Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader Presents Flush Fiction

by Bathroom Readers' Institute

  I stuck out my tongue at him.

  Once the door had closed behind us, Shirl spread her left hand flat on the mirror, and I spread my right, my little finger just touching hers. In unison we said, “We’ll just freshen up!” The mirror filled with violet mist as we lifted our hands away.

  We turned around. The wall, golden-brown stone adorned with mosaics, towered twenty feet above us. The porter by the ogival arched entrance bowed deeply.

  “Welcome, ladies. It’s good to have you back.” He sounded like James Earl Jones and looked like Christopher Judge decked out in full Arabian Nights gear.

  “It’s good to be back, Haroun,” Shirl said. “Can we make this five minutes?”

  “My pleasure, ladies.” He selected a small, gold-filigree-mounted sand glass from a table beside him and turned it over. Tiny grains of sand began to fall through the waist of the glass and pile up in the lower half.

  “Five minutes it is,” he said, and swept his hand toward the arch that lead to the inner rooms.

  “Ooooh, that’s so good!” Shirl moaned. I turned my head. The young woman working on Shirl had her limp with pleasure. My young man wasn’t doing so badly, either. He pushed harder and I gasped.

  “Sorry, did that hurt?” he asked, “I will be gentler on that shoulder next time.” His hands smoothed my back and he pulled the towel over me. “If you want to dress, I will have your tea made.”

  The masseuse finished Shirl’s foot massage, patted her ankle, and left with the masseur.

  “Hey,” I poked Shirl gently, “don’t fall asleep.”

  “Sorry—just the bath, and the foot massage. So relaxing.”

  “I prefer the full-body workover, myself.”

  “Yeah, I heard. Great if you want your bones cracked. Too much grunting and groaning for me.”

  “The groaning’s the best part. And my back is so happy afterwards. The guys are waiting. We should get dressed.”

  Shirl yawned. “Let ‘em wait. Haroun has it under control. What are they gonna do, come and drag us back?”

  I sat up. My clothes, as always, had been cleaned, folded, and set on a small, exquisite table nearby. I found my panties and pulled them on. Reluctantly, Shirl followed suit. Our shoes, beautifully polished, were neatly set under the table. We tidied our hair and walked through to the tearoom. A low table surrounded by cushions held two cups, a pot of steaming jasmine tea, and a platter of sweets.

  As we sipped our tea, Aliyah brought her tray of perfumes and touched our wrists and ankles with scent. Shirl chose patchouli; I prefer sandalwood.

  “I am expecting some attar of roses next week,” Aliyah said.

  “We’ll definitely be back for that,” I said. “It’s been a while since you had attar of roses, hasn’t it?”

  “The crop last year was not good, but this year is better. And the lavender, of course, is always fine. More tea before you leave? Another bit of honey cake?”

  Haroun bowed again as we came out. In the sand glass, the last few grains were just trickling through the waist.

  “On time as always, ladies,” he said. “Do come again.”

  “Thank you, Haroun,” Shirl said, “it’s been lovely.” We turned to place our hands on the mirror again.

  “There, that’s much better!” we chorused. In the mirror, Haroun, the door, the baths beyond all disappeared in the violet mist. When the mirror cleared, two tiny toilet stalls were all it reflected beyond ourselves.

  The waiter was pouring the coffee as we sat down. The ice cream on my peach Melba was just starting to send vanilla tendrils into the peach juice.

  Bill leaned towards me and inhaled.

  “Mmmmm,” he said, “you smell great.”

  “And you look wonderful,” Matt said, smiling at Shirl. “I guess when you say you’re going to freshen up, you really mean it.”

  “Five minutes in the ladies’ room works wonders for a girl,” Shirl said, starting on her pecan pie.

  Traces of Max

  Cathy C. Hall

  Margaret Tillman liked things clean. Not just organized. Not just wiped off and swept neatly. Margaret had to have everything sparkling, spic-and-span clean. And she had a closet full of supplies to keep things spotless.

  Too bad she married a man who was just the opposite. Bernie Tillman wouldn’t care if he and his house were covered in dirt, top to bottom. He’d wear the same underwear for days, given the chance. And he’d pick up anything off the floor and eat it, five-second rule or not. Bernie truly was a slob.

