Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader Presents Flush Fiction Read online

  Flezno sat back and thought about this. Then he burst into laughter. “A godlike alien, eh?” he said, and Grux nodded, giggling himself. “Now that’s a wild idea.”

  The two were silent again as they searched Earth’s databases, reading novel after novel as a whirl of letters and punctuation scrolled down their screens.

  After a while, Flezno looked up again. He gazed out the window, and not too far away (at least by galactic standards), he saw Earth.

  “Grux?” he said, and his friend looked up from the screen.

  “You sure we can’t go down there and meet them? You know, just for fun?”

  “What, and miss out on all this?”

  “What if we just let them know we’re here?” Flezno suggested. “Would that endanger their lives?”

  “Endanger their lives?” Grux repeated. “When was that ever a concern? We’re not interested in their lives, Flezno.” He tapped the hologram, but his finger just went through the screen. “It’s their ideas we’re after. You know that.”

  “Right,” Flezno said. “Sorry.” And they went back to their computer screens.

  After a few minutes, Grux started giggling again. “Such imaginations these people have!” he exclaimed. “This one is just great. The alien is an entire planet! Can you imagine that?”

  “That sounds implausible,” Flezno said.

  “Implausible,” Grux agreed, “but amusing.”

  “Grux, why can’t we just go down there for a little bit? Don’t you want to meet the people who wrote these stories?”

  “That would risk everything!” Grux said, annoyed now. “You have to get it in your head that we can’t just reveal ourselves to them. For thousands of years they must have been gazing at the sky, wondering what sort of bizarre alien creatures are out there. We can’t just waltz down there and say hello. All of those years of speculation and theory would be for nothing!”

  “I know, but—”

  “We’ve been here long enough for you to realize how easily they are influenced. These stories are just too good, Flezno. If they see us and know what aliens out there really look like, who’s to say how that will impact their work?”

  “Well, I—”

  “I’ll tell you,” Grux continued, interrupting him again. “Fiction won’t be the same. Once they see us, once they know the truth, it’ll be over. They’ll stop wondering.”

  Flezno looked as if he were about to say something important, but then he just nodded and his eyes drifted back to the hologram. Satisfied, Grux did the same.

  “I will say,” Grux began later on, once again in a good mood, “I am disappointed with a few of these. I mean, what are the chances that a species that originated and evolved light years away somehow managed to look almost exactly the same as the humans? Sure, maybe their skin is blue, or maybe their ears are slightly misshapen, but otherwise these species are pretty much identical. Lazy, if you ask me.”

  “There is only so much the human mind is capable of,” Flezno said.

  “Yes,” Grux agreed. “But they are capable of enough to satisfy me. They’re certainly more interesting than the last civilization we visited. Let’s see, now; this one shows promise.” Hundreds of pages flipped by in a matter of seconds. Grux laughed.

  “What is it?” Flezno said.

  “In this one, the author wasn’t satisfied with merely depicting aliens from another galaxy. He made them from a different universe. Even the forces vary there, shaping these creatures into gelatinous, amorphous slugs. Quite clever.”

  Grux waited for a response, but Flezno was silent.

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “You’re not still mad about before, are you? Okay, tell me what you were going to say. I’m listening now.”

  “You’ll laugh,” Flezno said.

  “I promise I won’t. Go on, tell me. Why do you want to go down there so badly?”

  “It’s just,” Flezno said, feeling slightly embarrassed, “I’d like to get an autograph.”

  “An autograph?” Grux repeated.

  “Yes. I’ve grown quite fond of one of the authors. I would have liked an autograph, but of course I understand why we can’t—” Grux had started laughing. “Hey, you promised you wouldn’t laugh!”

  “Sorry, sorry,” Grux said, quieting down. “All right, how about this: Once we read everything this world has to offer, you can go down there and get your autograph? Then we’ll move on.”

  “But by that time,” Flezno said, “the author will be dead.”

