Toilet Bowl Astronomy

The Blood Moon Approaches

The Blood Moon will appear soon.

Locked away in the bathroom, my griping stomach the culprit. The evening air wafts through the window frame bringing a cool touch to my sweating head. I'm the last in the house. Everyone has left into the garden with heads craned up in anticipation of the main event.

The Cruel Irony of Lactose

Their excited murmurings, just below me, distorted by the crass shouting-match occurring in my belly. Apparently, lactose intolerance is a normal thing to develop as you age. Making a special exception for a special event just for it to cause you to miss it is a cruel irony that my heart may bare but my stomach?

Too preoccupied to care.

Who knew cheese could be so violent?

Switch It Off

The murmurings outside grow and change to instructions. To me. They're talking to me—at me—the dairy loving bastards are calling me in my most vulnerable of states. The light, the one in my bathroom, the one claimed and marked so thoroughly and fully… it's detracting from their special evening.

'Switch it off.'

Attempts to launch expletives to such an unreasonable demand are choked by a cramp in my deepest of regions. A victim should know the face of his tormentor. An artist should see the work he sprays across his canvas. My light shall not be dimmed nor extinguished, I must face the horror my hand (and greedy mouth) has initiated. Buckled forward on a throne claimed through foolhardiness, left painting a Jackson Pollock with my arse.

Saboteurs!

Defeated, I reminisce, a cheese board was their contribution. A whole round of Camembert to represent the moon, how cute, how clever my valued dinner guests are.

Guests?

Nay.

Saboteurs!

Who sought to tempt me and tempted I was.

Who sought to rob me and robbed I am…

It's Happening

There is blood on the toilet paper and silence in the night. Their screeching ceased.

It's happening.

Fuck!

I refuse to miss it. My hands, fatigued from gripping what support they could reach, reinvigorated as toilet paper is scrunched up my burning passage. I won't miss it. My legs numb and muscles drained of energy; I stumble to my feet. My make-shift cork holding strong and by miracle of spite I, farting and dying, make it outside.

Red Indeed

Their eyes meet mine for only a second before returning up to the heavens. Left in hell I waddle forward to join their viewing.

It is red indeed.

Red…

Red like the wax covering on a round of mature gouda.

My stomach howls with agreement as I hurry back to the toilet.