WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 5/1/2020

At long last, we long for the last winner of the Terrible Poetry Contest.

That winner is:

In the Can

by Trent McDonald

Parting is such sweet sorrow
I wished to keep you
Till the morrow
But I ate what you held
My hunger
Now is quelled
So you have no use
And I dare not set
You loose
For you’ll end up in a tree
Or worse yet
In the sea
You might kill a turtle or a fish
Or bird might think
You’re a tasty dish
I will mourn you gone, it’s true
I really, really
Really wanted to keep you
But the problem is, by far
I ate your innards
The candy bar
And since your fabric I tore
(My self-restraint went out the door)
I have no use for you
Any more

—–

Congratulations, Trent! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

I chose Trent’s poem after narrowing entries down to three or four that followed the prompt and made me cringe. After reading through those, his won for its awful reminders of the free-verse poems that just quite don’t make poetic sense.

Thank you for all the laments and well-wishes. You are lovely people and clever terrible poets.

Untitled piece

by Nitin

Oh Cap’n! My Cap’n
Must we say goodbye?
Just a year after we said hi?
Oh Cap’n! My Cap’n

This game gave me intellectual game
Makin me smart and stuff, ya know
But now, to whom shall my game I show
Things will never be the same

Good times we did share
Of laughs and more laughter
They made me merry and smarter
Friends did hug and care
But alas, ‘tis time to sit on the rafter
And say, “Oh Cap’n, ‘tis an end to chatter.”

*Sad violins play in the distance while the sky turns crimson, and motes of dust circle the bed. It’s lonely here on the rafter*

—–

Untitled piece

by Richmond Road

Maybe we’ll meet again some sunny day
Hey hey
You never know your luck
Till then
Goodbye
So long
I must mosey along

—–

Fare Thee Well 😭😭😭

by Heather Dawn

Oh the heartbreak that is inside my heart
A song of mourning as we part…
Mourning all the better things,
The things that life used to bring(s)…

Fare thee well!
My good memories of times meeting with friends and family and people, in groups larger than ten.
Fare thee well!

Also to soap and cleaners…
Oh how I smell!

Also farewell to buses, and haircuts and my favorite pair of pants which now fits far too snug. (Because of all the food I’ve eaten).

Fare thee well. To the hug. (Which I never loved in the first place, but now I think I could face)

Fare thee well to the world I once knew,
The one where we could find wipes by the loo,
Where shoppers could walk two by two,
Where kids could go to and from the zoo,
The one that didn’t feel quite as blue,
And I didn’t have to eat roadkill stew,
Or have to speak two meters away from you,
Wow lots of words to rhyme with “ooo”!!!

And fare thee well to a contest I never did win,
For poetry terribleness was not within,
But I give thee one last try,
Before I have to say good bye.
And on and on and on life goes
Ever changing, keeping me on my toes….

Fare thee well, to really bad poems.

—–

Untitled piece

by Ian Kay

Tai Kwon Doo
Doobie-doobie-do
Bye TFWTPC
Deedle-deedle-dee
The fat lady sings
Fa-fa-fa-le-la-la-oomph!
Who brought an opera singer
to the martial arts?
do-do-do-dah-do
call an ambulance
(but nothing rhymes with ambulance)
well then call a dentist
(you’re not making this easy)
how about an MD?
tweedle-deedle-dee.

—–

Used Band-Aid

by Matt Snyder

that time i fell

scraped my knee

cut my finger deep

using that damn peeler

when i tripped on the edge of the pool

tore off my toenail

you were there

love you BAND-AID hate to see you go

the brown crusty blood remnants that covered up my woes

BAND-AID come in every size, even covered that boil on my thigh

love you BAND-AID for all you have done

sure beats that time i used some ABC gum

—–

A Canned Goodbye

by Tiredhamster

Sad shell of lesser metal,
you once had something vital,
an elixir envied by the sweetness
gods, tinged with carbonated bliss.
Orange-like flavors once wrapped my tongue,
but now, your delicious tune has been sung.
I sit here now, in silent dejection, with your tiny skeleton,
carved by emptiness, a misshapened tin.
Now, it is time, that I cast your being into a bin
where all things disappear. It should be a sin,
but you’ve lived-out your usefulness,
I can’t say the same for the rest.
I will always cherish this warm night,
but the hour is turning into light
where thirst thrives. Don’t fret,
your memory has placed a net
across my acidified canines,
where a corrosion opines
deeper than love’s design.

