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Tales From<br />
Wilton Manors<br />
Our New Logo<br />
Art by Demis Droganici<br />
Zine<br />
7 (<strong>2015</strong>-<strong>08</strong>)
REFLECTIONS -<br />
Poem by G. Manson<br />
regard<br />
encompassed<br />
air, suspended<br />
futures, promising,<br />
confirmed, affection<br />
& approved response.<br />
response approved &<br />
affection confirmed.<br />
promising futures,<br />
suspended air,<br />
encompassed<br />
regard.<br />
WEIGHTING ROOMS -<br />
Poem by G. Manson<br />
an illusion of taste<br />
and control under<br />
skylines of slaughtered flesh<br />
fools us into believing<br />
life’s manufactured progress.<br />
are we too late to reforge<br />
our past mistakes buried<br />
beneath covered ground?<br />
how many bones in chair<br />
must crumble before we<br />
are humbled again?
go ahead, erect more<br />
affordable fast food<br />
chains and plant them<br />
in malls of utopia, brand<br />
us with brands until we<br />
have no more skin, slip<br />
us into uniformed lines<br />
leading to weighting rooms,<br />
and continue to feed<br />
the machine’s hand<br />
that has fed us for years.<br />
WHY ARE YOU HERE? -<br />
Poem by G. Manson<br />
tree limb in beach sand,<br />
surrounded by tire marks,<br />
tell me your story.<br />
were you cut down<br />
before given a stance<br />
to bloom renown?<br />
were you misplaced<br />
by unnatural chance<br />
dictating foretaste?<br />
tree limb in beach sand,<br />
surrounded by plastic,<br />
tell me your legacy.<br />
will you grace<br />
family photos framed
in moments chased?<br />
will you avert<br />
tales of broken blame<br />
and leave in need of spurt?<br />
tree limb in beach sand,<br />
surrounded by nature’s law,<br />
what have you learned?<br />
you always had to gamble<br />
in this uncanny swell,<br />
forgetting risk and shamble<br />
inside your distended hell.<br />
The Mind Is A Terribly Easy<br />
Thing To Waste (Part 2) –<br />
Short Story Series by FishSpit<br />
You look after your pals right?<br />
Even if they are fat, ugly and<br />
crazy. It was just so goddamned<br />
hot in that apartment though!<br />
That was getting me down. My<br />
fat head was swelling from the<br />
heat . . . getting fatter by the<br />
second. I slowly got into the<br />
state of a whimpering weeping<br />
willow when Bess finally<br />
presented herself in all her<br />
painted up glory . . . with a<br />
half dozen suitcases . . . for
what would probably end up<br />
being a 4 day stay at the ward.<br />
They got us into a room pretty<br />
fast down there at “urgent care.”<br />
I was surprised. People hadn’t<br />
started blowing their fingers off<br />
yet I surmised . . . we were early<br />
enough . . . we got right in . . . a<br />
nice little private room . . . no pop<br />
pop crackle fingers gone yet. 4 th<br />
of July mayhem! We’d beaten<br />
it . . . no eyes hanging out of the<br />
old socket from a bottle rocket . . .<br />
not yet at least. No gore or burns!<br />
I was hoping not to have to see<br />
any of that . . . I was content to just<br />
sit in that little room and wait<br />
with Bess. She wanted me<br />
there . . . and that’s fine . . . a<br />
person on a bummer in their<br />
noggin needs an advocate. I’ve<br />
gone on in to the bonker hole<br />
nuttier than a chink college<br />
student on test day and couldn’t<br />
talk right to beat the band<br />
(whatever the hell that means . . .<br />
I have no clue . . . but I like to<br />
think of bands being beaten . . .
