Pomegranate Tangerine

Empty. That was the best way to describe the scene I was witnessing, void of anything considerably eye catching. It was a perfect reflection of my thoughts at that moment, completely barren of anything substantially interesting or discernibly valuable. It was a still-life devoid of anything that gave it breath, yet somehow, it persisted as the subject of my glare.

Empty. The perfect adjective to describe the three part structure of my mind, body, and soul. There was nothing left in me. Beyond the pointless connective tissue that contributed to the structural integrated of the meat-suit that I wore on a regular basis, there was nothing. The constant battle of my nine to five, my double lives, and the seemingly unobtainable goals that I reach for, had left me tired. They had left me…empty.

My reflection avoided eye contact with me at the outskirts of my peripheral vision, looking around nervously in the mirror, carrying the understanding that by looking at me, it would see nothing that was worth its time. It would see nothing but more emptiness.

The image faded in and out from a dull vibrance to the beautiful, inviting shades of black. Lethargy sat in my lap. Torpor sang into my ear. Drowsiness sat on my shoulders.

My subconscious tried to steal the image of the pomegranate tangerine soap from me, but I fought for it. A pugilistic trading of blows with my mind kept me awake to witness the utter nothingness of the partially emptied bottle. I found victory at the edge of the sink, where it sat. It was a victory that would lead to the engagement of the bottle to cleanse my hands of the emptiness of the room it occupied.

I finished. Struggling to stand, my mirrored reflection found the confidence to look me in my eye as I held tightly to the yellowed marble that gave stability to the pomegranate tangerine and to the weak, wobbly legs of my sleepless form. The refreshing feeling of cleanliness covered my hands in its welcoming warmth and sweet scent, washing away all that remained of that which I sat out to purge.

The deed was complete. The supple leather of my hands had dried back to their craggy, original texture. The room fell back into darkness. I stepped through its open portal, to leave the corridor, once again, empty.

This short story was totally about taking a poop. Good morning everybody!

“Oh, the places you’ll go!” — Dr. Seuss


  1. The way you played up just pooping on the toilet….lol this is pretty funny, very entertaining, a huge boost up for me ( I LOVE DETAILS) and a cool read for this morning
    Quite an intrigue if I say so myself….oh yeah I did lol
    Keep it up Mr.


    • I’m so glad you enjoyed today’s post. Originally, I was going to write this in the style of a famous author, and then as the story progressed, it would become more and more of a jokey, more whimsical story. But I was really sleepy while writing it…and I was taking a wicked dump from this awesome baked ziti I had for lunch and dinner. Oh the poops it made!


  2. WOW! That imitation of life (art) was one that I can relate to on many levels. I also enjoyed the references to feeling less than accomplished in some of life’s “bags”. The agony of defeat, before the day has even commenced. Your vivid descriptions of that bathroom life reflection, was read as though your words was the paint brush and your blog the canvas. I can almost touch the character because of how you created him or her, as though they are texture. Keep writing and pouring your paints. I’m here for all they paintings you create from your words.


    • I’m not sure where you are from, but on my planet, you don’t reach out and touch people that are on the toilet. Gross!!!
      And don’t read too far into this post. It was just an overly detailed depiction of my time on the toilet. Yes, it was written beautiful enough to be placed on the same shelf as Emerson or Thoreau, but it’s a shitty story to be honest. (Pun for the win)

      Liked by 1 person

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