’ve printed all physical copies on already-used paper. Being eco-conscious has been a goal for us from the very beginning. We are doubly excited to be printing on reused paper for our Trash issue. For future themes, submission deadlines, and anything else, be sure to check in with us online. (See last page.) Like our previous issues, the numbered pages are original submitted content. Other pages are altered by yours truly and unique to each edition of the issue. Thank you for taking a chance and picking up our zine. Hold on to it, or pass it on to the crustiest zinester you know, as The Moon Zine is one of a kind.
Take out the papers and the trash! Or you don’t get no spendin’ cash, The Moon
meet the staff
Julie Davis - I want to get into estate sales. Josh Saboorizadeh - shorts weather is coming Allison Sissom - Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Wes Harbison - Moving into somebody else’s parents’ basement Lauren Kellett - I hoped this issue would be smuttier staff picks: guilty pleasure
Julie - Aggressively pitting two pop culture entities against each other and making friends choose one, e.g. Sam Cooke vs. Otis Redding; Twin Peaks vs. The X-Files Josh - DDR songs
Allison - The O.C. Wes - reading the comments Lauren - Gossip Girl, 2000s country music, not exercising
editors' note: This linocut was made from thrown out lineoleum and printed on thrown out paper, with thrown out ink.
Whatever by Julie Davis ***********
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Postcard from St. Louis #2 by Lauren Kellett *************
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Edmund F. Unger Memorial County Park 500 Yarnell Road 63026 by A. D. Owens Fine sand and unlucky gravel litter the southern shore of the lake. Once this was a borrow pit spewing excavated material across the region to prop up homes and offices. The property, thrown away by Alberici Construction Company, was rebranded in 1979 as Edmund F. Unger Memorial County Park. Along the edge of the lake is a variety of refuse: tires, plastic buckets, bags, a 55 gallon drum labeled “OIL.� The trash may have washed up the last time the Meramec left its banks or blown over from the neighboring light manufacturing shops. Bags cling to the branches of cottonwoods
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and sycamores. Deposited there after a December flood they give the impression of a park populated by plastic hoarding squirrels. I walk 50 feet through a stand of bush honeysuckle. An invasive shrub brought here to ornament suburbia, it is now wreaking havoc: turning yellow woodpeckers red, strangling the native ecosystem and threatening to monopolize the landscape. In 40 years all of western St. Louis County will be one continuous patch of 20 foot tall weed. Signs of beaver scar the eastern shore. Teeth marks tag trees
an ease and shrug I interpret as annoyance.
leaving chips of willow around conical topped stumps. The larger trees are chewed half way and abandoned. I wonder if the rodents ever come back and finish a job. There is an island in this pit and it is filled with geese. I am fascinated by these awful creatures. They give a majestic appearance in flight, but on the ground they are clumsy, dirty, and often confrontational. They see me coming, acknowledge my existence with a disapproving honk, and send half the gaggle bobbing north. A pair of ducks follow while a great blue heron rouses a silent flap and glides north with
On a visit last fall I was confused by a silver glitter dotting the surface of the lake. Spots reflected sunlight bursting white pinpricks from windblown waves.They were dead fish, every fleck on the surface a bobbing fish corpse from a recent die off. When this sort of thing happens the fish are piled into jon boats, taken to a field, and buried in mass graves. On the north end of the lake, I sit near hibernating hot vine and listen to the interstate. In time this will all be buried. Covered by dust or ash, mud or garbage, it all ends up in the ground. I think of the footprints, bone chips, skin, leaves, and manure folding into landscape underneath. I think of sand pressed into stone by the sheer weight of debris. I leave for home.
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Oscar's Rainy Day by Maddie Smith
Rain gently tinked the top of the trash can lid as Oscar pulled it more tightly over the can opening. Despite his love for trash, he detested wet trash. Slimey left the can early that morning to enjoy the weather, but only after Oscar’s gruff warning about puddles that are too deep and surprise sunshine that could cause his friend to become a dried sidewalk stain. With the can to himself, Oscar started to sort through his collection of cereal boxes. After arranging the Toasty-O’s by date of production, he mindlessly organized the Pirate Puffs boxes by shade of faded blue: the newest and darkest blues on the bottom with the oldest, nearly white boxes on top. With his cereal boxes in order, he noticed that the rain had picked up slightly and texted Slimey to make sure he was ok. Slimey responded quickly, “on high ground, lightning looks cool. Be home by 5!” The minute hand was broken on Oscar’s watch, but the hour hand indicated that it was only 11 a.m. As he tried to think of how to occupy his time, Oscar started fill9
ing up his compost box with the banana peels, egg shells, pineapple tops, and yard clippings that the neighbors had brought by that week. He set the compost box outside the can and noticed how much room he had. A quick rearrangement of his cheese wrapper pile left Oscar with enough space on the can walls to hang some collectable posters he found years ago in the pile. Mr. Rogers, the kids from Zoom, and Baby Bop now had respectful places in a tasteful arrangement above the shoebox Oscar often ate off of. Taking a small break from the day’s activities, Oscar scrolled through his Pinterest board and found the perfect use for his collection of cheese wrappers: a textured ceiling. With fumbling thumbs and a vague idea of how to scrunch the wrappers the way the tutorial showed, he slowly started this DIY venture. After only 7 wrappers, Oscar discovered a streamlined production system that allowed him to thread 4 wrappers at a time – twenty minutes later he had a ceiling covered in iridescent roses that made him feel a sense of elegance he had never experienced before. Without his cheese wrapper collection on the floor, the can really was feeling a lot more spacious. Oscar’s next project involved some chipped glass jars that had been added to his trash pile in 1998. By placing garlic vinaigretteHeart Full of Trash by Zachary Harris **************
soaked napkins inside, he could sustain a slow-burning flame. The firelight created a cozy glow on this rainy day. Just as he was wiping down his floors with an onion skin, Slimey poked his head in the can to Oscar’s surprise, “It sure looks different in here!” “Oh, uh, yeah. I guess just some…home improvement,” muttered Oscar. “Yeah, it really does look nice. I’m going to dry off and get some sleep before
tomorrow’s big race,” said Slimey before squiggling into his room just off the main room of the can. As he left, Oscar looked around the warm room and saw the soft glow of the fire filtered through the cheese wrappers. His cereal boxes and old slippers formed a nice recliner next to his shoebox table, and as he sat down, he felt the dull pain of a day’s work in his lower back and knees. To the tune of the rain, he slowly whispered to himself, “What have I become?”