  “Oh, I forgot about that,” Grux said. “Oh well. Sorry, but we can’t just announce our arrival because you’ve got an infatuation with one of the authors. Besides, it would take a lot of gall to go down there and stifle their imaginations like that. Frankly, I don’t think you have it in you. Let them wonder. Let them imagine. And all we have to do is sit back, enjoy, and move on when it’s over. Not a bad deal if you ask me.”

  “You’re right,” Flezno acquiesced.

  Grux got up, feeling better now that his friend understood. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

  “Sure.” Flezno stood up, as well.

  “You know,” Grux said, “I do wonder sometimes what they’d think of us.”

  Grux studied his friend. Flezno had green, reptilian skin, a pair of enormous red dinner-plate-shaped eyes, antennae, a mouth full of daggerlike teeth surrounded by mandibles, two long tentacles for arms, a giant tail with a scythe at the end, and three legs with wheellike appendages at the bottom. Flezno rolled over to him.

  Grux laughed, thinking about how a human would react if he saw them. Flezno laughed with him, and the two of them rolled down the hallway to get a bite to eat.

  The Not-So-Ancient Chinese Proverb

  S. G. Rogers

  The little mountain village in the Chinese province of Yunnan was largely untouched by time. Villagers drove fat pigs down rough, stony streets. Young men on bicycles passed graybeards as they played board games outside their storefronts. Farmers brought vegetables to market on baskets strapped to their backs.

  On the first day of spring, the monk who lived on the mountain always invited the village children to the temple for tea and a story. The children called him Taifu, or Grandfather. Nobody really knew how old he was, but he seemed as ancient as the stone Buddha carved into the mountainside.

  When the children were released from school that afternoon, they crowded onto the path to the temple. Each brought a gift—the most perfect first blooms from their gardens, or small boxes of candied lychees or ginger.

  The old monk greeted each child warmly. He accepted their gifts with pleasure and offered them moon cakes with their tea. He settled himself on a cushion, and the children sat cross-legged on bamboo mats, their faces shining with anticipation.

  “I have a wonderful story, children, from a time when magic and dragons still existed in China,” Taifu said. “Everything I’m about to tell you really happened.”

  Most of the children sat a little straighter, wide-eyed. Magic and dragons! But the oldest boy, Shen, folded his arms across his chest with a frown.

  “Long ago,” Taifu began, “there was a village in the mountains, much the same as ours. The villagers were happy and prosperous, all because of a goose.”

  The children laughed.

  “It may seem unbelievable,” Taifu acknowledged. “But the bird was magical. It had the extraordinary ability to lay golden eggs.”

  Even as the children gasped, Shen rolled his eyes.

  “Did the goose have a name?” a child asked.

  Taifu nodded. “The goose was white, but when its dark wings were folded they resembled a pair of scissors. So the goose was called Scissors.

  “One day, an ugly troll moved into a cave on the other side of the river. The troll, called Oni, was a greedy, wicked creature. He sent his dragon, Furr, to steal from the villagers. Pigs and cows went missing first, but then Oni began to crave treasure. The dragon stole coins, jewelry, and even the solid-gold Buddha in th
e temple. It was a terrible time.

  “The village elders wondered if Oni would be appeased if they gave him Scissors. With all the treasure he could possibly want, Oni might leave the village in peace.”

  “That’s a terrible idea!” Shen interrupted. “If they give Scissors away, the village becomes poor. When Oni realizes they have nothing left, he’ll send Furr to burn it down. Everyone will die!”

  “There was a brave young villager named Gui who agreed with you, Shen,” Taifu replied. “‘I’ll find Oni’s cave,’ said Gui. ‘I’ll kill him with my bow and arrows, and we will be saved.’”

  “That’s exactly what I would have done!” Shen exclaimed.

  “Indeed?” Taifu replied. “Then perhaps you can finish the story?”

  Cries of protest rose from the other children.

  “Forgive me, Taifu,” Shen said, abashed. “Please continue.”

  Taifu smiled. “The elders were impressed with Gui’s bravery. Indeed, his prowess in archery was unmatched. They agreed to send Gui on his quest. In the meantime, a flock of sheep would be scattered across the valley. While Furr was eating the sheep, Gui would find Oni and kill him.