  Of course, Margaret didn’t know that Bernie was a slob when she married him. He’d kept that little secret to himself. But it wasn’t long before Margaret and Bernie had words about their different personal styles regarding cleanliness. A truce of sorts had called when Bernie agreed to let Margaret run things her way. Until Max arrived.

  Max was just about the cutest dog that ever walked the face of the Earth. Or so Bernie thought. There was nothing about Max that Bernie didn’t love. He loved the funny way Max pranced around the house, wagging his tail. He loved the outdoorsy way Max smelled after a long walk. He loved his long, shaggy fur. And even though Margaret had pitched a mighty fit the day Max showed up, Bernie had held his ground. Max wasn’t going anywhere, no way, no how.

  Margaret absolutely loathed the dog and the daily mess he made. She hated the muddy prints across her mopped floors. She hated that smell, like an old, mildewed carpet, when Max came inside after his walk. Most of all, she hated all that fur. Fur in her stove, fur ground into the carpet, fur flying in the air whenever Max shook himself.

  So Margaret didn’t blink when Max ran out in the street and got sideswiped by a car. She heard the screeching tires over the hum of her vacuum cleaner. She heard Max’s whimpers while she sprayed the countertops. She even heard his labored panting as she dusted the bookcase. When she ceased to hear all sound, she opened the front door.

  “Oh, Max!” she cried loudly. Anyone within earshot was sure to hear her. She ran to the street, standing over the now dead dog.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Margaret wrung her hands. “Who could leave a hurt dog to die in the street?” asked Margaret as the next-door neighbor walked over to the scene playing out on the sidewalk.

  Bernie drove up and jumped out of the car. The shock of the tragedy dropped him to his knees where he sobbed, crying like a baby. “Max!” he choked out. “My poor, poor Max!”

  A neighbor grabbed a towel and gently wrapped it around the dead dog. Margaret, still wearing her plastic gloves, took the stiff body and carried it to the backyard. She dug a hole in the earth and dropped Max into it, using her shovel to pack the dirt firmly. No more Max. A smile turned the corners of her mouth, just for a moment.

  Bernie sat in his recliner, head in hands, moaning. “Poor Max,” he sniffled. “How could this happen?”

  “Accidents happen, dear,” Margaret answered calmly.

  “But maybe the vet…” Bernie gave Margaret an accusing look.

  “The vet could not have saved the dog, Bernie.”

  “If only you’d heard…” Bernie agonized.

  “Max died the moment he was hit by that car. I’m sure he didn’t suffer. Not for one minute.”

  “I’d hate to think he suffered,” said Bernie quietly. He rose slowly from his chair and went to bed.

  Margaret woke the next morning, humming. She was thinking about all the cleaning she’d no longer need to do now that Max was gone. No spraying, no mopping, no wiping, no sweeping. What a glorious day!

  The staccato click, click, click coming from the kitchen was loud enough for Margaret to hear all the way down the hall.

  “That stupid do—,” she muttered. Margaret laughed out loud, remembering that Max was no longer her problem. She was humming again as she entered the kitchen.

  Was it the clock? Something knocking in the dishwasher? Margaret surveyed the kitchen, looking for the source of the sound. Her eyes circled the room till her glance fell across the floor. P
aw prints! She must have missed them when she mopped last night. She sponged the prints twice, just for good measure.

  She stepped back in the hall and paused. Was that a ball of fur? She’d just swept the hall a moment ago. She sighed, grabbing the broom, and swept again. Perhaps it would take a few sweeps to rid the house of all traces of Max.

  Her cell phone rang, probably Bernie. But she let it ring. There, on the kitchen floor, she spied bits of dog food strewn across the tile, tufts of fur nearby.

  Margaret could feel her heart beating a little faster as she grabbed the cleanser. She wiped up the mess and swept the fur into the dustpan. Suddenly, the smell of mildewed carpet overwhelmed her. She inched back towards the hall and peered into the den. She gagged on the offensive odor.

  Margaret moved quickly to the bathroom for the air freshener. More fur lay in piles in all the corners! Now her heart was racing as she ran to the kitchen for the dustpan. She never saw the pale yellow puddle. She slipped wildly, careening headfirst into the corner of the fridge.

