HOOK ~ By Jeanette Cheezum of Harbinger*33

A DAY AT THE BEACH?  ala CandlestickPark

"HOOK"

{Illusion}

By ~ Author Jeanette Cheezum
 

A beautiful sight caught my attention today. When a young couple dressed in the same colored shorts tried to get all their paraphernalia up the steps and down the boardwalk to a secluded part of the beach.

            She had a diaper bag slung over her shoulder and a cell phone attached to one ear; with the baby on the opposite hip.

The baby sucked on her pacifier while mingling her fingers in her mother’s ponytail.

He had a portable CD player strapped to his back banging sometimes on his Fob in one of his rear pockets. He stopped, aligned and lifted one end of the bottom of a storage unit on wheels. He steadied and gained momentum to conquer the cement steps.

While trying to keep up, I wondered what delightful or necessary items were tucked inside; surely, things to make their afternoon pleasant. We separated by a few yards and I thought it smart when he erected a tarp to keep out the sun's scorching rays. Probably for the baby or maybe when they ate lunch.

{HOOK}

I was about to doze off when an odd odor circled the air keeping me from my nap. After a while I gave up and headed toward the water's edge; wet my feet and turned toward the young family. My Polarized lenses really did block out the rays—

I stood firm and then for a moment . . . marveled at their gall. The bong was in plain sight with the baby patting it, until the mother threw a towel over it.

What should I do?

Why just who is this prolific lady writer of site after site and insight to cite . . . whom so many of us find so outtasight? Well there's info aplenty in cyberwriting worlds about our beloved Jeanette, but here's the full scoop in one fell swoop (purloined from Jeanette's burgeoning press files):

JEANETTE CHEEZUM lives in Virginia Beach, Virginia, where she watches the rolling surf for inspiration. You can find her work on a multitude of online writing sites. Listings of her prolific works are available at Hampton Roads Writers.org, or at a place many of us once met ~ Six Sentences. She has been published in three of Smith Magazine's anthology books, six of Six Sentences anthology books and with class and distinciton in Vox Poetica’s first book of poetry . . . and is always "at home" AT THE BIJOU in a showcased or supporting role of stories or stirrings. Browse around ~ You're sure to see her good works here, there and everywhere! Bestowed writing awards and as a semi-finalist in quite a few contests her prolific nature enters, Jeanette smiles proudly and serenely at her future horizons ~

Forthcoming: Harbinger*33

She has published over 445 stories, and hopes to publish her latest novel this year.

"Thanks" just doesn't shine the lights enough for all you are to us AT THE BIJOU, oh Goddess Mother of Brilliant Authors ~ Our hearts and shining eyes fully bestow it.

~ Absolutely*Kate

and our fine staff of renown

FOR YOU JEANETTE  photo ala KPEP

*AT THE BIJOU*

IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER ~ By Madame Z and Harry B. Sanderford of Harbinger*33

In The Eye Of The Beholder

~ By the intrepid Madam Z and Harry B. Sanderford

A cowgirl in a yellow sundress crouches behind a big rock on the beach, reloading.  Her name is Sal and right now she's no one's pal.  She's madder'n a bull with his nuts in a vise.  She takes aim again at Sam, that son-of-a-bitch who's running away as fast as his bowlegs can carry him, zipping in and out of the surf to make himself harder to hit.  Sal knows that Sam knows that the sun's in her eyes, so she can hardly see.  Why is the sun in her eyes, you ask?  Because the no-good cocksucker has her wide-brimmed cowgirl hat and her fringed leather vest, skirt and boots in that bag he's got slung over his back.  A girl lets down her guard for a few minutes, to take a nap on the beach, and what happens?  She wakes up in a goddamn yellow sundress for chrissake, while the guy she thought she could trust is hightailing it down the beach, probably headed for the nearest pawnshop.

  
Sam’s not heading for any pawnshop. He’s booking for cover so’s he can hide out ‘til Sally either simmers down or runs outta bullets. As long as they’ve been ridin' together, Sam has accepted her hard drinkin’ and her ornery fightin'. Her temper has a hair trigger and her fury, if unleashed upon someone who does not happen to be yourself, is a spectacle unparalleled and a marvel to behold. He's turned a deaf ear to her coarse language and for the most part a blind eye to what could charitably be called her rough exterior.  Sam was the one cowboy on the whole planet who saw something beautiful in Sally. He loved her just as she was, warts and all - and I mean we’re talkin’ real warts here, hairy ones, not no metaphorical warts.  She sure was purty in that yeller sundress...well, at least 'fore she woke up, he thought, diving behind a trash barrel as it caught a ricochet.

DAMN!  That was my last goddamn bullet!  What's wrong with me? Sal thought.  I never miss!  She stood up and threw her empty pistol as hard and far as she could, in Sam's general direction.  And then, she became aware of a strange sensation creeping up through her chest, her throat and then her eyes, and then some kind of salty, watery stuff was squirting out of her eyes and down her cheeks.  What the hell?  

It's...it's...TEARS!  Christ almighty!

