Hello Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my herd of short stories, I realize that more than three dozen of the little rascals have appeared only in print. Some of you may have forked over the dough for this or that literary review, but I don’t expect everyone to buy all of the reviews all of the time. 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.

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Child of Calypso. Child of Calypso first appeared in The First Line Literary Journal, published in 2020. Without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Child of Calypso

by Marco Etheridge

The door was locked. Held chest-high, his fingertips gripped the mottled brass of the doorknob. The door was old, as was the house. The boy wished he were old, as well. That would solve everything. He thought of being old while he worked the brass knob back and forth, testing the slack in the mechanism, left-right-left. His fingertips were gentle and patient, but the door was locked.

The boy stood silent as an eel, listening for sounds of the adults. He heard his father’s voice outside the house, slow and lazy, like it always was the morning after a business trip. They had all gone to the airport last night, his mother driving and his little brother crowding him in the backseat.

It was better when his dad flew in on a Saturday or Sunday morning because then he would buy them breakfast at the airport. There would be silver-dollar pancakes and the twirly thing that held six different kinds of syrup. The Friday night arrivals were different. Bags left by the couch; the adults herded them off to bed. His dad hurried the bedtime story, and his little brother would fuss, but the light would go out and the door would click shut, fussing or not. Then the boy would hear the clink of bottles and the wrench and shatter of the ice cube tray.

The sounds of a Saturday morning drifted into the still hallway, voices clear and muted as if underwater. He knew that he had time. They were all in the backyard, his mom and dad drinking Bloody Marys while his little brother rolled around in the dead, brown grass, trying to make them laugh.

His parents did not allow him to make their Bloody Marys. There were lemons to cut and squeeze and spicy stuff that made your eyes burn if you touched them after. His dad let him make the highballs instead, which were much easier. The boy loved the silver jigger and was very careful to hold it exactly level over the glass when he measured the whiskey.

Adults did things that confused the boy. His father taught him how to fill the big end of the jigger right to the brim, then pour the whiskey over the ice. He believed his father and followed his directions with care and precision. The boy would hand out the drinks and the adults would compliment him. Later he would see one of the adults splashing whiskey into a glass without measuring anything. They called it freshening. Maybe adults didn’t need to measure when they freshened things.

His teachers confused him even more than his father’s friends. Teachers asked questions but did not really want answers, as the boy found out the hard way. Back when the snow was still piled in the schoolyard, his teacher asked the class if anyone knew how deep the ocean was. Finally, something useful and important! The boy could hardly believe his ears. His hand shot into the air like a rocket.

Reciting the answer made the boy happy, but his eager words did not seem to please the teacher. Maybe he was expected to give a more complete answer, so he kept talking. He told the class that Challenger Deep was 35,814 feet deep and we knew that because Jacques Piccard and Don Walsh had gone all the way to the bottom. The name of their bathyscaphe was the Trieste, and it was the coolest invention ever, except maybe for the Aqua Lung, which was invented by two French guys and one of them was also named Jacques. The boy tried to tell the class about how important the invention of the scuba system was, but the teacher thanked him and asked him to sit down.

That was the day he decided to run away. He wasn’t going to leave home with a bundle dangling from a stick slung over his shoulder. That was stupid kid stuff from the Saturday morning cartoons. He had a much better plan, one that would solve everything. Jacques Cousteau would take him in, the boy was sure of it. He would live aboard the Calypso and be the youngest member of the crew. But he could not show up empty-handed. The boy had to prove that he loved the ocean as much as Mister Cousteau did, maybe even more. Having his own scuba gear would convince everyone. The boy was sure of it.

He executed his careful plan one week at a time. The snow melted away, replaced by the reluctant warmth of early spring. He had half the money he needed hidden in a bandaid box taped to the back of his underwear drawer. The boy was methodical, taking only one bill from the folded stack that lay atop his father’s walnut jewelry box. Twenty dollars each week, a single bill each time, and by the end of the school year he would have enough money for the scuba gear, with a bit left over for a bus ticket when the Calypso came to port. But now the door was locked.

He dropped his hand from the doorknob and squinted at the keyhole. It was a funny shape and he could see a tiny slice of his parent’s bedroom through the hole. His mom called the key a skeleton key, which was confusing because it didn’t look anything like a skeleton.

Whatever it was called, keys lived in the first drawer inside the kitchen. The boy cocked his head, made sure of the voices, then slipped from the hallway like a fish in water. He passed through the empty dining room of the bungalow and stopped just inside the kitchen. He could see his parents through the wavy glass of the back-porch windows.

The drawer squeaked as he opened it, but no heads turned at the sound. Two rings of keys lay in bottom of the drawer among a clutter of other junk. At the very front of the drawer was one old-fashioned key. A red ribbon was tied through a cloverleaf of steel loops that made up the handle. Sure of it, the boy grabbed the key, closed the drawer, and retraced his steps.

*  *  *

The next week, the boy’s dad flew in on a Saturday morning but there were no silver-dollar pancakes with six different flavors of syrup. Instead, his father drove them all straight home to the brick bungalow under the arch of the budding elm trees.

His father steered the Chevy up the double concrete strips of the driveway, but things did not happen in the normal way. His father climbed the back steps with his suit bag and briefcase. His mother walked his little brother next door so he could help Mister Barry’s Mexican wife make tortillas.

The boy stood beside the car feeling forgotten. His parents seemed to ignore him as they disappeared in opposite directions. Then his mother came back around the Barry house and walked up the driveway. She took the boy by the hand and led him up the white wooden stairs to the back porch. The boy’s mother said they needed to have a talk. She used all three of his names and he soon wished they really had forgotten him.

The boy’s father was sitting at the big dining room table. He patted the empty chair beside him, and the boy levered himself onto it. His mother sat down beside him. The boy was trapped between his parents and he knew that this was going to be a very bad talk.

Thirty minutes later, the boy’s secret bandaid box was empty and exposed to the late-morning light. Torn bands of masking tape still clung to its thin metal sides. The ragged edges of the tape curled against the polished wood of the dining room table. The money was gone, tucked into his father’s pocket.

The boy stared into the flat empty box while the voices of the adults droned in the air over his head. The metal box was silver inside, and light mirrored on the opened lid. The glow of reflected light illuminated the emptiness inside the box on the table. The boy’s eyes were riveted there, and he saw that all of his hopes and plans had disappeared into this silver emptiness. There would be no scuba gear, no running away, and no chance of becoming the youngest member of Jacques Cousteau’s crew.

*  *  *

The school year came to an end, and the heat of summer baked the neighborhood. Fans churned in the windows of the bungalows. The elms overarched the street and kids played in the shaded tunnel beneath the trees.

The last of the school year had been hard for the boy. Every meal served at the dining room table reminded him of that awful Saturday morning. Worse yet, his parents seemed to have forgotten all about it. Life in the small bungalow returned to well-worn patterns, which washed over him, and he felt as if he were drowning.

It was a cicada June, and the hot afternoons were filled with their alien buzzing, the sound of miniature power tools rising and falling. The boy searched for molted cicada shells, translucent ghosts cast off and left clinging to the rough bark of the elms. The new summer brought more than insects and heat; it brought time to dream of a new escape.

The boy hoarded every cent of his allowance and yard work money. Before the new grass came in, he volunteered to thatch the yard, the worst job there was. His dad maybe gave him a look, but the boy kept his head down and racked until his hands blistered. Even with the thatching there wasn’t enough money, but it would have to do.

The boy looked at maps and calculated distances. It would be best to leave on a weekday when his father was out of town. The odds of making a clean getaway were better with only his mother in the house.

The dive shop was more than three miles away, but he had his trusty bike and he was not scared. The easy thing was that the route lay straight up Madison Avenue the whole way. The hard thing was getting away from the house. The boy told his mother about the expedition to the Forest Preserve and the names of the other boys and the lunch plan. All of it was true, but he would not be part of the noisy pack as it pedaled away. The neighborhood mom network would catch him eventually, but too late to matter.

*  *  *

He rode his bicycle past the BBQ joint and the Rock of Ages and the model shop where he used to spend all his money before he had a plan. Crossing the bridge over the Des Plaines, he could see the slow river and the ribbon of forest on either side of the muddy banks. He ignored it all, pedaling due East into German town. The avenue was straight as a ruled line, without kink or bend, and it disappeared into the mirage of the city still miles away.

The boy picked out the dive shop from a half-block away. It was on the street level among the endless rows of brick apartment buildings. A signboard hung over the doorway, a red square bisected diagonally by a white stripe and beneath it the name of the shop.

The boy leaned his bike against the shopfront and stood before a wide glass door. The bottom half of the door was painted in the same red and white design of a dive flag. He saw himself reflected in the red glass. His heart was pounding in his chest. He wanted to jump on his bike and flee but he forced his reluctant hand to the door and pushed it open.

An electronic buzzer sounded in the shop as the boy stepped across the threshold. The front of the shop was filled with racks of diving gear. Swim fins, masks, and snorkels hung from pegboard displays. There were islands of gleaming valves and regulators spouting black hoses. The boy was mesmerized by the sight of it all. The spell was broken by a gruff voice.

“Son, if you want to keep that bike, I suggest you wheel it inside the shop.”

The boy’s head swiveled like an owl, but there was no adult attached to the voice. He did as he was told. The buzzer protested his departure and reappearance. He propped the bike just inside the door and took two steps forward.

The shop was wide at the front and narrow where it ran back into the building. The boy peered around a corner and saw a wooden counter. There was a man behind the counter, and his face was both scary and familiar.

The boy stared without meaning to and realized he was looking into the face of Sgt. Rock. His mom wouldn’t let him read Sgt. Rock comics because they were about war, but his friend Jimmy had every comic book in the world. The man spoke to him, his words loud and quiet at the same time.

“It’s okay, kid, I won’t bite you. I already had breakfast this morning.”

He was trapped. Without willing it, his feet moved, and he was dragged deeper into the shop. Then he saw the diving suit.

The deep-sea diver stood at the counter as if waiting for service on the ocean floor. There were brass-rimmed portholes in the bulging steel helmet, each one polished to a golden glow. A weighted belt encircled a canvas waist and one gloved hand rested on the edge of the counter. The boy stared at the motionless diver, unable to take another step.

“You like my old diving suit? I spent a lot of years under that hood.”

The boy nodded his head, then remembered his adult manners and said, “Yes, sir,” he liked it very much.

“Let’s talk about the rules of the shop, okay? You can call me Chief or Mr. Perry but leave off with the sir. Fair enough? Now, what can I do for you?”

This was it. He had to tell this scary man everything or else run for his bike and give it up forever. He looked down at the toes of his scuffed sneakers, then up into those icy blue eyes. Before he could stop himself, the words came tumbling out of him.

He told the Chief about Jacques Cousteau and the Calypso and how he needed to learn to dive so he could join the crew and explore the ocean. The man listened, leaning over the counter and sometimes nodding his head. Then he raised one hand. Two of the fingers were only half as long as they should have been. The boy stared at the rounded stubs and went silent.

“How old are you, son, if you don’t mind my asking?”

His heart sinking in his chest, the boy told the man his age. The Chief ran a thumb along his jawline and seemed to be looking to the deep-sea diver for an answer. Then he turned his face back to the boy.

“Here’s the thing, kid. Diving is all about following the rules. We follow the rules because they keep us alive. And the rules say that I can’t strap tanks on you for a couple more years.”

The words washed over the boy like a wave. Years, he would have to wait years! He tried to turn himself away, but his feet would not move. Tears welled in his eyes, and he was ashamed of crying in front of the man but still he could not make himself move.

When he raised his wet eyes, the Chief was still behind the counter, his gnarled hands wrapped over the worn edge of it. The boy wiped one eye on each shoulder of his T-shirt. The Chief pushed himself upright and barked into the back of the shop.

“Hey, Bobby, c’mere a minute, will ya?”

A younger version of the Chief appeared in an open doorway behind the counter. His blond hair stuck up in a brush cut and the skin of his face was bronzed.

“What’s up, Chief?”

“We got us a new student here. I figure we can start him cracking the books so he’s ready for the pool when the time comes. What have we got back there on the used shelf that would interest this young man?”

Bobby disappeared without a word. The Chief smiled and turned back to face the boy.

“You’ll like Bobby. He’s about as talkative as you are, which is to say not at all.”

The younger man reappeared and thumped two old books onto the counter. Without a word, he stepped back into the doorway and leaned against it. The Chief eyeballed the books and pushed them to the edge of the counter.

“Let’s see here, Basic Scuba and The Silent World. Good choices, Bobby. Now we need to figure out a fair price for these.”

The boy dug into the pocket of his jeans and fetched out a few crumpled bills and a handful of coins. He stepped forward and dumped the money onto the counter.

“I can see you’re not much of a bargainer. Fair enough, I like a man who knows what he wants. These old boys are pretty dog-eared. What do you say to fifty cents apiece?”

Before the boy could answer, the Chief slid a few coins out of the pile and pushed the rest of the money alongside the books. The boy stood stock still under the eyes of the two men. He had no idea what to do next.

The Chief gave his jaw another stroke of the thumb.

“Here’s the deal, kid. You take these books on home with you. Whatever you don’t understand, you make notes, okay? Divers keep a logbook, so you might as well get used to it. You bring your notebook when you come back, and Bobby here will go over it with you. Today’s Thursday, so why don’t we say a week from today, same time. Does that work for you?”

The boy nodded his head. He managed to say “Yes, Chief,” and tried to make it sound crisp and loud the same way Bobby said it.

