A toilet was not supposed to be in the side yard. Or in any part of the yard. Any self-respecting commode would be inside.
This one had situated itself between her Japanese maple and garden hose, its seat up, yawning.
The nerve.
Her hands shook unexpectedly as she edged down the brick steps to study it.
She glanced around, knowing Duncan must be nearby. Who else would use a home appliance -- no, a plumbing fixture -- as a calling card?
He'd explained the difference while unclogging the finicky toilet in her first apartment years ago. "You don't plug it in or turn it on."
He'd driven ponding roads at 1 a.m. to help her. He stood and pressed the handle with authority. "Madam, I present the royal flush from the porcelain throne. I also give you this scepter," handing her his plumber's helper.
"A treasure." She'd laughed but kept it through ten years of various jobs, apartments, and now a home.
Duncan hadn't fared as well. Senior year of college, he'd been injured in a car accident then become addicted to opioids. Ashamed, he'd broken off contact. "A story for the crapper," he'd judged.
"I'm not going to start asking you for money," he texted, attempting a final joke: "You won't be privy to my problems."
"In loo of that, let's stay in touch," she'd tried
Instead he changed his phone number, moved, disappeared.
Now a toilet faced her boldly, making some kind of point.
A car door slammed in the summer heat.
Looking much the same as when she last saw him, Duncan stood at the foot of her driveway. She froze, too happy to speak.
"I've heard of toilets running ..." he called.
Friday, 19 June 2026
'Royal Flush' by C.G. Thompson
'Telling Time' by Scott MacLeod
All you need to know about Edward is he says quarter past rather than 3:15.
'Cleansing' by Birgit K. Gaiser
Jakov led the group towards the riverbank where Danijela was waiting. Dozens of candle lanterns cast a soft glow on the scene as she opened her arms, her wide sleeves fanning out like wings.
Any oohs and aahs were quietly and quickly shushed: the cleansing ritual had to take place in complete silence.
Barefoot, Danijela led them to the riverbank, climbing down and filling a bucket with water. They were scamming the poor bastards, but even so, the experience did feel cleansing. She let her toes explore the soft riverbed, digging in, scrunching around pebbles and slippery plants. A duck, rudely awakened by the presence of this many humans, quacked in protest, but eventually tucked his head under his wing and resumed his beauty sleep.
Danijela walked back out to Jakov’s side. The midges were out in force tonight. One of them buzzed right past her ear, then sat on her cheek. She wished she could just swat the little bloodsucker, but she had to maintain the illusion of serenity.
Jakov and Danijela each dipped a sponge into the water and washed the face of a young, pock-marked man, applying gentle pressure while maintaining their silence. A beatific smile appeared on his face, as if he was the personification of the placebo effect.
They worked their way round the circle, finishing with their own faces. They might as well jump into the river, Danijela thought, with how badly-stained their souls must be by now.
The ritual completed, they returned to their small rental unit to check their freshly-inflated bank accounts and sleep. In that order, of course.
'Wooden Bridge' by Abida Akram
The heavy wood-slatted narrow bridge was at the side of Loughborough Canal going in the direction of Quorn. It was very new and unlike the single stone arch bridges that usually allowed one to cross from one side of the canal to the other.
This small narrow bridge was more like a pier, inches above muddy marshy ground. It had very flimsy thin metal poles to hold onto at each side. As I clung on, my eyesight wavered and I felt the wooden slats wobble and I felt that I could simply slip quietly underneath the metal poles and drift away happily to enjoy a swim.
‘Be careful’ Carol shouted from behind. ‘It doesn’t look that safe. It’s almost as if the Council didn’t have enough wood. It all looks bucolic but an accident could easily happen here.’
‘It’s fine Carol’ I said. ‘It won’t do me any harm. You see, I come from a family of bridge trolls back in the day. Bridges were our homes, mind you, I prefer the stone ones, they last longer and provided better shelter and income. We used to charge a toll for the crossing. This is a mere baby, practically born yesterday. It is still finding its feet, that’s why it’s a bit wobbly. It will soon settle down.’
I bent down and patted the slats in front of me. ‘Don’t worry, little cousin, I have got you. No need to wobble. I will visit and we can chat about the hikers, the canal boats, the dog walkers, the drug users, the homeless ones and the unsafe humans with fire to watch out for. No need to be afraid. Just think of me and I will come.’
'The Auto-Bio Of A Rock' by Rathin Bhattacharjee
We’ve been the only witness! Oh, sorry! This isn’t how a story begins, right? Human stories! The very concept makes me chuckle to myself. All made up of lies, falsity, untruth and deception.
To come back to my story – I’m a solid rock in the river with a history but I won’t tell you the name for you humans are not only curious, suspicious by nature but dangerous too.
The fast-flowing river with its surroundings is a treat for the eye. If it’s remained so for years, the reason being the village is far away. But the lovers would come sit on me, dangling their feet for hours. They were so much in love that we all were happy for them.
They came in the early hours one day. They’re a handsome pair and lightened up the atmosphere with love and laughter. We didn’t mind as they’re simple, innocent love-loans like most of us.
After some time, the lovely lass, totally uninhabited, got undressed, threw the clothes on the shore and invited the lad to do the same gleefully. They’d so much fun that they didn’t see the hairy, bare-chested man turn up and hide behind the tree. I knew from the way he was ogling the girl, that he’s evil. I prayed to The One Above to save the lovers.
No sooner did the evil man stealthily step into the river than something strange happened! I don't know how but his still body was floating on the water a few minutes later!
I heard the girl wail out, ‘Ron, it’s Shyamal Da from our locality. Hurry up!’
Unable to save him, they’d to leave the body behind finally. That way we all were saved otherwise, there is no imagining the level of destruction you could of caused us.
'2732 Hope Avenue' by Debra A Daniel
- Leave your house before anyone is awake.
- Be a little groggy from the toss and turn in the dark overnight.
- Stop at the coffee drive-through and buy a large mocha latte of which you will only drink four sips, the first one burning your tongue.
- Wish you had sugar to melt in your mouth to take away the scald.
- Drive four blocks toward your old neighborhood, the one where you lived until you were six.
- On the first block, notice the lodge where a host of cigarette-smoking men all agreed that the catfish stew your father conjured was the spiciest and most delicious they’d ever tasted.
- Remember that he would walk with you along the sidewalk there under the massive sycamore tree and chatter-answer the squirrels scampering above.
- Remember that you thought he really could talk to them, how he said they wanted to know your name and if you had acorns in your pocket.
- On the second block, catch your breath when you see the place where your oldest sister’s boyfriend got into a fight, right in the middle of the street, how your father said that boy was trouble on a stick. Remember how your sister cried over the boy’s bruised face, swollen lip, scraped knuckles.
- Smile a little when you think about how his golden hair dipped over his brow, how he sometimes brought you cherry licorice, how you wished he’d be your boyfriend someday.
- On the third block slow down almost to a stop. Recognize the place where you stood with your father while he chatted with your mother’s friend who did alterations, how she smelled like peppermint, how her long fingernails were painted a bright spicy orange.
- Idle there while you realize you had never really realized her the way your father had.
- Turn left onto the street where you spent six years not knowing much at all, so busy you were with learning letters, numbers, making sense of words.
- Stop in front of your old house. 2732 Hope Avenue.
- Find it surprising that you remember the address, the phone number, that there was a cluster of violets under the window of your bedroom.
- Recall the front porch glider where your sister sat with that boyfriend, the driveway often empty of your father’s car, the way the fireplace never had any warmth, the silent mornings when your mother sat in the gray living room when she thought no one was awake.
- See the for sale sign and imagine what the house looks like from the inside out.
'Portfolios' by Birgit K. Gaiser
“Why do you have such a weird suitcase?” Velika asked the young man once she’d purchased her stuffed toy from the merchant. She didn’t understand what he could possibly want to put in there.
“It’s called a portfolio,” Anton explained. “You put big pieces of paper in there. Drawings. Or paintings. Or big prints.”
“Oh,” she said. “Are you a painter?”
“I’m kind of an artist,” he said. “But not yet. I’ll have to study first.”
“I also have to study,” Velika said earnestly. “I’ll be a doctor.”
*
Zitko furrowed his brow looking over his portfolio. His investments hadn’t just decreased in value, the company had gone bust. And worst of all, he had to tell Ivelina. She’d warned him not to put all his eggs into one basket, and he’d been too proud to listen to her, intent that he was the man, the one who understood finances. He should’ve known better. He had known better. Not knowing how to tell her, he printed the overview out and left it on the table with a scribbled note saying “sorry”, then went for a walk.
'Clearing Out The Shed' By Abida Akram
I open the first large box which is on the floor under the wooden shelves. There is a blue blanket wrapped round a rather large object. I unwrap it carefully to find a painting. It’s a copy of Vincent Van Gogh's White Roses. I thought I had got rid of it decades ago. Mmm, the frame is rather nice, mahogany, worth keeping maybe. The white roses look like a mass of cotton wool balls against a green wall. The curlicues of the petals though, which look as soft as silk and ephemeral as snow, are on the turn. A few fallen roses - crumpled like sodden handkerchiefs. What looks like baby hedgehogs curled up ready to die are but a few fallen leaves. Other leaves within the roses are already blackened by death. No, not for me. I prefer bright colourful paintings, ones of endless sky and mountains.
I remember this framed print was a gift from my father when I was going off to university. We never had the same taste. It reminds me now of how easily he discarded me without a penny, throwing me out as if I was one of those dead leaves. Just because I chose freedom, travelling, adventures and joy, instead of meeting his high expectations of studies, jobs, marriage and children.
I do a little jig as the painting lands in the skip. Ow! My knee. I giggle.
'Facebook DM Never Sent' by Tracy Dubin
I have a lot to say. I’ve missed you.
Where the hell have you been?
You told me, “Dealing with you is like putting money in a slot machine, as you never know what you are going to get.”
No, it’s not a gamble… my mood is based upon how much love and attention I’m given. (Sometimes, my external environs do also dictate, but I know how to regulate myself. So, I more bounce off the energy I’m receiving from others with whom I’m engaging.) And yes, if you would have messaged me yesterday, I would have mouthed completely different utterances – I remember what they were. Alas, I can’t say them anymore for my personal circumstances and you flowed in a different direction.
This submission was modified from a former publication: Remember me through non sequiturs I've written into my cell phone notes app while in love
'To find Old Man River' by Birgit K. Gaiser
To find Old Man River, you must travel to the right time and place.
To speak to him, you must reach him in the first month of harvest season, when the sun has warmed his skin all summer and awoken him from his slumber.*
To receive his favour for your marriage, you must bring a boon worthy of his attention** and convince him of your affection for each other.
To reach him, you must set out from the summer meeting place on the longest day of the year.***
You must walk towards the place where the sun touches the mountain at sunset****, and keep walking in that direction.
You must not eat anything containing fish or nuts for at least one week before you reach him.*****
Your mind must be free of doubts, your heart free of fear, your eyes open wide so he can read your soul.******
We wish you good luck on your journey.*******
*He’s old. Like, really old. And he sleeps a lot. Bit like a reptile, but more extreme.
**He likes gemstones. A lot.
***Summer solstice, in case it wasn’t clear.
****West, basically.
*****He can smell the fish, even after a week. I don’t know how the old bastard does it. And the nuts, yeah, really don’t. He’s badly allergic. You really don’t want to see that.
******I don’t think he really does that. But you never know.
*******And don’t forget the gemstones!