Issue
#01
/
September
2015
Dear Readers and Moon Lovers, This is our very first issue! We have a few goals for our zine, which include: to make and share cool shit with our friends & cool strangers, to have a creative outlet and voice in our community, and to have fun. With the environment in mind, we have printed our zine on recycled/already used paper. The pages that are numbered are original submitted content. The 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 coolest zinester you know, as The Moon Zine is one of a kind.
Love, The Moon
staff bios
Julie Davis - Real, down-to-Mars girl. Allison Sissom - “And the sun and the moon sometimes argue over who will tuck me in at night. If you think I am having more fun than anyone on this planet, you are absolutely correct.� Wes Harbison Lauren Kellett - Abducted by aliens and saved by David Duchovny twice since 1993.
staff picks: onomatopoeia
Julie Davis - Kikeriki (rooster sound in German) Allison Sissom - Meow Miau Wes Harbison - Herm Lauren Kellett - Ah-ooh-ga
******************** Note found by Bill Fishback March 2015 ********************
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When you work the night shift but still plan on being productive when you get home then you end up drinking a tall boy and eating stale tortilla chips while sitting in silence and then once you are finished you are covered in chip crumbs and they all fall to the floor because you were not proactive enough to prevent that you just think to yourself hope the cats like eating stale chip crumbs best not walk around barefoot just in case and you realize your aesthetic is stale tortilla chips and skunk beer
ing well I'll just scrape the surface Ya know before I go full swoop but then the salsa is like oh sorry buddy but you are a potato chip, our flavors really aren't going to mix very Sometimes I kinda feel like a well. so chip, most chips are better with instead dip so you start to observe difof taking ferent dips tryin to find the right interest in one and you're like idk hummus a perand salsa and guac I just love all fectly good dips how do I pick? And then af- French ter some time you’re like alright onion dip alright why not salsa? And then that would you have love to have to decide you, and Untitled what kind improve Brendan Donnely of salsa, do your flavor you go for you just a salsa that is mild, but still good start to day after day. Or something spicy daydream that is really intense sometimes about what too intense. Then you think oh it would be shit what if I pick this salsa and like being a really hot buffalo chicken dip a big, buff becomes available that'd suck pita chip or right? But then you realize that some shit is probably not going to happen so you finally go for a dip, think-
the van by Christian Wacker im in the back of a van we are on vacation i say ‘we’ no one else is in the van not even the driver i climb to the front of the van sweating hoping i dont hurtle into oncoming traffic but before i get to the front of the van i receive a phone call from my mother she says ‘wish you were here so we could talk better’ and then there’s glass in my nose.
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i thought i saw lightning when i smelled gloom but it turnd out it was only an orange. i couldnt believe the crackkkkk + boooooom of fireworks im in love peel off my skin bleed me orangutan tears + reveal something special: a rebel in the works. treat me gently use ur teeth: wave of mutilation. i dont like dirty meta carpals on my pore filled flesh. sponge: i left a soft residue in ur pocket, on ur saxophone. gecko skin, plays like smells like sprite spikd mimosas. Benny Goodman: i liked u bettr w sing sing sing champagne. a catchy tune undr ur nails, in ur ears. the nile rivr is bettr than this fridge. monks: i wither in the desert when i beg for forgiveness.
~abt an orange i met in 624 s michigan avenue~ by Jillian Danto
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“Boundless� by Chris Steinauer
I was formed in the abyss with all of those strange lifeforms: noodly, transparent, glowing.
Your foamy tides, pushed and pulled by the mating ritual of Moon and Earth, pulse without relent into me. My shell cracks. Shatter it completely with time and your embrace. My flesh and bone too, rocked by your waves.
