Issue 02: Seasons September 2017
Front Cover:
Summer Bloom #2 Kevin J. Padilla kpfinearts.com
Issue 02: Seasons September 2017 cheeky [chee-kee] adjective 1. impertinently bold, often in a way that is regarded as endearing or amusing
Crisp, scorched leaves crunching beneath your feet; frozen wind whipping through your jacket; birds chirping their delight at the slight, new warmth of the sun; bounding into in a cool pond as a reprieve from the stifling air. From childhood to our elder years, we are given an opportunity each day to experience the magnificence of the world in which we live. Seasons are not solely a change in the weather every few months, but also represent the stages of one's life. We begin our lives surrounded by new sights, sounds, smells, and experiences everywhere we turn, and while we never cease to experience new things throughout our existence, there comes a time when we realize that it can be the old, worn, tattered pieces that make life worth living. "Used", "broken", "rusty"; they don't necessarily signify trash. Instead, they symbolize a lifetime of experiences, knowledge, and emotion. The art and writing in this issue represent both the traditional seasons (Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn), as well as seasons of life. I hope you enjoy the compilation of these items, while they invoke memories and grant you with new experiences. Thanks for reading,
Randie Pospical Editor & Publisher
Be sure to check out our website for additional content and information about Real, Cheeky! You can also email us with any comments, questions, or ideas for future issues. What do you want to see?
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Contents Summer Bloom #2 Kevin J. Padilla
Harvest Moon Becky Delaney Baize
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Autumn Sunrise Vivianne Scofield
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Season's Walk Becky Delaney Baize
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Three Fingers Todd Reynolds
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Untitled Stevie Ann Papenthien
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After the Storm Todd Reynolds
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The Song of Spring Jeanne Ahlers
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Under a Spring Sky Todd Reynolds
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Evening Falls Todd Reynolds
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Comes the Dawn McCaulley
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Tangerine Lover Becky Delaney Baize
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For Zakary Amel Bashford
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Oh Sweet Jam Becky Delaney Baize
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Like a Fine Wine Todd Reynolds
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A Breath, Held Leah Hudson
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Letters to Lizzy Lizzy Page, Advice Columnist
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Front Cover
Australian Winter Daniel McCutcheon On a Winter's Day Jeanne Ahlers Dodging the Snow Todd Reynolds
Spring Butterfly Judy Larson Seattle Summer Sky Randie Lynne Pospical
Summer is Coming Victoria Graham November's Reign Becky Delaney Baize
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Australian Winter Daniel McCutcheon
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On a Winter's Day Jeanne Ahlers JeanneAhlers.com Headed east on the highway, the snow blows hard across the cracked asphalt. In places it sticks, and other places it blows so hard it hides the path. The morning sun shines bright, and creates glowing corn stalks in the fields, cut and frozen, sticking out of the ground like sticks and stumps. The frozen grasses peek through the snow banks, and stand at attention, too cold to wave. The skeletons of the trees shimmer in the sunlight, glimmering in the wind. The snow flecks, like glitter thrown into the wind, scatter through the air where the tree rows block the wind, then they roar like a white freight train where they fly freely. I hold the steering wheel tightly, every shelter belt a place where the wind tries to push the travelers off the road. The sheltered areas have the white road, and the open areas have the black. But its business as usual as everyone is headed to work, or school, or to whatever destination is the normal hum-drum, day-in day-out trip. The fox runs out across the ditch from a hiding spot tucked away from the cold and the howling winds. He hesitates at the highway edge; looking, sniffing. He darts out, stops unsure, then runs again to the safety of the opposite ditch and a line of trees where he disappears quite quickly; his red coat somehow camouflaged into the dirt covered snow banks littered with tree limbs. I press the scan button on the radio and listen to the chatter, the blips of songs I don’t recognize, and then settle on a song I know by heart. I meet the cars, trucks, and semi’s, and notice the driver’s faces. Some are on their phones, in animate conversation, smiling and laughing. Others look like zombies, driving this road a zillion times; they could do it in their sleep, and probably have. The sun reflects off their cars as they go by, shining in my eyes. What do they see? Do they see the sun shining in its winter glory? Did they see the fox in his winter coat? Do they see the grasses, dormant, waiting patiently for spring to arrive? Do they see the beauty of the landscape? The fields glow, littered with sparkling diamonds. As I turn off and change directions, the red glow still lingers in my sight when I blink, from the low winter sun shining into my field of vision. The snow now rippling across the road from a different direction, creating the illusion that the vehicle is going much slower than it really is. I check the speed, and adjust. The days grow longer and the sun flies higher in the sky. The air grows warmer and the plants and animals rejoice, the people rejoice. In excited anticipation we plan our activities for the
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Dodging the Snow
Todd Reynolds facebook.com/ToddReynoldsPhotography
warmer months. I plant the hard little seeds in flats of soil, placed on shelves in my basement. I water them, give them light, and pray for them to grow. The elusive ones I check with apprehension, nothing yet. Will they sprout? Will they grow? Or will they lie dormant in the wet dirt and rot? Some seeds are fragile, and require much care and pampering to grow. Other seeds are aggressive, growing out of control. Nature is wild, unpredictable, like the fox, and the wind, and the snow. People try to domesticate nature, and in some little ways we succeed; we plant the fields, cut trees, predict the weather. But we are foolish if we believe we have any of it under control. The fox curls up in his den, warm with his mate. The wind howls in the branches over this little hole in the ground, and they sleep, oblivious. 6
Untitled
Stevie Ann Papenthien
Blanketed in frost Came the night. The world lay dying, Cold and bleak. It will last But briefly While I dream Of sunlit days Cotton-candy clouds, Blooms of fragrance, A glass half-full. Persephone greeted her husband Took her place On the Underworld's throne I allow the dark to enter Hoping when the world wakes It will do so In a different light.
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The Song of Spring Jeanne Ahlers jeanneahlers.com
As the sun gains strength and holds its head boldly in the sky, The sheets of white slowly melt, dripping their nutrients into the soil beneath. The skeletons of trees form new buds, and tiny fragile shoots sprout forth from the ground. The beautiful melody of birdsong grows into a glorious choir. Soft, gentle breezes blow into hurricane force winds, Bringing the warmth, and blowing away the old, The dead, The paper thin husks of last year’s bounty, shriveled into nothing. Rebirth, the earth renews her fresh bouquet, Her glamorous green wardrobe that feeds her children. Such is the entrance of springGod’s glorious garden. We helpers rejoice, wanting nothing more Than to feel the living soil in our hands. The seeds that wait patiently under the ground for the sun to shine on them, And tell them that it’s time, It’s time to begin anew. They also rejoice and grow heartily, singing praises to heaven. The flowers will open, they will bear fruit, and it will be good, Just as God intended. For the Earth sings for her Creator, and we are invited To sing harmony.
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Spring Butterfly Judy Larson
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Seattle Summer Sky Randie Lynne Pospical
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Tangerine Lover Becky Delaney Baize brokendishes.weebly.com
She wears fishnet stockings and orange stiletto heels, and like a heated wifely tone, spits out sparks and stomps her foot adamantly to make a point, like a prima Donna’s bold punctuation marks. Her wild temper may char like burnt toast, and her whisper can be cool as iced summer tea. She is soured on the vine, puckered and bitter, but once tasted, she is pleasingly tart and heavenly. She is a Vaudeville star acting a lover’s part, playing her character’s misconceptions, and she is a ballerina’s perfect pirouette smitten with the master’s imperfections.
Her plans are wisely-schemed illusions that mute those fools with scandalous tales. She snarls and seizes tongues of liberty and binds them in euphoric paralyzing wails. She is angered at poetry’s flimsy lines and rhymes that discourage the palate’s bliss. She is cunning and wild, a savory obsession, a temptation, a tangerine’s persuasive kiss.
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Oh Sweet Jam
Becky Delaney Baize brokendishes.weebly.com
Beside the road is a wilding bush where drowsy berries sleeping, are bound in briars, yet hold to dreams of the baker’s gentle reaping. Rampant berries, grow ripe and wild, in blackened clusters shining, a bounty of fruit from God’s own hands amid the brambles twining. A vision for lovers, as she swoons for joy with briars in her fist, and plucks the tender berries from their stems’ unyielding kiss. She rolls them from her hands into the fold of her summer gown, their fragrant, succulent juices soaking in and dripping down. She picks from her harvest any berry seeming green with fingertips and delights in tasting one that coats her tongue and stains her lips. One by one, she drops the berries into a sugary, simmering pot. The roll-sleeved baker makes the sweetest soup and jars it hot. Oh, sweet jam!
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Summer is Coming Victoria Graham
facebook.com/VictoriaGrahamPhotography
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November's Reign Becky Delaney Baize brokendishes.weebly.com Dew comes coldly in the last breath of November as black-eyed Susans flaunt their shameful poses, and in tangles of withered weeds, sober birds hastily whirr and twitter like beggars for roses. Frigid winds spoil the dream between dawn and dusk and disguise what the chinless moon becomes, as it rides amid hurried gusts of brush-stroked grays in bouquets of mildewed pines and ruined plums. Rotting on the stoop in their soggy sweat, weathered pumpkins become hollow as empty wombs. Brittle remnants of oak leaves scatter like litter on churchyards swaddling sons’ and mothers’ tombs. Those remnant thorns of quince and cockle burrs that line the tattered coat of autumn’s waning, pierce with its green-eyed rage and its poison’s sting in the ache of November’s reigning.
Harvest Moon
Becky Delaney Baize brokendishes.weebly.com The harvest moon, in her orangey haze, holds the crisping vetch of autumn in the soothing folds of her velvet gown as she mourns each fading blossom. She strokes the scarlet silhouettes of frightened lingered leaves, quivering, and plums that cling to brittle boughs through autumn’s rushed delivering. In frigid eves, nodding dew drops swoon to slumber in her shadowy beaming while unsheathed seeds and summer’s spoils she tucks into gardens, dreaming.
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Autumn Sunrise Vivianne Scofield
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Season's Walk
Becky Delaney Baize brokendishes.weebly.com
Winter’s Coat
In the afterglow of shattered suns, as autumn wanes away, she hides her alabaster gown beneath a coat of gray. And in that crisp of Winter’s morn, she spreads across the glade a myriad of linen whites that quiver in the shade. She walks upon the swollen hills as the chill of noon frosts over into diamonds upon remnant seed and ice-crushed reeds of clover. When the frigid marrow of the air brings a sweeping, acheful rush, dusk whispers softly, “Close the day,” and brings with it a hush. While legacies sleep under skims of ice, within pain’s and grief’s illusion, a fresher passion stirs the heart, lives and dies in her seclusion. Then, like a poultice soothes the hurt, in a spearmint whispered note, jewels spring from beneath the snow when Winter hangs her coat.
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Spring’s Rush
Colors come in hurrying floods when winter’s coat is hung in sugar-plum pinks and rushes of green, groves and treasured troves unstrung. Spring walks in mornings sealed by mist amid buds in brambles twining and sunlight ricochets on dewdrop petals shining. Her largest labor, to bathe the world in her cleansing pitter-patter while the willows rocked by sparrows join in one choir of dreamy chatter. The hyacinth mingles with lily, and the sweet soup of lilac breathes down tender sighs of passion caressing Spring in her faded alabaster gown. When blooms wither on the stem beneath a honey-coated still blue sky, her quivering lips will kiss and part for being shamed in every eye, is to die. Butterflies emerge from dusty wombs clad in crayon-colored wing. The morning glory strangles the rose, and, so, surrenders Spring.
