Issue
#07
/ Death
March
2016
Dear Readers and Moon Lovers, Welcome to the 7th issue. The theme for this month’s Moon Zine is Death. Join us as we stare into oblivion’s beady little eyes with contributions on topics from burial sites to deadly winds to Oreos to icebergs. And dead animals. Pages of dead animals. Bonus: the second in our new series of Retro Reviews, this month featuring a classic from founding fathers of metal, Black Sabbath’s Paranoid! For future themes, submission deadlines, and anything else, be sure to check in with us online. (See last page.) Like our previous issues, numbered pages are original submitted content. Other pages are altered by yours truly and unique to each edition of the issue. We thank you for taking a chance and picking up our zine. Hold on to it, or pass it on to the most recently deceased zinester you know (leave it on their grave), as The Moon Zine is one of kind.
Eternally Yours, The Moon
staff bios
- death by:
Lauren Kellett - falling into lion den at the zoo after choking on corn dog Allison Sissom - car accident (see issue 2) Julie Davis - dying Wes Harbison - some books fall on me Josh Saboorizadeh - getting sucked into a coffee grinder
staff picks: clue速 character
Lauren - Miss Scarlet Allison - The Wrench Julie - Mrs. Peacock Wes - Tim Curry Josh - Mr. Green (but also Miss Scarlett)
Just Burn Up by Allison K. Sissom
Watching a national geographic documentary and this man, a glaciologist, is talking passionately: This glacier is larger than the iceberg that sank the titanic. This glacier is larger than the titanic. This glacier is larger than the country that built the titanic. ...And that’s pretty big. He dreams of icebergs floating North, dreams of them dying. Feeling through the bottoms of his feet. Moans and wailing. Whales moaning underneath. In my dream, they’re coming North. And these babies just burn up. The glaciologist’s voice deep, thousands of feet below the water. A large persistent body sweating out the stress induced by the weight. Gentle and slow, a wave and kiss goodbye, B-15.
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by Jacque Davis ************
Bird Series #1 by Bob Boston ***********
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5 European Graveyards (Ireland, Ireland, Sweden) by Becca Harbison *********************************
Website (bug series) by Bob Boston **************
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Keeping It Caj by Drake Evan Hall ***************
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Walk of Shame by Drake Evan Hall ***************
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"an important urget breaking news poem !!!" by Ollie They
[bright lights flash across the walls of your 360 a month apartment] breaking new important news report right now !!! human remains found in a pile of leaves it the street in fall !!! it was incredible !!! and i cant stop smiling !!! this is urgent important news im telling you !!! the sun is a powerful being !!! and she loves us !!! they say the remains belonged to someone who was really happy too we dont know that for sure but im making an estimated guess !!! [things change] now its time for "me in the evening" a talk show im still thinking about those human remains mostly dead skin cells and hair i like to think that someday a long time from now when me and that person are both a part of the primordial ooze that we'll have something nice to talk abt i cant wait for that day !!! i cant wait for that day to happen !!! i will wait patiently for that day to happen !!! [things are over] signing out, this has been me talking about things that i think are important thank you for tuning in be careful out there you dont want to wind up in a pile of leaves do you ???
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The Moon Zine presents: a Retro Review
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ment, god is calling / on their knees the war pigs crawling. / Begging mercy for their sins / Satan, laughing, spreads his wings...Oh lord, yeah!” “War Pigs” is the vicious answer to the folk-song protests of our past decade — the song itself is a war, the siren-filled intro leading to Ozzy Osborne’s battle-cry paired with the fast bullet-strokes of Iommi’s guitar. On the title track, sad stoners are given a fast Black Sabbath’s Paranoid lickin’ anthem bearing witBy Lauren Kellett, Sept. 30, 1970 ness to the weed-infused depression of involuntary You don’t need a mutilated hand apathy towards everything in life. “All to scare the masses, but as Tony Iommi day long I think of things but nothing now knows, it definitely doesn’t hurt. Us- seems to satisfy / Think I’ll lose my mind ing the three remaining fingers from a if I don’t find something to pacify / Can freak industrial accident on his dominant you help me, occupy my brain?” It’s not left-hand, Sabbath’s guitarist has struck a about the paranoia of being an Americhord (hehe) so deep in the music world, can living through the Vietnam War — that dare I say Black Sabbath’s newest re- it’s about the pained wondering if you lease, Paranoid, may change rock n’ roll — care about anything at all anymore. nay, human existence? — as we know it. Black Sabbath is sad, and they want Screams of Satan, death, witches, you to know it. They embrace darkness wizards, sadness, weed, and war accom- and turn it into suites of heavy rock n pany Iommi’s unforgivingly brutal riffs roll that, just a few weeks after it’s reto successfully freak everyone out. This lease, is already scaring moms across is not another give-peace-a-chance the world. Crank that turntable up, lock anti-war album. Starting from the first yourself in your room, and mope about track, “War Pigs”, we’re told what our everything shitty — because Black Sabpoliticians’ futures entail: “Day of judge- bath understands.
by Julie Davis ***********
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Big Uncle Mike by Sarah Redel
As though carved of wax his still hands, smooth and milky white,
until all the long island teas are empty, and everyone is sauntering their way back home.
lay clasped on his lap like an untold story, gentle and resigned.
