He built a pyre between two tree trunks, and he burnt all of his life’s work, every page, every image, every idea. They both watched the flames, felt the warmth on their faces. They saw the moon in the black sky turn red behind the smoke.
14B
Nathaniel Lee
Roger needed coffee. He wasn’t fond of mornings, but until they came up with a better way to get from midnight to noon, he was stuck with them. Fortunately, he knew his kitchen well enough by now to navigate through it blindfolded, so his sleep-fogged state didn’t hamper his morning routine. He fumbled the canister out and started up the coffee machine. It was new, bought out of sheer necessity, after the old one had finally malfunctioned permanently, leaving half the kitchen covered in scalding coffee in the process. Roger still didn’t trust it—how reliable could something named Mr. Coffee be?—but he couldn’t hover over it while it performed its assigned duties. He had breakfast to fix. Not for himself, of course; he had a nervous stomach. On days when he had classes, he usually couldn’t eat anything before noon at the earliest. No, he had to fix Arthur’s breakfast. Arthur, having long since learned the routine, lay basking his gray tabby body in an early morning sunbeam, conveniently located by his food bowl.
“Hungry today, Arthur?” asked Roger as he retrieved a can of cat food from under the sink. He had gotten into the habit of talking to Arthur, even though cats were notoriously terrible listeners, simply because there was no one else to talk to, and Roger firmly maintained that only crazy people talked to themselves. Arthur stretched to his full four-foot length and casually sauntered over to the counter.
“Looks like we have…” Roger peered at the label, “Liver ‘n’ Giblets Surprise. Sounds yummy.” Roger glanced around the cramped kitchen vaguely. “Now where is that can opener?”
“Over here, on the counter,” said the can opener.
“Okay, thanks.” Roger was halfway across the room, admittedly not a terrific distance, before he realized what had just happened.
“Who said that?” he asked, glancing suspiciously at Arthur. Arthur ignored him, calmly lifted his leg, and began cleaning his nether regions.
“It was I,” came the answer from the counter, “the can opener.”
Roger stepped gingerly over to the counter and lifted the tool by its baby-blue handle. “Were you speaking to me?” he said.
“Of course,” said the can opener. It had a pleasantly mellow baritone, not at all what one would expect from a minor kitchen gadget. “I certainly wasn’t talking to the cat.”
“But…but; why have you never spoken before? How can you talk? Am I dreaming? What—?”
“Never mind all that, Roger m’boy,” interrupted the can opener. “The point is, we’ve been having a bit of a chat, the boys and I, and we’ve decided—”
“We?” interjected Roger, wondering where his can opener had acquired a British accent.
“Sure, all of us.” There was a general murmur of assent from the various corners of the kitchen. “We even asked the garbage disposal.” There was a complicated sound from the sink. “You really ought to clean him more often. He’s hard enough to understand even at the best of times.”
“Is he?” asked Roger weakly.
“Imagine Donald Duck with laryngitis,” confided the can opener. There was an extended cacophony from the sink. “Well, I’m sorry, old chap, but it’s true. There it is, you can’t deny it.” A final rattle sounded from the drain, and then it lapsed into sullen silence. “At any rate, Rog—I can call you Rog, can’t I?—at any rate, we’ve all conferred and come to a conclusion, and I’ve been volunteered as spokes-appliance.”
“Conferred about what?” said Roger, trying to remember the last time he’d even thought about cleaning the garbage disposal.
“About you, of course, you great ninny. We’ve decided that you need a woman.”
“What!?” said Roger.
“A woman,” said the can opener firmly. “You and this apartment are in desperate need of feminine companionship.”
Roger started to respond angrily, but suddenly found himself considering the can opener’s words. He’d always thought of himself as reasonably content, but now, looking at his tiny apartment and tinier paycheck, slaving away at a job he’d long since come to despise, close to achieving tenure at a university he hated, he wondered if he’d merely been deluding himself his whole life. Perhaps the can opener was on to something. Roger didn’t get out much. He was awkward socially and generally preferred Arthur’s company and a bowl of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese to a night on the town. Maybe he should try to change that…Then the small, cold voice of reason sent its soul-numbing chill down his spine.
