Thursday Stories: Flasher
A New Story Most Thursdays
Happy May, 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 print-only 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 Flasher, a flash fiction short story full of whimsy, reflection, and hope. This story first appeared in Hotch Potch Literature and Art, published in 2024.
Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.
Untitled - Katie O’Rourke
Flasher
by Marco Etheridge
You throw open the coat, flash the mirror, laugh at what you see. A reflected Glenna leers from the full-length oval, blue panties, yellow striped top. Both of you think the trench coat is a bit too clean. Should be thrift store grungy instead of Burberry.
Oh well, work with what you’ve got.
You could do it, Glenna, go to the party just like this. It would be good for a few laughs. Something ironic, mirroring the mirror of the male gaze. A glimpse of desire rather than a repulsive forced viewing. No withered dangling bits here.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Do I dare do, dare do, dare? Yes, I do dare.
Pull the coat closed, lean in to smooth your eye shadow. Hesitate one heartbeat too many and reflected Glenna captures you.
That’s the trouble with mirrors. A silver time machine hanging on the wall. A portal to the past. One peak to check your makeup and the next thing you know, you’re looking at all the people you’ve ever been. And you grow smaller the further back you go, shrinking into that awkward girl who doesn’t bear remembering. Who begs to be remembered.
The bungee jump of memory, that’s what it is. A plunge deep into the past, bullet-fast at first, then slower, stretching to that first childhood memory. The chord goes tight, fingertips reach for the image of a tiny child, then—Yank! Flying forward in time, quick as you came, and here you are, standing in front of the damn mirror again.
And what do you see, my dark-eyed one? A small girl in white tights sitting on a green lawn. Grass stains and daisy chains. I feel the heat of sunshine, a quivering puppy, dog slobber. And I hear the adults talking, away, far away.
Yes. Because the adults talked and talked, but never listened. Children were meant to be seen, not heard. A pretty doll to be presented at the appropriate moment, paraded, petted, then put away for safekeeping. Glenna is a good girl. Glenna is a quiet girl.
You hesitate a moment too long and the mirror Glenna grabs you. Another vertiginous descent, images flickering past like a broken film. A tall, lean girl, breasts and bone and blood. Not so good now. Not so quiet.
Awkward boys. Being groped in the dark. Then awkward girls. Learning to grope in the dark. Discoveries. So many things to learn. Mapping the inner pathways of yourself, leaving trails of breadcrumbs so you might find your way back.
Memory swirls to smoke and then a mirror. Back in the now, you blink at your reflection. Throw the coat open and stick out your tongue. Enough with riding the yoyo of then and now.
All the people I’ve ever been and much worse things I’ve never been. No need for a fairy godmother, thank you so very much, and I’ll take a pass on the pumpkin coach. I like what I see.
You give a half twirl for the benefit of the mirror, holding the coat’s lapels high and wide.
Tonight is a party, a time to be in the moment. And may the moment be hot and sweaty. Music and dance and drink and, with any luck, a cute girl to meet.
You drop your eyes from the mirror, close the coat tight at the neck, fastening one tortoiseshell button at a time. Italian silk armor to shield you from the silvered glass. Temporary protection against the ravages of the future. Because mirrors work both ways. Quick to the past, slow and inexorable to the future. Time demands its payment. Skin sags, wrinkles appear, and all too soon you find yourself a crazy old lady with too many cats.
You laugh at the thought, pull a face at Glenna in the mirror, transform the laugh into a witch’s cackle.
All in good time, my pretty. But not now, not tonight. Why stare into the hourglass when I can gaze into someone else’s eyes instead?
The thought brings a tingle of anticipation, and you are grateful for the sensation. Your mind leaps back over the many twists and turns that brought you here. Thirty years in a flash.
So many years being taught who to be. Glenna learning to be quiet and good, pretty and shy. Then the harder years, the time of unlearning, of becoming. Stepping through curtains of disapproval, opening doors of possibility. Casting off the disappointment of others. Not your weight to carry. Learning to laugh from your guts, deep and inappropriate. Teaching yourself not to mourn the tears.
You smooth the front of the trench coat, slides your hands deep into the pockets, your eyes on mirror Glenna. This is a moment to remember, one heartbeat in a river of time. Everything you are and everything you will become, all of it right here in front of you. You smile and Glenna smiles back.
Grin all you want, pretty girl, you can’t tempt me. The past is worth a cringe or two, but spare me the future, thank you ever so. I don’t need a magic mirror to see what’s coming.
Need or not, the curtains to what will be sweep apart, and the projector flickers to life. On your mental screen, a disjointed movie trailer for The Revenge of the Crazy Cat Lady: This Time, it’s Personal! Wrinkles, sags, crow’s-feet, and bags. These are a few of the unwanted things.
And for the sake of avoiding pettiness, toss in a planet baking in its own evaporating juices, ongoing wars, and a wave of repression that could render you and yours illegal.
So, what’s a girl to do? The past is etched in stone and the future is a fool’s errand. Freeze time? Can’t be done. Wishes and fishes, my dear one.
I could curl up in a tight little ball and whimper. Solves nothing, but it’s a way to pass the time. No, I have a much better idea. As the good Bard said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances.” And tonight, I am damn sure a player.
You toss your head, and your reflection mimics the gesture.
That’s right, mirror Glenna. I’m the boss here. You stay here and pout if you like. I’ve got places to be and pretty people to meet.
You execute a graceful pirouette. The trench coat swirls around your lovely bare calves. Leaving the mirror and your reflection behind, you cross the room and pause in the entryway. Slide your feet into a pair of ballerina slippers. You select a black beret from the pegs beside the door and fit it to your head at a jaunty angle.
All dressed up and ready for a party. Let it be loud and hot, full of drinking and dancing. And yes, I’m going to flash every cute girl I see, throw my trench coat wide and leer. And when I find that sweet girl who leers back, matches me flash for flash, then the party will really get going.
The door opens. You vanish through the portal. The door closes behind you with a click. The abandoned apartment is empty. So, too, is the mirror.
finis
You can find Hotch Potch Literature and Art here:
https://www.hotchpotchliteratureandart.com/
That’s it for this week’s edition of Thursday Stories. More stories are coming your way. How will you know when a new story breaks? Glad you asked, Friends. Read On! Drumroll and... Meanwhile, don’t miss any upcoming stories. You can stay tuned for all the latest by following the MEF blog:
https://bro.uxw.mybluehost.me/whats-new-in-marcos-world-the-blog
Marco Etheridge is a writer, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over 180 reviews across Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Europe, the UK, the USA, and India. Marco’s story “Power Tools” was nominated for Best of the Web for 2023 and is the title of his latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco serves as a contributing editor for Hotch Potch Literature and Art and as a reader for Marrow Magazine. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.