J. Timothy King Stories that Expand Your Life™

Kids and toilets don’t mix. They’re always going wrong at the most inconvenient times, like when I need to go.

I pushed open the bathroom door and almost stepped in it, a puddle the size of Lake Erie. Carefully lifting the lid confirmed my suspicions. The bowl was filled to the brim. Inside was a tiny log of poo and a half-roll of toilet paper.

“Shit,” I said. Then, “Gerald Ferris Robinson, Junior!”

“What?” I heard his voice echo from somewhere on the first floor. You know, whenever the Beaver’s mother used his full name, he came running.

“Come here!”

Feet bounded up the stairs, making a noise disproportionate to their size.

“What is it, Ma?”

I motioned to the toilet and surrounding flood.

He said nothing.

“I have to use the toilet, and now I can’t. I work really hard around here cleaning up after you. And I really wish you wouldn’t make my life more difficult.”

He seemed to stand a little shorter.

“That’s all I wanted to say.”

He quietly slunk downstairs, turned on the television, and turned up the volume.

I hated working in the toilet. When I was growing up, whenever my mother asked me to clean the bathroom, I would wear heavy latex gloves to protect me from the germs. I would used a disinfecting cleanser, and when I was done, I would carefully remove the gloves and throw them in the trash. Then I’d wash for 15 minutes, all the way up to my elbows, like a surgeon.

Now, plunger in hand, I needed to unclog the drain. I always got Jerry to take care of this kind of thing. But Jerry wasn’t home from work yet, and I had a pain in my butt that called out disaster, and I don’t mean the kid. As I worked, I splashed even more water onto the floor. I felt wet floor sliding under my shoes.

Then I felt long, wet hair sticking to my neck and water dribbling down my blouse. I shook my head to clear the feeling. I hadn’t had long hair since early in ninth grade.  Click to continue »

If anyone could see her, he wouldn’t know what she was looking for. She walked along this rock-studded beach, time after time eying the sea.

Her toe banged one of the large rocks, causing her to hobble as she continued her weary search.

She stopped, yes, her eyes wide, gazing out toward the water. Smile on face, she met the object as it approached her.

It was he. And she did embrace him. But her smile turned to tears.

“Damn plan,” she muttered under her breath. “Damn, stupid plan! We were happy. Why did you do this to me?”

The next day, she heard about it on the radio, “From footprints on the scene, authorities are looking for a woman, about five-feet-five-inches, a hundred thirty pounds, with a limp.”

Each morning Jace walked by her house on his way to school. Each afternoon he passed it on his way home. Sometimes, he would also pass at other times. Occasionally he would catch a glimpse of the bright-faced girl with wavy blonde locks. She sat under the two conifers that towered overhead. But as far as he knew, she never noticed him.  Click to continue »

This short-short is based on a true experience. -TimK

Down the sidewalk he darted around the dozens on their way to wherever they were going. He wore dress slacks and a beige, woolen jacket, and his black shoes clapped against the concrete. He stopped at a street corner just long enough to see his breath rise through the air and to hear a verse or two of a crusty-voiced, slurred beggar’s chant: “Disabled veteran. Spare a little change. Spare a little change…” There was more, two syllables, but though he tried to comprehend it, it remained unintelligible.

He crossed the street and continued running, the chant echoing in his mind. “Disabled veteran. Spare a little change. Spare a little change…” What was that last word? It sounded like “get out,” but that couldn’t be right. He tried to breath through his nose.

It was getting dark. He had to use the lighted dial on his watch. Four-fifty. In ten minutes, the streets would be filled with people and cars, a sorry situation for him to be in. He was late as it was. He quickened his pace to the beat. “Disabled veteran. Spare a little change. Spare a little change get out!” Or maybe “about”? Or “amount”?

The interview had been scheduled for 3:30. MapQuest said it would take a half-hour to get there. But this was in the city. He left at 1 o’clock. He was twenty minutes late for the appointment.

Then he needed money to pay the parking garage. He needed to find an automated teller and get out of the city before rush hour, or else what chance did he have of getting home in time to pick up the kids?  Click to continue »

Joanna T. Knight is a pseudonym. It’s also an anagram of Jonathan T. King (which is also my name). -TimK

Once there were two bears named Carolyn and Amanda who were sisters and best friends.

One night, after their mother and father tucked them in and turned out the light, Amanda suddenly realized her night light wasn’t shining.

“Carolyn,” she said to her older sister, “I can’t see, because the night light isn’t working.”  Click to continue »

She never imagined that this would be the defining moment of her life.

Born Abigail Little, she had grown up with platinum blonde hair and deep brown eyes. As a teenager, she obsessed about her appearance and social behavior. She was smart and pretty, funny and good-natured. She was the girl every boy wanted to kiss and every other girl wanted to be.

As an adult, she married and mothered. Crow’s feet etched their way around her eyes, and though still potentially attractive, looks mattered progressively less to her. She bought nice clothes for her children; sweats and sneakers for herself. Her hair became frizzy and wiry. She put all her energy into her family, all her time into her home.

When the kids were old enough for school, she took a job as groundskeeper at a local amusement park. She was always cleaning up someone else’s mess, but she didn’t mind. In fact, it was an honor, for she knew the story of the broken window. It has been said a building can be vacant for years without becoming dilapidated, until even a single window gets broken; and then the whole building will become uninhabitable within days. Abigail knew that just one piece of trash, and her entire world would begin to disintegrate.

It was this passion she threw into her work. As a result, she was late one day. She was late picking up the kids from their after-school program. She got bawled out. Actually, the woman was very nice to this overworked mother. But Abigail couldn’t see it any other way. She had failed her duty.

It was then she realized, she was being controlled by circumstances. She had lost the excitement, her passion for life, her passion for her own life. She lived for everyone else, where she had once lived for herself.

The next day, she blew off work. She got in the car and drove across the state. Then she walked into the First Bank of Everytown, U.S.A., she walked up to a teller, pulled out her gun, and demanded they fill the satchel with cash.

At first, he didn’t even know why he did it. It’s one thing to live with the mystery of one’s past; far more terrifying to come face to face with it. And yet here was Dylan Antonin Rogers, hunting down his own ghosts. Circumstance did not force him into the predicament. Rather, he chased it like a dog trying to bite the tires off an eighteen-wheeler. It happened on one of those find-your-long-lost-friends-from-high-school web sites. Of all the people he could try to look up, there was no good reason to pick Aubrey. She was just a childhood crush, not a close friend, but his memory of her could destroy him.

I always look forward to Monday morning coffee. It’s brewed fresh, almost worth the $5 fee. But this Monday was different. This Monday offered a first look at a new improved Department—this after I had just figured out their last set of improvements. You see, the DCB brews adventure along with the coffee. I never know what kind of experience I’m going to get. Unfortunately, like every other Monday, I did find out.

I entered the establishment. It looked the same. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all, I thought. I walked up to an empty teller and placed my standard order.

“I’d like a large coffee with cream, no sugar.”

Without a word, the man behind the counter made an expressionless gesture toward an overhead sign, one of several identical placards, hand-crafted in uppercase letters:

Ignoring the misstatement, I replied, “Okay. So where do I get my coffee?”

He silently reached behind the counter and handed me a full-color brochure: Guide to the new Department of Caffeinated Beverages: Dedicated to serving you better.

“Okay. But where do I go to get my coffee?”

With an indication of actual human emotion, he thrust a finger to the right and sternly intoned, “Over there.”

I turned and saw something I hadn’t noticed before. There was a crowded seating area arranged in two sections with a single aisle between. The seats faced a counter. A sign read: