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| = Juice Glasses= by Kellie Ewing On one morning when I arrived she asked about horses. Actually, she asked about the horses. This was not at all unusual. Each morning at the hospital was a new experience for the both of us. For her it meant at least one more sunrise. The morning before as we unpacked the bags she had packed the previous evening she asked about the juice glasses. John's mom had spent her night before that particular morning, the juice glass morning, packing all her bags out of fear. She was certain the hospital was going to ask her to leave and that she would in fact be jailed for fooling the doctors. Beryl, of course, was getting better and should not be in palliative care, should not be on the eighth floor. The eighth floor was where people went to die and she was not dying, at least she believed that on the juice glass morning, the morning before the horses. John's mom, Beryl, would spend evenings before and after chemo therapy at our place. This, of course, was before the eighth floor stay. Each and every week she would check the cupboards for juice glasses. She was not disappointed in their absence, rather just curious. I think she was pleased her son didn't always have what one was supposed to have. John, of course, spent the day before each visit purchasing glasses, none of which quite matched the usual description of juice glasses. His mom never commented on the growing size of the cupboard's collection, just chose a new glass each time. During the months before the eighth floor I was privy to that mysterious cross purpose relationship of mother and son. Her pride in her son was vast, John didn't see it. He cared for her deeply, Beryl was afraid he didn't. As the cancer took its toll they seemed to get it straight. They were lucky to have found each other after all their years of growing up. And I... I was fortunate enough to bear witness to their discoveries. The juice glass morning at the hospital was just another check of the cupboards and I, did the only thing possible I lied. Yes we now had juice glasses and we were saving them for her return. Halfway through that day when lucidity had returned and we spoke of final arrangements (all the unpacking had been finished) she told me I was a bad liar and I was ashamed. On the morning she asked about the horses, I remembered I was talking to Beryl and not cancer and swore I would tell no lies. The horses were in the hospital she said and asked me if I would find them. The horses would help her, she said. Could I not see the change? During the night the doctor had taken her to the horses and allowed her to ride. If she could ride just a wee bit more, well, then the eighth floor would be history. Beryl then told me the story of the horses from her younger days. She had lived in England as a girl, where one egg was the limit and day clothes were also evening wear. One day she had seen a man stroll out from the field at the top of their road, a trim handsome looking fellow and he had waved as he passed. Beryl waited for him each morn after that just to wave the morning in with him. She spoke to me of the lush green field with huge old willow trees, trunks as large as silos. The fence around the property was made of posts and wire connecting each post. The wire was a strong metal thinned out to strands which were deep black in colour and seemed to cut right in to the air. There was an opening with no door which seemed reasonable as there was nothing to keep in aside from the huge ancient willows. One evening, she happened to see an older gentleman go into the field and stroll away until he was caught up in the willows and seemed to disappear. She waited for a while and saw no return. The next morn she saw the trim handsome fellow and waved the day in as usual. A few evenings later caught by the field again she saw the old gent again and this time waved to him. The old gent returned the greeting and as he did so something caught Beryl's attention. It was the same stance, the same tilt and the same glint of gold from the band on his finger as her morning man, she was sure. She kept watch after that for several days and saw age enter in the eve and youth stroll out in the morn and each night she heard the whinny of horses. As she related the story to me she also told me she never entered the field, it was not her field. One evening, she watched the old gent pass and she stood fast into the twilight hours and well passed the turn of midnight and this time saw one of the horses. A massive roan with the splendid burnt red of his mane billowing in the night galloped out to the centre of the field appearing from the willows as if from thin air and atop the horse's bare back was her young old greeter with his head tilted towards the sky. Well, Beryl ran and ran and ran and ran. The next day she was there to greet her trim handsome fellow hello and in the evening bade her older gentleman a warm goodnight. She never ventured into the field, it was not her field. Beryl, on this particular morning asked me if I would find the horses in the hospital for her. She was sure if the doc let her ride one more time it would work. She knew her field was here. I did the only thing I could, despite my oath, I lied. I reassured her I would find the horses. Halfway through that day as we strolled the corridor I mentioned the horses and asked where I should begin to look. Beryl had forgotten the field and the horses. She told me she was waiting for tomorrow morning. The morning would bring at least one more day. When John and I and his family closed up Beryl's home for the last time and packed all those wonderful lifetime belongings in to a box Goodwill would cherish, well, John - he took the juice glasses. He grabbed those two little right sized glasses as soon as her kitchen cupboard was opened. Later I checked out the hospital, the basement, the first, the second, the third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, the seventh and finally the eighth floor and found no horses. I found no horses but we, John and I, now