Of Flowers and Bees

Pantyless, I lay on cool pink cotton sheets, scrolling through a weekend’s worth of messages on my mobile. Your pussy looks like a flower, my boyfriend said suddenly. A flower? What the hell kind of flower is that? He shrugged his shoulders in that, how do you expect me to know gesture he often uses. Leaping off the bed, he grabbed a pen, a piece of paper and began sketching.  Open your legs a little wider, hon, I need a better view. I looked at him with an arched eyebrow, but did what he requested.  Lying there, I look up at the ceiling thinking of flowers and bees and if the drawing of my pussy would look like a Van Gogh or a Matisse. In about two minutes, my sweetie placed the pen and paper on the nightstand and smiled his one dimpled smile at me. I asked to see the drawing, he didn’t answer as he climbed on top of me and watered my flower.


Toni G. had dreams of becoming a rap artist (Hence the name Toni G.) but due to life struggles (such as being an old fart and not having enough money to buy gold chains or gold caps for her teeth) she decided to forgo that career and become a poet. As you can tell by her piece being published in WFP, she hasn’t made it as a poet either. 

Best Seat in the House

Bob waddled past the beef jerk display, past the thirty-seven flavors of Mountain Dew, and past the glistening tubes of meat basking on stainless steel rollers. His pace quickened as he neared the men’s room.
“You’re just in time,” said the man who blocked all but a sliver of the door to salvation. “Show’s about to start.”
Bob’s gut growled. “You ain’t kidding, buddy. Can I sneak past?”
“Not without a ticket. Seated or standing?”
“Seated. Definitely.” Bob’s stomach sounded like it had swallowed a dryer that had swallowed a loafer that had swallowed two tablespoons of ball bearings. “Now  if you could …”
“Ten dollars, please. You’ll have the best seat in the house.”
“Ten dollars for a commode? That’s crazy.”
“We’re the best live entertainment in the Tri-Counties.”
“Never mind.” Bob shoved a bill at the man.  He pushed open the door and shuffled to the nearest stall, his hands locked in a death grip on his butt cheeks. The two-deep crowd jammed in front of the sinks parted to let him through. He fumbled with his oversize Don’t Mess With Texas belt buckle. A sigh left his lips as he sat on hard plastic.
The restroom door opened and closed. “Knock, knock.”
Bob stomped his size 12 boots. “I paid ten dollars for the privilege of taking a crap, so you’re gonna have to be patient.”
“Knock, knock.”
Bob stood up. His pants hugged his ankles. His fists pounded the graffiti-tagged walls. “Dagnabit.”
A voice from the urinals yelled,“Who’s there?”
Fifteen voices chorused, “Zany who?”
“Zany-body seen the candy bar I dropped?” Belly laughs and applause bounced of the bathroom’s tinny acoustics like images in a hall of funhouse mirrors. “Thank you. What a wonderful crowd. Welcome to the Tri-Counties best truck stop based knock-knock joke review.”
Caleb Echterling’s work has appeared in the finest men’s room stalls on the eastern seaboard. He tweets funny fiction using the not at all clever handle @CalebEchterling. You can find more of his work at www.calebechterling.com.