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Tales From

Wilton Manors

Our New Logo

Art by Demis Droganici

Zine

7 (2015-08)


REFLECTIONS -

Poem by G. Manson

regard

encompassed

air, suspended

futures, promising,

confirmed, affection

& approved response.

response approved &

affection confirmed.

promising futures,

suspended air,

encompassed

regard.

WEIGHTING ROOMS -

Poem by G. Manson

an illusion of taste

and control under

skylines of slaughtered flesh

fools us into believing

life’s manufactured progress.

are we too late to reforge

our past mistakes buried

beneath covered ground?

how many bones in chair

must crumble before we

are humbled again?


go ahead, erect more

affordable fast food

chains and plant them

in malls of utopia, brand

us with brands until we

have no more skin, slip

us into uniformed lines

leading to weighting rooms,

and continue to feed

the machine’s hand

that has fed us for years.

WHY ARE YOU HERE? -

Poem by G. Manson

tree limb in beach sand,

surrounded by tire marks,

tell me your story.

were you cut down

before given a stance

to bloom renown?

were you misplaced

by unnatural chance

dictating foretaste?

tree limb in beach sand,

surrounded by plastic,

tell me your legacy.

will you grace

family photos framed


in moments chased?

will you avert

tales of broken blame

and leave in need of spurt?

tree limb in beach sand,

surrounded by nature’s law,

what have you learned?

you always had to gamble

in this uncanny swell,

forgetting risk and shamble

inside your distended hell.

The Mind Is A Terribly Easy

Thing To Waste (Part 2) –

Short Story Series by FishSpit

You look after your pals right?

Even if they are fat, ugly and

crazy. It was just so goddamned

hot in that apartment though!

That was getting me down. My

fat head was swelling from the

heat . . . getting fatter by the

second. I slowly got into the

state of a whimpering weeping

willow when Bess finally

presented herself in all her

painted up glory . . . with a

half dozen suitcases . . . for


what would probably end up

being a 4 day stay at the ward.

They got us into a room pretty

fast down there at “urgent care.”

I was surprised. People hadn’t

started blowing their fingers off

yet I surmised . . . we were early

enough . . . we got right in . . . a

nice little private room . . . no pop

pop crackle fingers gone yet. 4 th

of July mayhem! We’d beaten

it . . . no eyes hanging out of the

old socket from a bottle rocket . . .

not yet at least. No gore or burns!

I was hoping not to have to see

any of that . . . I was content to just

sit in that little room and wait

with Bess. She wanted me

there . . . and that’s fine . . . a

person on a bummer in their

noggin needs an advocate. I’ve

gone on in to the bonker hole

nuttier than a chink college

student on test day and couldn’t

talk right to beat the band

(whatever the hell that means . . .

I have no clue . . . but I like to

think of bands being beaten . . .


the poofterish gobble wobs!) . . .

I’d babble and bedazzle with my

flim flam flummoxed attempt to

communicate my pain . . . and I

pretty much got . . . no! Not pretty

much! No! The pig fuckers! Not

pretty much . . . I got totally

bopped down to zero by those

savages! Treated like a vile slug!

They thought I was looking for a

fix! Hell it was on my file! One

time! Years ago! And I was

marked for life! “Intravenous

drug user!” It was an overdose!

But it destroyed any chance of me

being treated like a human down

at the urgent care! The shitbaggers!

I’m bitter . . . being in

pain like that . . . mental agony . . .

I’m talking about the trips when

I’d lost my sanity. . . nothing to do

with any drug abuse . . . my

poor noodle really needing some

compassion . . . . but to be just

tossed out . . . “a dope fiend eh?

On your bike!” One time after a

good smattering of contempt, I

almost jumped in front of a car on


my way home. Little they’d care!

I’d needed an advocate . . .

someone who wasn’t

stummering, stammering, and

blammering. “yup – wup – hip –

hup! Out you go dope fiend!”

Now Bess was sort of a dope

fiend. Suboxone was pretty

prevalent in her daily grind.

“Fibromyalgia,” she said.

Sure . . . sure . . . I believed her . . .

really! Don’t look at me like that

gentle reader! I believed her . . .

but . . . well . . . that was an awful

strong prescription for a case of

the old fybro. But I wasn’t one to

judge . . . as you’ll soon find

out . . . no . . . not me! Let her pop

‘em. It was sort of a bummer

though. Not too bad, but sort

a . . . and it was because of the

Ativan. Bess was on the

bed . . . I was sitting in the

corner trying to keep up a

conversation. It was tedious.

But why so bummed? Well,

beloved reader, they’d given

Bess a nice dose of Ativan . . .


ut none for me. It just ain’t right

morals, responsibility, and polic

I spit on morals, and what’s right

that has to sit there for hours som

to do. And hell! It was the 4 th

Pabst too?! I’d pay the bill! I

paying foreign beer prices for

baseball stadium prices for moo

Hospitals ream you . . . I understa

but let’s lighten up! Let’s all ge

the policies and let everyone in

fucked up. A fully stocked bar

dispenser too! Takes credit card

your poison! No questions aske

was on a bummer all right . . . a

The Bathtub – by DeAnna Majors H

began as so many others. Her and h

fight about bills and quality time. H

again told Marabou how shitty she

movies on a school night. The scho

her son, fighting and skipping class

friends to speak of, Marabou had re

hangs her coat on the back of the ki

onto the kitchen counter. She sighs

in defeat. The pressures of her wor

handle and the frustration, sadness

her tired, brown eyes. The

refrigerator and opens it. She rem


. Sure there are things like laws,

y . . . but fuck all that weak shit!