  “Gui prepared his strongest bow and filled his quiver with the sharpest arrows. The ladies of the village wept as they accompanied Gui to the river.

  “He crossed the river in a fisherman’s peapod boat. A low-hanging fog masked his passage. Once he reached the other side, Gui climbed the mountain to search for Oni’s cave. Oni’s troll stench led Gui straight to him.

  “Gui’s knees shook with fear, but he stood tall. He shouted to Oni that he’d come with a gift of gold. From deep within the cave came a mighty roar!”

  The children leaned forward, transfixed.

  “Trolls are not too bright, and Oni was no exception,” Taifu said. “He heard the word ‘gold’ and came stumbling out of his cave. The sun had burned through the fog and blinded Oni long enough for Gui to loose three arrows. The first one pierced Oni’s throat. The second found his heart. The last sank into his left eye, but Oni was already dead. He fell backwards like a tree with rotted roots and landed with a huge thud. The trouble was over.”

  Taifu’s audience relaxed. But Taifu was not finished.

  “Gui returned to the village with as much of the looted treasure as he could carry. The ecstatic villagers prepared a feast to honor their noble hero and the magical goose, Scissors.”

  “What about the dragon?” Shen ventured.

  “Ah, well, Furr was sleeping in a meadow, gorged with sheep,” Taifu replied. “When he heard the dinner gong, he wakened. The dragon flew to Oni’s cave, where he saw his master was dead. He was furious. In the middle of the feast, Furr returned and began to burn the village. People ran for their lives.”

  “Gui slew the dragon, didn’t he?” someone asked.

  “Well, Gui knew he had to act, but his bow and arrows were in his house. He tucked Scissors under his arm and bolted down the street. Not two steps later, the vicious dragon burned Gui and Scissors to a crisp. In fact, no one in the village was left alive except for one small boy. I was that boy, and I have never told this story to anyone—until today.”

  The children stared at Taifu, devastated. A few of them began to sob, but Shen became angry.

  “What kind of story is that!?” he cried. “It’s pointless!”

  “Look underneath the words of the story to divine the meaning,” Taifu replied, unfazed. “It is the basis for the ancient Chinese proverb—When Furr is flying, never run with Scissors, or your goose will get cooked.”

  For Wile E. Coyote, Apetitius giganticus

  Jason Schossler

  “A fanatic is one who redoubles his effort when he has forgotten his aim.”

  George Santayana

  1Monday he comes home squashed flat by a locomotive; Tuesday, with his hair burnt to a crisp. Friday, a week—no bird, no prey, and nothing in the medicine cabinet to treat the anvil lodged in his head.

  2 Picking up his daughter from her internship at Perdue Farms, he overhears her talking to her BFF. “We’ve had KFC for supper every night this week,” she says. “My dad is such a loser.” When she says the word, she presses her fingers to her forehead in the shape of an L.

  3 The spring catalogue arrives with the chirp of awakening birds. Earthquake pills, TNT, a catapult, quick-drying cement, dehydrated boulders, a boomerang, and, free with every $100 order, a rocket sled and thirty miles of railroad track.*

  * Some assembly required.

  4 The nights are long. His hind legs stiffen up in his sleep, and his right hip hasn’t felt the same ever since those jet-propelled tennis shoes blasted him through the center of the earth to China.

  5 On the family room sofa his wife eases the thread through the needle and stitches his tail back into place. Now and then she stops to look up at the shimmering sage in the backyard. “It’s not just the kids,” she says with a throb in her voice. “The neighbors are talking, too.”

  6 It’s the customer service as much as the good line of credit that keeps him coming back to Acme Corp.

  Coughing red soot from another day’s avalanche, he asks Sue, the refund department operator, about her father’s knee surgery, swimming in Lake Wallenpaupack, her butterfly garden of bee balm and lilac, and on the other end of the phone, Sue is curious about life in the Southwest, and if it really is what they call a dry heat.

  7 During his lunch break in the shade of the cottonwoods he listens to The Ultimate Secrets of Total Self-confidence by Dr. Robert Anthony on his iPod.

