When You Gotta Go

You might be wondering why a grown man is hiding in the bushes with his trousers round his ankles.

Several years ago I had an impacted bowel. Worry not, we won't linger on it. Suffice to say it was the most painful experience of my life. Recently, I became constipated, so this morning, I decided to take up regular walks in the nearby woodland to get things moving. It was a good day to start: clear, dry and bright. The trees a riot of red and gold, the path firm underfoot. It worked! The problem: the Urge struck deep in the wood, at the furthest point on my route from my home. If I'd never had impacted bowel, I might've clamped my cheeks shut and hurried homeward, hoping for the best. The experience was a stark memory, though. I was keen to avoid repeating it. I know from experience: if I held it in, it might be days before my body deigned to co-operate again. I hadn't encountered a soul on my little constitutional. Thinking myself safe, I shuffled behind some bushes, dropped trow, and squatted down. The late Autumn air nipped at my buttocks. It was like a monster leaving my body! It hurt. My position and the sheer weight of it ensured its inevitable evacuation. Trembling and panting, I felt, for a few minutes, what women surely feel when the baby emerges. The smell of it rose up like a pantomime demon. I might've gagged, except just then I heard movement on the path. And that, dear reader, is how you found me. Panicking, I fumble with my pants and retreat further into the undergrowth, trying not to rustle, and hoping they don't get an eyeful. I turn, peeping through the branches at a caramel coloured mutt. The owner appears a moment later. "Ugh, Rupert! What have you been eating?!" I watch him scoop up my poo in a bag. My cheeks burn. I daren't move, lest the crunchy leaves betray me. I cross all my fingers, praying Rupert won't sniff me out. The man walks away, still expressing his disbelief, the bag of my shit dangling from one hand, "I can't believe such a big shit came out of such a little dog!"

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Word count: 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and author's note.)

Submitted on Sunday 10th November at 13.20

Quick Author's Note

I know this is juvenile and silly. It's my palette cleanser after a couple of weird ones. I have a a theory that, just as there is a significant portion of men who believe they could beat a lion in a fist-fight, there is also a worryingly high number who have a really big crap and think they know.

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 315 (!!!) daily micro-fiction story streak since 1st January.

ONLY FIFTY-ONE DAYS TO GO!

Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day! Rachel Deeming Gerard DiLeo

Thank you

Especially if you are one of the wonderful people who has been staunchly reading these daily scribbles since the start of the year. I see you, and I am extremely grateful for your ongoing support.

Thank you to those who leave feedback/comments.

I am still plodding away, catching up on reads. If I'm already up to date with your stories, I read someone else's!

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Here are more woodland shenanigans:

Here's my latest dollar challenge. I think you might enjoy it:

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