, and policy! Give the poor fella

e pills too! It’s the human thing

of July! Why not a six pack of

know they’d ream me. I’d be

domestic . . . . I’d be paying

se piss! But I’d be ok with that.

nd that that’s the way it goes . . .

t happy! Drop the lawsuits and

the vicinity of a hospital get

in every patients room! A pill

s! Slide in and remove! Choose

d! Aspirin! Valium! P.C.P! I

nd this was just the beginning.

appiness is evasive. This morning

er husband, Mike, got into another

er oldest daughter, Georgia, once

was for not letting her go to the

ol called once again about Trevor,

. Miles away from family, with no

ched the end of her rope. Marabou

tchen chair and flings her car keys

heavily and slumps her shoulders

ld are entirely too much for her to

, and turmoil she feels is visible in

woman trudges over to her

oves a bottle of water, presses


the bottle to the back of her

neck and then takes a long

drink. The house is quiet.

Marabou is alone. Her husband is

at work and her kids are at school.

She walks upstairs to her office.

She systematically pays bills,

checks her emails and says hello

to her mother on Facebook.

When her tasks are complete, she

walks into the bedroom that she

and her husband share. Her eyes

dart around the room, examining

the physical contents while

simultaneously inventorying her

emotional life. She could not live

another day consumed with the

sadness coursing through her

heart. Death is on her mind. Tears

begin to fall down her cheeks and

her body is racked with silent

sobs. “That is enough now

Marabou,” she says to herself. “It

will be better this way.” She

approaches her bathtub and turns

on the tap, adjusting the

temperature to steaming hot. She

then, slowly, walks to her bed


and removes a small box from

underneath the edge of it.

Marabou strips off her clothes

along with any doubts she has

about ending her life and sinks

into the clear, hot water, only

then removing the contents of the

box. It contains a syringe filled

with liquid death. Heroin so pure

it will hopefully cause her to

overdose and perish, thus ending

the pain she can no longer bear.

She stares at it for a moment

recalling how she pulled up to the

corner of a seedy, litter lined

street requesting the drug.

Marabou envisions the strange

look on the drug dealer’s face as

the transaction of money for

drugs is made and

understands that look now. On

the outside she appears clean,

attractive and proper. The

woman does not have the look of

someone who wants to climb in

her bathtub and die. She pulls the

plunger back on the syringe and

proceeds to inject herself with the


sweet relief of the drug that lay

within. She closes her eyes and

smiles sweetly as the pleasant

effect of the drug overtakes her.

What happens next is quite the

opposite of the peace she was

seeking. Within minutes she is

seizing, eyes rolling into the back

of her head, water splashing out

of the tub and onto the floor of the

bathroom. Almost as soon as it

starts, the convulsing stops.

Marabou’s body grows quiet,

still, and inanimate. She makes

whimpering noises as her arms

go completely limp and her head

lolls against her chest. She opens

her eyes. Her face bears a look

that is reflective of the

confusion she is feeling. and

her head lolls against her

chest. She opens her eyes. Her

face bears a look that is

reflective of the confusion she

is feeling. “Marabou, you

must wake up,” says a man

standing over her. She is

startled and grabs frantically


for a towel to cover herself.

“Who are you,” she stammers

out. “Who I am does not

matter,” says the man. “What

does matter is that this very

second your children are

coming home from school. At

any moment they will be

turning the knob on the front

door. Do you really want them

to see you like this? They love

you and would miss you so

very much. Your husband too,

Marabou. It is time to wake

up. Get out of that bathtub and

quit feeling like a failure. You

have a purpose and it does not

include dying today. These

trials you are experiencing are

necessary for His ultimate

plan.” Oddly enough,

Marabou accepts what the

stranger is saying. A calm

washes over her and she does

not appear to be frightened of

him any longer. The words

that he speaks hit home with

her. Marabou sighs deeply.


She closes her eyes and takes a

deep breath that fills her body.

She sits for a moment and

registers what just happened.

The woman snaps her eyes

open suddenly. She stares

down at her hand and realizes

she is holding a full, not

empty, syringe. With little

time to react, she hears the

sound of her kids coming

through the front door.

Marabou quickly exits the

bathtub and disposes of the

syringe. Marabou looks

around frantic and confused.

She is alone in the room and

there is no sign of the man who

intervened before the

unspeakable could happen.

Marabou looks in the mirror.

She is different. The lines that

creased her brow before have

diminished and the sorrow in

her heart replaced with hope.

The woman looks back at the

bathtub and smiles gently.


Our Other Publications:

Welcome Tales From To The Wilton Doll

Manors House Zine (Free)

eBooks For Sale:

1. Valley of The Barbies

(An Original Screenplay)

by Brett Butler

2. The Adventures at

Toxic Beach (Attack of

the Killer Eddies) by

Brett Butler

3. The Rhythm of Youth

by Brett Butler

4. (Coming Soon)

Alternative Nation

by Brett Butler

Buy from:

talesfromwiltonmanors.weebly.com/

store/c22/ebooks.html


Writer/Self-Publisher:

Brett Butler

Editor/Webmaster:

Eric Schleicher

Visit our Website:

for Color/Print Version of

our Zines plus Extras:

talesfromwiltonmanors.weebly.com

Contact us by e-Mail:

talesfromwiltonmanors@yahoo.com

Like Us on Facebook:

facebook.com/TalesFromWiltonManors

Contributors: Demis

Droganici, G. Manson,

FishSpit, DeAnna Majors

Poems, Poems, Short

Short Stories, Stories, Art,

Art, Comics,

Photography,

Feedback are

welcomed.

Submissions:

talesfromwiltonmanor

s.weebly.com/

submissions

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