have juice glasses and they stand proudly at the front of our cupboard's fixed collection. And I'm keeping my eyes open for the flash of a mane and my ears ready for the sound of a whinny. In memory of Beryl Stonley Autumn '98 Book Reviews by Rodney Leighton NEEDFUL THINGS by Stephen King. I was never much of a fan of King's until I read GERALD'S GAME and then I picked up a few. Got this 700+ page paperback for a buck. Hard to go wrong. It's a sprawling story of a small town in Maine ... Castle Rock, in which, apparently, a lot of King tales are set ... where a new store opens, keeps strange hours, sells strange things for weird prices and shortly all kinds of hell starts happening. The operations of the Devil , as it is obvious the folks have him in their midst, are almost secondary to the views of the foibles of people. It is amazing how an author can keep so many characters straight and their stories making a sort of sense. This tale is sort of a devilish soap opera with vicious results. Quite a good book although I never felt any desire to abandon the 30 pages or end of a chapter, whichever comes first, method of reading it. Published in 1991. INTENSITY by Dean Koontz. Published in 1995. Paperback.436 pages. A number of people had described this story as being very intense. I didn't find it so. It was basically a treatise on psychological ills and the horrors of life. I found that I felt sorry for almost all the characters. The 9 or so characters who die by the hand of the truly evil Vess are almost peripheral characters. This is basically a book about Chyna, a gal who had a bitch for a mother and a hellacious childhood, possibly based on Koontz's own childhood, and a man with the strange name of Edgler Foreman Vess, a truly wicked person. 16 year old captive Ariel is integral to the story but is not a real character, although when she spoke after many months of catatonic silence, near the end of the book, I admit I cried a bit. Perhaps strangely, I found myself feeling sorry for Chyna, for all the shit her mother and friends put her through, than I did hoping she would win. I knew she would, somehow. Vess is a total contradiction; a person who one should admire for all his abilities and assets who is so completely off the wall and vicious that one really should hope for his demise. yet, when he went up in flames, I was not overly delighted. Chyna spends a bunch of time wrapped in chains, tied to a chair. Vess brings in a screwdriver and leaves it laying on a counter close to her. Then it is never mentioned again. While she is spending pages and hours and energy and body parts smashing her way out of the chair, trying many ways of getting out of the cuffs, rather than cheering her on, I'm thinking: I use the damned screwdriver'. It was a little too obvious that Vess was a cop and that Chyna was going to get free and run straight into his arms. Other than that, this is a good book, with a good ending. Worth saving to read again in my dotage. DID YOU SAY CHICKS? 1998 Fantasy anthology superbly edited by Esther Freisner. 300 odd page paperback with a good intro, 19 stories, and a section on all the authors except Ms. Freisner. Of the stories, one was less than a page and probably doesn't qualify. One, by Harry Turtledove, is science fiction and I have no idea why it is in there. The other 17 are all good to excellent stories of super ladies winning the battles. All contain a strong humorous element. They vary a bit in content, Mrs. Turtledove's ( Laura Frankos) story of Slue Foot Sue is the best of the bunch and contains elements of about 5 genres. And a ton of humor-Macho dudes who hate the thoughts of males being the subservient gender; of males who are the weaker sex; of males who are wimps and cowards and slobs and scum and useless except as sex objects or kitchen help should never go near this book. Ardent feminists should love it to death. Everyone else should find it a good, fun read. THE BROKEN VASE, a Tecumseh Fox Mystery written by Rex Stout in 1941 and re-released in 1995.This is a 190 page paperback which was, according to the introduction, panned by the critics and ignored by the fans. It's the third and last in a series; abandoned due to lack of interest.0r, more likely, Stout recognized that this guy was just a form of the vastly more popular Nero Wolfe and sidekick Archie combined into something not quite as good. I didn't find it a bad book, although it has the feel of a third, or perhaps fourth, rate Wolfe novel. CIARA'S SONG. Written by Lyn McConchie and endorsed by Andre Norton.244 page paperback published in 1998.This is the second and, apparently, final, book in a planned trilogy. Time-Warner have declined to publish the third one in spite of the fact that the first, THE KEY TO THE KEPLIAN, is the best selling Fantasy they have ever published. Set in Norton's Witch World, this is, just like all of the other Witch World novels( or, at least, all of the 8 or so I have seen), completely different from all the others.. The story covers many years and travails; it starts with the death of 7 year old Ciara's family and ends with her 20 year old grand-daughter leaving home for a better land. I had the feeling that this was a 500 page novel stuffed into half the space. Still a good and enjoyable read. THE PRESENCE by John Saul.429 page paperback published in 1997. Completely different than any other Saul novel in my experience, this one is mostly set on Hawaii and is closer to science fiction than Horror. In an afterward, Saul admits that he started out to write a 'speculative fiction' story. Then he states that he found, during research, that a lot of what is in the book ... life forms zillions of miles away; a different beginning to man than either religious folk or evolutionists would have us believe; life forms which thrive on pollution and die when given oxygen ... is , or MAY BE ... true. This is, I suspect, the traditional Saul habit of ending his books with the possibility that the horror may reappear at any time. This one had a happy ending, with the good guys winning. I was kind of pleased to see