"SAM!" she screamed.  Come back here, you ornery polecat!  And bring me my real clothes.  I feel like a candyass whore in this stupid sundress!”  She started ripping off the dress and running through the wet sand toward the trash barrel, where Sam stood, prepared to run in either direction, toward her or away from her, depending on the look in her eye as she got closer.

Running naked up the beach Sal was a kinetic study of the female form fashioned from phone books.  Her pigeon-toed gait, rocking her head left and right, was the saving grace that kept her pendulous breasts from blacking both her eyes.  Sam saw Bo Derek, in the beach scene from “10.” 

Sal was still too far away for Sam to hear her shouts, but he took her getting naked on the beach and running towards him, (plus the fact that she’d stopped shooting at him) as a good sign and decided to shuck his own duds and meet her halfway.

At this point, the laws of Physics took over.  Two hefty Masses approaching one another at increasing Accelerations resulted in a Forceful collision that sent them smack down hard, into the sand and surf, where they commenced to rolling back and forth in each other's wake.  When their heads cleared, they scooted toward each other like two sand crabs in heat.  Sam pulled Sally to her feet and gasped in pleasant surprise.  The friction from the coarse sand had scraped every one of those hairy warts off of her, making her even prettier than he had thought possible.  Standing there together, the setting sun haloing Sal’s wild thatch of red curls, Sam felt he was the luckiest man alive. He sensed Sally had cooled off and he knew this was the perfect time. So he dropped to one knee and asked his gal Sal for her big ol' cracked and calloused hand in marriage.

Sam had become something of an expert at misreading Sally’s moods. If he’d been better at it, he might have ducked instead of catching her haymaker square on his left ear. The blow sent him cartwheeling back into the surf, sucking about half the Atlantic Ocean up his nose as he sank to the bottom, looking up through the wavering water at the funhouse version of his sweet saddle-tramp Sally. Seeing her through this new lens was something of an eye opener for Sam. He lay on the bottom, watching her pitching and stomping around above him. Her antics were those of a dance he’d seen before and of which he knew the progression. Right now she would be calling him a sidewinder and if she had a chaw she’d punctuate the accusation with a brown spurt of tobacco before swinging wildly at the air in front of her. Sam grinned, a bubble escaping his mouth as Sally pantomimed his predictions up above.  Sam didn’t know it, but he was looking at Sally in a way he never had before. Objectively. And you know what? She still rocked his world.

Still smiling, Sam closed his eyes and pictured Sally coming down the aisle toward him, wearing a purty, white bridal gown.  He was having himself a nice little picket fence underwater daydream as he headed towards the light. But, the next thing you know, he was upchucking ocean face down in the sand and gasping for a breath while Sally rode him bareback.  Once it was apparent he might survive, she rolled him over, kissed him square on the lips and looked him dead in the eye as she told him in that tender way of hers, “You ain’t getting’ off that easy Buckaroo. I accept!” 

(c) 2010 ~ Authors Zelda Martin and Harry B. Sanderford

First premiered ~ AT THE BIJOU!

It's no fuzzy daydream folks ~ You really did just read another calamitous MADAM Z and HARRY duet of distinction. (Man oh man, that Sanderford fella sure gets around when women have pens ~ and know how to use 'em!) I could tell you a purty awful lot about these two wily wonderful creatures of crazed creativity . . . but then again, you can take a peak of a peek for yourself right here, at Zelda's place, get your z's, and here, where Harry hangs out his posterous for posterity. Read 'em and grin ~ That's what these very fine author'folk are all about.

THANKS ZELDA! THANKS HAR!

The two of you naked on the beach ... well, you know what I mean -

was a tremendous showcase of a true grit scene! Cue music.

~ Absolutely*Kate

and the fine staff of renown

*AT THE BIJOU*

EBBTIDE ~ By Sugar-Wendy and Harry B. Sanderford of Harbinger*33

Ebbtide

A LOVIN' DUET BROUGHT TO YOU BY SUGAR AND HARRY

Love lies sleeping on a white sand beach.  The tide washed her up and has yet to reclaim her. Starfish and fiddler crabs loll in shallow pools or dodge plastic shovels unconcerned that love burns nearby. Fearing the riptide that could drag her to deeper waters, she longs for a safe harbor. Embraced by the dunes and warmed by the sunlight, the gull's haunting laugh taunts her but she does not stir.

Love is not lost, only dreaming and I am in her dream.

(c) 2010 ~ Authors Sugar-Wendy and Harry B. Sanderford

Sugar is the sweet combination of Tinkerbell and all things pink who occasionally channels  Mae West: Why don’t you come up and see me sometime? She is proprietor of the notorious Sugar Shack where she goes heavy on the spirits and easy on the eyes. 

Harry, we're all just wild about true blue Harry, is writer of heart and heart of writer, wit and soul and a cartoony kind of delighter.

And that's all I have to say about them two, 'cept . . . they're really special . . . to all fortunate to be in the glow of their giving, which is pretty immeasurable.

Thanks you two a deux

for adding to the Valentine's Weekend

special spunk . . . AT THE BIJOU

 

~ Absolutely*Kate

and the lovin' staff of renown,

  * AT THE BIJOU *