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West Texas By Allison K. Sissom
Do you want to go see the super moon? We wade out into the yard, in our pajamas. My dad walks further down the street for an unobstructed view. Can you imagine what it looks like out in the country? No city lights. Far in West Texas an entire town has banned outdoor lighting. They call it a dead-zone. Your sister is thinking about moving again. She wants to save money. My Dad walks back up the street. I'm still ankle deep in the front yard, cat circling my feet. I bet it looks even brighter in the country. Did you tell her about that place far in West Texas? My cat walks to the screen door, turns and meows. I settle back into my room. The crickets and cicadas in sync with her purrs. Hey, before you go to sleep, can you help your Dad take out the trash?
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Excerpt from an Untitled Poem / by Julie Davis ********************************
Big Q / by Bad Guy ****************
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queen critter by Bekah Fischer **************
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CALENDAR fun thing another fun thing oh here’s one more
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Heave ho! By Jeff Denight A play in no acts.
Lights up. Seventeen children in a slowly flooding basement. The children are dressed in oranges, violets, and roses-- not equally, neither in amount of articles nor quality of dress. They each hold tightly to a cardboard box, an empty milk carton, a plastic bag stuffed with plastic bags, or the like; items are more or less the same size. A rat scurries across the stage. Rat! Dinner! Corporate mascot! Boo! Boo! Boo!
Child with a Dirty Face Child with Grubby Fingers Child with Dreamy Disposition Child with Ill Intent
All children, except Child with Ill Intent, begin to cry. The basement floods faster; the rat drowns. Child with Memories of Parents Mom! Dad! Somebody save us!
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Child with Ill Intent Nobody's coming to save us now. Only we can save ourselves.
Child with One Beefy Arm
Child with Ill Intent Ha! (​Beat. A long one. The water is up to their ankles now.) Didn't anyone hear me? (Beat.) Ha! Heave ho!
Child with Hope for the Future
All children, except Child with Ill Intent, begin to stack their trash. They climb the tower and watch as the water rises. Good enough. For now.
Child with an Old Army Jacket
Child with Ill Intent drowns. For now.
Child with Hope for the Future
Blackout.
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by Billy Sukoski *************
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Body, Lost in Refuge/Refuse by Rachel Sacks My Body Your Body Her Body Their Body Their Stateless Body Their Displaced Body Displaced, misplaced—crowded, crushed— damned and dirty, useless mulch... ***
by Anna Gecko
I feel like someone else -small and insignificant, alone and afraid
I went to a science camp in the Teton Mountains. When summer approaches, bison rub up against trees and winter layers of fur stick to sap. Trees are covered in hair. by Josh Saboorizadeh Season for Sweat I am looking for a tree That has age with rugged sides – casting shadows and sap Sticky enough for me Strong enough to tear keeping me cool – for the heat to come That’s already here 33
Lost within found by Nicky Rainey on 5-6-2009 at the corner of Euclid and Lindell ***************************************************
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Hi Print-Your-Own-Zine folks! We want to take a second to say thanks! Thanks for spending your time with The Moon Zine. If you have any questions, suggestions, or comments, let us know: themoonzine@gmail.com. Some quick instruction: when you’re done reading this, cut the page right down the middle (hamburger style) and toss this half in the recycling. Take the other half and paste it on the very last inside page. Or wherever you want! There are no rules! Also! We printed our copies on reused paper, stuff we snagged from work or wherever that already had content printed on one side. So, you know, trash. If you want to get the whole TRASH issue experience, try reused paper! Have a good day!! -The Moon
Want to Sub mit to the m oon z i n e ? Please do! Submissions are due on the 5th of each month. For more info, stop by themoonzine.tumblr.com.
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Credits & Notes cover image: by Lauren Kellett image below: by Jacque Davis*
*editors' note: made with recycled cardboard and paper Thanks eternally to: Everyone who has submitted content and/or helped us collage The Moon Zine
special thanks to: South City Art Supply for collage space and printing services, The St. Louis Public Library for additional (and free!) printing services
looking for Back issues? Print your own here: https://goo.gl/jXflxZ
made in saint louis, missouri, usa
“The moon is essentially gray, no color. It looks like plaster of Paris, like dirty beach sand with lots of footprints in it.� - James A. Lovell
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