the poofterish gobble wobs!) . . .<br />
I’d babble and bedazzle with my<br />
flim flam flummoxed attempt to<br />
communicate my pain . . . and I<br />
pretty much got . . . no! Not pretty<br />
much! No! The pig fuckers! Not<br />
pretty much . . . I got totally<br />
bopped down to zero by those<br />
savages! Treated like a vile slug!<br />
They thought I was looking for a<br />
fix! Hell it was on my file! One<br />
time! Years ago! And I was<br />
marked for life! “Intravenous<br />
drug user!” It was an overdose!<br />
But it destroyed any chance of me<br />
being treated like a human down<br />
at the urgent care! The shitbaggers!<br />
I’m bitter . . . being in<br />
pain like that . . . mental agony . . .<br />
I’m talking about the trips when<br />
I’d lost my sanity. . . nothing to do<br />
with any drug abuse . . . my<br />
poor noodle really needing some<br />
compassion . . . . but to be just<br />
tossed out . . . “a dope fiend eh?<br />
On your bike!” One time after a<br />
good smattering of contempt, I<br />
almost jumped in front of a car on
my way home. Little they’d care!<br />
I’d needed an advocate . . .<br />
someone who wasn’t<br />
stummering, stammering, and<br />
blammering. “yup – wup – hip –<br />
hup! Out you go dope fiend!”<br />
Now Bess was sort of a dope<br />
fiend. Suboxone was pretty<br />
prevalent in her daily grind.<br />
“Fibromyalgia,” she said.<br />
Sure . . . sure . . . I believed her . . .<br />
really! Don’t look at me like that<br />
gentle reader! I believed her . . .<br />
but . . . well . . . that was an awful<br />
strong prescription for a case of<br />
the old fybro. But I wasn’t one to<br />
judge . . . as you’ll soon find<br />
out . . . no . . . not me! Let her pop<br />
‘em. It was sort of a bummer<br />
though. Not too bad, but sort<br />
a . . . and it was because of the<br />
Ativan. Bess was on the<br />
bed . . . I was sitting in the<br />
corner trying to keep up a<br />
conversation. It was tedious.<br />
But why so bummed? Well,<br />
beloved reader, they’d given<br />
Bess a nice dose of Ativan . . .
ut none for me. It just ain’t right<br />
morals, responsibility, and polic<br />
I spit on morals, and what’s right<br />
that has to sit there for hours som<br />
to do. And hell! It was the 4 th<br />
Pabst too?! I’d pay the bill! I<br />
paying foreign beer prices for<br />
baseball stadium prices for moo<br />
Hospitals ream you . . . I understa<br />
but let’s lighten up! Let’s all ge<br />
the policies and let everyone in<br />
fucked up. A fully stocked bar<br />
dispenser too! Takes credit card<br />
your poison! No questions aske<br />
was on a bummer all right . . . a<br />
The Bathtub – by DeAnna Majors H<br />
began as so many others. Her and h<br />
fight about bills and quality time. H<br />
again told Marabou how shitty she<br />
movies on a school night. The scho<br />
her son, fighting and skipping class<br />
friends to speak of, Marabou had re<br />
hangs her coat on the back of the ki<br />
onto the kitchen counter. She sighs<br />
in defeat. The pressures of her wor<br />
handle and the frustration, sadness<br />
her tired, brown eyes. The<br />
refrigerator and opens it. She rem
. Sure there are things like laws,<br />
y . . . but fuck all that weak shit!<br />
, and policy! Give the poor fella<br />
e pills too! It’s the human thing<br />
of July! Why not a six pack of<br />
know they’d ream me. I’d be<br />
domestic . . . . I’d be paying<br />
se piss! But I’d be ok with that.<br />
nd that that’s the way it goes . . .<br />
t happy! Drop the lawsuits and<br />
the vicinity of a hospital get<br />
in every patients room! A pill<br />
s! Slide in and remove! Choose<br />
d! Aspirin! Valium! P.C.P! I<br />
nd this was just the beginning.<br />
appiness is evasive. This morning<br />
er husband, Mike, got into another<br />
er oldest daughter, Georgia, once<br />
was for not letting her go to the<br />
ol called once again about Trevor,<br />
. Miles away from family, with no<br />
ched the end of her rope. Marabou<br />
tchen chair and flings her car keys<br />
heavily and slumps her shoulders<br />
ld are entirely too much for her to<br />
, and turmoil she feels is visible in<br />
woman trudges over to her<br />
oves a bottle of water, presses
the bottle to the back of her<br />
neck and then takes a long<br />
drink. The house is quiet.<br />
Marabou is alone. Her husband is<br />
at work and her kids are at school.<br />
She walks upstairs to her office.<br />
She systematically pays bills,<br />
checks her emails and says hello<br />
to her mother on Facebook.<br />
When her tasks are complete, she<br />
walks into the bedroom that she<br />
and her husband share. Her eyes<br />
dart around the room, examining<br />
the physical contents while<br />
simultaneously inventorying her<br />
emotional life. She could not live<br />
another day consumed with the<br />
sadness coursing through her<br />
heart. Death is on her mind. Tears<br />
begin to fall down her cheeks and<br />
her body is racked with silent<br />
sobs. “That is enough now<br />
Marabou,” she says to herself. “It<br />
will be better this way.” She<br />
approaches her bathtub and turns<br />
on the tap, adjusting the<br />
temperature to steaming hot. She<br />
then, slowly, walks to her bed
and removes a small box from<br />
underneath the edge of it.<br />
Marabou strips off her clothes<br />
along with any doubts she has<br />
about ending her life and sinks<br />
into the clear, hot water, only<br />
then removing the contents of the<br />
box. It contains a syringe filled<br />
with liquid death. Heroin so pure<br />
it will hopefully cause her to<br />
overdose and perish, thus ending<br />
the pain she can no longer bear.<br />
She stares at it for a moment<br />
recalling how she pulled up to the<br />
corner of a seedy, litter lined<br />
street requesting the drug.<br />
Marabou envisions the strange<br />
look on the drug dealer’s face as<br />
the transaction of money for<br />
drugs is made and<br />
understands that look now. On<br />
the outside she appears clean,<br />
attractive and proper. The<br />
woman does not have the look of<br />
someone who wants to climb in<br />
her bathtub and die. She pulls the<br />
plunger back on the syringe and<br />
proceeds to inject herself with the
sweet relief of the drug that lay<br />
within. She closes her eyes and<br />
smiles sweetly as the pleasant<br />
effect of the drug overtakes her.<br />
What happens next is quite the<br />
opposite of the peace she was<br />
seeking. Within minutes she is<br />
seizing, eyes rolling into the back<br />
of her head, water splashing out<br />
of the tub and onto the floor of the<br />
bathroom. Almost as soon as it<br />
starts, the convulsing stops.<br />
Marabou’s body grows quiet,<br />
still, and inanimate. She makes<br />
whimpering noises as her arms<br />
go completely limp and her head<br />
lolls against her chest. She opens<br />
her eyes. Her face bears a look<br />
that is reflective of the<br />
confusion she is feeling. and<br />
her head lolls against her<br />
chest. She opens her eyes. Her<br />
face bears a look that is<br />
reflective of the confusion she<br />
is feeling. “Marabou, you<br />
must wake up,” says a man<br />
standing over her. She is<br />
startled and grabs frantically
for a towel to cover herself.<br />
“Who are you,” she stammers<br />
out. “Who I am does not<br />
matter,” says the man. “What<br />
does matter is that this very<br />
second your children are<br />
coming home from school. At<br />
any moment they will be<br />
turning the knob on the front<br />
door. Do you really want them<br />
to see you like this? They love<br />
you and would miss you so<br />
very much. Your husband too,<br />
Marabou. It is time to wake<br />
up. Get out of that bathtub and<br />
quit feeling like a failure. You<br />
have a purpose and it does not<br />
include dying today. These<br />
trials you are experiencing are<br />
necessary for His ultimate<br />
plan.” Oddly enough,<br />
Marabou accepts what the<br />
stranger is saying. A calm<br />
washes over her and she does<br />
not appear to be frightened of<br />
him any longer. The words<br />
that he speaks hit home with<br />
her. Marabou sighs deeply.
She closes her eyes and takes a<br />
deep breath that fills her body.<br />
She sits for a moment and<br />
registers what just happened.<br />
The woman snaps her eyes<br />
open suddenly. She stares<br />
down at her hand and realizes<br />
she is holding a full, not<br />
empty, syringe. With little<br />
time to react, she hears the<br />
sound of her kids coming<br />
through the front door.<br />
Marabou quickly exits the<br />
bathtub and disposes of the<br />
syringe. Marabou looks<br />
around frantic and confused.<br />
She is alone in the room and<br />
there is no sign of the man who<br />
intervened before the<br />
unspeakable could happen.<br />
Marabou looks in the mirror.<br />
She is different. The lines that<br />
creased her brow before have<br />
diminished and the sorrow in<br />
her heart replaced with hope.<br />
The woman looks back at the<br />
bathtub and smiles gently.
Our Other Publications:<br />
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Brett Butler<br />
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by Brett Butler<br />
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by Brett Butler<br />
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Contributors: Demis<br />
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