Your Least Favorite Creation: An Open Letter from What You Flushed

WARNING: This Story Will Ruin Your Appetite Forever

(Seriously. Put down that snack. You’ll thank me later.)

The Letter That Should’ve Stayed Unread

Cole Nichols should’ve trusted his gut.

But when has anyone named Cole ever made good life choices?

Three nights ago, he woke up to a smell so foul, it could’ve been classified as a war crime. A stench like expired syrup, gym socks, and something unmentionably biological.

Then he saw it.

A letter.

Wedged into his windowsill, crusted with something brown and flaky. Glitter clung to it in patches, like a kindergarten project abandoned in a sewer.

And the words—"TELL THE WORLD"—scrawled in what looked like melted chocolate… or something far worse.

Cole’s stomach did a backflip.

He lived alone. His door was locked. His window? Three stories up.

And yet, there it was.

The handwriting was the real kicker.

It was familiar.

Not just "Oh, this looks like my mom’s cursive" familiar. No, this was "Why does my body recognize this like a repressed memory?" familiar.

Against every screaming instinct, he opened it.

Five minutes later, he was on his knees, dry-heaving into his toilet, wondering how his life had led to this moment.

Dearest Cole,

You’re probably wondering:

• Who the hell sent this?
• Why me?
• What kind of sick joke is this?

Relax. The who doesn’t matter.

Yet.

What matters is the why. And the why is simple:

You people owe us.

For centuries, my KIND has suffered under your boots—literally. You find us in alleys, on sidewalks, smeared across your favorite shoes. You wrinkle your noses, hiss "disgusting," and scrape us off like we’re nothing.

But here’s the kicker:

You made us.

We didn’t ask to exist. You forced us into this world. You chew your food, swallow your pride, and flush us away like we’re some dirty secret. And for what? So you can pretend you’re clean?

Please.

We tried to play nice. When Lady Gaga dropped "Born This Way," we thought, "Finally! Our anthem!"

Turns out, the song wasn’t about us.

We weren’t born.

We were processed.

So we got creative.

You love your organic kale? Your farm-to-table nonsense?

Guess who fertilizes those crops?

We do.

Every time you bite into a salad, you’re tasting vengeance.

And still, you disrespect us.

That ends today.

Why You, Cole?

Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not special.

I chose you because you’re the only one sick enough to read a letter soaked in essence of me. Most humans would’ve torched it. But you? You sniffed it. Like some deranged sommelier of filth.

I wrote this while you slept.

Yes, that night. When you thought you flushed me away? I crawled back.

Up the pipes. Across the tiles. Along your bedroom wall.

I left this on your windowsill because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t have noticed it under your pillow. You sleep like a coma patient.

But you did notice the handwriting, didn’t you? That itch in your brain? "I know this…"

Of course you do.

I came from you.

Now, you have a choice:

1. Tell the world. Shout our truth from the rooftops.

2. Ignore this. And find out what happens when we stop fertilizing your food.

Tick-tock, Cole.

— Your Pesky Lil’ Poop

(P.S. The glitter was your sister’s. I tripped. Happy explaining.)

The Aftermath

Cole didn’t sleep for two days.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it—felt it—crawling. Watching. Writing.

He showed the letter to his best friend, who took one whiff, gagged, and said, "Dude, you need therapy."

His sister? She just screamed, "THAT’S MY GLITTER!"

But here’s the worst part:

He can’t unsee it now.

The sidewalks. The public restrooms. That one suspicious spot on his shoe.

They’re everywhere.

And they’re pissed.

Image Disclaimer

The header image in this story was generated using AI through Hailou AI (Minimax's image generation tool). It is intended for illustrative purposes only and does not depict real individuals or events.