Bowel Movement: Two Weeks In The Bahamas

© copyright 1996-2009 by Michael G. Breece



In a walk-in closet, three naked men with ties wrapped around their necks play chess. Black to move, white to survey. The time is 2:07 p.m. There are empty, stained, coffee mugs and peppered plates scattered throughout the bedroom. If I were to leap from this window, would anyone respond to the shattering of glass? There are feeble intellectual midgets scampering about this electronic square. All sound has been muted, the time has come. The pixilated screen and it's trappings are thrown through the window. Silence is all that resumes. "Checkmate!" is the cue that's heard. So, I venture downstairs and sit on a blue plaid couch. Outside birds sing to the rhythm of time. A gunshot is sounded. I open the front door to find a stereo at my feet.

"I watch you while you do your laundry. I see you while you sleep. I know when you've been bad or good. So don't disappoint me."

The birds are no longer in existence. The tape is eaten. I close the front door. Standing on the third step is a thin man with a 5 to 7 inch erection and a white queen dangling from his clenched teeth. He bites down on the piece. The queen is dead, he spits the rest of her out onto the floor. He steps down to me and forces a kiss. I unlock and exit the house. I spit out something foreign from my mouth. It is a tooth. After a 5 minute cigarette, I peek in the living room window to find the toothless executioner masturbating to a road-runner cartoon. As the coyote is smashed by a boulder, a thick mucus is excreted from his penis. While the smoke cleared, I began my pilgrimage to the back of the house.

Over by a lawn chair that sits in the middle of the yard, I find an old weathered radio. I flick the on switch. First is chatter. Rolling the dial, is very tasteless music. I turn back to the chatter. Governmental representatives regurgitate premature ejaculation, penal size and economical monopoly. In the middle of this "conversation" one of the panellists begins to, graphically, talk, uninterrupted, about a bowel movement he had while vacationing, for two weeks, in the Bahamas.

To the left of me stands a T.V. tray with a glass of rain, bitter salty it is. My eyes slowly glance upward. In the house directly behind stands an old man in the sliding glass window. He looks downward, then removes himself from view, leaving me to ponder the essence left behind. I absorb this as it’s being filtered through the wind that has begun to swirl around me. Sitting so still amidst a self-absorbed tornado, the radio has died out and all is ricocheting from one antenna to the next. I drift off to sleep.


Barren lands of gray escape.
Flying scissors cut the atmosphere revealing bright red skies from the slashes.
A children's choir wavers in and out.
Every object I catch morph's like the changing of television stations.
The plug is pulled by way of abrupt nudge and outer voice recognition.



My vision slowly adapts to the ambush of light beaming from a small cylinder. Dashiki, baseball pants and bowling shoes stand before me. He also wears a fishing hat complete with dangling tackle. "Peanut butter bagel?" I accept the offering. "Pink lemonade?" Again, I accept. After attempting to digest, I become sick. I re-enter the house. Naked on the couch, smoking a cigarette, surrounded by used tissues a man speaks words un- recognizable as I modestly scurry to an upstairs bathroom.

On hands and feet, I bark like a dog. Relief in sight which has now vanished by way of metal pipe and aqua pressure. I exit the bathroom after wiping my mouth. Entering the guestroom, I find a book laying on the dresser. Essays On Modern Masturbation. I remove all articles of clothing. Then sit in the middle of the hallway. I begin to scream wildly at the top of my lungs until all five inhabitants of the house come to visit my excursion with madness. And when they finally arrived, the only wisdom that I could impart was...
"Checkmate!"