  As she lay there, drifting into unconsciousness, she thought if she could just reach her phone, she might still have a chance. That’s when Margaret saw the ghostly, shaggy-haired dog, his tail wagging. Max held her spotless phone in his mouth.

  The Sad Wonderful Life of Ed Fergler

  Kathy Allen

  Let me take you back to 1907 and introduce you to Ed Fergler, the saddest little boy on the planet. He grew up in the arid Mojave Desert and was a sad little boy because none of the other little children would play with him. And even though he was smart and inquisitive, his teacher made him sit outside and listen to the lessons through an open window. Not even dogs or cats would play with poor little Ed. While his family loved him very much, he had to sleep outside in a hammock. As he grew older, girls would not date him, nor would boys let him play baseball or football.

  By now you must be thinking that Ed was hideous and looked like Quasimodo or smelled like egg salad farts on a hot August day. But you would be dead wrong. Ed suffered from the worst case of dandruff the world had ever seen. Ed didn’t have the luxury of the medications or medical science we have today. So, he thought, perhaps he might find a climate where his dandruff would not be so horrific. In 1926 he boarded a train bound for New York. Unfortunately, by the time the train reached Doowaddle, Utah, his dandruff had overwhelmed the passengers, and he was asked to disembark.

  For the next three years Ed was run out of towns, and held and lost many odd jobs, until he finally arrived in New York City. For the first time in young Mr. Fergler’s life, he felt hope. Alas, it was the same old story.

  Ed was asleep on a bench in Central Park, dreaming that he had no future. On that early morning, Thadius T. Futterblast, while walking his hound, stepped into a great pile of Ed’s dandruff. The air was suddenly like a blizzard. Mr. Futterblast exclaimed, “My boy, my boy, you are the answer to my prayers! You and you alone will bring smiles and happiness to millions of children during this Great Depression! Get up! Get up! Hurry now, we mustn’t waste a moment. We have so much to do and so little time!”

  For the first time in Ed’s life, someone was truly happy to meet him. As they raced across town, Ed was told he would have a banker’s salary, a beautiful apartment, and all the creature comforts he could desire. Ed, with a quizzled expression asked, “What do I have to do for all of this?”

  “Oh my boy, all you’ll need to do is keep scratching that wonderful head!”

  They arrived at a beautiful brick factory with beveled glass windows, French iron doors, and a sign with polished copper letters which spelled out the name The Howling Blizzard Snow Globe Company.

  So from now on each holiday season, when you shake that snow globe, smile and remember you’re holding a treasured bit of Ed Fergler.

  Return of the Zombie

  Michael Penkas

  Oh come on, Mom.”

  Stephen’s mother crossed her arms in that way that let him know there would be no discussion. “Absolutely not. I want you to put everything back in the box. Then go wash your hands. I’m calling the police.”

  “The police?” He rolled his eyes, not believing that she was making such a big deal over it. “Why?”

  “Why?” she shrieked. “Look at that and tell me you don’t know what’s wrong.”

  Stephen looked down at the open crate. Inside were the contents of Mama Midnight’s Voodoo Zombie-Making Kit. He’d seen the kit advertised in the back of one of his comics. Included was a spell book, thirteen bags of mystic herbs, a cloth mat inscribed with arcane symbols, a small black metal cauldron, and a boy’s corpse vacuum-sealed in plastic.

  The boy was dark-skinned and looked to be around ten years old, the same age as Stephen. The boy’s eyes and lips were shut, but he didn’t look as if he were sleeping. He didn’t look real at all, almost like a plastic model rather than a real boy. But there were pockets of moisture in the sealed plastic, and one touch revealed soft, yielding flesh.

  Stephen said nothing. If his mother would let him use the kit, he’d be able to bring the boy back from the dead, but she was being completely unreasonable. He’d been dreaming of creating a zombie friend for the last six months, three of them saving his paper-route money and another three waiting for the kit to arrive. He’d told his mother about it, and she’d said nothing at the time. He couldn’t understand why it was suddenly a problem.

