In This Edition of Thursday Stories: Mortality and Daily Life…
Happy June, Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my dusty herd of short stories, I realize that some of these rascals haven’t seen the light of day in quite a spell. Time to let them romp a bit! And so—drumroll please—I give you Thursday Stories. I’m not guaranteeing a new story every Thursday, but I will do my best until all the archived tales have been set free.
You can find all of my stories and more at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:
This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features One of These Days, the tale of an older married couple, a conversation at breakfast, and hardening egg yolks. One of These Days first appeared in 3Elements Review, 2024. The three required elements were: a crowd, an anchorage, and a wedding dress. The genre is literary flash fiction.
Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.
One of These Days
by Marco Etheridge
He sits at the kitchen table staring at a triangle of toast held between his fingers and then beyond, through a blurred field of vision, to his wife across the table. Just the two of them and no sound save their breathing and the tick-tock passing of time. He drops the toast to the plate between his elbows, sees the crumbs dance and fall to be captured by congealing egg yolk. Hands drop to the Formica—Smack!—he pushes his shoulders back, squares his jaw, and begins to speak.
“One of these days, Marge, I’m going to yank open that damned junk drawer, dive in there with both hands. You watch me, see if I don’t. I’ll root down through those layers of mismatched hinges, random screws stuck to yellowing masking tape, keys that open no lock, tangles of broken rubber bands. Then I’ll go deeper, past the bits of paper so important once upon a time, invitations to events we never attended, an address book full of dead names, postcards stamped but not sent. Throw that crap in the waste bin, layer by layer, all that… what’s the word for it?”
He pauses, thinking perhaps. She waits, patiently perhaps. He snaps his fingers, points to the off-white ceiling, the circular fluorescent light.
“Detritus, that’s what it is, because things are decomposing in there, bits of my life rotted to uselessness. A man’s existence should not be marked by uselessness, Marge. That’s what I’m trying to say here. No. I need a firm place, an anchorage, a reference point. That’s why I’m going to keep digging in that damn drawer until my fingernails scrape against that horrible floral shelf paper you put down forty years ago.
“And do you know what I’m going to find, way down there in the depths of that damned drawer? Well, I’ll tell you. My mortality, that’s what. It’s in there somewhere, I’m sure of it. Once I’ve got my hands on it, I’m going to sit back on the linoleum, right there on the floor with my back against the cupboards. Then I’ll hold my precious mortality right up close to my eyes and stare at it without blinking.
“If I get tired of staring, say my eyes start watering for some reason, I’ll slip my mortality into my shirt pocket, all safe and sound. Then I’ll yank that empty drawer clean out and throw it across the room, just to hear it smash to pieces.”
Marge raises her cup to her lips, eyeballs her husband through the rising steam. Lowers the coffee, cup against saucer—Click!
“You won’t get any quarrel from me, Harry. That drawer could stand a bit of tidying, and you’re just the one for it. Something to keep you occupied and out of my hair whilst I tend to my thoughts. So much to think about these days, and all the memories like a crowd in my head. Like children clamoring for attention, a whole swarm of them talking at the same time. You remember how that used to be, I know you do. I swear, I can’t get a moment’s peace.
“There was a time not long ago when I had a balance point, a fulcrum you might call it, betwixt past and present. It helped me keep the tally of my still-living lovelies and the roster of my beloved dead. I can’t think what I might have done with it. One day, it was just gone. I know life isn’t fair, as you yourself say far too often, but it makes me want to cry all the same.
“So many faces swimming in front of me, Harry, streaming past in a blur too fast to make sense of. I see smiles and laughter and tears. A boy with a skinned knee, a tall girl in a graduation gown, grown men and women cradling babies. Time was I could see a single image at a time, one precious face. Then I’d name you the year, the place, stitch those memories together like a quilt. Show you how they connected, and how we connected to them. Not anymore, Harry. Not anymore.”
She cradles her coffee between her hands and tries to smile. Stares into the cup but does not take a sip.
“You know it’s funny. I used to picture life as a river, and me standing on a little island midstream. That river was so beautiful. The waters flowed past on either side, bearing miracles and tragedies, happy times and sad. Children grown to beautiful young women, handsome men beside them, a wedding dress, a new grandchild.
“Can you picture it, Harry? Now my island has washed away, carried off in a great flood, and me with it. Now I’m under water and drowning, me and all my memories tumbling downstream.”
Marge lowers the cup to its saucer, then spreads her hands flat on the table, head bowed. Harry reaches out a gnarled hand, lays it atop hers, and gives her fingers a squeeze. She raises her face and smiles, her eyes bright with tears. Slips her hand from beneath his, dabs her eyes with the hem of her apron. Her chair scrapes against the linoleum, and then she is standing.
“All this talk and the coffee’s gone cold. Do you want another cup?”
Harry leans back in his chair and rubs the stubble on his chin.
“No, I’d better get after trimming that hedge. Been putting it off too long.”
Marge nods, then bends to gather the dishes.
“And I need to wash these plates before the yolk sets hard.”
Harry stands, tucks in his shirt, glances around the kitchen. Marge bustles past, stops, gives him a peck on the cheek.
“You be careful. Don’t lop off any fingers.”
“Now, Marge.”
She steps to the sink. Plates clatter against stainless steel. Then her voice over the sound of running water.
“I’ll brew some iced tea. It’s going to be warm today.”
Harry stands still as a statue. He watches Marge, the way her elbows move as she scrubs the plates, rinses them, stacks them in the drainer.
Then he remembers the hedge and walks to the back door.
And… if you have a hankering for more flash fiction, look no further than my collection Broken Luggage:
Broken Luggage Collected Flash Fiction
Broken Luggage: Two dozen flash fiction tales of love lost and love found, of darkness at the end of life, and light at the beginning.
A man's life condensed into the broken luggage that will contain it. A young woman alone in the Sonoran Desert. Memories of dangerous eggs, thunderstorms, and a gunshot man. A character tours his self-made hell. Another steps from between the pages. Parables of sand and migration A labyrinth into new love, and the remembrance of love past. These two dozen flash stories tell swift tales of love lost and love found, of darkness at the end of life, and light at the beginning.
Marco Etheridge is a writer of fiction, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His stories have been published in reviews, journals, and magazines in Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. Broken Luggage gathers twenty-four of his best flash stories into one collection. A man’s life condensed into the broken luggage that will contain it. A young woman alone in the Sonoran Desert. Memories of dangerous eggs, thunderstorms, and a gunshot man. A character tours his self-made hell. Another steps from between the pages. Parables of sand and migration A labyrinth into new love, and the remembrance of love past. These two dozen flash stories tell swift tales of love lost and love found, of darkness at the end of life, and light at the beginning. Unforgettable characters struggle against the tides and pressures of an impersonal world, and against the burdens they carry within. There is joy and despair, defiance and acceptance. The inhabitants of these pages learn who they are, and sometimes, who they are not. Welcome, Reader, to the world of Broken Luggage.
Disclosure of Material Connection: Some of the links in the page above are "affiliate links." This means if you click on the link and purchase the item, I will receive an affiliate commission. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."
Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. His story “Power Tools” has been nominated for Best of the Web for 2023. “Power Tools” is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a new ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine. Website: https://bro.uxw.mybluehost.me/