“No! This is ridiculous. I don’t need anything. I’m perfectly happy. I like my life. I love my job. I do not need a woman. I am not talking to an appliance!” Roger slammed the can opener to the counter.
“Ow!” said the can opener. Roger ignored it. He grabbed his hat and briefcase and scurried out the door. The lock clicked with leaden finality. The kitchen was silent.
“I told you it wouldn’t work,” said Arthur, lolling on his back.
“Well, I had to do something, didn’t I?” snapped the can opener. “I couldn’t just leave the poor boy like that.”
“Do you suppose he knows he left with his bathrobe on?” said Arthur.
“I mean, do you really want to continue like this?” said the can opener, ignoring him. “Do you want to eat Liver ‘n’ Giblets Surprise for the rest of your life?”
“Speaking of which, you might have waited until after he fed me to pull your little trick.”
“You hate that swill.”
“Better than nothing.”
“Bah. You have no ambition, you worthless feline.”
“None whatsoever,” agreed Arthur happily.
“Bloody cat.”
Arthur closed his eyes and rolled on his belly in the morning sun.
Bitchy Fish
Robert Taylor and Lindsay Gillingham Taylor
Kyle Bedrem splashed water over his face, but it did little to cool his burning cheeks. Minutes from now, he was expected to walk into the boardroom. His team would be there staring back at him; a staff of fourteen. Soon to be a staff of ten. This was not Kyle’s call. It was an executive cost-cutting measure aimed at preserving profit margins. Sweat glistened across his forehead. His normally manicured hair hung limp over his face. Kyle managed to part and smooth it out, but his greasy mop still looked a wreck under the bathroom’s flourescent lights. Kyle wondered how on earth he would do this, just stroll on in to the boardroom and lay off four coworkers, friends.
The restroom door popped open, and Stan Little breezed in. The two men exchanged a curt nod before Stan stepped up to the john. “Yankees can’t seem to pull a win. I lost thirty bucks on that game.”
Kyle shook his head. “That’s tough.”
Stan zipped his fly and slapped the handle on the urinal. At the sink next to Kyle, he shrugged. “It’s only money; just have to make it up in commission.”
Sweat traveled down Kyle’s upper lip, but Stan didn’t look over. A man never makes eye contact in the bathroom.
Stan plucked a towel from the dispenser and swirled his hands around it. “We’ve got that meeting in a few, right? What’s that about?”
Kyle tried to stifle a nervous cough. “Just going over the quarterly numbers.”
“Didn’t we just meet on that?” Stan asked; his left brow arched in surprise.
“I’m sure it feels like it,” Kyle said with a forced laugh.
Stan exited the bathroom while Kyle spun his wristwatch around and checked the time. His stomach churned. Behind him, in one of the stalls, Kyle heard a bubbling sound followed by the roar of the toilet as it flushed. The door to the stall was closed, and Kyle could swear that it had been empty.
“I don’t want to do this,” said a most serious voice. Kyle froze. He leaned down to look for feet under the door, but before he could focus the vo
ice rang out again.
“No, really, what’s the deal?”
Kyle remained silent.
“You know,” the voice continued, “I bet I have some great ideas about how to run this place.”
Kyle faced the stall. He reached out and gave the silver handle a tug. The door inched open until Kyle could see the interior. Propped up with its head out of the bowl, was a huge orange-and-white goldfish. Its rear end sat in the still water of the porcelain bowl, while its shimmering head rested against the black plastic rim.
“What in the hell?” the fish screamed. “A little privacy?”
Kyle’s legs went weak. He shook his head furiously from side to side, and rubbed his face with his damp palm. But there it was, this fish, looking right at him. Plain as day.
“Oh, Lord!” Kyle gasped.
“Close. Name’s Waldo,” said the fish.
“Waldo? That’s your name?” Kyle asked, his voice trembling.
“You aren’t any smarter than you look, are you?” Waldo sneered.