Summer’s Riot
Come relics of her youthful dreams, for the rush of spring lies sleeping. Lemon drops by spoonfuls from sapphire skies, sweet memories made for keeping. In Summer’s warm meadows of chromatic riot, golden poppies rampant yield, and her devotion gushes from the heart in blissful honor of the field. Sizzles hot the Summer sun, and with a wisp of wind took spite, for the wind dreamt of a gown to stroke, so they bleached it pristine white. Queen bees wearing Sunday bonnets, in tombs of honeycomb she sings. Bittersweet, the truth in blue, of life’s hardest stings. In childhood hours, the infinite child spins her hues among the trees, plays lost and found in silhouettes, for memories are made of these. She aches to quench her thirsted heart and soothe the weathered soul’s remark of a melancholy sun burning hot, until Summer’s last faint spark.
Autumn’s Ache
On a thorny wilding wayside bush, where drowsy berries nod, the summer’s sun-charred corpses rest in chilled and lifeless sod. The ache of Autumn is sudden and soon as she strolls the vibrant space amid mighty oaks with outspread arms whose russet leaves find Godly grace. Dallops of purple and chinless moons perish in twilight’s crispy snap, and the red thread of Autumn’s shawl is worn down to the nap. Though her hand is bound to harvest all, dull sweets of rhyme becomes dreary numbness wrapped in blackened skin of shriveled plums. Each tattered end of storm and squall binds her severed heart in trust, and leaves her song of kindred play swaddled in arms of sorrow’s dust. She clutches hands with somber tones, her muttered echoes still remaining. A song of grief shall slowly dim the shattered suns of Autumn’s waning.
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Three Fingers
Todd Reynolds facebook.com/ToddReynoldsPhotography
After the Storm
Todd Reynolds facebook.com/ToddReynoldsPhotography
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Winter
Summer
Spring
Under a Spring Sky
Todd Reynolds facebook.com/ToddReynoldsPhotography
Evening Falls
Autumn
Todd Reynolds facebook.com/ToddReynoldsPhotography
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Comes the Dawn McCaulley
After a while you learn the subtlest difference Between holding a hand and sharing a life. You learn that love doesn't mean possession, And company doesn't mean security, And loneliness is universal. You learn that kisses aren't contracts, And presents aren't promises. Then you begin to accept your defects With your head up and your eyes open. With the grace of a woman, Not the grief of a child. You learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much. So you plant your own garden, And nourish your own soul, Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers. You learn that love, True love, Always has joys and sorrows. And it seems ever present, Yet never quite the same, Becoming more than love, And less than love, And so difficult to define. And then you learn that through it all, You really can endure. You really are strong. You really do have value. You learn and grow with every goodbye. You learn.
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For Zakary
Amel Bashford facebook.com/Iwrotethat13 We walk hand in hand down memory lane Leaving fingerprints along the way. Walking side by side we keep in time Though it's not known what’s down the line. Someday we'll look back on the memories made, When you have grown and we have aged. Every line of our face a map of our story, Of lives well lived in all their glory. Before you came we were just two, But now you're here the world is new. Our time's as short as it is long, It ticks on by as you grow strong. So when the time comes we know you'll go and lead yourself, along that memory road.
