[stylist] CK prompt response

Fri Mar 21 03:49:08 UTC 2014

And yet, 13 years and 3 months ago I used that same analogy to describe the 
delicate skin of my dead baby.
Barbara

Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.--Robert Frost
-----Original Message----- 
From: Applebutter Hill
Sent: Thursday, March 20, 2014 9:58 PM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
Subject: Re: [stylist] CK prompt response

Chris,
This is one of those pieces that is funny and yet evokes a strong sense of
guilt for finding it so. I  cringed at the description of her skin being
like defrosted chicken. You are one twisted dude, but if you're making
waffles, I'm in.
Donna

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Chris Kuell
Sent: Thursday, March 20, 2014 9:48 AM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] CK prompt response

This morning, I awoke to find that my wife of nearly twenty-five years, was
dead. It wasn't immediately apparent, of course. But as I lay there,
beginning my morning ritual of thanking the cosmos for granting me another
day, I noticed the lack of clanging and banging from downstairs. My beloved,
who rose every morning with military promptness and determination, was not
what one would call considerate. Whether it was the heavy closing of the
bathroom door, the blowing of her nose--a sound which I'm quite certain
could be used to call home ships during a hurricane, the emptying of the
dishwasher, the symphonic banging of lids on pots-quiet, she's not.

So I rolled to my left, and gradually moved my hand in that direction until
I encountered the mass I've been married to for what seems like forever. She
didn't jerk away from my touch as she normally would, nor was there any
signs of snoring, a sound that might be mistaken for the crushing of stone
at a gravel pit. I poked her with a finger, then quickly withdrew and
covered my face with a protective arm, sure I'd get a backhand with
rattlesnake quickness, but nothing happened.

I next reached under the comforter and sheet to give her a nudge. Nothing
happened. When I slid my finger ever so gently under her tee shirt to touch
her skin, it was cool, almost like touching defrosted chicken. Holding my
breath, I gave her a quick shake. Again, there was no response.

"Honey?" I said, still not grasping the situation. "Honey? You up?"

The only sound was the ticking of the clock on her bureau.

I got up on one elbow, grabbed her shoulder and gave her a more vigorous
shake. "Hey sleepy head," I said. There was no response. Panic began to wash
over me then. I rolled her over on her back and put my ear to her chest. All
I heard was the internal echo of my own heartbeat. Next, I put my ear in
front of her mouth, struggling to detect the sound of breathing. All I heard
was the idle wind, like when you put your ear to the hollow of a sea shell.
Desperate, I reached over, found her substantial shnooze and pinched her
nostrils shut. Half expecting an elbow to fly up and crush my windpipe, I
waited for some reaction. Nothing.

I released her, the woman of my dreams, the woman I'd worked so hard to woo
back when we were carefree undergrads, and laid back down on my pillow.

Dead. She was dead, passed away, kicked the bucket, bought the farm. There
would be no more romantic, candlelight dinners. No more spontaneous trips to
the beach. No sharing a large bucket of popcorn slathered with artificial
butter at the movies, or walking hand in hand so she could buy another pair
of shoes at the mall.

What would I do? What should I do? Thoughts careened around in my brain like
a wayward pinball machine. No more nagging about when was I going to get a
real job. I should get the phone. No more complaining that I didn't clean
the bathroom properly, or didn't get all the recycling out, or left a sock
in the middle of the bedroom floor. Should I call the police, or 9-1-1? Are
they the same? No more wasting a week visiting her miserable family in
Armpit County, Kentucky. An EMT-I should call an EMT. No more turkey bacon,
or turkey kielbasa, or making me eat friggin Kale.

I picked up the phone on my bedside table and dialed nine, one. then I put
the phone down. What was the hurry? Dead is dead, right? I got out of bed,
dressed only in my ratty boxer shorts, and scratched myself in a way my
lovely spouse would have berated me for, if she were alive. I went into the
bathroom, peed, and left the toilet seat up. Without brushing my teeth, or
putting on clothes, I skipped out the bedroom door singing, "Today, I'm
makin' waffles!"

chris

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