I sit on the old throne inside the honey bucket sized bathroom of the Depression Era house. The house frail and thin walled. The prisoner shattered and thin-skinned soul. A cavity in the wall exposes emptiness beyond the faded white paint and plaster wall.  It does no good to peek with the eyes. There is only darkness. This is why I stab my finger inside the small breach. I shove then jiggle it up and down about an inch and a half each way. Not much room to explore. This hollow has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I have entertained the idea to expand the opening just big enough to stick my penis in without any discomfort while still snug enough to feel the penetration. I have, however, discounted such an action for fear I might run up against a nail that has been hammered in from the neighboring room missing the stud it was intended for all those years ago when the house was built. I have no intention of nailing a nail. Therefore, I limit my poking around to my right forefinger. I am always cautious. I still fear certain things such as the unknown. Maybe this is why I have not probed to the point beyond imagination. I only go so far leaving me room to fantasize something that was not there before. It must be said poking around involves a certain amount of risk but, it can also fill in the holes.

E.C., Lawrence is from the Pacific Northwest. He has had short stories and poetry published in Arcturus, Frontier Tales, Edify Fiction, Blink Ink, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine and others. His book "Ink Blots" should be available Fall 2018.