Short Stories
Toilet



The cubicle’s flimsy door pushes inward revealing a folded figure squeezed between the toilet wall and toilet. Torso slightly supported, shoulders sagging, head dropping, the figure seems turned to face the inquiring conjuration. The bloody toilet seat is covered by hanging tentacles of brown hair. Out from under this figure there come two brown trouser legs, folded slightly, the souls of the brown Doc-Martins pressed against the wall. Blood is splattered on the floor tiles and up the left wall of the white cell. “Oh, My God” passed softly through the door’s assembly. “Call an ambulance. Hay move . . .” People move back, glad to watch someone take control.

Time passes.

The figure’s face now lies on soft white pillows, a slow moan escaping the mouth. “Here you go babe.” Eye lids flutter open revealing sky blue eyes focusing on the pink pills pinched between fingers, being followed by the glass of water. The eyes stare at the small mountain of white bandages covering her broken nose. “Shees, I hope you’ve learnt not too drink quite so much.” The voice is warm and strong, silent laughter hanging, covering concern. A effeminate hand escapes from under the duvet caressing the woman’s face. “Naah, yu mak such a wundfol nurse.”


A night spent in

As I slouch on the couch I run my fingers through my hair. The greases sticks, and my head turns in the direction of the stairs as I contemplate having a shower. Naa, tomorrow’s Saturday, I’ll go jogging in the morning. My eyes drift back towards the moving pictures, but I’m not in the mood to follow the film. My finger presses the little black button on the remote control, and I flick through the channels. My finger pauses as a fashion program catches my attention. The woman’s face is stunning. High cheekbones, a real Scandinavian beauty. Man, I wish I looked like that. Watching the model move on the cat walk I promise myself that I will go jogging again, and curse the chocolate I had for dinner. One day I’ll be able to ware those clothes. One day.

I ease myself up from the soft pillows and wonder up stairs to see what treasures my wardrobe holds. I pause as I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Sadly the only thing this short-arsed mouse-haired troll has in common with the goddess on T.V is blue eyes, which are non-descript at that. I lift up my T-shirt and pull in my stomach showing the faint memory of a six-pack. Well if I’m going to look at clothes, it calls for the right music. Something 70 ish, Abba, or maybe Village People. The neighbors will be singing W.M.C.A. in their sleep. The thought of tadpole John flinging his arms and legs about in his sleep makes me laugh, and restores my festive mood. I rub a hand over my chest and decide on having the shower.

Later standing de-clothed and de-haired in a cloud of steam I rub Nivea into my body. Resting my foot on the edge of the toilet seat I run my hand over the length of my leg, and hold the pose to study myself in the mirror. Life is all about angles, and posses. I leave the bathroom wrap in a white fluffy bathrobe. The music combines with the cool air of my bed room to enslave my feet, and I drop the bathrobe as I dance around the room. I’m still dancing while I dry my hair and once it’s pined back I open my top draw and search through my underwear. Red or black, cotton or silk, G strings or briefs, so many choices. But tonight is a special party, so I find a pair of black silk boxer shorts for under my skirt and pair it with a strapless bra. I leave the choice of stockings till later.

When I sit down in front of my make up, I delight in the feel of the velvet cushion against my skin. I can hardly resist rubbing my hand gently over my silk covered cunt. I pick up the remote control for the CD player and turn on a tape. Dance music allows less distraction when applying paint. Once the base coloring is finished, I’m able to run riot with color. For tonight, the main course will be baby blue eyes, framed with brown, highlighted with a matching mascara and followed by dark red lipstick. Desert seemingly absent since I only ever delivered by roomservice.

I’m never happy with my face, and given too much time, I’ve on many occasion ruined my make up. So before I begin I take note of the time and limit myself to one hour. On this occasion I start an new only once, and use only a little of the packet of cotton wool. Things seem to be approving, until the door bell rings and I run down stairs to be reminded that it’s nearly Easter and I’m standing with a wide open door clad only in my underwear. My guest squeals “Tommy . . . baby” To which I reply with a smile “Tonight the name is Mary.”

powered by lycos
SEARCH: Tripod The Web