“Bobby, you still have that pile of junk regulators and whatnot?”

“Always, Chief.”

“Maybe the kid here could help you out a bit, learn to tear a few of them down. Broke is broke, so he can’t make them any worse.”

“Sure thing, Chief.”

The Chief turned back to the boy. He seemed to ponder something before he spoke. The boy felt a strong urge to examine the toes of his sneakers.

“One more question, kid. Do your parents know you’re here?”

He managed to look the man in the eye while he shook his head no, but he couldn’t squeeze out any words.

“Thanks for being honest with me. When you come back next Thursday, I need you to bring one of your parents with you. They need to say yay or nay on your hanging out here. If they give this the okay, then everything is hunky-dory. You understand what I’m saying?”

The boy got out a sharp “Yes, Chief,” and he saw Bobby nod.

“Good, then you better get going so you can be where you said you were going to be rather than where you are now. We’ll see you next Thursday.”

The boy scooped the remaining money from the counter and stuffed it into his pocket. He got the two heavy books tucked under his arm about the same time a huge grin almost split his face. Still grinning, he waved to the two men and dashed for his bike.

The electric buzzer sawed the air like a cicada as he wrestled his bike and books through the door of the shop. He tucked his new treasures into the basket of his bike and leaped onto the seat. Before the door was fully closed, he was pedaling for the Forest Preserve, his legs pumping as fast as his heart.

Fini

You can find The First Line at:

https://www.thefirstline.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://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/whats-new-in-marcos-world-the-blog/

And finally, with your indulgence, allow me a blatant book plug. A lovely concept: Artists being paid for their work. And, yes, even writers need to eat. Child of Calypso appears in my collected stories volume titled Orphaned Lies. If you enjoyed this story, please consider buying a book. Thank you!

Orphaned Lies – Collected Stories

The Journey of Orphaned Lies

The fifteen stories contained within these pages tell tales of love lost and love found, of darkness at the end of life, and light at the beginning. Unforgettable characters struggle against the impersonal forces of the outside world, and against the flaws they carry within themselves. There is quiet heroism and unwanted heroes discarded, acts of defiance and of acceptance. The inhabitants of these pages learn who they are, and sometimes, who they are not. Enter here, Reader, and join in the journey that is Orphaned Lies.

Order Now!

About the Book

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 by reviews, journals, and magazines in Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. Here, for the first time, fifteen of his best short stories are gathered together in one collection. An aging veteran who despises his neighbor ends up in hospital under her care. An isolated married couple search for help to deliver their first child. A man pauses on a wind-swept cliff to converse with a dead friend. A young kitchen boy is sent on a perilous journey across a pestilential land. A man and women find love at the end of their lives. The fifteen stories contained within these pages tell tales of love lost and love found, of darkness at the end of life, and light at the beginning. Unforgettable characters struggle against the impersonal forces of the outside world, and against the flaws they carry within themselves. There is quiet heroism and unwanted heroes discarded, acts of defiance and of acceptance. The inhabitants of these pages learn who they are, and sometimes, who they are not. Open these pages and join in the journey that is Orphaned Lies.

Details

Genre: Short Stories
Tags: Recommended Books, Short Stories
Publisher: Marco Etheridge Fiction
Publication Year: 2021
ASIN: B099TG6GQ7
List Price: 9.95
eBook Price: 2.99

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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."

Hello Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my herd of short stories, I realize that more than three dozen of the little rascals have appeared only in print. Some of you may have forked over the dough for this or that literary review, but I don’t expect everyone to buy all of the reviews all of the time. 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.

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features The Wrong Name. The Wrong Name first appeared in Czykmate Publications, published in 2019. This is a dark horror story featuring a serial killer on death row. So, Content Warning: HORROR STORY! Not for the squeamish. Don’t say I didn’t warn you…

Without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Thursday Stories: The Wrong Name

by Marco Etheridge

The woman saw her face reflected in a thick pane of security glass smudged with the ghostly imprints of forgotten kisses. Her reflection was serious, nervous, pretty: Margaret Kayner, a young graduate student waiting to meet a monster.

Beyond the glass barrier was a worn counter bare of anything except a dirty phone. The back of an empty chair rose from the edge of the counter, and beyond that was a bare room with a sliding door of heavy steel bars set into the far wall. Two uniformed men sat at a table near the door.

A klaxon blared, loud even through the thick glass, and she jumped at the sound. A man in an orange jumpsuit appeared behind the steel bars, dwarfed by the guards at his side. The door slid open, and the prisoner shuffled into the room, one guard’s hand under each of his arms. The orange-suited figure was handcuffed, and the cuffs were linked to a belly chain around his narrow waist.

The manacled young man wore a happy, boyish grin. His eyes locked onto Margaret as if nothing else existed; not guards, nor the rattling chains, nor the grim, gray room. She lowered her own eyes and tried to exhale the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

She raised her head, wearing the expression she used for sullen undergraduates. The guards were lowering the prisoner into the chair. As they retreated to the table at the back wall, the young man reached for the phone with his right hand. His left hand followed of necessity. He was still smiling. Margaret took in a long breath, exhaled, then reached for the phone on her side of the glass.

“Good morning, Mr. Thomas, or would you prefer Thaddeus?”

His voice came in a rush, a friendly voice compressed by the slight static of the phone.

“Miss Margaret Kayner, University of Idaho, Criminology, pleased to make your acquaintance. You look like a Margaret, nice hair, brown eyes. Your name suits you, not like mine. What the hell my parents were thinking, I have no idea. Breed themselves a white-trash baby and then saddle him with a name like Thaddeus. When you make the damn thing short enough for folks to use, you end up with Thad. You ever throw a bullfrog against a wall? No? Well, I guarantee you, that’s the sound they make when their slimy asses hit the cinderblocks: Thad—Thad—Thad. Yeah, that’s the sound all right.”

Margaret started to speak, but that friendly voice continued to chatter in her ear.

“Just call me Thad; everyone else does. The prison preacher is the only one who calls me Thaddeus. He says the name comes from the bible. He likes to talk about heaven and hell; goes on and on about it. I listen to him, but only because he makes me laugh. That disturbs the old boy, which just makes me laugh more. I tell him that I’ve been to hell; grew up there as a matter of fact. If you think one of Satan’s little bonfires is hot, you should try a double-wide trailer in the middle of an Idaho summer.”

The flood of talk stopped abruptly, and Margaret wedged a question into the monologue.

“You grew up in Idaho, near Hayden, is that right?”

“That is correct, Miss Margaret. You see? Margaret has a nice ring to it, one that suits you. But to answer your question, I grew up in Pleasant Acres, in what they call a mobile home park. It doesn’t sound too bad the first time you hear it, but it’s a lie through and through, like so many other things. First off, there isn’t any park. Imagine a park in your mind and what do you see? You might picture green grass, a few shade trees, maybe some flowers. That isn’t what Pleasant Acres looked like, I can tell you. There were acres all right, but they sure as hell weren’t pleasant.”

Thad leaned back in his chair, the phone in his right hand. He held his left close to slack the chain of the handcuffs.

 “The place was a collection of sagging double-wide trailers stranded on dirty gravel lots. Clumps of scrub-grass pushed up through the gravel. The roads were cheap asphalt that melted in the sun and stuck to the soles of your shoes. If you tracked that asphalt goo into the trailer-house, it was a beating waiting to happen.”

The flood of his words paused, and Margaret scrawled a quick note across a pad of paper.

“You say that was a beating waiting to happen. Was physical violence a part of your upbringing?”

The man behind the glass chuckled.

“I guess that’s one way to sugar-coat it, but a beating is just a beating. Giving it a fancy name makes it a lie, just like calling those tin boxes mobile homes is a lie. There is nothing mobile about a double-wide, except the first time they truck one to a site. After that, they never move again. The damn things just sit there perched on blocks, buckling in the sun. Our kitchen had enough of a slope to carry a toy truck clear down the length of it. That truck wouldn’t stop rolling until it hit the shag carpet in the living room.”

“Would you say that your family was poor?”

Thad gave her a hard look before he answered.

“Is this where you try to establish a causal relationship between poverty, physical abuse, and violent crime? C’mon now, don’t look so surprised. I’ve learned a good bit from the shrinks in here, but I was hoping for better from you.”

Margaret flustered and laid down her pen.

“I apologize, Thad. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Thad waved away the apology, and Margaret heard the clink of the chains through the phone.

“Look, I’m not telling you any of this to put wrong ideas in your head. It’s true that a dirt-poor kid growing up in a trailer park might have gotten the short end of the stick. But the other side of that truth is that there were kids who grew up same as me and got the hell out of there. I got out, too. I just picked a different path than they did.”

“Were your parents somewhere along this path? Did they try to help you in any way?”

“Yes, Ma’am, they were right there, happy to help out with kind words. You never will amount to nothing. That was something I heard a lot when I was coming up. I don’t know exactly what my people expected me to amount to. My daddy was a welder when he worked, and that wasn’t often. My mama’s two hobbies were OxyContin and vodka. I was the oldest of three kids. My folks had a pretty good go at beating me into shape before they gave up on the youngsters. You know, maybe there is something to this causal stuff of yours.”

Margaret scribbled in her notebook as his laughter poured through the earpiece of the phone. Then his voice was off again, and the words washed over her.

 “When they got tired of beating me, they’d go back to telling me how I wouldn’t amount to anything. A mantra, that’s what those spiritual folks call it; something that is repeated over and over. I read that in one of the books from the prison library. I have plenty of time to read in solitary. Of course, I proved my folks wrong. I amounted to more than they could ever imagine in their darkest dreams, not that either of them had much in the way of imagination.”

“Did you like to read when you were in school?”

“Funny thing is, I did. I liked adventure novels, Jack London, that sort of thing. My daddy, he didn’t read anything if he could avoid it. My mama read the labels on bottles of pills. There wasn’t an ounce of curiosity between them.”

Thad shifted the phone to his left ear and grinned.

“Now these prison head-shrinkers, they’re a different story. They’ve got more curiosity than two barrels of monkeys. I enjoy talking with the psychiatrists, what they call their sessions. It gets me out of solitary, and they are always good for a laugh.”

“Why do the psychiatrists make you laugh? Are they funny?”

“I’m pretty sure they don’t mean to be funny, but people like that amuse me. They are always looking for what they call closure, as if there is some final point where everything is resolved. I guess it makes them feel safer, like a candle in the dark. What the shrinks don’t understand is that lighting a candle in the dark just makes it easier for the hunters to find you.”

“Is that how you see yourself, a hunter?”

Thad pointed one finger at her and nodded his head.

“That is a good question, Miss Margaret. Better than most of the stuff the shrinks come up with.”

Margaret allowed the barest smile.

“Is there an answer to the good question? Are you a hunter, like Bundy or Ridgeway?”

Thad did not answer her question, but she watched his clever smile fade. He ran a forefinger up and down his nose, his eyes hooded. When he raised his eyes again, they were sharp and hard.

“You’re a pretty woman, Miss Margaret, the prettiest thing I’ve seen in a long time. Since you brought me a gift, I should give you something in return. The shrinks like to call it reciprocity. I’m going to answer your question and let you in on a little secret besides. The answering part is easy. A few folks are hunters, and the rest are prey. A fella needs to know which one he is. I’m a hunter, true enough, but I don’t like comparisons. I’ll confess my secret to you: I do hate it when the head-docs call me a copycat. Don’t get me wrong, I never let on that it bothers me. I never show them anything that I don’t mean to. That’s how I keep control of our little sessions.”

“Thank you for taking me into your confidence, Thad. No one likes to be called a copycat.”

Thad cocked his head to one side, his smile almost splitting his face in two.

“I do believe you are trying to get a rise out of me. Good for you, Margaret. Who cares if I stole a few tricks from Ridgeway? He was the master, the real deal, the Green River Killer. Think of it: two decades he was on the loose. Hell, the cops had him pegged as a suspect for years and he still kept on killing. If the cops had given me that much time, just think what I could have done.”

“So, you regret not having more time?”

“Regret is one of those words folks like to toss around, along with remorse. As if either one will bring a dead body back to life. Neither of those words mean anything to me. They only show how weak and pathetic people can be. It’s true I have some regrets, but not in the way they use the word. I regret getting caught, of course. I regret not knowing more about that damned DNA evidence. I didn’t hide the first bodies as well as I should have. That was a mistake. It was those first corpses that led the cops to me. I learned better as I went along, but too late. Tough luck, and here I am on death row with only the guards to entertain me.”

“How are your interactions with the guards?”

“The guards aren’t worth a thought. They’re as boring as a flock of sheep. They think that they’re tough guys, but I can see the holes in them. They’ve got dark pits eating away their guts, every one of them.”

Thad arched a thumb toward the table behind him.

“The guards are afraid of me, which shows they have a bit of common sense. They’re right to be afraid. I would kill any one of them if I got the chance. It would be something to do. It’s not like the good State of Idaho can execute me more than once. Once a man has a death sentence on his head, he’s about as free as he can get.”

Margaret looked past Thad to the hulking men sitting at the back wall.

“But the guards are all so much bigger than you. Aren’t you afraid of them?”

Thad grinned and shook his head.

“They try to act tough, maybe threaten to transfer me into the general population. That makes me laugh. There is nothing worse than an idle threat. They think they can scare me, but they are the ones who are afraid. I wouldn’t last a week in general. Someone would shiv me in the yard, and that would be that. But then these worthless, frightened rabbits wouldn’t find the last of the bodies. How are they going to get their precious closure if I’m dead? When things get too hot, I give them a name and a body. They run off to dig up the corpse and leave me alone for a bit. Then we start the whole cycle over again.”

