All We Ever Get is Calories

I’ve been dieting lately.

I find it no funny coincidence that dieting sounds so much like dying, because I’ve not been able to indulge in my unhealthy eating habits for -eight- -whole- -weeks-.

Photo by RODNAE Productions on Pexels.com

This dy -eting has been part of a challenge: I, along with several other participants, have solemnly sworn to drink 64 oz. of water, eat 2 fruits and 3 vegetables, not consume sugar, exercise 5/7 days of the week, keep a food journal, contact a teammate daily, and whine about my lack of energy at least 3 times a day.

And that’s why I want to hear about dessert.

No, really. The upside of this diet is one ‘cheat’ day a week where I get to eat sugar. Two weeks ago, I made chocolate chip cookies and peanut butter bars to celebrate. Last week, I opted for an oatmeal fruit bar -because I love oats.

I also love chocolate lava cake, cream puffs, éclairs, fresh fruit pies, pistachio ice cream, Tagalongs, Symphony bars with toffee bits, Costco’s macadamia clusters, rich chocolate, crullers, and …maybe I should go to bed instead of making myself salivate.

In the meantime, what are some of your favorite treats? If you could eat sugar for just one day a week, which dessert would you indulge in?

Photo by Igor Ovsyannykov on Pexels.com

©2022 Chel Owens

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Here’s what I wrote for the last …weeks:
Wednesday, April 27: We talked about how we want to be remembered.

Thursday, April 28ish: Announced the winner of the Terrible Poetry Contest, Geoff Le Pard!

Sunday, May 1: Shared a quote by Alice Walker.

Thursday, May 5: Announced the latest Terrible Poetry Contest. THERE’S STILL TIME TO ENTER! IT’LL BE FUN!

Friday, May 6: Friday Photo of a funny play on wives words.

Sunday, May 8: Quoted C. S. Lewis for Mother’s Day, then wrote a poem about the dang holiday.

Monday, May 9: Mormon Monday! Families are so so so so so important.

Friday, May 13: It’s Friday Photo day down at the tire shop!

Sunday, May 15: Quote by David O. McKay.
And, a really beautiful knock-off of “Bad Habits.”

Monday, May 16ish: I’m a Mormon, so I’m not inked and holed.

Tuesday, May 17ish: Answered Charli’s prompt to rewrite her story in 99 words.

©2022 Chel Owens

Rest In Peace of Mind

One of my favorite quotes is Don’t take life so seriously. No one gets out alive. I laugh, then go right back to taking life too seriously. I’m all caught up in the rush and tumble of meaningless nothings ….which will, one day, add up to a eulogy of my life.

Photo by Pavel Danilyuk on Pexels.com

Why the morbidity? I attended a funeral for the husband of a friend on Monday. Funerals for members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormons) are a little different than movie funerals. One, we don’t wear all black. Two, the service focuses on hope and eternity; on the joy we had in the person and on the promise of being with him or her again after death. Three, there are often A LOT of people attending since Mormons have a thing for large families*. And four, family and close friends eat funeral potatoes, ham, and Jell-O salad afterwards.

Item #4 might not be that unique. I mean, who doesn’t love cheesy potatoes?

I really enjoyed the funeral. The man whom we honored sounded wonderful: big into his family, a proponent for hard work, a lover of Doritos and Mtn Dew, sometimes a tease, a man always ready to open up his home for events; sincere, genuine, service-oriented, and kind.

A few thoughts crossed my mind during the service. The primary one was I want people to say those things at my funeral.

That’s a good thing, because I normally come away thinking I sure hope no one says this when I die! …If you know the deceased was a mean drunk who beat his wife, it’s disingenuous to go on about how he loved his fellow man. So, my kids had better not say, “Chelsea loved being a mother. Housework was her middle name. Birds sang and children frolicked. I still can’t believe we all learned to play six instruments and speak seven languages!”