I befriended the darkness, the empty recesses of a world of quiet charm. Nothing but the dull hum of those distant, furtive vents and the bacteria that sip Turn me into sand from towers of methane. and I will gaze into the Sun Lift me above those towers, and the Moon into the wind and salt, and the stars the pressure of that endless pit forever, reduced to nothing as I breach. with you. The sun's eternal smile is a stranger's gaze, and I am shaken by the terror of newness, the anxiety of freedom. I take in the first breaths of the unfamiliar, here in the realm of birds and clouds and that wide turquoise sky. I breathe in again as we crest together. In this world of yours, I am destined to erode. Hold me in your waves and press me against the warm grains of your past and my future.
************ **** 97 reasons by Robert Hand Ferry ************ ****
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************
************ by Delia Rainey
Human Weeds by Keaton Robertson Pulling chickweed on dirty knees and making way for hacked potatoes. Each piece has an eye protruding haphazardly. Work goes fast with twenty hands, a hundred fingers. Voices warm in the crisp air; laughter rises and falls, punctuated by silence and the crunching of fresh compost. Birds and gardeners sing together to pass the time. To enrich the time. Conversation has peaks and valleys; topics flow from weighty to light without a bat of an eye.
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by Diana Carvajal
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*************
************* by Jessica Werner
"I don't want to be the cure for a lonely soul."
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*************** by Josh Saboorizadeh ***************
Dust Bunnies, Dryer Lint, Beach Sand by Natalie Welch I turn the handle, push and note the change in temperature a subtle blast of air upturned patiently waiting to be inhaled. “scale my spine, up to the attic” you had said “I’ll show you around my temporal lobe-you’ll get the grand tour.” you blow the dust off your records little 45s repeating “hello” (at the bottom of the stack, “i love you”) revolving a bit too quickly, stuttering wonderfully out of time. and next, polaroid memories behind those faded, finger printed-you point me to a small scattered bunch. you are smiling, driving an ATV on a gravel road in July you are face-painted, a stage detective, next to your partner in crime you and she are flashing peace signs to the camera (this one is torn) these, the artifacts of what made and make you, have gathered two decades of whatever it is that settles in your soul (dust bunnies—dryer lint—beach sand) lock out everyone else, deadlines and missed calls-let’s take our own photographs. let’s make dust angels on the floorboards and watch it float up into the sun-streaks glittering through the window pane.
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what went on after being picked. Where was I going and what was I picked for? “Unpeel” A dark-featured woman by Maggie Kickham with a dark wiry mess of hair The first place I remember was high picked us up with care and set us above the ground. I remember feeling a inside a wicker basket decorated gentle sway and hanging powerlessly from a with a wooden fish. Next to green leafy ceiling. I remember a place where us, she threw in a few oranges the sun melted gold over everything and the that were rather talkative. They sea whispered salted chilled echoes to me. seemed friendly enough, but had The moon glazed the world over with dull no interest in chatting with a blue dreams and the stars seared little specs banana like me. Typical oranges, of blazing hot white void into the earth’s though. I should have known blue velvet cape. I feel to my sides others just not to bother with them. Each like me, plump and green and all connected. day the dark-haired woman Together we grow everywhere we go. will tear one of my brothers or The next thing I remember was being sisters from the bunch. I was at knocked down from my comfortable green first surprised at how easily our leaf haven and falling into two rough work- bond could be broken. We used ing hands. Two hands that handled me and to grieve after each loss. The first my brothers and sisters in such a manner time our sister was taken, we that I did not appreciate. From there, we all fell into such