“Are there a lot more bodies to give up?”

Thad waved his forefinger in the air.

“Now Margaret, if I tell you everything on the first date, there won’t be anything for later. Ah, but damn me, if I gave a few bodies to the pretty criminology student, that would stick a burr in their ass.”

“Who do you mean?”

“I’m talking about the shrinks, the FBI profilers, the eggheads. They’re like a bunch of cooks standing around a bad pot of stew. They dip in their wooden spoons, taste that awful stew. They figure with enough little spoonfuls, they can discover how that stew went wrong. The formative event, that’s one of their pet phrases. That one always makes me laugh. It’s like asking why darkness is dark.”

“That is what they are trained to look for.”

“That may be so, but what those pathetic fools don’t understand is that I only give them what I want them to have. There are things I’ve never talked about and never will. My mama’s brother is one of them, the sick bastard. Say what you want about me, but I never harmed no children. That’s a damn sight more than I can say for my uncle. He taught me a whole lot, none of which a young boy should know.”

“What did your uncle teach you?”

“My uncle taught me about the cats, the son of a bitch. When he wasn’t teaching me how much I hated being buggered, that is. You might think it’s an easy thing to grab a cat and stuff it in a potato sack. The first time you try it, you’ll think differently. A half-wild cat will tear you to ribbons if you aren’t careful. The trick is to use welder’s gloves, big heavy leather ones. Once you’ve got the shrieking cat in a sack, you can do pretty much whatever you want to them. And you got to remember that cats are curious.”

Margaret’s pen flashed across the notebook as she listened to his words.

“We were talking about regrets. If I was somehow to get out of this cell, I would see to the biggest of my regrets. I would drive straight back to that miserable trailer park. When I got there, I’d kneecap my uncle, one bullet for each knee. Then I’d throw him in that shabby trailer of his, douse it with gasoline, and stand outside while he burned and screamed. It would be just like one of those cats, only a whole lot better. Not that it would matter to anyone. Like I said, they can’t execute me twice. Besides, it’s not like anyone would miss the sorry bastard.”

“Have you told anyone else about this, about being sexually abused?”

“Yeah, I told that preacher, the one who calls me Thaddeus. It was worth it, too. You should have seen the shock on the old boy’s face. Then he got all excited, figured he’d had a chance for another go at me. He started talking about redemption. Regret, remorse, redemption; all words that start with the letter R. That’s funny, don’t you think? Anyway, he tried the idea of redemption out on me, but he gave that up pretty quick. I showed him some things, things that scared the old boy half to death. After that, I don’t believe he wanted another look.”

“I was just having fun with that chaplain. I know there’s no such thing as God, just like there’s no such thing as the Devil. How would any decent god allow me to exist in his perfect world? But that wasn’t the only shot I had for the preacher. I asked that padre what sort of god would allow a fella to be born dirt-poor, funny looking, and then give him a little pecker to boot? He didn’t have an answer for that. While he was pondering that, I added in being stuck with the name Thad, and then saddled and ridden by my worthless uncle. That water was way too deep for our good preacher.”

“Did you enjoy toying with the preacher like that?”

“Time moves slowly in solitary. That is a fact. A bit of fun is a rare thing. You can’t blame me for wanting to enjoy it. Besides, everything I told that preacher was true, even the part about having a little pecker. I sure wasn’t any girl’s idea of a lover boy. But there are ways around everything, and I found them.”

In the silence that followed, Margaret sought the right question to keep Thad talking.

“You say you found a way around everything. What were you trying to get around?”

Thad leaned forward on his elbows, bringing his eager face close to the glass. Margaret flinched back and saw Thad smile at her reaction.

“You got no reason to be afraid, not from me anyway. But you need to pay attention. The only good thing my mama taught me was how far people are willing to go to get their fix. Most folks are useless and full of fear. They can’t face the realities of this life, not without a crutch anyway. I saw what the pills and booze did to my mama. One of the reasons I was so good at dealing the dope is that I never touched that poison. I never have and I never will, except for the big death cocktail these good folks are saving for me.”

“So, you began dealing drugs as a way out, a way around things?”

“Dealing dope to weak-minded addicts brought in the money. That changed things. A pocketful of money didn’t turn me into any movie star, but it did get me what I wanted. The pretty girls at my high school never gave me a second look, not without wrinkling up their noses. But once I had the money, I found out that the hookers over in Spokane would take care of me. It doesn’t matter how ugly a fella is if he has a fat roll of cash and a bag of pills. Those hookers love the pills.”

“Isn’t it true that the reason those poor girls are on the streets is because they’re addicts?”

“Everyone sheds their crocodile tears over those poor girls. It’s another example of how fools like to sugar-coat things that are too hard to look at. The truth is that not one of the sanctimonious pricks ever gave a shit about those hookers. Not the cops, not the news people, not even the judge and jury. If they cared about those poor, poor girls, why in the hell did they let them become hookers? Ask yourself that. The only time these fine citizens care about a hooker is when she turns up dead.”

Thad waved a chained hand, as if he were shooing a fly.

“It’s not like anyone really misses those dead whores. The newspapers wrote articles about the grieving families, but that’s because it sells advertising. Death sells, and I was good for business. I think the grief they splashed across the headlines was mostly guilt. Those tear-stained mamas and daddies, they felt guilty because they let their poor girls turn into prostitutes in the first place.”

Margaret failed to hold back the bite of anger in her voice.

“And since no one cared about them, they were easy prey, is that right?”

Thad met her eyes and trapped her.

“You’re wasting your anger on them. Truth is, those hookers were broken long before they had the bad luck to climb into my truck. And they were all broken, each and every one of them. Most of them girls weren’t worth the air they were breathing. Other than the ass they had for sale, they weren’t worth the space they took up.”

“Still, I have to admit that a few of them treated me pretty good. I didn’t kill every one of them. The cops are wrong about that part, just like they are still wrong about a lot of what I did. Sometimes, one of those girls would take good care of me, make me feel pretty good. Then I would just give her the money. It gave me an extra kick, dropping her back on the street. She would never know how lucky she was. But I knew.”

Margaret pushed down her anger before asking another question.

“Can you tell me about one of the lucky ones?”

“Sure, I remember one of them girls that I went with maybe three or four times. She got to where she’d break out in a big smile when she saw my truck roll up. That one called me Sugar. It wasn’t until about the fourth time or so she said something stupid. That was a mistake. Her luck ran out that night.”

“How did you kill her, Thad?”

All the anger had drained from her voice.

“The detectives went on and on asking about how I killed those hookers, like they couldn’t get enough of it. They were never satisfied when I told them how simple it was. The shrinks, they care about the why of the thing. The cops care about the how. Both of them are asking the wrong questions.”

