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Cranberry Winters Issue 08
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 <brideb@efn.org>
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
--------------------
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