[stylist] CK prompt response

Fri Mar 21 20:14:47 UTC 2014

I love that you felt the dead wife would go over better than an alien
probe up the bum, LOL!

Bridgit

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Chris
Kuell
Sent: Friday, March 21, 2014 9:27 AM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List
Subject: Re: [stylist] CK prompt response

Thanks to those who took the time to read and respond to my 'This 
morning...' prompt. I had 45 minutes yesterday morning before my ride
picked 
me up, and decided to just write something quickly. My first idea was to

work with--This morning I awoke to find that aliens had placed a probe
up my 
anus... but decided that might not work for this group. So I went with
the 
dead wife thing.

Peace,

chris

----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Chris Kuell" <ckuell at comcast.net>
To: <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Thursday, March 20, 2014 9:48 AM
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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