Free Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader Presents Flush Fiction by Bathroom Readers’ Institute

to turn back. Standing on the wooden deck you see your first foreign woman’s blind eyes in your own mind’s eye, and then you hear the crew scrambling up the ratline rungs of the shrouds, stinking of last night’s beer, farting their early morning farts and singing in chorus of their own first foreign women and the sea.

Buttons
    Edward Palumbo
    I t’s not for sale,” said the tiny gray woman as she clutched the black device with both hands. “I’ve changed my mind.”
    “Oh,” I responded glumly.
    “Of course, I could rent it to you.” Her Shih Tzu barked at us from the living-room window, apparently displeased with the notion. “You look as if you could be trusted to bring it back, a nice, young, professional man like yourself. I don’t really need the money, but every little bit helps.” She paused. “No, no, I’d better not.”
    “How much to rent it for one day?” I inquired.
    “My husband, God rest him, bought it at a dusty old camera shop. But it’s not a camera, no sir, even though it looks like one.” She held it up as high as she could, and it shimmered in the sunlight. “Look at that workmanship,” she continued, “not another like it in the world. And look at the buttons: blue, green, yellow, and here on the side, red . But never touch the red one.” She laid it back on the table. “The red one cannot be touched. That is why it is separate from the others. You would not want to click it by mistake.”
    “Yes,” I replied, “blue, green, etcetera, don’t touch the red. Got it. Tell me again how you make it work.”
    “Well, you can point the lens at just about anything from a postcard to a child’s drawing to the finest Cezanne. Then you click the blue button and you are transported into the scene immediately. Wherever the place, whatever the time, it is yours to visit, for good or for bad. When you want to return, simply point the lens at yourself and click the green button and you’re home. Imagine, you could visit the Great Pyramid of Giza in the morning, have lunch with Churchill, and then stop by YankeeStadium for Game 7 of the 1975 World Series. Now, should you visit someplace where there’s danger, the Amazon jungle for example, that’s where the yellow button comes in. If someone or something threatens your safety, point the lens at them and click the yellow button. Your foe will disappear as quick as you please.”
    “I’ll give you fifty dollars to rent it until tomorrow evening.”
    “You must never touch the red button. That’s why it is separate from the others.”
    Her Shih Tzu barked at us from the living room window. “I’ll be a minute, Mitzy!” the woman exclaimed without turning.
    “I’ll give you fifty dollars to rent it until tomorrow evening,” I repeated.
    “My husband kept it in the cellar for years. He only used it a half dozen times. It can be dangerous. He was knocked out by Joe Louis twice. Some people never learn. I started putting things out at six-thirty. Everybody loves yard sales. I had customers here before seven a.m. Mitzy hates men, why, I don’t know. She loves women though—and kids.”
    “Fifty dollars, until tomorrow evening, I’ll have it back no later than eight p.m.”
    “Hold it,” she said as she lifted the device and handed it to me. “Feel the weight.” I examined the device. It was indeed weighty.
    “After noon,” she explained, “no one came, except you. Right now, it’s entirely dead. I suppose I made about eighty dollars, enough to buy dog food.” Mitzy barked on cue.
    “How much will you give me for it?”
    I pointed the lens at the old woman and clicked the yellow button. Then I took care of Mitzy. I’ll be back from the Bahamas on Thursday.

Black Lung and Broken Heart
    Tom J. Lynch
    I n one hand Harry Boydman held the cashier’s check that would save his life. With the other he shook hands with another satisfied customer. Thereafter, he fled into the night, away from the Dice Street Warehouse, a