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January 29, 2008

Tuesday

Tell a story that takes place inside a bathroom.

For bonus points, avoid toilet humor entirely.

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Comments

Steam rises from my body as the water rinses away the soil of the outside world.

I know this is only a temporary respite but, as always, I derive the greatest of pleasures from these few moments of physical and emotional cleansing. Nothing else exists beyond this moist, safe enclosure.

I wish to linger on, perhaps lathering up once more, but the cold, hard realities of the world intrude on this moment of deep content. It is time to face reality once again.

I turn off the shower and step out to face eight more torturous months of political campaigning.

Posted by: Don at January 29, 2008 10:35 AM · Permalink

"Excuse me sir, can you direct me to the bathroom please?"

"Of course ma'am, right this way."

As they walked down the hall of the stately old hotel, the visitor was amazed at how little had changed in over one hundred years.

The manager opened the door, and the lady stepped in. She flipped the old light switch up with an audible click showing its advanced age and looked around.

As the man walked away, the lady called out, "Wait! Where is the toilet? There is only a bath tub."

"You asked for the bathroom ma'am, not the water closet."

Posted by: Nick at January 29, 2008 4:31 PM · Permalink

The water turns my hands a raw shade of red. I lather them, scrub them, rinse them off, and repeat. Once my hands are clean -- if they ever are -- my clothes are next. The stains are still fresh enough; cold water should still get them out. Then the sheets, cold water as well. Of course I'm not stupid enough to take them to a public laundromat; the bathtub will have to do. The knife ought to be simple enough to clean.

At some point, of course, I really should get rid of her body. Preferably before my wife gets home.

Posted by: LJ at January 30, 2008 12:21 AM · Permalink

Would you think that cradling the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl could be joyful? No. Think again.

Hours in doctors’ surgeries. Questions. Needles. More questions. Anaesthetics. Hope threading through it all, twining in with the despair of no, and not this time, and maybe….

It’s surprising how quickly, however much you hate needles (and I do), you learn to give yourself the necessary injections. Each one a grimace, each one a step.

Finally, months later, this is my morning ritual. Me, retching. But as the days get colder, you get closer to being born, and my heart is full.

Posted by: rooruu at February 2, 2008 2:34 AM · Permalink