Zakary and Amel B ashford, 2016
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Todd Reynolds facebook.com/ToddReynoldsPhotography
Like a Fine Wine
A Breath, Held Leah Hudson
Magda first had the dream on the eve of her 79th birthday. She was disappointed to find that her lucidity did not bring youth as well; even in the vagueness of her subconscious, she retained the comfortable, sagging bulk, the spotted brown skin, legs sturdy and bowed like tree trunks, swathed in a housecoat with a faded flower pattern. She felt a flicker of dismay, then shrugged it off and shifted her attention to the dreamscape. Magnificent, surely, with the long pier stretching off into infinity, behind, against an expanse of impossibly clear turquoise, and terminating about fifty yards ahead in a series of dilapidated docks with small buildings perched precariously on the supports like sea birds. Cormorants, Magda thought, and suddenly there were two, tussling for space on a post. She blinked, filed that tidbit away for later, and began the short trudge toward the largest of the shacks, which was graced with an unreadable shingle that Magda nonetheless knew said "Momma's". The door to Momma's was one of those half-shutter doors like saloons in the old west; Magda snorted at her own clichĂŠs. Inside was small, only a bar, a few stools, and a wall full of papers that wavered in and out of existence as peripheral details will. Magda was not surprised by the woman at the bar. Momma could have been herself, except fatter, browner, older, radiating practicality like a Madonna. Magda felt content, so her intended bark just came out matter-offact. "What am I doing here, Momma?" The woman did not look up from scrubbing the bartop with a will. "Why you askin' me questions you already know the answer to?" Magda propped her stubborn, spotted fists against her ample hips, and frowned. "Well, I know I gon' die." 23
The only answer was the harsh blare of the clock radio spearing her awake. *** Grandson Nino was the light of Magda's life. Her own Charlie had widowed her at thirty-two; she'd only had the two daughters, and since Shelly went to bat for the other team as a girl, Margie had had the dubious honor of presenting her mother with the lone grandchild long after hope for issue had ended. Too bad the boy's father had run off, and the hapless Margie landed herself life in prison on drug charges. Nino had arrived on Magda's doorstep, a toddler with sad eyes and dark curls and nothing else outside a name. Shelly lived in the main house with Amanda and their dogs; they had sold Magda the mother-inlaw cottage for a pittance to keep the lawyers happy. Here she had lived with Nino since his advent. He was sixteen, long like his granddad, light-skinned because of his father. He grew all in a rush, clumsy and fumbling, unused to the oversized hands and feet of a man who'd yet to appear. In his dimples she saw herself, seventeen and new-wed; in his too-serious frown and sharp jawline, she saw his future. He spoke English and French fluently, and gabbed to his online friends in Japanese, she was fair sure. His grades were good, athletics better. His friends filed through her kitchen like a wave of locusts before the drought. He was a puzzle-solver. Last Christmas she'd put a Rubik's cube in his stocking, and he solved it in an hour. He'd never beaten her at chess, however. Fourteen years passed, in the blink of an eye, in the beat of a heart. *** "Momma, don't make no sense, a bar serving tea." Momma shrugged, and topped off Magda's cup. "Not my doing, shug. It's your mind." The two women sat in silence for a long time, sipping. Momma finally huffed an exasperated sigh and raised a deadly eyebrow. "Go on, now, ask your question."
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"Will he be okay? Once I'm gone." "Not always. Not for a while. But you've made a good strong one there, girl. You done loved him about as much as a baby could ask." Magda slowly swirled her cup, watched her tea leaves carried around by the inexorable current. "I think..." she drawled, "...that he been letting me win at chess." *** "Magga," said Nino, hooking his lanky legs through the railing to gently rock the porch swing, "You are not going to die, not for years and years." Magda grunted, nudging him companionably as she went on shelling beans. "Nino, you a beautiful boy and bright mind, but not the boss of me. Before too long I be in the ground." It did not escape her notice how carefully he touched her, these days, always underfoot to offer a steadying elbow, a quick hug, or simply to watch her with those soul-deep dark eyes. "Your aunt Shelly gon' take good care of you, you know it." Silently, he hugged her and the basin both, burying his face against her shoulder. Magda gentled her tone. "These beans be done, boy. Now run along and get the chess set. I reckon I still gon' whoop you." He stowed the beans in the kitchen, fetched out the well-worn chessboard. "I love you, Magga." "You the best thing your momma ever did, boy." Against the backdrop of a watermelon sky, they played. The street lamps lit, one by one, and the soft glow of the porch lantern gilded his eyelashes. Magda felt a contented tugging in her bones, and waited for her boy to put her into check.
