[stylist] CK prompt response

[Applebutter Hill]

Chris,
Too funny!
Donna

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Chris Kuell
Sent: Friday, March 21, 2014 10:27 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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