that the heroine was as stupid as you can get; mostly due to being tired of perfect people who are too smart and intelligent to be believable. I was somewhat turned off by all the computer stuff and science stuff and science fiction stuff but the Saul elements of good people fighting rotten people; children being exploited and/or killed and suspense kept my interest. Strongly recommended to SF fans. Two Poems by Adrian Perplexski UNTITLED Somewhere in the world there must be a place for the lonely breaked-up people puzzle pieced into the wrong direction If not let us create one make it big enough for all even for those who do not know they too are lonely Why don't they quit their wars and listen to their victims weeping MONSTERS IN THE MOONLIGHT Monsters in the moonlight crawling down the hill gears clashing like teeth gun turrets aimed and ready children running at the pound and sound of thunder mothers screaming people dying... More blood the legacy unwanted peace a dream no longer dreamed of death brings only nightmared sleep shattered minds and thoughts of hate for monsters in the moonlight whatever markings on the metal fight for freedom they will say and there is no freedom for the slave and no answer to be given they've never asked the question they've forgotten they too are children and monsters should only come in nightmares never in the moonlight Two Poems by Dorothy B. Thompson BRAIN TUMOR "It's brain tumor" is what they said, And all that night I tossed in bed. One cannot comprehend such news - It tends to stymie and confuse. My life's on track, career's in line; I'm in grad school, the world seems fine. My home runs well, the kids are grown; The future is all planned and known. I can't accept this awful thing... I'll think about it in the Spring. But doctor said, "Spring is too late. The tumor's large, we cannot wait." So agreed, it's now or never - And it changed my life forever. They saved my life, but I can't sing Or smile, hear left or anything... And voices scream within my head; In some ways I'd be better dead But my self pity did not last - I wrote and swam till it was past. Could not do things I did before; But sometimes I think I do more. Now I'm enjoying my old age. Writing poems, page after page. HOUSE CALLS 1935 - 1950 Many folks who live today Won't believe a word I say But, it's true, and I will swear it on my oath: Doctor came right to our home, so we never had to roam. He would come right in and check on health and growth. For any ill he'd come. Even those that were quite dumb. Like the time I got a hundred 'squito bites. He soothed my itchy bumps Or put ice upon my lumps - And told Mom I should sleep in on summer nights! Doc would swab our red sore throats And recommend some oats. And warn that brother should stay out of brawls. He would carry his black bag With the little silver tag; - When I was young all doctors made house calls. Two Poems by Kristen Martel Turning I see your feet poke out of the bushes across the street people stand stare make me run back against my will don't want you to see me want you come to the place you lay grinning having a smoke in no peril thick pull of you in green wants me to jump in do with you things already done in my head You were so afraid when you hooked that fish in the eye, that you shook the rod in a frenzy, as if there were a huge mottled leech writhing on the end of your glinting lure. Your line thrashed, zinging wildly through the water, whipping the fish from side to side and slapping it against the water with loud whaps. Finally, the hook ripped free, dragging one large gold eye pierced. You used it as bait for awhile, until you couldn't stand the thought of it peering through the muddy water, searching for its body. Writers Plus - A Homegrown Thing Recently received: 5 (count ‘em!) - five copies of WRITERS PLUS - Vol. 1, No. 4; Vol.2, Nos. 1 - 4... an amazing collection of writings from Cape Breton Island (that's the 100-mile-long piece of land Nova Scotia is attached to, in case you weren't sure). This is a monthly journal that, for $2, deserves your support. Featuring the work of local writers, it serves as a reposi-tory for folklore, memories, hopes, dreams and once in awhile, the voice of a rein-carnated Robbie Burns. And we kid you not. If you have ever been to Atlantic Canada, you'll have taken note of the fact that there, people tend to look after each other, no matter what the circumstances. They care, and that's about all there is to it. Of course, the rich look after the rich and the poor have to look after each other as best they can; but the rich have the privilege of being able to do that no matter where they live. The poor don't always have that option, and in a lot of places they fight against one another rather than provide a helping hand. You will find this in these writings, and while the proud and ignorant may criticise some of the material presented in Writers Plus, they might do better to simply be glad none of these maritime scribes have decided to write about them yet - for they certainly could put some interesting and true-to-life spins on their twice-and-thrice-told-tales. The people of Cape Breton (and by this, we mean the regular working class type folks, not the ones who don't have to fear for their livelihood) have been in the news a fair bit the past year, what with the closing of their mines and the losing of so many jobs - not to mention the usual flow of young people westward in search of some sort of a future; and of course the infamous and quite suspicious Sydney Tar Ponds along with the unusually high rate of deaths by cancer over the years. But do the authors whose work appears in Writers Plus moan and groan about these things? Not at all! They write, instead, of tributes to beloved dogs; of their children; of family; of friends; of the sea - and of the sea. You can get a copy for $2 by writing to: WRITERS PLUS, c/ John MacNeil, 39 Water Street, Glace Bay, Nova Scotia B1A 1R6. Oh yes, WP has a new website, too: Click on: (http://) maxpages.com/capersaweigh |
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