—–

The Last One!

by D. Wallace Peach

Farewell! Thou art too ripe for my whiffing,
And alas alas, thou can’t thyself sniffing,
The perfume of thy boudoir gives little easing;
When my love for thee is nose deceasing.
And of that odor, why am I deserving?
Your fair halitosis has left me unnerving,
And so my face turned away is breathing.
Tell me, how do I hold thee while wheezing
Thou gavest thy kiss with exhaling and blowing,
Oh me, my mistaking, I must be going;

—–

AN ODE TO THE ANODYNE MS. O

by Doug Jacquier

Bring a ring o’ poeters,

A pocket full of poseurs,

A tissue (of terribility) at issue

And we all fell down.

A bunch of us numpties, with almighty gall,

Us proletarian-lumpy had a great fail

All Chelsea’s exhortations to fracture our pens

Ended in the dumpster time and again.

But the fighter inside ‘er will eventually out

Back will come her brain and give the spiders

Gout from the sun-dried tomatoes that on her pizza reign,

And, Owen to her zeitgeist, she’ll re-rack us once again.

—–

The Last Gasp

by Jon

Whatever will I do?
Without a forum for,
Terrible verse that wells up
Within and must get out
’cause its too awful to keep

—–

Untitled piece

by Writerinretrospect

Alas, poor poems, I knew them well
Perhaps a few belonged in hell
Far too many made angels LOL
When people tried to be bad, and very short fell…

—–

AN ODE TO GIANT TURDS

by H.R.R. Gorman

Look how ye curl
Above the water’s surface
You big, sassy turd, source of my pride.

Rare is the whorl
Which rises enough to lance
Through soft, golden expanse, brave height.

But now, brown pearl,
I must take the flushing stance
And send you away, unforgotten but affright.

Thou doth swirl
In a porcelain water-dance
Amidst ribbons and twills of white.

Gone! Flushed, hurled!
My mind is blown, in a trance,
That I couldn’t share your largess and might.

The joy of my innards
When you escaped by chance
During a bowel movement after midnight!

I’ll never unfurl
Our secret toilet stance
That created you, the biggest turd of my life.

—–

The End of Something Great

by Susan Zutautas

Holy moly chicken man

All I want is a grand

I will be your friend for a long time

Until of course, I lose my mind

♥♥♥

Oh my goodness

Oh my gosh

I would love some mackintosh

As I’m as hungry as a bear

Look at my cute underwear

♥♥♥

There is a moose upon my roof

Trying to catch a silly goose

There’s a dog in the tree

He’s laughing, he’s full of glee

There’s a mouse chasing a cat

I’m going to get you, you dirty rat

♥♥♥

Look and you will find

All of those you have left behind

Dust bunnies under the chair

Mixed all in with the dog’s hair

You think I don’t care? Beware.

♥♥♥

You are a silly goat

I think you’ve lost my rope

I’m such a dope

I don’t know how to cope

Without my rope

Nope

♥♥♥

Before I go there’s one more thing

I really wish that I could sing

I for one will miss your contests

A weekly terrible but the best

It was fun

I wish that I’d been here when it begun

Is there anything we could do

So many of us are feeling blue

Please change your mind

and keep it going

If you do we’ll all be glowing

—–

An Ode to the Bald

by Kristian Fogarty

Oh, Woe is me, Alas and Alack
Oh how I wish I could have my hair back
Now my poor head is shiny and bald
My comb is redundant, my crown feels the cold
It’s the one thing for which I would pray, steal or beg,
If I could no longer be as bald as an egg.

—–

Through the Looking Glass, Revisited

by Tnkerr

Ever been too high?

no? Neither have I

I once took a header

through a rabbit hole though.

I met no queens, I met no hatters

nor albino bunnies, if that even matters.

At a long wooden table, all set for tea

was a dapper transvestite, looking at me.

He peered through specs, with really thick glass

in disbelief he glanced askance.

He, you see; was impeccably dressed

I on the other hand looked quite the mess

I didn’t smoke hookahs, saw no smiling cats,

but I saw something almost as int’resting as that.

At dawn there were birds and two fat boys;

with a friendly sensei.

who spoke at me – to my surprise;

taught me to use mushrooms, for controlling my size.

When I woke, I had a knot on my head

I felt horrible, wished I was dead

I recalled a walrus named Paul, a carpenter too

I remember the face of a singer named Grace.

Ever been too high?

no? Neither have I.

—–

A Farewell Cha cha

by Bruce Goodman

Chelsea says: Remember everything I taught cha
Even though it’s torture.
Cha cha cha.

She’ll tell you how to write a terrible poem
Even if you’re a gnome.
Cha cha cha.

We’ve had a lot of fun along the way,
With Chelsea giving her decision every Friday.
Cha cha cha.

Over the year I’ve tried to make every poem suck
But sometimes I find it well-nigh impossible to be dreadful. Like now.
Cha cha cha.

You made us dance our way in and dance out way out.
I don’t have a clue what this poem’s about?
Cha cha cha.

So thank you Chelsea, farewell to the terrible,
I’m doing my best to make this poem absolutely horrible.
Cha cha cha.
Cha cha cha.
Cha cha cha.
SPLAT!

—–

A Failure To Communicate

by Obbverse

All my giddy plans for more overseas travel
Have begun to chafe and fray and unravel,
It’s a quiet cruisy life here in the South Pacific
Where sometimes ‘quiet’ borders on the soporific.

When you’re stuck down in the Shaky Isles
A month of lonely lockdown has its trials,
Here, we’re so far from the madding crowd,
Here, straying from our bubble is not allowed.

Netflix only goes so far in breaking the tedium
And I’ve wearied of the always Right medium
So I tuned out news of the ever-present Covid,
Turned off the big screen and gone off the grid.

But then my trusty Hewlett-Packard packed up
And how quickly my un-spammed mail backed up,
Now its a lonely planet to be stuck in on my own
And I’m slowly losing friends thanks to a fading i-phone.

So I found it timely to clean out the e-mails-
Those casual offers to meet consenting females-
One-off deals guaranteed to double your income-
Offers to collect a share of a Nigerian’s Princely sum.

So I trawled my way manfully through my spam,
I deleted every charitable plea and cheap scam,
Finally the the excremental electronic dumping was done,
Then came my first message… would it be a welcome one?

Qantas called, said my frequent flier miles, set to expire
Could be honorably exchanged, should I so desire
For a once in a lifetime trip on a luxury cruise ship-
I deleted THAT with one indignant finger flip.

—–

Finally

by Bryntin

there are some things
that I’m not sad to see go
like mrs bryntin’s habit
of chewing tobacco

or that odd pair
of novelty slippers
gifted last christmas
(they’re in the shape of some kippers)

or that strange pen
with invisible ink
can’t see what I wrote
so no chance to rethink

got shot of that cat
some pet that wasn’t ours
shat in the borders
now pushing up flowers

goodbye excruciating couplets
deliberately lacking rhythm
and purposefully lacking
sophisticated symbolism

goodbye terrible poetry contest
a shame it won’t be there
but my best wishes go to chelsea
and the family in her care

—–

Oh, Boris

by Gary

Oh Boris isn’t it time you went away
Surely it’s time for another holiday
Its only a few months since your last Caribbean jolly
How you must miss drinking all that expensive bolly
Your country is deep in crisis and finds itself in such a terrible mess
So many mistakes and lapses of judgement, yet you find it impossible to confess

It’s always someone else’s fault and never your own
You haven’t managed this pandemic preferring to blame the Eurozone
You don’t listen to reason, facts are just ignored
But you do listen to Cummings, Britains very own evil Sith Lord
You only had one aim and that was hard Brexit
Your getting your way leaving us deep in the shit

Because of your privileged upbringing you are entitled to rule
You lead by example, bluffing and acting the fool
You like all the trappings which goes with being the top man
Sadly hard work and emergency meetings is not part of your plan
So for the good of your country please take your leave
Go back to your mansion, don’t worry we won’t grieve

So I long for the day when you pack your bags and wish No10 a fond farewell
Go back to your lovely life, do nothing and watch your bank account swell.

—–

Bye-bye

by Ruth Scribbles

Scratching and clawing
With nails of a macaw 🦜
Mama said–these nails must GO!
Toddler went running around to and fro
Screaming like a me–me was out
To get him good
His fingers would be maimed
Shorn in pieces
How would he protect himself
From the wild wild feme-ale
Mom caught him and dragged him
Into the bathroom and chained him
The house echoed with screams
As she engaged in the operation
Mama removed the offending weapons
Right into the toilet
Round and round they went
Goodbye whimpered the boy-let
My talons are gone!

—–

This is Ze End

by Peregrine Arc

A quiet stage, dark and dusty
Velvet backdrops, rusted tin cans
Buzzing of flies, folded gloves
Last week’s newspaper, all wrong.
And then a swine in hooves and a tux
meanders out to center stage and breathes in a huff:
“Ba-dee, ba-dee, That’s all, Folks!”

—–

The End

by Fishman

The Terrible Poetry Contest is done.
And now life has no fun.

No, I’m only joking,
although my voice is kind of choking.

And even though this news has left me feeling a little blue,
I’m a better Terrible Poet because of you.

I hope everything with you is OK,
and that you just need to step away.

Thank you, Chelsea Ann.
From, Michael Fishman

—–

 I will miss you..!

by acupofcoffeeandmylaptop

Yes, I will miss you
So badly..!
I still remember the day
I bought you, so rosy and pretty
It felt terrible to ruin your virginity
By brushing my yellow teeth..!
Your predecessors lasted just a month..
Yet, I had you for over four months..!
Till you looked as bald as an oldie..!
Though, I bought another
I kept you inside my brush holder
Was happy to watch you every morning and night
But nothing lasts forever
And it’s time for you to leave..!
As I found to my dismay,
My two year old grabbing and chewing you today.!
How dare he..!? You belongs to me only..!
With a heavy heart, am throwing you in the trash bin..
But am quite positive,
That your tooth brushy soul will find a way back..
Through the next brush, you will buy..!!

—–

Thank you all so very very very very very berry very much! Parting from bad poetry is such sweet, satisfying sorrow.

Come back ’round here tomorrow to see what the new weekly contest will be.

woman s right hand

Photo by Wendy Wei on Pexels.com

Trent: Here’s a badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.

 

The Final Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

One day, after reading newbies’ usual attempts at poetry and also feeling bored out of my mind at a son’s Tae Kwon Do training, I introduced the Terrible Poetry Contest.

This will be hilarious, I thought, And so easy. Too many writers churn out cliché sonnets and frenetic free-verse, so entrants will love it. As a bonus, I’ll be able to demonstrate what not to do in a funny way!

Despite my confidence, I realized the need for a follow-up explanation right after. Despite that, I routinely reminded contestants to tone down the talent. Despite all that, many contests produced FANTASTIC and clever results.

You’ve been wonderful. You’ve been terrible. I’ve loved it all. Thank you.

With happy memories and enough bad poetry to keep us giggling, I’ve decided ’tis time to discontinue. This week is the last terrible poetry contest of them all, nearly a year and a half after we began.

  1. Topic: A bittersweet farewell to something completely ridiculous.
  2. Length: You choose.
  3. Rhyming: For old time’s sake, rhyme in the worst possible places.
  4. Make it terrible!
  5. Rating: PG or cleaner.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (May 1) to submit a poem.

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week.

If not, and for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Please let me know if your pingback or poem do not show up within a day.

Have fun. Seriously. And tell your friends. Let’s go out with a parade!

woman s right hand

Photo by Wendy Wei on Pexels.com

Alas, Poor Ramen

I thought you
were
but

Ramen. and MSG, of course

but
then

i

saw

you didn’t have MSG
after i tasted you, you aren’t coarse,
So, my
Tangled Mass oF dreams
Sunlight steaming, through crying raindrops

against

my

sink

course

And tears
I put you down the drain

with the eggs and fridge stuff that stunk
alas, why do I throw away what I love??
and then I ground you up

Poetically
Of course

©2020 Chelsea Owens

Wilhelmina Winters, One Hundred Eight

Jakob went first, allowing their father to walk with Wil. Dr. White, with a, “Please call me with any questions,” offering of business card, and final wistful look, departed. The three remaining members of the Winters family walked down the hallway in silence.

