[stylist] CK prompt response

Fri Mar 21 04:03:20 UTC 2014

Whose says serious can't be funny? Grin

Bridgit

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Barbara
Hammel
Sent: Thursday, March 20, 2014 10:41 PM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List
Subject: Re: [stylist] CK prompt response

Chris, you are terrible!  This is way too funny ... for such a serious 
topic.  You always make me laugh.
Barbara

Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.--Robert
Frost -----Original Message----- 
From: Chris Kuell
Sent: Thursday, March 20, 2014 8:48 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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