  Closing his eyes, he visualizes the world he wants to live in: the bird browning in the oven, legs tied together, skin brushed in melted butter like an oasis on the other side of a great, uncrossable desert, and by late afternoon, the kids probing the tender curves with gentle forks, a mysterious passion on their faces.

  8 …Next up on Coast to Coast AM we’ve got a caller from the Southwest, a Mr. W.E.C., who—now get this—claims to know a magical roadrunner that can pass through walls…

  9 The Southern Belle disguise has arrived. Inside the package is a handwritten note from Sue. This should do the trick.

  In front of the mirror he tries on the saucy red dress. Puckers his lips and turns to admire the ruffled bodice. The costume comes with a velvet bonnet and matching handbag large enough to conceal a stick of dynamite.

  Standing behind him, his wife starts to cry. “Who are you?” she says. “I don’t know you anymore.”

  He wiggles his eyebrows. The bird is good as cooked.

  Around the Block

  Courtney Walsh

  Bless me father, for I have sinned,” Vicky told the eye-level black screen where she sat in the confession booth in St. Ursula’s Church of the Holy Redeemer in downtown Kenosha, Wisconsin, a block away from Maxine’s Café, where the special tonight was tenderloin tips with a citric infusion, a mix of lemon, lime, orange, and pink grapefruit from a farm in Central Florida where last night, under a full moon, the oldest of the few panthers left in the state slept, dreaming of his mother, who, just before she was shot by a bounty hunter who had progressed no further than sixth grade in the Leland City School District and whose teachers, against their better judgment, were forced to keep him until he turned from a grubby, temperamental, unwashed little boy into a grubby, temperamental, unwashed adolescent with a hair-trigger temper and a habit of shooting anything that offended him, which included dogs, cats, alligators, birds, manatees, dolphins, and, one night, the old panther’s mother, who before she died latched onto his head and bit down, scoring his skull as if for trepanning, which surgery was finished by a world-renowned brain surgeon from Austria then visiting his aunt after the young man had landed on her front porch, cursing the panther, government at all levels beginning with the city council, and life in general going all the way up to God, who, it must be admitted, was a little perplexed by the way things were turning out, or not turning out, and sat back, amusing himself with other games, his attention span
being infinite so that he quickly tired of backgammon, Parcheesi, Monopoly, whist, bridge, Canasta, Pitch, and poker, games played on machines in taverns, games such as tennis, squash, racquetball played on small courts or games played on larger courts or fields, where he would have to split himself into the players, ten for basketball, eighteen for baseball, twenty-two for football, etc., etc., as well as the requisite number of competitors for soccer, rugby, bobsledding, curling, and other sports of modern times or earlier, including sports played all over the world, as for example, the Fiji Islanders played with conch shells, the Apache Indians with sticks and hoops, the North Laplanders with reindeer testicles, to say nothing of the sports on the nearest inhabited planet, thousands of light years away, but right around the block if you’re the deity.

  The Waterhole

  Colleen Shea Skaggs

  On a balmy, September Saturday night, she threads her way through the parking lot of the local saloon, The Waterhole. She’s a newcomer in town, a tiny Idaho ranch community, a stone’s throw from the Snake River. Thirty-two years old, a refugee from the big-city madness of Los Angeles. The new teacher in the small rural school: no metal detectors, guns, knives, gangs, no backtalk, no obscene language in her presence. Supportive parents. Moira, a redhead, partly natural, partly from a bottle, but no one needs to know that. Miss Kelly, her students call her.

  Country music pours from the saloon’s open door. A male singer with the raw, lived-in voice of Willie or Johnny—the song about friends in low places.

  She steps onto the wood-planked porch. Ranchers, both men and women, stand in clusters, shaking heads, laughing or lamenting about government intrusion, taxes, high feed prices, politicians, busted machinery, jughead horses, and clueless cows.

  Inside is crowded and noisy. People dancing in the small area between the bar and the wall lined with tables of people. An open-beam ceiling, a decor of elk antlers, antique tools, old car license plates. In the dim light provided by flickering kerosene lamps, dust motes hover in the air like mini-galaxies spinning in space.