Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader Presents Flush Fiction Read Online Free PDF Page B

hung back as Clea explored downstairs. She’d learned to let the prospective buyers feel like they were discovering the place for themselves.
    She never followed too closely as they opened cupboards and closets and ran faucets and flushed the toilets and in general peeked and poked around.
    The place was furnished just enough to give it a “lived-in” look. Joanna had chosen everything herself and was gratified when Clea ran her hands over the top of a Birdseye maple sideboard in appreciation.
    The woman with Clea—her name was Alison—seemed bored and looked like her feet hurt. No wonder, she was wearing three-inch heels that pitched her bulky torso forward at an awkward angle. Someone had no doubt told her that adding height would make her look slimmer.
    Someone had lied.
    Alison wasn’t even impressed when she and Clea walked into the master bathroom. She looked like she’d seen it before, way too many times.
    That annoyed Joanna. The bathroom was a showpiece with a skylight over the sunken tub, gorgeous tile accents and a steam/shower cabinet.
    Clea’s reaction to the room—despite Alison’s blasé attitude—was all Joanna could have hoped for.
    That was the minute she was sold on the house, Joanna knew. Everything else she saw just sealed the deal—the little window in the master bedroom closet with the built-in jewelry drawers and shoe cubbies; the Art Deco chandelier in the dining room, which was a genuine dining room and not just a space off the living area.
    Clea loved it all.
    She didn’t even try to haggle over the price, which Joanna appreciated.
    When Clea and Alison drove away, Joanna caught a glimpse of a bumper sticker on the back of Clea’s car, a slogan advertising the local NPR station.
    Joanna approved.
    She knew Clea would love the house and fill it with books and music and maybe a cat or a little dog. The yard was big enough for a dog.
    It would be good to have someone living in the house again.
    Joanna had been so lonely since she died.

Vanilla or Chocolate
    Skye Hillgartner
    S he’d kissed a boy behind the water tower when she was fourteen. It was clumsy, but they laughed, and split a chocolate bar on the walk home.
    The anniversary cake was vanilla.
    “Why not chocolate?” she asked.
    “Everyone eats vanilla,” her husband said, and went to get more wine.
    The party was decent. Her husband kept pointing to her, saying, “Still beautiful, isn’t she?”
    All she could think was that fifty years of vanilla didn’t seem worth celebrating.

The Newest Edition of Richard Phlattwaire
    Jess Del Balzo
    W ednesday marks the release of Richard Phlattwaire’s latest book, Nate Bit a Tibetan . The novel, Phlattwaire’s fourth, creates a sizzling urban universe full of neon lights and subway monks. Phlattwaire utilizes his bizarre, scheming style to lure the reader into his fictional New York City, where the man in robes next to you could really be an “ordinary person.”
    I met up with Phlattwaire for an afternoon tabnab —the author’s word for savory snack—on the ivy-covered patio of Orgasmanic Oasis, a downtown health food eatery, just a few weeks prior to the launch of Nate .
    “I’ll be happy if this book gets half the attention Fleece Elf did,” he says as he gingerly picks at his Chinese chicken salad and sips a cup of single-origin coffee.
    I can’t help but notice a new Dick Phlattwaire. I first encountered him just seven years ago. He was 24 years old then, on the verge of fame. His debut novel, A Car, A Man, A Maraca , was just about to break. His raw talent was undeniable. Unfortunately, as his popularity increased and he began to scale up the social pyramid, Phlattwaire embraced a lifestyle of drugs, alcohol, prostitutes, ungodly amounts of food, and opulent safaris, to fulfill his fascination with the mating habits of African animals.
    These days, however, Dick is flatter than ever. He is in the best shape of his life, thanks to kicking his bad habits. His daily