The egg danced in the pan.
It was Sunday. Day of rest. Day of depression. I watched as the egg did its jig, and wondered when he’d call, if he’d call. I checked my phone for the time in Indonesia; it was the middle of the night. He wouldn’t call in the middle of the night. He’d be up drinking bandrek, throwing dice in a bucket.
The egg waltzed and wobbled, a thin thread of insides leaching slowly from a hairline crack. The water was bubbling, a rocky sea. Murky, like mangrove swamp.
I turned off the hob. Eight minutes. That was the perfect number, he said, for an egg to boil hard. So the yolk was crumbly. So the white was firm, but still with some give.
I dipped my hand in the water.
I felt alive yet.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2024 Wigleaf Longlisting
Huge congratulations to Lisa Alletson whose 2024 FlashFlood piece, ' Translucent ' made the Wigleaf Top 50 longlist! You can read th...
-
I know it is Sunday morning because the paper lands on the driveway with a louder thud, masala chai whispers underneath the door, and the so...
-
We are delighted to nominate the following 2023 FlashFlood stories to the Best Small Fictions Anthology: ' I Once Swallowed a Rollercoas...
-
On the first day I extinguish the sun. It cries shooting stars that stain the blackness before they fade, flicker by flicker. It’s divine; t...
No comments:
Post a Comment