[stylist] CK prompt response

Fri Mar 21 12:47:31 UTC 2014

I'm with Bridgit. I may have to clean out some poetry if this becomes the norm. Grinning with her. Sometimes laughter is the only way to get past the seriousness. 
Myrna

Sent from my iPhone

> On Mar 20, 2014, at 11:03 PM, Bridgit Pollpeter <bpollpeter at hotmail.com> wrote:
> 
> 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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