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Cranberry Winters Issue 05
...---***Cranberry Winters***---...
(hidden faces)
Issue 5, August 1996
---------------------
- _From the mind of the editor_ (Ed. note: I do have one...)
- _Sometimes..._, Jennifer Lee Styba
- _Dispersal_, a short story
- _Feeling_, Tom Roscoe
- _Monsters_, a short story
- _In My World_, a poem
FROM THE MIND OF THE EDITOR
7 August, 1996
Yes, I know it seems shocking to find that I've really got a mind in this
head-o'-mine, but it is true. The surprise! (I have temporarily lost my
hold on it - should you find it, I would love to have it back...)
Even more shocking - I can hear your gasps even now! - is that I have had
thoughts of turning Cranberry Winters into a "true" magazine. I might be
searching for sponsors shortly, depending on what sort of response I get.
The last note on the issue of Cranberry Winters - I received poems from a
couple of tremendously talented poets and would love to hear from more of
you. Have you got stories and poems you've been hiding away, modestly
telling yourself "it's really not so good"? New submissions are always
welcome at brideb@efn.org - I hope to hear from you!
Deborah Bryan, 17
Cranberry Winters editor
_Sometimes..._
Jennifer Lee Styba
May 1996
Sometimes
what he really wants
more than anything,
is to awaken
in the early morning,
to see her head
resting on the pillow,
and then to kiss her
as she opens
her blue eyes.
<author not known>
====================================
Sometimes
what she really needs
more than anything
is to wake up
in the dead of night
from the neverending
nightmare
of being so close to love
but not being able to touch it
or hear it's beating heart
or see it,
ever
and find that she
is snuggled up in the warmth
of her true love's arms
safe
secure
loved
and know it wasn't really
a childish dream
the visions of love lost
in the misty morning haze
in her awakening eyes
_Dispersal_
Deborah Bryan
8 July, 1996
Macey peered out the window in wait of sunrise. It had been many weeks since
she had seen the light of sun and she ached to know that she would never be
blessed by its brilliance again.
Carefully Macey stepped out of her pants, her underwear, and placed
them on hre bed. She closed her eyes and pulled her shirtr over her head,
images passing too quickly for her to understand through her head.
The sky showed the first signs of light and Macey's heart swelled
with joy. She stepped leisurely toward the door, climbing over piles of
clothing and miscellaneous items that Mark had sworn to needing that she
still couldn't bear to move. The door was not fully closed - she must have
forgotten to close it after her walk - and she was out the door with minimal
effort, closing it tightly behind her.
Macey's land stretched out in front of her, scarcely illuminated by
the dull glow of the stars. Her skin began to tingle and she could sense
that the change was near, the blissful, short-lived change that kept her
living. She brought her hands to the sky in praise of a power that could be
so kind, so understanding. She did not know who this was or what she should
call this power, but she loved it with all her heart.
The sun suddenly peaked over the mountaintop and Macey felt every
atom in her body tearing away, every cell separating and spreading outward
over the miles and across the earth, her self forgotten.
No memories of "so sorry" cards, no images of her husband and
daughter smashed against the Volvo's windshield plagued her as she was blown
wherever the wind would take her, no images of untouched birthday
cakes in the backseat bearing unbearable messages forced her to her knees
in agony, in tears. "Happy birthday, Mommy! We love you!"
Macey's prayers had been answered. Though she would never again feel
the sun warming her skin, the chance to live while still feeling her family's
presence all made it worthwhile.
Feeling...
Tom Roscoe
She feels
sometimes hurts alone
all bottled inside
like me
private hurts
where do we put
such feelings
people don't mind when you share joy
but from hurt... turn away
things felt, feelings denied
suddenly come crashing in
like it was yesterday
what do we do with these feelings
with whom do we share
A friend, perhaps a friend and love
someone to care
hold me tight, hold her tight
in the darkness
tears streak...
no, can't cry...
it must be raindrops
falling from my eyes...
To reach out, with a gentle kiss
a soft touch, a firm warm hug
understanding soft low voice
saying honey.... it will pass
wanting... needing...
unconditional love...
to lightly kiss
tears away...
hold me... hold her...
until the morning light fades into grey
and the sunlight
lights the sky...
and my love's eyes...
_Monsters_
Deborah Bryan
16 June, 1996
"Shh! Mommy's coming!" Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump. Joey imagined
Jabba the Hut trying to climb the stairs and knew that Jabba would not make
near so much noise as his mother. Jabba the Hut was his mother, sure. He
giggled, imagining his mother on a chain, on display during Show-and-Tell.
"This's Jabba the Hut. He pretends to be my mommy, because he threw the
real one to the dinosaurs when I was a baby."
Joey's mother opened the door and invited herself into her son's
room. The light from the hallway hurt his eyes and he pulled the cover over
his face to shield them. This small action enraged his mother; she believed
that he was trying to hide from the monsters under the bed again, though he
had not spoken of such monsters for two weeks.
"Dammit, Joey, no monsters are hiding under your bed! Here, I'll
even check for you."
No good night kiss for Joey, no wish for sweet dreams. He closed
his eyes as a tear trickled down his cheek.
Joey's mother tossed the blanket halfway across the bed, leaving
Joey partially uncovered. Slowly Joey's mother knelt onto the floor,
crawled a couple of feet forward. Fat jiggled and rolled over her body as
she lowered herself onto her bloated stomach. Joey peeked over the edge of
the bed and quickly hid under the covers. He did not want to be accused of
thinking bad thoughts about his mother, for punishment for that crime far
outweighed (like his mother outweighed Jabba) punishment for any other.
"See?" Joey's mother started to rise, her tone full of reprimand
and shame over her weakling son. Joey huddled under the covers in fear,
praying his mother would leave him be this once.
His prayers were interrupted as his bed suddenly roseinto the air.
His mother screamed as Joey's bed continued to rise and fall. "JOEY! JOEY!
OH MY GOD, JO-" Silence stung his ears as he pushed the blanket to the foot
of the bed. His mother had disappeared.
"Hey, where's my mother?" Joey demanded of the blackness under the
bed.
A loud belch sounded out beneath the bed and Joey smiled, crawling
under the blankets for a good night's sleep.
_In My World_
Deborah Bryan
17 July, 1996
in my world
people feel hopeless
something wrong
but what?
there seems
no hope of change
we are set in our ways
in my world
a woman is raped
and her lifestyle
is questioned,
each indescretion,
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
Editor's note:
I wrote this while thinking of my mother's trial - though my mother
was not the defendant in the case, she may as well have been. Gone were
any thoughts of the perpetrator's guilt, replaced by display after
display of my wicked mother's insanity. Where is the justice in this?
Not two weeks after writing this I found that my sister has been
molested several times by a trusted family "friend." My mother screamed
at herself and insulted herself, asking how she could have been so
stupid. She had sworn that it would never happen again... and here it
had.
My mother was taught well by the lawyers, judges and jury - it is
not the fault of the perpetrator but _her_ fault for not psychically
understanding that this trusted friend was abusing her daughter while
she tried to get her life together.
Amen for the criminal justice system, long live our brilliant
police and courts!
My heart goes out to victims and to the families of victims -
perhaps someday the blinds will be removed from our eyes. I pray for
this day, but wonder if it will ever come...
Deborah Bryan
7 August, 1996
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Thank you for reading!