  Of course, Stephen’s mother had been growing more unreasonable for the past two years. First, she divorced his father, even though he promised to do anything she wanted if they could just stay together. Then she’d moved herself and Stephen to another state, where he didn’t know anybody and his father wouldn’t even be able to see him on weekends. She told him to try making new friends; but now, when he was about to literally make a friend for himself, she’d stepped in once again.

  “Bitch,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What was that?” He didn’t answer, but continued staring at another friend he wouldn’t be allowed to keep. “All right, go to your room.”

  Stephen stomped up the stairs to his lonely bedroom, already making plans for Mama Midnight’s Voodoo Doll Kit, which would be arriving in three to four weeks.

  One Last Time

  Cynthia Rogan

  Harry’s was crowded for a Thursday night.

  Margery stood inside the lobby feeling lucky. She had promised herself never again. This time, she was sure to follow through.

  Overflowing ashtrays marked the center of each grimy table. Beneath a cloud of cigarette smoke, Sandra and her friends shared a booth, deep in conversation. Above them, on the dark paneled wall, was a thumbtacked poster advertising the Warning’s Seattle concert.

  Margery took a deep breath and strolled over. “Hi,” she said with a nervous smile.

  “Hi.” Sandra stubbed out her cigarette and scooted in to make room. “There’s no way I can go,” she said to the blonde and brunette across the table. “I’ve used all my vacation and I just bought a new car. I really can’t afford it.”

  The blonde giggled. “Mr. Jacobs called me into his office last week. If I miss another day, I’ll lose my job.” She pulled out a mirror and applied another coat of lipstick. “He said that fiasco with Richard in accounting was the final straw. I’m on probation till September.”

  The brunette rolled her big blue eyes. “Bobby hates that band. He’d shoot me if I went. But it might be worth it.” For a moment, her voice had an ethereal quality. “The lead singer is gorgeous. And I heard he’s single again.” She blinked and assumed her normal demeanor. “We could drive. It’s only seven hours.”

  The three women seemed to be considering the option. Margery took advantage of their silence. “Sorry I’m so late.”

  “This is Margery,” Sandra said. “I service her copier at Green Grass Bank.”

  The blonde offered her hand. “I’m Stella. And this,” she said, touching the brunette on the shoulder, “is Barb.”

  “Nice to mee
t you,” Barb said. “We were just complaining. The Warning is in Seattle tomorrow night, and none of us can go.”

  “That’s too bad,” Margery said. “My boyfriend’s one of their sound techs. I’m sure he could’ve gotten you backstage passes.”

  Her gawking booth-mates turned to face her, their eyes sticky with envy.

  Margery cocked her head and gave them a sad smile. “I’m sorry. Maybe next time?”

  “Yeah,” Sandra sighed. “Next time.”

  “What’s his name, again?” Barb asked, stirring her slushy pink drink.

  Margery shifted in her chair. “Who? My boyfriend?” She glanced across the room. “Jake.”

  “No,” Barb said. “The lead singer.”

  “Oh,” Margery answered. “Chris Johns. What are you guys drinking tonight?”

  “Long Island iced tea,” Sandra said, lighting another cigarette. “They always order strawberry daiquiris. I suppose you like that girly stuff, too.”

  Margery stood. “I wonder what single-malt they carry?” She wove through the maze of patrons and tables toward the bar, returning moments later with two fingers of amber liquid in the bottom of a large glass. She sat down and took a tiny sip. “Cragganmore! God, I love this stuff,” she exhaled, warmth flowing all the way to her toes. “I can’t stay too long. I want to talk to Jake, see how the tour’s going. I’m meeting him tomorrow at the Home and Hearth in Seattle.”

  “Lucky you,” Stella whined. “Tomorrow night, we’ll be sitting right here while you’re hanging out with the Warning.” She swirled her daiquiri and made a pouty face.

  “I promise not to enjoy it,” Margery answered, taking another taste of scotch.

  From there, the conversation moved to the area’s best nail salons, then migrated to which donuts are hardest on your diet. When the topic became available men, Margery took it as her cue to go. “Thanks for including me tonight,” she said, handing a business card to Sandra. “My cell phone number’s on the back. Let’s do this again. Soon.”