shock that we were thrown into the mix: the heaping pile turned green again. Now, we see of other bananas that would be getting work each abduction as a celebration. done, making the change from freedom to We see it as a graduation into the factory. another mode of life— another In the factory there are moving belts realm we have yet to venture and dark metal boxes. You follow different into. paths and you’re separated and sorted into At last, I lay in the wicker bins. Then, you’re loaded into the unreliable basket alone, with some age moving darkness of the semi-truck, where spots speckled along the bow of you don’t see sunshine for days— all to be my shape and my stem slightly placed honorably among fruits from exotic withered away and browned. I places in the local Dierbergs. The crowd am hurt and confused as to why at Dierbergs is rather competitive. We all I’m the last of my bunch to be want to be the first bunch picked to avoid picked. I lay curled over, back being the last, browning and undesirable. bent, waiting for my graduation. I was lucky to be picked my second day in Next to me is a soft lump of an the store. I was the color of electric sunorange, bounceless and crestshine and I was pristine and ripe! It was the fallen. Once loquaciously alive, perfect day for moving… but I didn’t know
now sucked of all energy in a daze. But, wait! What is that? It’s the hand! I know it, I have seen it! Those long bony fingers with brassy rings. I know that chipped plum nail color anywhere. It’s my turn! As I’m being risen in the warmest loving embrace of the hand, I see around me what I saw so long ago when I first moved here: strange kitchen machines and blinding fluorescent lights in the ceiling. Now this creature walks. I’m being moved into another room— one with a box with a little world in it. Is there life in there? How much world can there be left? Another hand rises to my sight. A thumb pushes into my head. Hey! It breaks open my peel and begins pulling it off. All four sides, my protection is stripped away and I am nothing but soft-bodied, helpless mass. I did not know it would be like this. I feel however, more free than I ever have. The dark wiry-haired woman raises me to
her face and I get a close look. We both stare at each other in our true forms. She opens her mouth as if she’s about to tell me something. The secret of the Universe maybe? Soon I enter into a dark warm chamber by way of some hard white pearly gates and I feel I’m in the right place. Inside a person, I’m told that’s where I am. If that’s where I really am,
then inside a person I am happy to be! No secrets revealed and no life goal fulfilled, but I sense a smile in this woman. I know she is nourished by me and I can at least say that. Sometimes, being enough for somebody else can be enough for oneself.
********************** To Take the Sun In My Mouth by Elizabeth Salley **********************
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Lunar Eclipse: October 8th, 2014 / by Miriam Young It’s 4:00am, a cop car stalls silently. Snuggie finally useful with hands free for writing. Why isn’t the world awake? I’ve had two hours of sleep. The moon is half-full, it looks like any other moon, and I’m freezing here with my jasmine tea. I wonder at the thought of no one else being here in the sunken garden. Where else would you go to see something so beautiful? Only astronomers and poets are awake at this hour, wondering at the mass of the moon. A mist rises. Will I see it? One of my residents said he would watch from Stokes with ROTC. One of the few times when poets and ROTC will meet after what happened with Poe. They are probably just waking up. Most poets probably haven’t slept. It’s too late or too early to sleep. The moon is a half, a sliver. The mist looks like a sheet covering the moon. I imagine myself flicking the sheets over the lights on my bunk bed. The hiss of lights is similar to that of the boilers at this time of night. Being alone out here feels so intensely personal. I could be the only one in the world, but then I know there are billions of other people. There are people waking up to watch this right now. When did the moon invite us? The inability to communicate is disturbing. The lack of our effort. I have never seen the moon without its shroud of light. Suddenly I feel the moon undressing. She is already in her underwear.
