Late Night Mystery

I'm at that point in my life where I need to wake up at least once in the middle of the night. Stumbling through the dark to the bathroom, the street lamp cast a shadow across the table, revealing a yellow envelope.

With groggy eyes, I opened the missive to find a short note on a scrap of aged paper.

"I miss you."

It wasn't signed, but the script was familiar. There was no mistaking this had been written by Beverly, my wife.

Dropping the note, I searched frantically throughout the house. Beverly had died exactly one year ago tonight.

Drunk

First, there's a moment when you are just crossing the threshold from complete oblivion, wrapped in blankets and darkness, to reemerge into the light of the living. You are not a person yet. You have no recollections or anxieties. This is probably what it was like right before you were born.

You don't realize you have a hole in your memory until you're halfway to the bathroom. How did you get home last night? Where's your car? Why is the floor slanting away from you?

You stare at yourself in the mirror and promise you're never going to drink again.

Ties That Bind

Sam always used rubber bands to hold up her ponytail; I'm still finding them around the apartment, lost during sex, or when she shook out her hair after a long day at work, or in any of a dozen different ways. The trust between us proved less elastic, and snapped.

Everything came undone when she found that bobby pin in the bathroom. I told her that Jodie had just needed to wash bird crap out of her hair when she dropped by, but clearly I wasn't believed. Now, in every sense, there's no way left to hold things in place.From Guest Contributor Alastair Millar

Alastair is an archaeologist by training, a translator by trade, and a nerd by nature. His work can be found at https://linktr.ee/alastairmillar and he lurks on Twitter @skriptorium.

Bathroom Tile

‘Once upon a time someone tried to imitate marble with porcelain.

Understandable; humans have been artificially recreating nature since the cavemen. It’s our nature to synthesize.’

Arnold stood in the bathroom of his newly rented apartment, pondering its cladding.

A 12x12 tile covered the floor and all four walls. The same pink-veined beige tile, repeated 286 times.

‘But this imitation fails instantly due to the repetition. Nothing could be less realistic.’

He felt he’d been given insight into an anonymous tile designer’s mindset. He didn’t know how to interpret it, but he had a year-long lease to mull it over.

From Guest Contributor Olivia Rerick

Mending Hearts

Olivia’s heart is broken since her husband Stan’s death. His cancer so brutal, she’d weep alone in the bathroom. Her spirits lift slightly when her son, his wife, and their daughter visit, but when they leave it’s difficult to be alone. One morning Olivia is awakened by stomping on the stairs. She regrets giving her son the spare key. The bedroom door bursts open and her granddaughter Molly is holding a white and brown spotted purring kitten. “Grandma, this is your new husband,” little Molly says. “Can you name him Stan like grandpa,” she asks. Some hearts can be mended.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Wilted Lily

Sarah awakened from a frightening dream, her nightgown pasted to her body in sweat. Her husband, Mark, was still asleep, so she gently lifted the covers, went to the bathroom, and splashed cool water on her face. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and remembered every detail.

It was her wedding day. At the altar she couldn’t breathe, her body slowly disappeared, and her bouquet of lilies fell to the ground.

“It was just a bad dream,” she whispered to herself.

She softly kissed her husband and went back to sleep.

Under the bed, rested a wilted lily.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Status Update

Tina hated the outdoors. But there she was, Saturday morning­—hiking with mom.

“You’re on the phone too much. You need to experience the outdoors,” her mother said.

Just then, Tina’s friend texted: Don’t forget to update your status, nature girl. LOL.

Pouting, Tina logged onto Twitter and tweeted: ‘Urban girl meets nature.’

Instantly, 5 likes. Tina smiled.

“Mom, where’s the bathroom?”

“Privy is over there.”

Inside, Tina looked around, tweeting: ‘First time in a Porta Potty.’ 7 likes. She smiled again.

‘So nasty, so gross—'

Plop.

Tina paused momentarily. Then carefully navigated her finger into the fetid blue liquid.

Tweet.

From Guest Contributor Jennifer Lai

The Last Bath

I bathe the cat in the bathroom sink, so light, his little feline spine sharp with the thinning of time—twenty years. Hold him by the belly in the right hand, baby shampoo with the left. More soap for the diaper area. Careful of his eyes, looking so far away these days. Squeeze the water down his tail, his legs, all bones. Towel off, gentle, gentle. Murmur assurances that it’s almost over. Sit down on the couch, hold him in the towel. Is he ok? Movement—a gasp, he’s fine. Then my tear fell in his eye. He didn’t blink.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Harbinger Asylum, Little India, Rat’s Ass Review, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She and her husband Gaurav created Blue Planet Journal, which she edits and writes for. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University, is an assistant professor of English at a community college, and is writing a novel. Her poetry collection, Only Flying, is due out Nov. 16, 2021 from Unsolicited Press. See more at brook-bhagat.com or reach her on Twitter at @brookbhagat.

Ophelia Takes A Bath

Ophelia under the water; kneecap mountains poking out dwarf the dipping hills of her breasts. The ragged, brown seaweed strands of her hair move gently as her hot kettle sighs ring around the steam-shrouded bathroom.

She finds brash or delicate things expose her madness—the rough lyrics of a Pogues’ song or the fragrance of a flower bomb. Silver chains on her thighs, bright relics of dejection, shackle her to the past but aren't enough to save her. So she piles his words as pebbles on her heart and in this way she doesn't float away—at least not today.

From Guest Contributor Adele Evershed

Swimming Sterility

HUBRIS CONTEST:

I’m a fish, except I swim between kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom.

I sterilize, wash, wipe, dry. Watch episodes of Barry and Curb Your Enthusiasm, semblances of entertainment before the virus.

I’m swimming in sterile fishbowls.

Some nights, I open windows. I absorb tree branches shifting, the tenderness of a fleeting breeze. I absorb the thump of distant speakers. Wear widened eagerness, an expression I thought I suppressed.

Some nights, I try to step out among bars, laughter, bodies.

Some nights I make it a block. Two, even.

But I retreat. Wide eyes sink into submission.

Brave fish are always doomed.From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. A native of Idaho, Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, and Ariel Chart, among others.