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Cranberry Winters Issue 09
From brideb@efn.org Wed Oct 15 23:32:08 1997
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Date: Wed, 15 Oct 1997 20:33:10 -0700 (PDT)
From: Deborah Bryan or Brian Cochrane <brideb@efn.org>
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Subject: Cranberry Winters, issue 9
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(I have a section in the 'zine area, and I think I've got the rest of the
issue there. Thanks!)
C s R r A e N t B n E i R w R y Y r W r I e N b T n E a R r S c
Issue 9
Octobre 15, 1997
.....
Table of Contents
. Congratulations, or "Message from the Editor"
.. Keep the Change
... To the Sky
.... hopes & dreams
..... Father Priest
...... Valleys
....... Leaving
.....
CONGRATULATIONS
Deborah Bryan, Editor
Cranberry Winters
I would like to congratulate those of you who made it through the magazine's title. When confronted with a title so utterly unreadable-in-the-half-second-it-takes-for-my-mind-to-wander-off, I would - you guessed it - have already lost interest.
*
That said, I hope you enjoy this month's trip through the stories of a sometimes
writer, a young woman very much in love with people... and life. This love is reflected in my stories, which lean more toward being vignettes than actual "this happened, then -
can you believe it? - this happened, and then, best yet, this happened..." stories. I write what and how I feel, and these vignettes are the best way I have yet found to express my emotions and, when it comes right down to it, myself.
. . .
KEEP THE CHANGE
31 January, 1997
The phone rings in a quiet room.
A woman stands at the window of her apartment, a frail wrist pulling at curtains that will too soon block her view of the world. For now, two girls jump rope and sing softly grade-school songs, light leaves the room and fades away from the city.
The curtain falls softly into place.
The phone rings again.
The woman reaches down to her feet and pulls off her uncomfortable heels. She sets them end-to-end on the windowsill and pads softly in nyloned feet over a worn yellow carpet. Her elbow aches as she reaches for her purse. She slips her purse ov
er her shoulder and leaves the room, leaves her life behind her.
The phone rings again but is met only with silence.
. . .
TO THE SKY
Autumn 1993
There was a memory there - a memory Tera could touch but no longer feel. Such memories were of no use to Tera, and she banished it from her mind. As an empath, if one could not feel something, it did not exist. Each empath pretended that they d
id not know the reason behind these banished thoughts... it was commmonplace though for an empath to remember their schooling - taught to understand and communicate to their peers that there was indeed someone who shared their pain, where others were taug
ht the tradtional swordfighting skills, math and reading. And though they were being trained to feel what their peers were feeling, they were still children, hurt by the teasing of their nonexistant mathematical and reading abilitities. The empaths had
then felt unintelligent, and to an extent this feeling was echoed in their older age. Yet there was the
realisation hidden there in the minds and memories of each empath, under many criss-crossing, woven layers of sorrow and joy, fear and feelings of being lost, that their people could never make it without them; their people had grown dependant on the empa
th with whom they could share their feelings.
The last light disappeared from the land and Tera was soothed by the relative darkness. There were the starts, of course, but they did not burn nor blind her as did the sun in this vast and foreign desert. Not another human could be seen, but th
ere was by now a goodly-sized fireside singalong, and few were curious enough to roam the land in the evening. What could come of it? All the food-hunting was done in the broad light of day, and the water hole was a dangerous place to swim or draw water
from come dark. The water level was prone to rise and fall (Tera's people believed that there must be some restless creature far below) without warning. And beside that, there were many a night-creature who would not hesitate to grab a poor soul from t
he shore or the water. Already three fools had disappeared.
There was music in the distance. Tera once again could not hear the music from such a distance, but she could feel the light cheer in the air. The lights of the camp were visible, if a bit small, and each began to go out for the night. Past a c
ertain point, only the
campfire was necessary. And then - among the light and cheer, Tera could feel a spark of unhappiness. She focused herself on this spark; felt it move further from her, now nearer. If only there were something she could do about this unhappiness of his
. She knew that it was her husband as surely as she knew that she had been called here tonight. The thought of her being called - her, a poor empath - was almost unbelievable. Were she not here right now, she would not have believed it. But here she w
as, only moments before her true calling to the land of the gods, giddy with happiness, her stomach ready to explode with tension.
She was called then, before her husband could reach her. Her body fell to the ground. Her soul rose to the heavens, where happiness and pain would mean the same to her.
For a moment, off in the camp, silence fell. Even those who could not claim the gift of empathy could see the rising light.
And, oh, how they could feel the music.
. . .
hopes & dreams
12 May, 1997
hope
carresses dreams
scorns reality
locks a small piece of happiness
in the heart
and calls it
the future
. . .
FATHER PRIEST
3 March, 1997
Thousands of footsteps echoed through the darkened halls of a castle whose servants were far too busy tending their wounds to tend to the wounds of a lifeless castle. One set of footsteps echoed at the head of the thunder of angry footsteps. These made
desperate thumping noises as they pounded over the wet stone.
The woman at the head ran from the man-mad thunder, stumbling over her once-beautiful red dress. The red dress was torn and green now after her many falls.
This woman searched for a room she had only glimpsed once in this castle before being hurried away. She could remember the overheard words, her husband's frustrated cries of anger. ("How can you devote your life to these studies and not know any
thing?")
None of those who sought her knew that she had suffered more at the hands of her husband than any of them had, or now, ever would. They would kill her before they would hear her sobs, believing her to have been partner to her husband's wickedness
.
She scrambled up another flight of stairs, terrified to hear the closeness of her pursuers. As she reached the top, a brilliant light overcame her. She stumbled down the hallway and leaped into a blinding light not suited to the heart of a castl
e.
The light transformed as the young once-queen joined it; the energies that the castle had been built upon realigned themselves with the addition of this brilliant energy.
The room was dark now, and the queen gone with the light.
. . .
VALLEYS
8 February, 1997
Laughter echoes through the valley of memory, and one who is sensitive to these sounds laughs with them. His sturdy legs carry him along the bank of the river, his walking stick matching the beat of his footsteps. As he walks, he hums an old son
g, the only song he knows, and lets images flow through his mind.
(a small child skips happily along the shore, her parents struggling to keep up)
(a woman and a man sunbathe on a warm summer day, the trees catching the light, their hands interlocked)
This man closes his eyes, stands still. He can almost feel the warmth this couple shared years ago.
He is aware that the sky will soon be dark, so he removes his pack from his back and pitches his small tent with the ease of familiarity. He sits on the damp stones along the river's shore
and watches with wonder the swirls of the river, the patches of foam that rise and fade in the span of a blink.
He feels memories creeping upon him and sighs. He will never find a place free of the touch of man, will always be assaulted with images, scents, sounds of times gone by. He allows new colours and scents into his mind and soon he can hear the c
hatter of people not long past. He frowns, hearing the angry tones of the conversation behind him and rises to his feet. Turning, he can see a red-faced young man waving his arms about angrily, a petite blonde woman cowering before him.
("You do what I say and do it now, bitch")
The man grimaces and moves closer to the couple.
("I just want to go, Henry... please take-") Colour rises to the wanderer's face as the man strikes the woman. He clenches his fists.
(sobbing
"Oh, no, oh...")
The angry young man slaps her face and she stumbles backwards, nearing the water. The wanderer tries to catch her, but she falls through his hands. There is nothing this memory man
can do to help this memory of a woman.
Henry leaps atop the blonde and slams her head into the rocks. The wanderer turns his body, his stomach clenching with fear and anger. He tries to shut the sounds out but hears the pull
of rocks, the slide of a heavy object across rocks. The wanderer clutches his stomach and turns when he hears the splashing of water.
(her body is rushing away from Henry with the current of the river)
This memory man closes his eyes tightly, willing himself away from a frightening Valley of Memory. When he opens his eyes he is back, blessedly, in his own darkening world.
He lights a fire and warms his hands in front of it. His thoughts wander through the valley of Memory.
He wants to leave now, to separate himself from the tragedy he has witnessed, but his conscience roots him to the spot. He imagines with a heavy heart a lone spirit-woman wandering through trees in search of companionship. Though he will not hea
r her if she seats herself before the glow of the fire, he will happily share his fire with her so that she may warm a little before
travelling on.
He will rest here with her memory tonight before resuming his lonely journey through the Valley of Memory tomorrow.
. . .
leaving
19 May, 1997
waves
wash over me
scouring my body
with bits of sand
and shell
eyes closed
i can pretend
i am a child
go beyond
i am a mermaid
the sky is dark
the sea is light
carries me away
to the place
that should have been
my home
. . . . .
Thank you for reading Cranberry Winters!
http://www.efn.org/~brideb/Deb/cwinters.html
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