Each time a doctor or nurse and patient came hurrying past, Wil was surprised. She saw her father, heard his solid steps. She saw her brother, heard his solid steps. Yet, she also saw herself, from a panoramic view apart from feeling. How curious, that dark-haired, serious-faced girl! Her eyes saw somewhere beyond the flurry of a busy hospital while her boot-clad feet carried her on and on.

Wil thought of her mother. Although they’d seen her body and said their goodbyes, Wil realized she still expected to find her mother alive. This was the hospital they’d visited countless times; surely they were all walking to whatever room Cynthia had been checked into. Surely they would knock, enter, and find her mother and her kind, apologetic smile. Cynthia always apologized for the trouble she’d caused, as if she and they didn’t know about her incurable and fatal condition.

Jakob reached the door to the lobby. Ah, Wil’s feelings told her, We’re leaving the hospital and heading to the apartment. She’d see Cynthia there, at home. Her mother would be resting on the couch; again, with that recognizable smile.

“How was school today, Wil?” She’d say, and sit up. “Tell me all about it.”

A tear slipped down Wil’s cheek. She heard her mother laugh, cough, recover.

“Oh, Wil. Only you could have a day like that…”

The echoes of her mother’s voice and expressions lingered in Wil’s mind as she, too, exited the hallway and entered the small waiting area beyond. She saw Jakob had stopped; to her side, her father stopped as well. All stared as a woman rose from one of the pastel couches and strode toward them.

She was not someone Wil had seen before, yet her appearance seemed familiar. Long, dark, thick hair framed a pale almond shape. As she walked toward them; locks swishing, scarf waving, arms swinging with confidence; Wil noticed the woman’s blue, stormy eyes. They locked onto Wil’s and held her gaze.

“Hello, Wilhelmina.” The woman stopped before Wil, smiling a smile very different from Cynthia’s. “I’m Guinevere Greene, your mother. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

 

THE END

 

Continued from One Hundred Seven.

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

Wilhelmina Winters, One Hundred Seven

Wil sat. In the absence of father, brother, counselor she stared at the empty space before her. Empty wall. Empty room. Empty.

The clock hand scraped around its face. Footsteps beyond the door and wall stampeded down the corridors. The heating system bellowed. A rushing roar of thought rose in Wil’s mind and her heart drummed faster and louder and faster and louder. She raised her hands to her head to stop them -to stop all the noise trying to fill the awful emptiness.

*Clonk* *clonk* “Mina?” Rob’s voice came through the door. “Wilhelmina? You okay?”

Wil uncurled from her fetal position atop the chair. She tried to speak. Tried again. “Ye- Yes.” She thought he might not have heard, so tried a louder assent. “Yes; I’m fine.”

She heard nothing, blessed nothing, then her father cleared his throat. “Okay. Let us -” He coughed. “I’m here if –we’re here if you need us.”

The emptiness following his assurance did not fill again. Wil stared at the floor, thinking on his words. We’re here, she thought. We’re still here if you need us. A small flutter of feeling stirred deep inside, near her heart. Wil found herself able to move; rising, walking, drawing near to the bed on which her mother’s body lay.

Wil stopped and studied the form there, analyzing the beautiful, peaceful, strange woman atop the clinical bed. She looked so like Cynthia, her mother; yet, so different. The differences were not in the skin marks and swells of equipment attached and removed; but, as Wil first felt upon entering the room, in the missing aura of warmth Wil had always felt around her mother.

She took the hand nearest her. It felt limp and colder than hers. She stared at the face that once exuded happiness, patience, and near-unconditional love. Wil frowned, trying to match this shell with the mother she’d known for all her life. Looking heavenward instead, Wil whispered, “Goodbye, Mom.”

Replacing the hand and glancing at the body for the last time, Wil nodded. She turned. In sure, soft footsteps, she crossed the floor, clinked the curtain aside, and clicked open the door.

As she entered the hall, she also entered the warm embrace of both father and brother. They pulled apart and looked at each other’s faces. Each felt relief in the comfort and resolve he saw in his neighbor.

“Right,” Rob managed. “Let’s go home.”

 

Continued from One Hundred Six.
Keep reading to One Hundred Eight.

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

Wilhelmina Winters, One Hundred Six

Question by question and sad, understanding smile by sad, understanding smile; Dr. White moved Wil and her family through the stillness of a world that had stopped as far as they were concerned. An occasional rushing sound of footsteps or the movement of wall clock hands hinted at an elsewhere; yet elsewhere, should it actually exist, was of little consequence to Wil anymore. In fact, had Wil been able to see beyond the mind mist, she would have found elsewhere to be more bland and colorless than the landscape within.

Hours and days and months and lifetimes passed behind the Emergency Room door. Dr. White finished. He pressed his clipboard of papers to an orderly pile. He rose. He spoke. “If you wish, each of you may say, ‘Goodbye.'”

They stared. Rob nodded first, then Jakob. Wil sat. Goodbye? she thought.

The grief counselor walked to the cloth curtain at the door, his white-soled shoes patting against the reflective floor. He paused before opening and looked back. “I will wait for you in the hall, and no one will disturb you.” Then, with a final, sad, understanding smile; he left.

Rob shifted. He stared at the floor and sighed. Turning to Jakob and Wil, he cleared his throat. “I… I spent some time with her this morning….” In a lower tone and glancing down, he added, “This morning.” Lifting his gaze once more to his children, he breathed deeply in and out. Resolved. Sad. “I’ll go first, then wait for you outside.”

Rising, clunking, scuffing, pausing; Rob reached the bed. He took a slender, pale hand in his. With his other, he stroked a few blonde hairs to the side. “I love you,” Wil heard him whisper. She saw the moment; framed it in her memories. Sniffing, sighing, looking heavenward; then clunking, scuffing, pausing; her father pushed the curtain aside. And left.

A rustle of polyester coat told Wil that Jakob moved. Had sighed. He rose, blocking the light as he stood there. Wil raised her head as still he stood there. Her brother sighed again and met her eyes. Both blinked, worlds away.

Jakob’s mouth became a firm line and his focus hardened. In much quieter tread than their father’s, he traversed the distance between chair and bed. Wil saw his dark form pause. He, too, reached out. “Goodbye,” he choked out, barely audible. “Goodbye, Mom.”

Before she knew it, Wil heard the *click* *clink* of metal hooks and the silence of an empty room. She was alone, alone with the woman who was once her mother.

 

Continued from One Hundred Five.
Keep reading to One Hundred Seven.

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

The Little Things

They say you miss the little things
when love leaves you behind.

They say you hear a voice, a laugh
an echo of a smile.

They say you feel an emptiness
where warm-tight arms would hold.

They say you wake a night or two
in bed, alone and cold.

What they don’t say is just how long
the little things are missed.

What they don’t know is is just how much
your everything persists.

What they don’t feel is where you were
before we came apart.

What they don’t live is half a life
with empty soul and heart.

stefan-spassov-jtTqIwvGiUg-unsplash.jpg

Photo Credit: Stefan Spassov

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

Wilhelmina Winters, Sixty-Three

“You sit, too, Mina,” Rob gruffed, not taking his attention from Dr. Sullivan. Blushing, Wil moved to the couch and sat. She almost missed, but only Jakob’s sigh indicated anyone had noticed.

The doctor, meanwhile, closed her eyes for a second and released her own exhalation. “I see, from your hospital notes, that you were in here just two days ago, Mrs. Winters.” She ran a clean, practical finger down her tablet of notes. “Respiratory infection, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Wil’s mother answered.

“And you were discharged with intravenous medications?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been following your regular medication and exercise schedule as well?” Dr. Sullivan’s left eyebrow rose as she looked up at Cynthia for answer.

Cynthia, however, looked down. “Just the medications.” Her thumb stroked Rob’s comforting hand. “Oh! And the lung therapy. Once.”

“Well, that’s to be expected,” her interrogator replied, not unkindly. She scrolled through more notes.

Wil shifted on the plastic couch. She stifled a yawn, studied the painting of a girl over the bed again, and watched the neutral-colored window curtains sway in the room vents’ warm air. Her letter and birth certificate crinkled as she sought a new position for her hands. One look from her father settled them into her lap.