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Letters to Lizzy
Dear Lizzy, I have a group of close-knit friends who do everything together; dinner, drinking, movies, etc. One of the friends recently started dating a guy who gives me a bad feeling, but everyone else in the group seems to love him. He’s the kinda guy that buys friendship instead of earning it. He has taken over the group, and everyone does what he suggests at the drop of a hat. I go along with it because I still want to be with my friends, but I’m uncomfortable being around this guy. Is there a way I can bring up with my friends how I feel without alienating myself from the group? ~ Bothered in Britain
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Dear Bothered, When I read your question I heard my mother’s voice: “If they choose him over you, they're not very good friends.” Yeah, thanks Ma, but your advice doesn't save me from endless weekends eating microwave food and Facebook-stalking said friends. If the guy’s a harmless cashed up wanker, then I'd suggest going along with it. Maybe don't go out with them as often, spend some quality time reacquainting yourself with your old friend, pizza (pizza has nothing to prove; we can all learn something from pizza). Another option is to find something new to fill in the time - learn something new, volunteer somewhere - find something you enjoy doing and have fun meeting new people. The alternative is to speak to your friend about the guy who is providing both money and sex and convince them to stop enjoying those things. I'm not sure you would be too successful, and may end up closing the door on your friendship altogether. Hopefully the relationship runs its course and things return to normal soon. ~ Lizzy -----------------------------Dear Lizzy, I’m with an amazing man who loves
and respects me. He is very affectionate and I feel very safe with him. We get along really well and I haven’t ever loved someone like this before. But, he has sexual issues and every time we have tried to have intercourse it ends up pretty bad. We please each other in other ways, but sometimes I just want the feeling of actual sex. Lately I find myself very sexually frustrated because he just can’t perform. He loves me in every other way, but the sex doesn’t work and we have tried everything. Is this a reason to end the relationship? I’m 30 years old and just don’t know if I can live without sex for the rest of my life. ~ Frustrated in Florida Dear Frustrated, We live in a time when not every man has the mechanical parts for traditional sex. Thankfully there are ingenious souls who have invented ways around this (science is truly amazing). I suggest you search for size and girth extenders to start, and just go wherever your heart takes you. Assistance can be bought, but what money can't buy is an amazing, affectionate man that gets you, so get creative and go crazy. ~ Lizzy ---------------------------------------------------Dear Lizzy, My boyfriend of two years and I were talking about sexual fantasies, and I told him I’ve always thought it would be fun to watch him with another woman, maybe take turns with her, but mostly just watch him please her. He shot me down, told me not to think about stupid shit like that again, and got
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unusually angry about it. I thought guys liked threesomes? Maybe he thinks I would use it against him in the future as an excuse to cheat on him, but I would never. I’ve tried bringing up the subject again, but he refuses to talk about it anymore. Should I keep trying to talk him into it, or just let it go and feel unfulfilled? ~ Offended in Ohio Dear Offended, My fantasy is to sit and watch Netflix and eat pizza. Unfortunately, when I try to use the mouse trackpad, the presence of pizza grease means it doesn't work. Why can't my two favourite things just get along? My answer to this dilemma is to have a napkin handy, but wouldn't life be simpler if I didn't need a work-around? What every fulfilling sex life needs is communication and understanding (which is about as interesting as a napkin). What are your man’s fantasies? There is plenty of fun to be had with just the two of you, and it seems like you may need to get to know each other a bit better before you launch into the emotional minefield of a threesome (and be sure to keep napkins on hand, those things are crazy useful). ~ Lizzy
Do you need some cheeky advice from Lizzy? Write to us at realcheekyzine@gmail.com, or fill out the anonymous form at realcheekyzine.com/Letters-to-Lizzy. 27
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