“It really was simple. A hooker would climb into my truck. We’d talk business, and I would flash the money. After that, things took their course. I’d drive the truck to some back lot, someplace quiet and dark. Once the sex was done with, I’d offer the girl a pill as a tip. They almost always said yes, loving the dope the way they do. When a hooker chews an Oxy, that relaxes her right quick. Then the noose slipped around her neck. That noose was the trick. You try to strangle them with your hands, you can get all clawed up by their fingernails. It’s just like with those cats. You need to know what you’re doing.”

“After you killed one of the prostitutes, you had to get rid of their bodies. How did you choose where to bury them?”

“I know it will sound funny, but I never thought much about dumping the bodies. If I had, I would have left them all on the Washington side of the state line. There’s no death penalty in Washington. But there were good patches of woods on the way home, so some of those bodies ended up on the Idaho side. That was a mistake, I admit that now. Because of those Idaho bodies, I’ve got a death sentence hanging over my head. If I had been smarter, I’d only be looking at life in prison. Now I’m just a freak in a cage, someone that good folks can look down on.”

“Is that how you see yourself, as a freak?”

Thad smiled, his eyes bright.

“Freak isn’t the right word. I’m the guy who bites the heads off chickens, the geek act at the seedy carnival. When they see me as a sideshow attraction, it creates a safety barrier, a layer of insulation. But if I can sneak them past the barrier, things can get real interesting.”

“I’m sorry, Thad, I’m not following you. What gets interesting?”

“There was this professor used to come visit me, sat right there where you’re sitting. He was an eager fella, a professor of sociology from the university over in Seattle. I took this eager young scholar on a sightseeing tour. He followed along like a little puppy, making notes and whatnot. I’m pretty sure he believed he was earning my trust. That’s a phrase those academic types like to use.”

Thad paused, looked through the glass. He was not smiling.

Margaret nodded for him to continue.

 “Before he knew what was happening, my new professor had blundered past his safety line. He was scribbling, trying to take down everything I was telling him about the blackness. Then he saw some of that shadow in himself. You could see it come over his face. I’ve seen it before, believe me. I showed him that there is no difference between thought and deed. All his finely crafted social rules, law and order, good and evil; they all abandoned him.”

“Margaret, I want you to think of a man at the edge of a cliff. He is standing on the brink of a huge drop-off like the Grand Canyon. If you get too close to the edge, you cannot help yourself. You got to look down. There’s no choice involved; you just gotta look. When you look too close, you get dizzy. When you get dizzy, you fall in.”

Thad leaned back in his chair, the smile returning to his face. He waited for Margaret to speak.

“What happened to the professor?”

“I don’t know, it’s been some time since he paid me a visit. He’s one of those frail people, the kind that tend to do themselves harm. He didn’t have the hard, beautiful edge that you do. That young fella saw the pit of darkness he carries around inside himself, just like me, just like all of us. All I had to do was lead him up to the edge so he could see it. He looked into that void and saw a piece of himself. What he saw must have rattled him something awful. He couldn’t gather up his papers fast enough. His hands were shaking like a dog shitting peach pits. I laughed out loud over that one. I couldn’t help myself.”

“You said I had a hard edge. You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.”

There was no doubt now of the anger in Margaret’s voice.

“You have more hunter in you than prey. You should be thankful for that. It’s a dangerous world out there. Look behind me, the big guard on the left. Do you see him?”

Without meaning to, Margaret looked past Thad’s hungry smile. She saw a big man perched on the edge of his chair. The guard scowled at his wristwatch, then raised his head in her direction. Her eyes darted back to Thad’s.

“In a few minutes, those guards are going to take me back to my cell. I’ll be smiling the whole way back. I smile, and the guards hate it, so I keep smiling. It will be the same as always, me shuffling along in chains with one of those big fools on either side of me. The one on the left, he’s new to Death Row. He needs to show everyone how tough he is, which is his way of hiding his fear. It isn’t toughness that keeps him alive, only luck. Maybe tonight, or maybe tomorrow, the new guard will lean in a little too close. The chain between my waist and hands will swing around his neck. It will be fun to see how fast his luck can run out. What do you think, Margaret?”

Before she could answer, a rough voice filled the room.

“That’s time.”

The guards stalked to either side of Thad’s chair, dwarfing him like adults standing over a wayward child. Thad’s eyes were on her as she rose and began gathering up her notebook and files. It was only sheer force of will that stilled her trembling hands.

They hoisted Thaddeus Thomas from the chair, and his face hovered near the top of the smudged glass. Before the guards swung him away, Thad gave Margaret a broad grin and a wink. Then he was gone, the back of his orange jumpsuit receding across the grim room. Margaret watched him go, the folders clutched tightly to her chest.

Fini

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://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/whats-new-in-marcos-world-the-blog/

And finally, with your indulgence, allow me a blatant book plug. A lovely concept: Artists being paid for their work. And, yes, even writers need to eat. The Wrong Name is the title story for my collected stories (wait for it…) The Wrong Name. If you enjoyed this story, please consider buying a book. Thank you!

The Wrong Name

Stories from the darker edge

The Wrong Name – Stories from the Darker Edge, stories of the darkness that lies within us, and the occasional glimmer of hope that keeps us afloat in the shadows. Doppelgangers and crones, artificial and human intelligence gone wrong, murder, revenge, tragedies embraced, and fates narrowly avoided. Reluctant heroes tire of the chase and ghosts relive the past. Bodies must be disposed of, corpses arise, and dreams damned. Here is magick, for good or ill. Twenty-one tales of darkness, and the occasional glimmer of hope that keeps us afloat in the shadows. Welcome, Reader, to The Wrong Name.

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About the Book

The Wrong Name gathers twenty-one of author Marco Etheridge’s best dark short stories into a single volume. These are speculative tales from the darker edge. Within these pages live characters bearing the wrong name, unrepentant, untethered, and unforgiven. Good choices are made and bad; others that are downright evil. Here are doppelgangers and crones, artificial and human intelligence gone wrong. Murder and revenge, tragedies embraced, and fates narrowly avoided. Reluctant heroes tire of the chase and ghosts relive the past. There are bodies to be disposed of, corpses arisen, and dreams damned. Here is magick, both benevolent and not. Twenty-one tales of the darkness that lies within us, and the occasional glimmer of hope that keeps us afloat in the shadows. Welcome, Reader, to The Wrong Name.

Details

Publisher: Marco Etheridge Fiction
Publication Year: 2023
Length: Collected Stories
ASIN: B0C9DTRZYQ
ISBN: 9798399322612
List Price: 10.95
eBook Price: 2.99

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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."

A New Story Most Thursdays

Hello Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my herd of short stories, I realize that more than three dozen of the little rascals have appeared only in print. Some of you may have forked over the dough for this or that literary review, but I don’t expect everyone to buy all of the reviews all of the time. 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.

