From brideb@efn.org Mon Feb 10 08:17:21 1997 Date: Sat, 8 Feb 1997 22:15:06 -0800 (PST) From: Deborah Millet/Brian Cochrane To: ftp@etext.org Subject: Cranberry Winters, issue 8 ...---***Cranberry Winters***---... (hidden faces) Issue 8, February 1997 ----------------------- - Party Hats, words from the editor - Selected poems - Selected vignettes Party Hats 8 February, 1997 Pull out those dusty party hats and join me for the celebration! Oh, you'd rather not? Well, that's alright, I suppose I can eat this cake by myself. What a lonely birthday for a young magazine! Today marks a year since I first sat down in a moment of mania, pulled half of my hair out by the roots, and turned out a collection of words that oddly enough resembled a magazine. I named this collection Cranberry Winters, and have maintained enough enthusiasm over the course of a year to follow that first issue with six, now seven, issues more. I hope you enjoy this special issue of Cranberry Winters as much as I will enjoy falling asleep later this evening... Deborah Bryan, 18 Cranberry Winters editor The Drifter 1994 The Drifter had been exiled long ago to this desert, thousands of miles of unoccupied stretches of sand and merciless heat, after the murder of its child, vulnerable as only child Drifters are. No longer could it remember the reason for it's exile; only memories of endless miles walked, day in and day out, occupied, filled its mind. Memories of falling and rising, once again to wander overran its tormented mind. Memories of a desire to die. Death could be nothing more than a wish, the curse of the already mature Drifter being immortality. The sun, the only sustenance a Drifter would ever need, had become its enemy. "Were the sun to leave the sky, this Drifter in peace would happily die." The Drifter had forgotten, even, the rhyming tales that Drifters were so fond of. There is no reality left save for the sun and the sky, the endless stretches of gently blowing sands. Where once it had fought such a bleak eternity, all it could do was resign itself to wandering these endless sands, physical and mental agony its only companions. Forever. Fire and Ice 25 Septembre, 1995 There is fire in her heart burning out at times... Until someone thinks to light it again, placing with purpose eah twig and limb, or carelessly tosses their lives' journals in Till the fire burns hungrily, ceaselessly. And there is ice in her heart, winter ravages her emotions, memories She wanders the frozen remnants, touching slowly, closing her eyes, backing away at times from things too hard to bear The snow crunches under her red, cold toes She wraps her arms over her breasts, shivering, stepping wearily over broken dreams There - a small light she pulls one arm from her breast Reaching for a light That perhaps doesn't exist It is beyond her reach, this fragile light Now she stretches out both arms Reaching with all the energy she can muster The light blinks, fades away, and she curls up in the hardened snow, her tears steaming, sliding over the glittering white dust that spans an eternity ...silence... then the soft patter of feet on melting snow as of faerie's wings fluttering by earside a gentle hand on her frozen body now, warmth, as the stranger wraps his body around her, his face on her back he brings life to the near-dead and she rises - not healed, but able at least to walk on the soft grass and to share the bitter days of the past and someday to leave them there, in the past Changing Seasons 31 Octobre, 1995 In the winter, the snow feel around her feet, landed gently on her face. It was beautiful, but she could not feel its coolness. In the spring, the flowers bloomed in shades of purple, pink, red and yellow. It was beautiful, but she thought only of their short lives, and of how quickly they would wilt into ugliness. In the summer, the sun lit up the countryside. It was beautiful, but she could see the clouds on the horison. In the autumn, the falling leaves brushed against her pale skin and the wind played its gentle perpetual music against the trees. It was beautiful, but she was blind. Fini 14 Novembre, 1995 The woman waits patiently by the fountain, watching person after person parade in front of her. Soon a man comes to sit with her, silently watching the people playing and laughing and laughing with one another. "Waiting for the end of the world, eh?" The nameless woman turns to him, watches him for only a moment with her bitterly intense eyes. She nods at him, then turns away and resumes her people-watching. "If you don't mind, I think I'll join you." Japan 16 July, 1996 Beep: "Last time I called, you were in Japan, which I took to mean that you were eating a carrot and reading a mystery in front of a TV you leave on only for effect. Was I right? Give me a call." Erin replayed the message and tried to recognise the voice, to no avail. Her carrot and mystery novel lay forgotten on the couch, an old Laurel and Hardy episode playing out on the television. Who was this man? She had never been to Japan nor had she ever made plans to go. To her knowledge, she had never met him. Erin decided to record a new message then and there. Her simple, "Please leave a message," did not appear to be doing the trick. Still, it was bizarre how he had guessed about the carrot, the novel and the television. =+= In the meanwhile, Dr Alvin Simmons wondered what he was going to do about his patient's bizarre problem with conversing on the telephone in his sleep. the other side 19 July, 1996 i see the other side of the pond through the rippling water i see myself sitting on the other side of the pond myself does not see me it does not want to see me there is no reason to see me i am as i should be the world is as it should be children play parents need not watch for they are safe women walk safe the only gangs are those guys sitting on the porch seeing who can spit the farthest myself ignores me it does not wonder about the way things could be Woman 18 June, 1996 old woman looks out a window thinks she sees her husband (he's dead, though) photographs lay in her lap forgotten in favour of memories she no longer knows as memories To Climb 2 Novembre, 1996 i stand at the edge of a great cliff wind stinging my eyes as it tries to escape me my life lays below me spread across a vast terrain from here the view is not clear; straining my eyes blurs the view further i must forget i turn to the mountain of the future and begin to climb to climb to climb Old Man 8 Novembre, 1996 his body, once so beautiful, is hunched and gnarled, his skin yellow and wrinkled he used to play football his house is empty of visitors but his heart is full, overflowing... ...with pain fine young men laugh at the prune on the porch as they playfully jostle one another he did the same thing he closes his eyes he can't take it back Turning 21 Novembre, 1996 i wandered a path free of obstructions i turned back in horror returned to the familiarity of agony Guilty 17 July, 1996 in my world people feel hopeless something wrong but what? there seems no hope for change we are set in our ways in my world a woman is raped and her lifestyle is questioned, each indiscretion, each mistake she has ever made displayed for a jury in my world a rapist is set free because we must be fair to him he is innocent until proven guilty she was guilty from the beginning Whispers 11 June, 1995 Whisper. Whisper. Silence. The wind is indecisive now, stopping for a moment and then starting again. Maybe it's chasing after something, something that hides and confuses the wind. It has to stop and think. The people sit on the porch in silence, lined all in a row, waiting. They are holding hands. Vivid colours nowl all sorts of colours. Orange. Yellow. Red. Unnamed colours. The porch and its people are scattered all over now, at peace, by something so much stronger, so much more decisive, than any wind that could ever exist. Winter Rose 25 June, 1996 I yearn to be A rose in the winter Red as blood Against blinding white Distinct The lone ruby In a sea of diamonds My tenacity would be admired My strength adored and wondered at The beauty of all roses past forgotten My beauty alone held in awe Because I am all there is to behold -------------------- For information on Cranberry Winters, mail brideb@efn.org To receive Cranberry Winters bimonthly, mail majordomo@efn.org : subscribe cranberry-winters yourname Mr T's Revenge may be found at http://www.efn.org/~brideb/Deb/ Thank you for reading!