you might be wearing your half-moon black-dress, sling-back bikini anything but this pink, usually powdered, raw like the soles of your feet
the darkness in you becoming the darkness in me too far to communicate, I am just one of many admirers waiting to see you undressed
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*********
the season premiere of sex-files and we know that everyone is watching
I wouldn’t be staring with binoculars into your silhouette as you remove your underthings
********* by Lili Mac
On any other night this wouldn’t feel like a self-conscious viewing of a porno
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*************
************* by Lisa Y MĂŠndez
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I was working as a Production Assistant on a film that shot here in St. Louis. It was one of those “Paid in Experience” kind of gigs. The producer was a guy named Kevin who was super nice to everyone on set and had a Stan’s Place / by Quinn T. Faerber lot of interesting ideas. Most of the movie was shot at his house in Fenton, but we shot a few scenes at his neighbor’s place, a guy named Stan. Stan’s garage was a window into his soul, and his soul voted for Romney. He had super right wing merchandise mixed in with some pretty misogynistic posters. Pretty standard stuff unfortunately. What wasn’t standard was the left wall of the garage. We gazed upon a collage of women in various stages of undress, but these pictures had a very creepy vibe. Stan explained to us that these pictures were taken from a bar in Fenton that had long since shut down. The owner would put fans under the stools and buzzers on chairs and take pictures of the women as they fell for his creepy pranks. Red flags everywhere. Stan wound up being one of the nicest guys ever. He would help out people whenever he saw fit and would strike up a conversation with anyone. I was sitting on the steps of the backyard deck taking a short break. The deck was in desperate need of repair. He approached me while I was sitting and said “Ya know, the problem with building these things in your thirties is that you gotta fix ‘em in yer sixties!” His breath reeked the unmistakable reek of weed. Lunchtime rolled around and the crew all had to go back to Kevin’s for lunch, leaving one person to stay to watch over the equipment. I volunteered. I’m glad I did because not soon after everyone left for lunch, Stan invited me up on the deck to smoke grass. We got really chummy, and he told me where he worked and I told him a little about my family and found out I went to high school with his son Dave and that his whole family occupied the houses around them. Pretty much everyone in his and his wife’s family lived on that street. After getting friendly, he starts to drop a few truth bombs on me that didn’t seem so bad at the time, probably because I was high. Topics ranged from his disdain of teachers
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unions to defense of the confederate flag and my personal favorite, “I can’t see my nephew strapping on a backpack and an M-16 and goin’ out in the desert” At some point during his tirade his wife had gone inside. I hadn’t noticed that she left until she came back outside and asked me: “So you know Carly Carter?” My stomach sank and my head started floating. Did she just say my girlfriend’s name or was I stoned stupid? I answered honestly. They were surprised Carly would date a liberal like me. “Our Carly?” I heard Stan ask. “How do you know her?” I responded. “She used to date our Dave!” I was in the hornet’s nest. My phone buzzed. It was from Carly. “You’re at my exboyfriend’s house right now.” My, word travels fast. They tell me a story about how they went to Mexico together, but my head is spinning and I don’t retain much of what she said. I was about to ask how she knew I was her boyfriend when the crew miraculously returned and I had to go back to my duties. Carly and I discussed the incident and chalked it up to Facebook stalking. Their son must have seen me on her profile, then saw me on set while he visited, then put two and two together. Looking back, its surreal how isolated that event was. Nothing ever came out of it. I assume I would get in trouble with either Carly or with Kevin for slacking off while I should have been working, but there weren’t any consequences from it. It just became that time that I got stoned with my girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend’s dad while I should have been working.
************* by Samie Knobbe *************
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opened into a foyer on the second floor, in which there were two women seated at sideby-side desks. I was informed later that these women were the design “filters” of the Paula’s company.
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I quickly discovered that Paula worked in this room in order to oversee and counsel the newer, less-experienced designers. Instead of keeping herself away from where the bulk of her company’s work was produced, she immersed herself in the trenches. Looking around [What follows are the contents of a dream her studio space, that’s when it transmission, received and recorded on the 12th occurred to me that appreciating a work of art depended not morning of the 5th month of the common year 2009.] just on an appreciation for the person(s) who made it or how it was made, but also on an appreciaI found myself in the They were the last to tion of the physical environment in studio of well-known determine whether or which it was produced. graphic designer Paula not a design proof was To appreciate the work of Paula Scher. Her studio also approved for client Scher was to appreciate the physical served as a company review or whether it office space in what was needed further internal experience of her studio. It was to appreciate the placement and curvaessentially a repurposed revision. Across from ture of staircases. It was to appreciate house. It was brightly them were three other the way sunlight flooded into the painted and accented large desks situated in office at noon, creating matrices with colorful, contemfront of a two-story of light inspired by windows. To porary decor. There window. The natural appreciate her company’s work was were multiple dining and artificial lighting areas on the first floor, on this side of the room to appreciate how it feels to sit at a broad, mahogany desk, evening after which I assumed were did interesting things. evening, wrapped in the warm glow used for conferences. There were plenty of Turning the corner was of a nearby floor lamp. lounging spaces and a half-staircase that led Suddenly, several others and myself even a little secluded to the main office space. were working at long tables set up in the studio. I was idly trying to plug tearoom on the first It was somewhat cuheadphones into a nearby trashcan floor. Paula took me bicle-esque, except for around for a look at the the fact that there were in order to get it to stop playing unfinished basement, no cubicles. There were music out loud. An old friend from college happened to be present and unveiling to me her just a large number of noticed that I was struggling. He plans for expanding the smaller gray desks, arstudio space into the ranged in a pentagonal then simply “closed” out of the trashcan’s iTunes. downstairs area. setup. Bright windows How iTunes became installed on Upstairs seemed lined the back wall. a trashcan I do not know and will significantly larger than In this space worked the main floor, as well Paula herself, alongside probably never know. as significantly more sixty or so novice to subdued, decor-wise. moderately experienced A grand staircase designers.
Stick-N-Poke:
A How-To by Julie Davis
First off, if you’re considering giving yourself/someone a stick-n-poke–COOL. It’s cool because everything’s cool and if you wanna do it, that’s awesome. Too often people are put down for their ideas and are talked out of their plans because the people around them believe it’s bad idea for whatever reason. If it’s something you want to do, it’s not a bad idea. This is how I give myself and my friends stick-n-pokes. You can do it differently, if you want. STEPS: 1. Clean Your Shit a. Boil water in saucepan, then use the boiling water to rinse out the container you will pour the ink into. You don’t want to dip your needle directly into the ink bottle because then it will have your blood and guts in it, you sicko.
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MATERIALS: • India Ink
• pen/sharpie (optional) • water
• sharp sewing needle • lighter
• rubbing alcohol
• saucepan
• thread (optional) • container for ink • shaving razor • paper towel • tape
b. b. Shave and wash the area you want to tattoo, then right before you’re ready to draw the design on (or freehand the tattoo), clean the area with rubbing alcohol. c. c. Put rubbing alcohol on the needle and light the tip with the lighter. Hold it there for a bit (I do this right before I start). 2. Prep Your Shit a. Pour ink into your clean container.
b. Draw your tattoo on with a pen or sharpie (this guide helps, but will probably be rubbed off before the tat is done).
c. Attach needle to pen. (Essentially, the pen is just a handle so you don’t have to pinch the needle the whole damn time. This can be done many ways. I’ve found just using the thread to wrap the needle to the pen does not keep a tight hold and the needle will wiggle. So, I use tape to hold the needle to the pen and then wrap thread around that. You want the tip of the needle to stick out from the pen’s end about 1/4”. Wrap thread around the needle, leaving about an 1/8” unwrapped (that’s the part your gonna stab yourself a bunch with) and secure the thread so it doesn’t unravel.
where you want the tat to be so that ink from the thread is transferred onto your skin and forms a puddle and then stabbing the crap outta yourself a whole bunch where that ink is works pretty well, but it’s hard to see what you’re doing that way and many of my lines have not been as straight as they could be b/c of that method. c. I also think having paper towels with a lil bit of rubbing alcohol on them come in handy so you can wipe away the ink from your skin and see what’s been tattooed (this will also wipe away your drawing/”stencil”).
3. Do Your Shit 4. Take Care of Your Shit a. Dip the threada. Wash it off w/ soap and covered needle in your water ink, the thread is used b. Put lotion on it regularly to soak up ink so you c. DON’T FUCKING don’t have to dip your needle into the PICK AT IT ink after every stab. b. Stab yourself in the design you want the tat! Typically, I go over a line multiple times so that they are bold. I find a PRO TIP is actually laying the needle down resting on your skin
Good job, bud. You did it! You read a how-to on stick-n-poking!
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made in saint louis, missouri, usa
“Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which [s]he never shows to anybody.” - Mark Twain
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