Heart’s Double Labyrinth first appeared in Havik Fiction, published in 2022. This microfiction also found a spot as a performance reading at Flash Fiction Forum. My sincere thanks to both of these organizations. Without further ado, here’s the story. I hope you enjoy it.

Thursday Stories: Heart’s Double Labyrinth

by Marco Etheridge

The narrow passages between my shop and your terrace are a stone maze baking under the midday sun. The air is a weave of shimmering dust intertwined with shafts of sunlight.

I shutter my shaded cubicle and enter the labyrinth, a twine-bound package held before me. My kurta is clean, and my hair combed. These hands bearing your parcel are scrubbed, fingernails cleaned and pared.

Without thought, I retrace the path to your door. My heart’s compass guides my feet down unmarked passages and around oblique turnings. I know the way, as my blood knows the skein of my body’s veins and arteries. And yet, even in the knowing, my mind etches a map into my memory, an identical tracing many layers deep.

Then I am standing at your doorway, and you are there. Only formalities and the package are exchanged. As you take the parcel, my fingertips do not brush your hennaed hands. Our eyes do not linger. Turning away from you, I do not look back. You do not wave farewell.

Night alters everything.

My footsteps are drawn to your door, passing through a dreamscape of shadow overlaid with darkness. The path to your heart is a labyrinth, and my desire the compass.

I seek you or your love calls to me. Your hand sets the moon spinning above the sea, and the tide pulls me. I am a stalking tiger, hunting you. Celestial gravity, animal hunger, love; does it matter which is the truth?

At my feet, the sweet rot of garbage. Above my head, the fragrance of wall-climbing bougainvillea and draped hibiscus. I ignore both putrescence and perfume. As a moth called to a single blossom, I search only for you.

Then I am on your terrace. You step from your doorway. Our limbs intertwine under the night jasmine, under the celestial glow. Your hands weave the air before my eyes, hennaed tracery turned to moonstone.

We are become one, candle and moth, wick and flame. You pull, I push. Our dance carries us over your threshold. The door closes, sealing us together and within.

Fini

You can find Havik Fiction here:

https://laspositascollege.edu/havik/index.php

And the good folks at Flash Fiction Forum are here:

https://flashfictionforum.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://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/whats-new-in-marcos-world-the-blog/

And finally, with your indulgence, allow me a blatant book plug. A lovely concept: Artists being paid for their work. And, yes, even writers need to eat. Heart’s Double Labyrinth is included in my flash collection Broken Luggage. If you enjoyed this story, please consider buying a book. Thank you!

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.

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About the Book

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.

Details

Genre: Short Stories
Tags: Recommended Books, Short Stories
Publisher: Marco Etheridge Fiction
Publication Year: 2022
Format: Paperback & eBook
Length: 137 Pages
ASIN: B0B3CSJR2C
ISBN: 9798833773079
List Price: $8.95
eBook Price: $2.99

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Preview

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."

A New Story Most Thursdays

Thursday Stories: Hi, Friends and Neighbors. Looking back over my herd of short stories, I realize there are a solid handful that have appeared only in print. I know some of you have forked over the dough for this or that literary review, but I don’t expect everyone to be buying all of the reviews all of the time. 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 we run out of print-only tales.

The Net first appeared in Havik Fiction, published in 2020. I hope you enjoy it.

Thursday Stories: The Net

by Marco Etheridge

Wes was accustomed to dodgy travel, but being adrift on a disabled sailboat was a new experience. He was rapidly coming to realize he didn’t much care for it.

The sailboat rolled to the port side, dipping Wes knee-deep in the warm Andaman Sea. The next swell pitched the hull starboard. He was lifted clear of the water, dangling above it on a flimsy aluminum ladder. The green mound of Koh Lanta shimmered in the heat haze on the far eastern horizon. Miles of open water lay between the island and the sailboat. Wes wasn’t thinking about tropical islands, or the dreamy haze. He was cursing his encyclopedic memory, which gave him the unwelcome ability to recall every species of shark native to the waters of Thailand.

His eyes scanned the rolls of the swells, searching for the telltale vee of a grey dorsal fin. The data rolled out of his memory unasked: Andaman Sea, open water, Bull sharks and Tigers. Sharks big enough to snatch him from under the hull of the sailboat. That would be the last anyone ever heard of him. What ever happened to Wes? Don’t know; he disappeared on one of those weird trips of his.

And yet somebody had to go under the hull and play the hero. It wasn’t going to be the two old Scotsmen, and it certainly wasn’t going to be their Thai hookers. The poor girls were already scared to death. That left Wes or Jake. Wes won the honors based on relative youth and leanness.

The hull pitched to port again, dropping Wes back into the water. They were adrift, the propeller fouled in a long shroud of ghost-net. Before the engine died, the prop had twisted the abandoned net into a massive sea anchor. The phrase dead in the water popped into Wes’ brain, followed by visions of piracy. If he was going to save these sorry bastards, there should be some booty. Free the boat, throw the Scotsmen to the sharks, then sail off with their women. That was a proper hero’s reward.

The others were in the cockpit of the sloop, their eyes on Wes. He liked playing hero to the point of reward and no further. He figured he was well past that point, but there was nothing for it. He nodded his head, scissored his legs, and dropped from the ladder.

The crystal water closed over his head. He cleared his snorkel while trying to avoid forty feet of steel hull. Wes didn’t think about the warm seawater, or the hot season sun, or the thrill of snorkeling in the open sea. Wes thought about sharks. He spun an underwater circle, checking to be sure no blue-grey shapes were cruising around the hull. Then he thought about how in the hell he had gotten here.

* * *

Only the day before, he was standing in front of a new high-water marker in the ramshackle hamlet of Mookville, the only village on the island of Koh Muk. The red steel pole rose two meters above the gravel shore, marking the surge of the Boxing Day Tsunami. He pointed to it, looking back over his shoulder to the open-air coffee bar. The Thai woman behind the bar nodded her head. Wes walked across the narrow gravel pathway and perched on a stool.

The woman placed a steaming coffee on the bar. The April sun baked like an oven, and the heat of it lay over the small harbor. The woman nodded again. She spoke in a sing-song voice.

“It was very bad day. Many peoples hurt. Some peoples killed.”

“You and your family were not hurt?”

“No, not hurt. Very lucky. My uncle, his leg broke, but he okay now.”

Wes sipped the coffee, the heat of it bringing on a cooling sweat. He looked past the idle fishing boats reflected in water smooth as glass. It was hard to imagine a two-meter surge of angry ocean flattening the little town, but Koh Muk had caught it hard.

Dogs panted in the shade, twitching as flies settled on their flanks. The hot season was well on, chasing the last of the tourists to milder climes. By midday, the Thais would be laid out like the dogs, sleeping off the heat, or moaning Roan Mak-Mak: Hot, very hot.