Photo by Mikhail Nilov on Pexels.com

I’m aware of a common writing exercise to type up one’s own eulogy. Being a paranoid person, I’m not heading that direction. I do wonder what, specifically, I’d want people to say -as a sort of goal to work towards. If not known for dishes and laundry, what about for writing that elusive book? If not for birds singing, what about dogs barking? Do I want my children to remember my RBF or my real love for them?

I want everyone who wants to, to come. It should feel like a party (with those yummy potatoes!) where no one feels excluded. Maybe I should arrange for a balloon artist.

What about you? Have you thought about your end-of-life party? What would you want said?

©2022 Chel Owens

*Granted, not everyone has a large family. Family is very important, and the focus of our faith.

—————-

Here’s what I wrote for the last two weeks:
Wednesday, April 13: Asked for input on “How in the Heck Do You Balance Your Blogging?

Thursday, April 14: Wrote a terrible poem about bad drivers. They’re still out there!

Friday, April 15: Announced the winner of the Terrible Poetry Contest! It was Frank Hubeny!

Later, I shared my inability to open a box for Friday Photo.

Saturday, April 16: It’s Terrible Poetry time again! Frank says we’ll be writing a common-meter nursery rhyme. Parody is welcome! Write one! Contest ends tomorrow!

Sunday, April 17: Carl Jung talks to us about facing the dragon.

Monday, April 18: I’m a Mormon, So I wear special underpants called temple garments.

Thursday, April 21: Updated y’all about COVID conditions ’round Utah.

Friday, April 22: Friday Photo. I shared some smart-aleck’s addition to a driving meter.

Saturday, April 23: Wrote my own nursery? rhymes?

Sunday, April 24: Quoted Desmond Tutu.

Monday, April 25: I’m a Mormon, So I keep sex between me and my husband.

Tuesday, April 26: Wrote a lot of D‘s for Not Pam‘s prompt.

©2022 Chel 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

Never Forget the Soap

“It happened again.”

“What?”

“The door.”

….?

“The door of the laundry room.”

….

*Sigh* “It hit me on the way out again.”

“Oh…” “Well…” “It’s just a door.”

“It doesn’t hit me every time.”

“Huh.”

“I’m serious!”

“I know! -Look, maybe you’re just jumping to conclusions.”

….

“Like, you know, that… say, air currents from a different door or whatever sometimes close that one.”

“On me.”

“…Yeah.”

“Never on you.”

“…Yeah.”

“Never on anyone else.”

“Yeah!”

“And only when I start a load at midnight.”

“Yeah! -wait; why are you starting laundry at -”

“And only when I can also hear whispering…”

ryoji-hayasaka-gkbAYJIMVDA-unsplash.jpg

Inspired by my own laundry room experiences for Carrot Ranch‘s prompt: someone unremembered.

September 26, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about someone unremembered. Is it a momentary lapse or a loss in time? Play with the tone — make it funny, moving, or eerie. Go where the prompt leads you!

Respond by October 1, 2019. Use the comment section below 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.

The Flash Fiction CONTESTS start after this, so check them out beginning October 3!!!

 

Photo Credit: Ryoji Hayasaka

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

Wilhelmina Winters, One Hundred Five

Forever passed in the few minutes they all sat, all in stasis within their memories of loss. Had the shiny, hard, hospital floor been of a more comfortable material and temperature, Wil never would have moved.

Dr. White shifted to a new position. “This floor is harder than I thought,” he apologized; using his practiced, sympathetic smile. The Winters family turned to him, more alert than they’d been upon his entrance.

Rob sighed. “You probably want us to leave.”

The grief counselor’s expression became softer. “No, of course not.” He shifted again, smiled again. “I merely came in to see what I could do for you. To help. I also,” he repositioned a third time, “suggest, perhaps, we move to the chairs.”

Rob nodded; Wil saw the movement in her peripheral vision as her attention was focused somewhere on the base of the bed. She heard her father rise, followed by the rustling coat chorus of Jakob. “C’mon, Wil,” her stepbrother encouraged. She turned her head toward the sound and saw a hand extended; took it with her own. Somehow, not under her own power, she rose. She found herself walking, turning her body, sitting. She felt Jakob sit beside her.