“I see that you were also informed about Cystocaftor, and that you were able to receive a lung transplant over a decade ago.”

“We know all this!” Wil blurted. Jakob snorted in amusement.

Rob was not amused. “Wilhelmina!”

Wil returned to fidgeting with her papers. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

“I realize you want to move on to the main topic at hand,” soothed Dr. Sullivan. “However, Wil -may I call you Wil?”- Wil glanced up to meet the professional woman’s cool, dark eyes and nodded. “Wil, it’s important to be sure we are all on the same page. Also, these points are imperative to discussing the immediate issue.”

Wil blinked from a blank expression.

“They’re important as …things that led to what I am going to talk about,” Dr. Sullivan simplified. She looked around at them all, finishing with and lingering on Cynthia. “Number one big issue: despite the effectiveness most patients are experiencing with the new drug options, I’m afraid that your current state severely limits that efficacy.” Clearing her throat, she said, “Your more advanced age and the state of your complications are the main causes.”

“But,” Rob stammered, “We were told it would guarantee her at least five years.”

The respiratory doctor dropped her gaze to give a slight, negative shake of her head. “No. I’m sorry, Mr. Winters.” She pulled a stray wisp of graying brown hair back with its fellows at the sides of her head; patted her strict bun. “I’ve read over the trials, and the most optimistic bet puts you at two years.”

The silence following her words was filled with a thousand shocked thoughts and at least as many silent denials of what they were suddenly faced with.

“We have two years?” Wil asked in nearly a whisper.

“No, Wil,” Dr. Sullivan’s eyes met Wil’s again. “Probably less.”

“How-” Jakob’s voice was husky. “How long?”

“I’m afraid that is the question everyone wants the answer to.”

“But,” Cynthia spoke up, startling her family. “Surely you have some estimate?” Her clear blue eyes and openly trusting face would have melted a statue.

“Of course.” The doctor folded her hands around her tablet and rested them in her lap. “Depending on how this ‘flu season turns out, I’d give you between three months and a year and a half before serious complications interfere with normal life.”

 

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

Wilhelmina Winters: Twenty-Four

Barely perceptible shadows performed an agitated dance across the dark ceiling of Wil’s bedroom. They were the faint shades of spindly winter trees beyond her window, beyond her curtains. They danced in time to her father’s snores in the room down the hall, and were led by the gathering storm.

A part of Wil’s consciousness was transfixed by the black on dark gray above her, as she lay on her back on her bed. Her right hand toyed distractedly with the decoded note she had filled out in the hospital waiting room. Her hair lay around her head in dark tangles. Her skinny legs and bare feet stuck out of the old oversized T-shirt she had donned hours before.

Wil had tried, really she had. How can I sleep when asked to sleep on a question like that? She wondered to herself. Really, though, they all knew the answer. They just wanted more time.

“I didn’t even get to tell her about my secret notes!” Wil said angrily to the dark room.

She rolled over again, crying again. That was why her father was snoring, she realized, as her breathing became congested. She sighed a shuddering sound.

They had decided Cynthia would spend the night at the hospital, monitored by her doctor and the ever-cheerful Nurse Bea (On Call till 3!). Rob would bring her home tomorrow, and life would have to go on as it normally did in the Winters family.

Wil wondered how many other families lived each day like they did: a countdown. They even had a name for the end of that count. Jakob had proposed they call it Death Day, but Cynthia had insisted on Goodbye. Wil had thought it beautiful, and felt no need to suggest an alternative.

“Countdown to Goodbye,” Wil told herself. As poetic as it sounded, acceptance became increasingly difficult as the real possibility drew ever closer.

“Goodbye,” Wil told the darkness, the shadows, and herself. She could do it.

She reached over and set her crumpled paper on the dresser next to the bed. She would tell her mother all about it tomorrow. She snuggled deep under her old comforter and deep into other thoughts.

The wind outside relentlessly pulled and pushed at tree limbs. Despite its best efforts, only the dim outlines of their dance could be seen within. And, soon there was no one to watch as Wil finally drifted to sleep.

 

Continued from Twenty-Three.
Keep reading to Twenty-Five.