“No,” was all Kyle managed to reply. An unbearable moment passed before Kyle went on, “That seems like…like, a funny name for a fish.”
“Really?” Waldo spat. “Why don’t you introduce yourself so I can make fun of your stupid name?”
Kyle continued softly, “Why…what are you doing here?”
Waldo looked him straight in the eye. “I said, what’s your goddamned name? Moron.”
“Oh, right, my name…it’s…Kyle.”
“Like I thought, stupid human name,” muttered Waldo through clenched fish lips. “What is this place anyway?”
“It’s a bathroom.”
“Well, no shit. It amazes me you’ve lived this long, you idiot. In the building of…?”
“Oh, Barton-Fester. It’s a sales firm.”
Waldo nodded, his wet face slapping against the toilet seat. The sound echoed in the small room.
Kyle put his hands in his pockets and rocked from heel to toe. I am losing my mind. “What exactly is happening here?” Kyle whispered.
Waldo rolled his glassy eyes. He settled farther down in the water before asking slowly, “My question is, why are you pacing around the men’s room like a jackass?”
“I’m prepping for a meeting.”
“What’s the meeting?”
“Cutbacks. I have to fire four people.”
“Oh, I get you,” Waldo replied. “Not sure which meatbag to toss?”
“I don’t want to fire anyone.”
Now the fish was irritated. “The shit you say, man. I started off in a nice lake, lots of space. Boom. Next thing I know, I’m staring out of a glass box at a pet shop. Some ugly kid picks me up for three lousy dollars. Little bastard never did a thing for me. No food, no water. I don’t give a damn about what you want.”
Kyle stammered, “What does this have to do with—”
“Shut up and listen,” Waldo commanded. “Adversity is a favor. You are helping those people. If you had half a brain, you’d fire them all.”
“I can’t do that!”
“Look, it really doesn’t matter what you do, but sitting around the bathroom is a joke.”
Kyle took a deep breath. “You’re right.”
“Hell yes, I’m right! Now, get a damn move on.”
Kyle straightened his collar and checked his tie. “Thanks.” he said. “I needed that.”
Waldo slapped his head on the toilet seat. “Go man!”
Kyle sucked down a second deep breath and left.
Moments later, another toilet roared before a baritone voice inquired, “What-dat?” Marco, a bloated green bullfrog, emerged from the next bowl down.
Waldo answered, “Some salesman with a problem. I set him straight. He wanted to know which meatbag he should fire, and I told him he should just fire them all.”
Marco’s voice was soulful and deep. “Why?”
“Because I really hate people.”
Duel
Darren Sant
It finally came down to just him and me in a dark and rubbish-strewn alley in backstreet New Orleans. The delicious smell of gumbo cooking nearby assaulted my nostrils and demanded my attention. I glared at him grimly, my trigger finger twitching. On the street up ahead a neon sign flashed briefly on, advertising a rundown strip joint. We paid it no mind, just eyeballed each other wondering who would be the first to draw and break this endless deadlock.
A bedraggled black cat slunk from shadow to shadow, stopping only to watch us curiously, her green eyes reflecting the light and darting from me to him. We advanced on each other in unison. We shared the same purpose. I had waited a long time to get him in this situation. Revenge for past humiliations would be mine. I would at long last get my pound of flesh. I felt my heart thump in my chest as much-needed adrenaline began to surge around my body. My old adversary must surely be feeling as apprehensive as I am.
We stopped just a few paces apart. I eyed his rugged form clad in ripped Levi’s jeans. His unfashionable leather waistcoat flapped in the light evening breeze. The scar on his left cheek seemed unnaturally pale in the moonlight. His flat cap seemed out of place perched atop his overlarge head at a jaunty angle, like a rock on a precipice.
He drew fast, his hands a blur, but I was quicker. My trombone reached my lips and I started blowing first. His trumpet followed mere milliseconds later. The battle commenced.
Biggest Fan! Ever!