These hands should be bluffing with a pair of deuces,
I do not recognize these hands.
masking a signature grin, as they leisurely toss more coins into the pot.
These hands should be erecting bridges, huge and tough like a pair of worn baseball mitts, calloused and decorated with knicks and scars.
Covered with mud and grit these hands should be soaring a beaten rugby ball
These hands should be in constant motion, twirling charmed women
through the air, slapping buddies on the back, high fives ringing in
in perfect circles on the wooden dance floor, spinning and dipping the dames
the air.
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Extinct Animals by WALDEN Photos by Becca Harbison **********************
Amongst The Flowers by Alex Stewart ****************
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G od d a m n e d L o u s e ! by Aquatilibs Fishspit Bonsuetus
Plucking out head lice and squishing them with glee, I got a hold a fat one, and he said, “Pardon Me.” “Oh you lousy head louse, you’ve gone and spoiled my fun . . . Popping a speakin’ head louse makes me feel like I’m killin’ someone. “Oh! Oh dear! To spoil your cruel genocide was not my intention. I did not mean to use my erudition to stifle your ambition. I know, me a lowly dear head louse . . . humble is me. But the hubris of the human . . . it never ceases to amaze me.” “What’s the deal? Where’s the slip? Where the hell do you get off?!” Lines I wished I’d said with contempt, but his benevolent voice made me soft. I was frightened of this little bastard; not because I was at strength’s disadvantage. I was scared he was more brilliant than my soft head could manage. To be outwitted by a head louse is nothing to let get about. I should of just crushed the bugger, but I didn’t want to be the lout. After all, I was human! My intellectual superiority is mandated. In Genesis God gave me dominion, even over the head lice he created. “Crushing a little life like mine seems insignificant . . . but it’s the only life I got. Just imagine yourself here where I am, ‘tis quite a perilous spot.” “Don’t you recall what your great poet Robert Burns said: ‘life’s not worth having, with all it can give - For something beyond poor man sure must live.’” “Uh . . . well,” I stammered, “I think I remember hearing ‘bout that . . . Lying through my teeth; Robert Burns? Who the hell is that? 29
The louse then said, “If the next life is what you live for, Are you so sure of your Heaven? Maybe there’s something more. There’s ‘Thou shall not kill,’ and the Hindu reincarnate, plus the Buddhist Wheel . . . Are you so sure you of which one you are going to have to deal?” “Uh . . . What?” I answered, “The hell are you talking about?” “About? The next world; squish me and of your punishment there’s no doubt.” “Ah for christ’s sake,” I said and squished the little fucker . . . And flipped on a television show so I could forget the pesky bugger.
Dishwater by Julie Davis
I saw something in the dishwater last night It wasn't soap It wasn't me It was big Black I drained that dishwater
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33 Death by Desire by SaraRedel *************
O Deer by Lauren Kellett *************
Global warming will kill us and all of our friends. I will watch my mother drown in the rising ocean tides, choking on salty water. Dad will blow away, dust in the scorching wind. Maybe a piece blows into my eye and I cry dad out. pretty fucked up
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Hi Print-Your-Own-Zine folks! Dropping in to say that we tried some new printing techniques this issue, which is why we have this extra page to the right. Not sure if we’ll be sticking with those aforementioned new printing techniques, but to get the whole experience of the DEATH issue, we wanted to make sure you had this page to print at home too. So, when you’re done reading this text, cut the page right down the middle (hamburger style— which is to say from the center of the long sides of the sheet) and throw this half directly into your trash. (By which I mean the recycling, but wouldn’t it be cool to live in a world where you could just say “trash” and people know you mean “recycling.” We can dream.) Take the other half and paste it right in the very last inside page. Or wherever you want! There are no rules! Thanks!
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Credits cover: Casualty leaving field ambulance for clearing station [La Gorgue, France], The British Library
below: La Mort bercant un Enfant, Charles Emile Jacque, New York Public Library Digital Collections
made in saint louis , missouri , usa
“Death’s life should have listened to the moonly whispers of breathing in the coldest nights” - Munia Khan
fREE