Special Issue #13 ISSN 1547-5957

[short story]
by ian mullins
“Finished?” His mother slammed a bony fist on the bathroom door.
“Almost.” Alan fumbled for his belt.
“How much longer does my garden have to wait?” she demanded.
“Coming.” He sluiced his hands with scalding water until they were as red as
dying roses.
“You always keep me waiting,” she complained, shoving past him as he opened
the door. “God, what a stench.”
“Dad said that was a sign of good compost,” he reminded her.
“Your father knew nothing.” She pecked at the toilet bowl, fussing over the thick
stool he’d dropped.
Alan waited while she spooned up his turd and plopped it in a transparent
plastic bag, where it seemed to writhe like a foetus in a womb.
“I hope you won’t poison my roses,” she said, holding the bag at arms length, as
though it was a dead rat.
“Waste not want not,” he answered. It was one of her own favourites, but the
invisible irony refused to deflate his shame. He was the only thirty-eight-year-old
he knew who still let his mother know when he needed the bathroom. He was also
the only thirty-eight-year-old he knew who still lived at home. The factory had cut
his hours in half, and were threatening to cut them even more. He’d hated his tiny
apartment, only half a mile away from the house he’d been brought up in, but at
least it had been his. Now he shared his childhood bedroom with fertilizing flowers
sheltering from cold winds.
He stood in its window and watched mother spread his droppings around her
34 The Literary Hatchet