Andrea Damic
Impermanence of Flash
They stalk me, with their many eyes, glowing in the night, as if perceiving something I don’t. I ignore them, reminding Mum to get rid of them. She claims she does, yet they linger behind their elusive structures; always present, always watching.
The air shimmers with quiet.
***
With his palm raised high, Dad signals for me to join him for our weekend ritual. He sits behind a parapet-protected portico, his favourite spot in the house, hand-layered with the same kind of stonework he used for the outdoor BBQ. Behind him, our home’s orange facade awkwardly jutting into the air—the sole orange house among the stretched row of alabaster-coloured homes in the street, strangely blending with the sheen of the summer heat. My sister’s mutt near his feet, too old and too lazy to move, his wagging tail the only sign of life.
I scan the air for eight-legged creatures—relentless-knitting web-spinners with hollowed-out exoskeletons detached from their cobwebs, an occasional fly wrapped in silk—before settling into a chair beside him. The delicate, maze-like patterns cast a penumbra, peacefully billowing in a slow breeze, with an awe-inspiring patience for trapping unwary prey.
Dad rolls the loose tobacco, excess curls covering the glass coffee table; each exhale drifting up to the ceiling, the milky haze gently strumming the web strings. I look at him, his mid-cheek grooves and hollow tear troughs around his eyes—a shrine of remembrance, every line—an untold story. I search for the man before, but all I see is the one post-war; the lightness of his spirit subdued, his eyes—a desolate lighthouse, his smile—still a home. The way he sees me—an unspoken connection.
A rollie rests in the corner of his mouth as he hands me a pack of white Marlboro—my favourite brand—from his polo shirt pocket; he’s usually not one for multitasking. It strikes me that all his summer shirts have pockets on the left-hand side, close to his heart.
I look at the potted plants hanging from the wooden awning around the house, in soldier-rank formations, motionless—my mother’s space arboretum, an open invitation to all sorts of tiny arthropods, making my skin crawl; their subtle shadows on the walls, a piece of art at play. There’s a certain serenity in these sunsets, so I say nothing, dropping my guard to the buzzing of insects and the crosshatched structures above. I’m sure they have stories to tell, but Dad doesn’t seem to notice their beady eyes widening.
The window opposite us frames Mum’s short-cropped head, and when our eyes meet, I point upwards, gesturing at the unwelcome guests. But all she does is shrug; her mouth opening and closing like a fish in oxygen-deprived water, soundless behind the windowpane. In the country, no matter all the dusting and sweeping away, nature endures, or is it Mum’s avoidance of pest control that helps? I roll my eyes, and she bursts out laughing.
I lick the cigarette before flicking it between my lips, an adopted habit acquired by observing Dad’s tobacco routine over the years—the sweat pooling on my upper lip. I sometimes think of my father as the main feature of this outside space, entrapped in this artificial space-time aperture—not letting us in, keeping past in the past, occasionally letting me in, his favourite child—words never spoken aloud.
***
When you are young, you don’t think about the passage of time. Time is just a noun you don’t bother with, until… no more sinewy figure walled by once-upon-a-time, no more tobacco curls scattered around the coffee table, no more embraces that feel like nothing bad will ever happen again, no more nebulous shapes wafting up to the ceiling, or summer polo shirts with left-sided pockets. Each sunset carries a void now.
Only the wicker chair remains, with the faint impression of a long-gone presence. The mutt is also gone, while the beady eyes continue to glisten long into the night, weaving their stories.
The air still shimmers with quiet.
Andrea Damic is an artist/writer in Sydney, Australia, author of the hybrid collection, All the Losses, and senior editor at Pictura Journal. Her words appear or are forthcoming in Bending Genres, Blood+Honey, Ghost Parachute, JMWW, SoFloPoJo, etc. Andrea won SmokeLong Quarterly's Trainwreck Micro Competition (Sep 25). Her CNF, Another Version of Her, has been nominated for Best of the Net 2026 by Does It Have Pockets. In her imaginary free time, Andrea can be found at https://damicandrea.wordpress.com/.
