Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader Presents Flush Fiction by Bathroom Readers’ Institute
Authors: Bathroom Readers’ Institute
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tracksuit and her gray hair in a ponytail, handed a wooden spoon to one of them. A cutting board acted like a gangplank between the table and kitchen counter. The gnome trotted up the board to plop the spoon into a pot simmering on the stove.
“I think Will is going to love this stew,” Laura said.
“Who wouldn’t, with all the wine in it?” a gnome replied.
Laura waggled a finger at him. “You can’t tell me the recipe calls for an entire bottle of wine. I caught you sneaking some.”
The gnome laughed. “I can never get anything past you.”
Will remained frozen in place for half an hour as the gnomes scurried about, preparing the meal and cleaning up after themselves. A couple of them washed dishes at the stainless-steel sink. Others scrubbed down the white cabinets and dark granite counter. The remainder waxed the tile floor until it sparkled beneath the late-afternoon sunlight spilling through the window over the sink. Laura, meanwhile, hummed as she painted her toenails, occasionally giving an approving nod to the gnomes.
Will crossed the living room, slipped his feet into his shoes,and took the flowers outside. He made a lot of noise with the car and took an inordinate amount of time to gather his computer bag and empty lunch sack. When he reached the door with flowers in hand, Laura waited there, her eyes wide and her face flushed, to give him a long welcoming kiss. Over her shoulder, Will thought he spotted a pair of gnome legs disappear through the screen door in the back of the house.
Late
David O’Neal
C hrist, I’m late,” Andrew said to himself. “And I’ve been working on this friggin’ deal for a month!” It was 8:30 am in Boston; the meeting was at 10:00 in Springfield, a two-hour drive. “Damn, damn.”
Andrew dressed hurriedly in the suit he had laid out the night before, put on his perfectly shined shoes, and stuffed a tie into a pocket. He gulped down a cup of coffee, poured another cup to take with him, grabbed his briefcase with the papers in it, and rushed out the door of his apartment toward his car, which was parked several blocks away.
It was cold outside; the sidewalks and streets were treacherous from ice under the two inches of snow that had fallen during the night. He lost his footing once and spilled the coffee, but managed to land on his hands, not quite going down. Andrew started the car, cleared the front window with the windshield wipers, and ran the other windows up and down to remove the rest of the snow. Then he put the car in gear and lurched out into the narrow street. Right in front of a pickup truck. The truck, being cut off, just managed to stop before hitting him. It was a painter’s truck with a ladder in the back; the startled, frowning driver wore white coveralls stained with paint. Andrew couldn’t take the time to apologize.
Andrew drove down the street as fast as he could, which, because of the slick surface, wasn’t all that fast. In his rearview mirror he could see the truck driver. The guy was swarthy and big, with broad shoulders and a nose that looked like it had been broken. He appeared to be scowling. Andrew turned a corner and accelerated. The truck turned, too, and got closer. Andrewcould see the painter gesturing with his right hand. “Jesus,” Andrew thought, “he’s giving me the finger—he must be pissed. Just what I need!”
Since he was already late for the meeting, the last thing Andrew wanted to do was stop and get into a wrangle, especially with a guy who looked so intimidating. He turned down another street, but the truck followed even more closely. Andrew began to sweat, his head hurt, and his ulcer was acting up. What to do? He was near the entrance to the freeway but realized the painter wasn’t going to give up. And if the guy dicked around with him on the freeway, they might have an accident.
Shaking, and with great reluctance, Andrew pulled over and let the driver’s side window down. His pursuer drove abreast
“I think Will is going to love this stew,” Laura said.
“Who wouldn’t, with all the wine in it?” a gnome replied.
Laura waggled a finger at him. “You can’t tell me the recipe calls for an entire bottle of wine. I caught you sneaking some.”
The gnome laughed. “I can never get anything past you.”
Will remained frozen in place for half an hour as the gnomes scurried about, preparing the meal and cleaning up after themselves. A couple of them washed dishes at the stainless-steel sink. Others scrubbed down the white cabinets and dark granite counter. The remainder waxed the tile floor until it sparkled beneath the late-afternoon sunlight spilling through the window over the sink. Laura, meanwhile, hummed as she painted her toenails, occasionally giving an approving nod to the gnomes.
Will crossed the living room, slipped his feet into his shoes,and took the flowers outside. He made a lot of noise with the car and took an inordinate amount of time to gather his computer bag and empty lunch sack. When he reached the door with flowers in hand, Laura waited there, her eyes wide and her face flushed, to give him a long welcoming kiss. Over her shoulder, Will thought he spotted a pair of gnome legs disappear through the screen door in the back of the house.
Late
David O’Neal
C hrist, I’m late,” Andrew said to himself. “And I’ve been working on this friggin’ deal for a month!” It was 8:30 am in Boston; the meeting was at 10:00 in Springfield, a two-hour drive. “Damn, damn.”
Andrew dressed hurriedly in the suit he had laid out the night before, put on his perfectly shined shoes, and stuffed a tie into a pocket. He gulped down a cup of coffee, poured another cup to take with him, grabbed his briefcase with the papers in it, and rushed out the door of his apartment toward his car, which was parked several blocks away.
It was cold outside; the sidewalks and streets were treacherous from ice under the two inches of snow that had fallen during the night. He lost his footing once and spilled the coffee, but managed to land on his hands, not quite going down. Andrew started the car, cleared the front window with the windshield wipers, and ran the other windows up and down to remove the rest of the snow. Then he put the car in gear and lurched out into the narrow street. Right in front of a pickup truck. The truck, being cut off, just managed to stop before hitting him. It was a painter’s truck with a ladder in the back; the startled, frowning driver wore white coveralls stained with paint. Andrew couldn’t take the time to apologize.
Andrew drove down the street as fast as he could, which, because of the slick surface, wasn’t all that fast. In his rearview mirror he could see the truck driver. The guy was swarthy and big, with broad shoulders and a nose that looked like it had been broken. He appeared to be scowling. Andrew turned a corner and accelerated. The truck turned, too, and got closer. Andrewcould see the painter gesturing with his right hand. “Jesus,” Andrew thought, “he’s giving me the finger—he must be pissed. Just what I need!”
Since he was already late for the meeting, the last thing Andrew wanted to do was stop and get into a wrangle, especially with a guy who looked so intimidating. He turned down another street, but the truck followed even more closely. Andrew began to sweat, his head hurt, and his ulcer was acting up. What to do? He was near the entrance to the freeway but realized the painter wasn’t going to give up. And if the guy dicked around with him on the freeway, they might have an accident.
Shaking, and with great reluctance, Andrew pulled over and let the driver’s side window down. His pursuer drove abreast
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