Sonia Orin Lyris
Wow, it’s you, reading me. I can’t believe it. You reading me. You know how you thought you were being watched and recorded by visitors from the future who had super-advanced recording technologies so subtle you barely noticed them? Well, you were right! We watched and recorded everything you did. Now everyone can know how you saved humanity.
Hey, did something happen to you in The Shift? Not that you would know yet, right? When I was a kid and saw you on TV talking about how you’d save the Earth, you were hunched over and sickly, but after The Shift, you seemed taller, better looking. Then Silva came along and you were the perfect couple. Some say The Shift itself made you better, but I think it was because you proved you could do it, that you could save the world.
And hey, I’m sure having a woman like Silva didn’t hurt.
You can’t imagine how famous you are. But you don’t even know what you did yet! Are you still having panic attacks and hiding when the doorbell rings? In my time everyone in the world knows your name because of what you’re going to do. You are the greatest hero the world has ever known.
We don’t name schools and streets after you. We name those after your puppy, Dahlia. Do you have her yet? No, of course not, I know that. But you will soon, and you’re going to name her Dahlia. Great name!
We name cities after you. Well, they named themselves, really. Too many. But with “new” and “east” and “west” and “berg” and “shire” we manage to keep them straight. Mostly.
Hey, remember when you were fifteen and you wrote in your journal about us watching you? You decided you were just being paranoid and burned the book? But you were right! We watch you. We read over your shoulder from our invisible time-travel envelopes. (That’s what you call them. Or will!) We made copies of your journal and everything. Even those dirty pictures you drew as a kid. Everyone wants to know everything about you.
As for the other stuff that you did, well, don’t worry about it. No one holds any of that against you, and besides who cares about some birds and cats compared to what you did for humanity? And we know about the other thing, too, but so what? I’m in the camp that says it was a part of your genius, your depth, your passion—the very things that inspired you to figure it out. For all of us. No one can say you aren’t the world’s greatest hero. If some people get hung up on that—and who was she anyway? No one! Maybe they’d rather live on a moon. Without atmosphere!
You’re probably wondering how I can tell you all this without messing things up for your future self. I would be, too, if I w
ere you, and you’re tons smarter than me. You might even be wondering who I am. You must be! Wow!
I’m on the team writing your official biography for the world’s children so they can know who made The Shift. So they know why the sun is green and the sky is violet when all the other books talk about blue skies and a yellow sun. I bet I know more about you than anyone. I’ve made you my life’s work. I even studied Shift time-travel math. I probably understand it better than most physicists!
That’s how I realized that your proof meant I could send you this message. An earlier you, of course. Are you stunned to get this? It’s such an honor to write to you. Of course, it’s only one way, one direction. I’m sorry about that. I wish I could hear back from you. Or visit! We could sit and have some of your favorite tea (chai with honey, two tablespoons, let cool four minutes) and play with Dahlia (Puli, shaved). I’d love to! It would almost be worth my life, but that’s what it would cost, and I’m not ready to die yet. But wow, I was seriously tempted, if you can believe it. So hi across the decades! Hi!
You mean so much to us all, and we thank you for what you did—I mean, what you will do! Give the puppy lots of love for us. We know she was your inspiration, that you got the flash for the final step of the proof from watching her play with a small white teddy bear. Most of us have Pulis now, did you know? No, how could you? We keep them shaved, like you did, and give them small white teddy bears. I named mine Daffy as in Daffodil, like Dahlia—same letter, and a flower. Get it? I hope you like that!
Okay, I’m probably boring you. You probably have better things to do than read fan mail. Which is what this is! So I’ll stop.
Don’t worry about me messing up the timestream. Yes, you will be famous, but not you, of course, since I’ve changed your timeline by telling you all this. But don’t worry! The stream is robust. It’ll spawn a version where you never got my letter and all will be well. Which you proved! You don’t even have to save us now. Actually, you probably won’t be able to, because you won’t feel compelled. I don’t see how you could possibly meet Silva now, either, which is kind of too bad. You might even go back to doing that other perverted stuff.
Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader Presents Flush Fiction Page 10