A scraping noise to her left drew her attention. Dr. White dragged his own chair over and set it to the front and side of her father. 10 o’clock, Wil thought, As Mr. G. would say.

The counselor set his clipboard on his lap and folded his hands atop it. “When Beatrice passed last year, she did so here -very near to here.” He paused. “I knew who would come in to talk to me and what they would say, since I worked as the grief counselor then, too.”

He waited. Wil glanced his way, still adrift and apart. She saw her father raise his head to meet Dr. White’s eyes.

“This won’t be easy,” Dr. White said, “So we’ll take it one step at a time.”

Rob stiffened. He looked toward the bed, then back to the counselor.

“If you all would like to stay here, I will walk you through things.” He looked at Wil; she seemed to see through him, through his white-blue gaze to the wall behind.

“I’m staying,” Jakob gruffed.

Wil, again of some force she did not control, nodded.

“Very well,” Dr. White continued. “We’ll start with what is written here.” He lifted a page of notes from the clipboard, glanced over them, and flipped to another behind those. “Cynthia.” Pause. “Your mother.” Another pause. “She wished to have her body donated to the research hospital.” He paused again. “In her words, ‘To help others with cystic fibrosis to find a cure.'”

The counselor looked up at each of them, ending with Rob. “Is this still your wish?”

Rob turned his head to the bed again. As he stared at his wife, unmoving, Wil saw a single tear slide down his unshaven cheek. “Yes,” he answered.

 

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

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

Wilhelmina Winters, One Hundred Four

Mom, Wil thought. Mom mom mom mom mom mom! The whisper of thought grew in volume within her mind till it could not stay inside. “Mom!” she burst out; just once. Jakob sunk to the floor beside her. Wil grabbed at the air, then herself. She hugged her own, small, helpless self and rocked, rocked, rocked.

A coat rustled somewhere outside the reality of Wil’s thoughts; Jakob began rubbing her back. Words eluded him and only the impulse to comfort Wil came through.

Another sound, of boots, clunked beyond Wil’s awareness. Rob sat heavily to her other side. He, too, could not speak. Not yet. He sat beside his family and before the bed on which his life’s love reclined, yet his mind roved farther than even Wil’s. If she’d been able to pull back to watch his grief-worn face, Wil would not have recognized her father.

Despite this, all three turned at a careful knock and entry. A man in white coat and white-reflecting glasses with white-serious face pushed the cloth curtain to the side. Stopped. “I’m sorry if this is a bad time,” he said, blinking white-blue eyes. He cast around for a second then sat on the floor as well. He did so nearest to Rob, setting a clinical clipboard to the side.

Three drawn faces stared at this intruder, curious; in similar stages of shock and sadness. “I’m the hospital’s grief counselor,” the man said. “Dr. White.”

Wil’s large, dark eyes watched Dr. White’s face. His expression conveyed professional concern mixed with deep understanding. She could almost hear his low voice telling other stories, other lives, other rooms with only the shell of a loved one left behind. “Where is she?” Wil asked.

The question was an odd one. Had Wil not been part of the dramatic play in progress -had, instead, been safely watching from the audience- she might have furrowed her brow in confusion. Might have remarked, “What does the girl mean, Mom?”

But her mother was no longer there. Cynthia could not answer Wil.

Dr. White folded his hands. “I don’t know what you know -” his eyes flicked to the clipboard. “-Wilhelmina.”

“Wil,” she interrupted.

A slight smile glimpsed the counselor’s lips. “Wil,” he amended. “It turns out that your mother caught an influenza at some point.” He met Wil’s gaze, kindly. “She left us some time this morning.”

Tears began streaming down Wil’s face.

“We don’t know where our loved ones go for sure,” Dr. White continued. “What I do know, Wil, is that they never leave us for good.” He touched at his heart. His own pale-blue eyes grew moist. “I said, ‘Goodbye’ to my Beatrice just last year, but have also felt her each day since.”

The four sat in a companionable silence. Wil and her family, inexplicably, felt a flutter of comfort; and knew it came from the one they loved.

 

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

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens