...---***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. ==================================== 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 --------------- To contribue, mail brideb@efn.org. To receive Cranberry Winters bimonthly, mail majordomo@efn.org and include the message "subscribe cranberry-winters ". You can find my webpage at http://www.efn.org/~brideb/Deb/ Thank you for reading!