A Dark and Stormy Man

Mabel knew she’d found a winner when she met Shane -tall, dark, handsome. He came into her life on a dark and stormy night. Unfortunately, she’d mistaken his kid glove-approach as a gentleness that didn’t exist.

No, Mabel sighed as she looked out into the storm, there was no more Shane. Her tears matched those streaming down the windowpane.

“‘Scuse me, ma’am,” a deep voice said. Mabel glanced up through wet eyelashes to see a burly man in a plaid shirt. “I couldn’t help but notice you weren’t too happy.”

The man sat. “Could I buy you a coffee?”

Photo by Ketut Subiyanto on Pexels.com

©2020 Chel Owens

Written after reading Carrot Ranch‘s prompt this week: kid gloves

October 8, 2020, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that includes kid gloves. A prop in the hands of a character should further the story. Why the gloves? Who is that in the photo, and did he steal Kids’ gloves (of the Kid and Pal duo)? Consider different uses of the phrase, too. Go where the prompt leads!

Respond by October 6, 2020. Use the comment section [on the site] to share, read, and be social. You may leave a link, pingback, or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form.  Rules & Guidelines.

Utah Mormons: What Do You Want to Know?

I am a Utah Mormon.*

If that shocked you, you may need to spend more time plowing thru -okay, you’re right: I don’t mention it much. I mostly don’t bring up my location or religious affiliation because of The Box Phenomenon. People are so keen to categorize that they will automatically assume things about my character, things that are probably not true.

There are, however, many characteristics or behaviors or habits or lack of cuss words that are true because of my Utah LDSness.

Like

  1. I don’t drink alcohol. Never have, and I mean never.
  2. I have not done recreational drugs.
  3. I’ve never had a cup of coffee.
  4. I have no tattoos. Never have.
  5. I wear one set of earrings, in my ear lobes.
  6. I lived a very clean dating life and my husband is the only man I’ve known.**
  7. I don’t swear, unless it’s the morning after the children have not slept and they will damn well hear about how frustrating they’ve been after the umpteenth time -in which case, it’s still only “damn” and “hell.”
  8. I attend church every week and (before I was pregnant) voluntarily worked a ‘job’ in our ward.

The list could go on, I suppose, but that’s why I’m writing this post. I am naturally curious about how other people live their lives, and assume others might be curious about mine. I specifically wonder if everyone else starts the day with a cup of coffee. Does everyone else flip off bad drivers on the freeway? Does everyone slip on a tank top and short shorts and call themselves dressed?

I don’t.

And so, what do you wonder about MY day-to-day life or views based on my location and religious leanings? Within reason, what questions do you have? Do you have any?

I’m no official representative of my faith and will not purport to be so, but am willing to answer what I can.

Try me. I’m curious.

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*The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints has officially stated that its members are not ‘Mormons,’ but are ‘members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.’

**You know, in the biblical sense.

—————-

Besides a question, you may also be interested in my writings of last week:
Wednesday, November 13: Made some important announcements about the blog’s schedule in “I’m Having a Baby (I Think).”

Thursday, November 14: Attempted an homage to Geoff’s style with “A Tribute to Geoff LePard of TanGental.”

Friday, November 15: Winner of the Weekly Terribly Poetry Contest. Congratulations to Matt Snyder!

Saturday, November 16: Announced the 52nd Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest! Happy birthday to bad poetry!! The theme is BIRTH, and is the last contest of the year. PLEASE ENTER!

Sunday, November 17: “A Confusing Session,” in response to Carrot Ranch’s prompt.

Monday, November 18: Shared LA’s astute assessment of life and its responsibilities.

Tuesday, November 19: “Since the Bombs Fell: Five.”

Wednesday, November 20: Today.

I also posted a poem on my motherhood site, “Is There an Echo?

 

Photo Credit: Michael Hart

©2019 Chelsea Owens

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

As is becoming a theme, the day’s nearly passed and I’ve finally had time to read through everyone’s entry.

Since I know you all skip to this part anyway, the winners are:

Lugubrious University

by Rasmus K. Robot

Darkness descends in the night of mourning
Glory be, I shall write sunrise in dew-mornings
Profundity in me is profuse
So for pomp I use
my lucubrations with candles at night for taunting

AND

The Nearer the Bone, the Sweeter the Meter

by Charles

There once was a poet named “Peter”
Who said, when set up with a nice wholesome intelligent and attractive girl who couldn’t have been any sweeter,
“I must write a poem
I have to rush home
and, then I’ll be pleased to meter”

Congratulations, Rasmus and Charles! You are the most terrible poets of the week!

Selecting a winner was very difficult. You all did very well; sometimes too well. Our two winners wrote terrible limericks that kept to the theme, enlisted some annoying poetic element (Rasmus: language, Charles: that second line), and were an overall disaster to read.

Here are the remaining talented poets and their submissions:

The poet from Wigan

by JWebster2

There was a young poet from Wigan
Whose muse was rather a big one
And what was worse
She couldn’t do verse
Just sat in the dark with her wig on

—–

Shakespeare’s Legacy

by Kristian

Shakespeare was incredibly clever

But he wrote terribly dull poems, however,

And when his day was done,

His poems still live on

Because they’ve been taught in our schools forever.

—–

Untitled piece

by Rasmus K. Robot

Heat is hot and I’m told not very cold
’tis known she’s got the pot and the gold
she’s got the hot dress on
that she’ll not long don
and befuddled and muddled a fortune foretold

—–

Untitled piece

by Peregrine Arc

There once was an old man named Stan
Who won the Poet Laureate, upper hand
He was celebrated all over, was featured in a Doodle;
He held five hour lectures in Tucson, Dover and Vancouver
And Google decided to replace his day with an Homage to Poodles.

🐩 Arf.

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

There was a gentleman called Charles,
Who posted posts which were kind of bizarre.
But when he failed to be terrible,
He complained and stated it would never do,
He was a failure but in reality he’d only tried too hard.

—–

That’s me

by John S

Bukowski, Rossetti, and Poe
All wrote good poetry, so
Drafting a page
Earned them a wage
Back when a writer could crow.

I write some verse nowadays,
No one knows me anyways
Posting on blogs,
I write and I slog,
My poetry sucks more than slays.

—–

In praise of Shakespeare making up words

by Bruce Goodman

There once was a poet from Stratford
Who regarded himself as absolutely confabulatfid
He wrote many a sonnet
And then said Oh! Donnit!
I didn’t mean to be so desderpolygnatfid.

—–

Avril’s Fool Deux

by Reality

There is a poet named reality

Who struggles with humanity’s finality

Whilst artsy fartsy, namby pamby,

Touchy feely, airy faery

According tutu (to two), and frivality.

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

There once was a Boris who wanted to be a Poet
He thought he was better than us that’s why he only drunk Moët
He thought it was ok to lie, cheat and bluff it all the way to the top
He even had his hairstyled like his best friend Donald’s flop
Unbelievably one day he became a poet wouldn’t you ******** know it

As this is PG of course ********* means just. In no way does it mean effing.

—–

A Bunch of Jerks

by LWBUT

A doddering politician named Boris

Was desiring of very high office.

Where, with his junior jerks,

They’d acquire loads of perks,

While all the time ripping our wealth off us!

—–

LaPoettessa

by Ruth Scribbles

The poet she know’d it she showed it
She wrote it she spoke it she fidgets
Her lyrics they rhyme
Every blasted line
She renamed herself LaPoettessa

—–

Thanks again for all the fun! Visit here again around 10 a.m. MST tomorrow for the new theme.

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Mr. Robot and Charlescot: D. Wallace Peach created this graphic that you can use (if you want) for a badge of honor as the winner:

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Good day, fellow poetmasters (or somesuch)! May I be the first to welcome you to Week 35 of the Terrible Poetry Contest?

If you’re seeking directions, read my how-to about terrible poetry. Specifically for this week, I also recommend reviewing limericks over at contest nine.

Because:

  1. The Topic is a limerick about poets who take themselves way too seriously.
  2. One limerick’s Length is five lines long; an anapaest meter. Double it up for ten, if you wish.
  3. Limericks rhyme …or, at least, they get really really close.
  4. The most important rule of thumb is to make it terrible! You need anarchist beatniks in coffee shops the world over to raise themselves from a backlit Apple, scowl over something besides the injustice of everything, and slowly sip their organic latte in pure distaste for what you have done.
  5. As usual, keep the rating PGish or kinder.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (July 26) to submit a poem.

Use the form below in order to be anonymous for a week.

If you want immediate internet attention and possible comments, however, include your poem or a link to it in the comments below.

I do not read entries until the deadline and always do so with names removed.

Have fun!

 

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Photo credit:
abi ismail

Wilhelmina Winters, Seventy-Three

“You’re grouchy,” Wil said, ever tactful.

Jakob grunted in response and shuffled over to the gurgling and clunking coffee maker. He stared at it, perhaps encouraging it to succeed with positive thoughts. Wil suspected he was trying to focus and knew the barely-functioning machine would aid that process.

“When’d ya start it?” he growled. He turned a scraggy, bloodshot face to squint at Wil.

“She’s only just,” Cynthia called from the couch. She cleared her throat and swallowed with a deliberate, slow motion. “Why don’t you have some food first, in case it doesn’t pull through this morning?”

Jakob rewarded his mother’s tease with a sigh, with a slight side lift of his mouth. Keeping his eye on Wil, he said, “Depends on if I can eat the food.”

“Uh!” Wil put a hand on her hip. “I’ll have you know that these eggs are perfect!” Just in case, Wil glanced down to check that she’d remembered to turn off the stove beneath their pan.

“Ha!” He turned to stare at the coffee maker again.

Wil decided to not let him off so easily. “Who was it who burned a few grilled cheese sandwiches Friday night? Hmmm?”

Jakob ignored the gibe.

Who will we have to get a smoke alarm for now, Jakob?”

He continued staring, continued to keep his back to Wil.

She edged closer. “You can’t say anything about my cooking anymore, Mister!” Close enough to poke his arm, she did so. “Mister…. Mister Reagan-lover!” More quickly than Wil thought possible with his sluggish actions of earlier, her brother grabbed at her and pulled her into a gentle but firm headlock. “Gah!” she squealed. “Lemme out, Jake!”

“Jakob…,” their mother warned from the couch.

“Don’t worry, Ma, I’m just giving my dear, old, nosy sister a hug.” He squeezed a bit tighter and leaned down to Wil’s ear. “Aren’t I, Minnie?”

“Ugh!” Wil slapped at his arm and side without much effect. “Go brush your teeth!”

Jakob laughed. “Noogie first!” His right hand knuckles dug into the top of her head before his left arm released her at last. “Think I’ll have some cereal; maybe brush later.”

Wil rubbed at the sore spot atop her head as he clunked around the cupboard getting a bowl. “Brothers!”

“If you two are finished bonding,” Cynthia said, “Would you mind bringing me some of those excellent scrambled eggs with a bit of ham and some toast?”

Wil turned to her mother and caught her favorite smile. “Of course, Mom.”

 

Continued from Seventy-Two.
Keep reading to Seventy-Four.

Wilhelmina Winters, Sixty-Six

Wil began thinking up plans in her head for what else tomorrow might hold. Perhaps, once they were all awake, she could get Jakob to let her play his game with him. Maybe her father would take her practice-driving in the nearby church parking lot. Or she and her mother could…

Dr. Winters studied her screen of notes and frowned. The panning list of backlit research reflected in her serious glasses as she read. Despite copious notes and equations, she and her team had yet to produce a working sample of their proposed formula.

The door of her office opened with a snap. It almost upset her cup of coffee, perched atop the sprawling file cabinet and untouched since she’d made it hours earlier. “Dr. Winters!” the harried undergraduate student who’d just entered said. “Reagan thinks she may have found the error!”

The head of the department continued her scrolling. Her heart had felt to skip a beat upon Tanaka’s entry, but settled under her usual, cool control.

“Doctor?” Thomas Tanaka closed the door more quietly than he’d opened it, and waited.

“So…” Dr. Winters said after a half-minute. “Reagan has found the error?”

“Yes, she-”

Rose Reagan?”

“Well, yeah; the only Reagan on the team…”

His superior looked up. She had a face that could make a lab monkey decide to stop flinging feces and even consider teaching itself sign language. “I see.”

Her subordinate gulped. “Do you… do you want to verify?” Concerned at the icy response, he began speaking more rapidly. “We weren’t sure, either, as she’s not prone to successful tests in general, but were able to produce a solution with her conclusions and tested it on Subject A this morning and many of his symptoms have not been recorded since -”

Dr. Winters gasped. “What?!”

Thomas swallowed again. “I said she’s not prone to success-”

No, no. After that.” She sounded different; excited. “The bit about Subject A.”

He backed up a step at her intensity; he felt the door handle behind his back. “I said that Subject A has not had many of his usual symptoms since this morning.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Dr. Winters asked. She walked forward and would have pulled at the handle through him if he’d not had the instinct to open it and scuttle out of her way and into the hall. “This is revolutionary!” she continued, taking off at a brisk pace with a breathless Thomas just behind. “Let’s study Reagan’s results and get started in replicating them for a test run on Subject B. Then, if successful, we’ll be able to present to the board and possibly begin human trials before the end of the year!”

Together, they stalked down the fluorescent-lit hallway.

Thomas began to lose some nervousness in the wake of his superior’s growing excitement. “Yes!” he agreed. “When I first read over our results, we were all really happy. Reagan said, ‘We’ve done it! We’ve finally cured Cystic Fibrosis!'”

Eyes closed, Wil smiled; as they pulled into the covered parking space of their silent and sleeping apartment complex.

 

Continued from Sixty-Five.
Keep reading to Sixty-Seven.