Wes paid for the coffee, leaving enough of a tip to make the woman smile. He rose from the bar and turned to face her, his palms held together under his chin.

“Sawadee-krab.”

“Sawadee-kha. You come back, okay?”

“Yes, I come back.”

He turned away from the tiny kiosk, his flip-flops tossing up fine clouds of dust. Pulling his hat low against the glare, he began to climb over the dusky green spine of the island.

When Wes reached the Charlie Beach Resort, he found Jake at the far end of the beach, whiling away the heat of the day. Wes’ old friend was shirtless, camped under the shade of a casuarina tree. He was wearing that godawful hat; the white straw thing Wes had begged him not to buy. Jake bought the garish hat anyway, just to rankle.

Wes settled himself at the table and popped open a cold drink. The two men expended the minimal talk necessary between old friends. They smoked and drank, letting the heat of the day do its worst.

Wes had known Jake for years, since their early days of motorcycling the backroads of the Pacific Northwest. The two of them had ridden and camped up and down the Cascades and the Rockies.

They shared more than just miles. The two friends shared the good times, which they talked about endlessly. They shared the hard times, which they did not speak of. They had seen each other through Wes’ divorce and the death of Jake’s wife.

When Jake got invited to a family wedding in Thailand, he begged Wes to come along. Jake had never been to Asia and didn’t want to try it alone. Wes had tramped all over Southeast Asia, from Vietnam to Cambodia, Laos to Thailand. The hot season in Thailand; that was something worth doing. Besides, it was a good excuse not to be where he was, and Wes never needed much of an excuse. He agreed to meet Jake after the wedding and booked a cheap flight for Bangkok.

The Big Mango felt like home, as it always did. Wes loved all of it: The noise, the smell, even the heat that hit like a hammer on an anvil. His second city was as devoid of tourists as he had ever seen it.

The old Thai couple greeted him at his secret guesthouse, deep in the tangled alleys of Bangkok’s Chinatown. He wandered through his favorite street stalls, gorging on Guay Tiew Ruea for breakfast and fiery Phad Kee Mao for dinner.

When the time came to meet Jake, Wes caught a cheap flight to Krabi Town, a sweltering little burg set in the mangrove swamps on the East side of Phang Nga bay. He was sitting at a café as Jake climbed down from one of the pickup trucks that serve as taxis. It was always that way, a rendezvous at some far-flung locale, both of them showing up at the same time. Wes had ceased to think it remarkable. It just was.

* * *

Wes and Jake sweated in the heat, squinting across the sandy glare of Charlie Beach. The sun beat mercilessly on the quiet water of the Andaman Sea. The sultry stillness was broken by the arrival of two boisterous Scotsmen. They slogged up through the sand, introducing themselves as Jamie and Stuart. Jamie was tall and lean, a grey scarecrow of seventy, his Scottish brogue thick and rolling. Stuart, who mashed his name into one syllable, was thick and stocky. This Mutt and Jeff pair towed two young Thai women in their wake. Jamie introduced them as Bang and Bee. The girls were decades younger than the two craggy Scotsmen. The four newcomers stood near the table, the Scotsmen smiling and expectant.

Wes looked at Jake, who shrugged and smiled. Chairs were fetched and drinks bought. The Scotsmen and their escorts settled in for a party. The talk ran the usual gamut of foreigners met in foreign locales. Jamie took up the bulk of the conversation, with Jake following a close second. Stuart was content to drink and nod. The girls said nothing. Wes watched the show.

As he smoked a cigar, Wes listened to Jamie spin out the gist of their story. They were ex-pats living in Phuket, looking for a break from the April heat. Stuart was the money man, the owner of a sailing yacht. Jamie was a sailing bum, Stuart’s crony of many years. They had arranged for the hired company of the girls, stocked the boat with groceries and whiskey, then sailed south for Koh Muk. Now they were taking up the air and space around the table.

The shadows were lengthening when Jake started making polite noises about dinner. The newcomers finally tottered off, well up on their daily quota of whiskey. Jamie’s parting words were merry.

“We’ll be seeing you Laddies, for drinks after sunset then.”

It was a declaration, not a question.

* * *

Jake and Wes were back on Charlie Beach, settled at the loneliest table they could find. Their dinner had been fine; the restaurant a bamboo hut, and their waiter the cook’s ten-year-old son. Starlight glowed on the dark water. Behind them, the moon was rising over the spine of the island.

Jamie proved to be a man of his word. Wes caught sight of him plowing out of the darkness, weaving across the sand with Bang in hand. Wes nudged Jake with his foot, pointing. Jake laughed as he watched the Scotsman draw a bead on their table before plunging on.

“We’re in for it, Wes.”

“Looks like. At least he brought the girl.”

Jake gave him the eye.

“You’re not going to land us in one of your entanglements, are you? There’s no need to be swiping the old geezer’s escort.”

“Naw, relax, she just improves the scenery. I’d damn sure rather look at Bang than that scrawny old Scotsman.”

And then the scrawny Scotsman was on them.

“Well, Laddies, we meet again.”

Much drinking ensued, and a great deal of talking as well, with Jamie doing most of both. Jake did his best to carve out some of the conversation. Wes contented himself with smoking and making eyes with Bang. Jamie noticed it, laughed it off with a comment, then plunged back into conversation with Jake. The talk was grating on Wes’s last nerve. There were two things he hated: Drunk people when he was sober and sober people when he was drunk. Wes had been sober a long time.

At the end of the conversation, Jake mentioned that he was leaving for Phuket on the morning ferry. Jamie was on him in an instant.

“Hoot, Man! Stuart and I are sailing fer Phuket on ta morrow. You Laddies come with us, right?”

Jake looked to Wes, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Sure, Jamie, we’d love to, as long as we’re not a bother.”

“Ach, Man, no bother; we’re going that way all along. We’ll see you Laddies at brekkie, right? Make an early start.”

Jamie gathered himself up, supported somewhat by Bang. As the two shadows lurched across the dark sand, Bang turned her head and threw them a smile. Her teeth gleamed in the moonlight.

“Well, Wes, what then shall we do?”

“You’re the one who needs to get to Phuket, not me.”

“Yeah, but what do you think about the whole boat thing?”

“You’re asking me what I think about sailing off to Phuket with two lunatic Scotsmen? Once we’re out on the high seas, I guess we can throw the bastards overboard. I’m pretty sure Bang would lend a hand.”

“Funny, but do you think he was serious?”

“Jamie, serious? Yeah, sure, as far as it went; whiskey talk and all of that. Look, even if Jamie remembers inviting us, Stuart is going to have something to say about it. I’ll tell you what. The ferry leaves at around nine-thirty. If those two clowns are up and ready to sail before that, I’ll go with you, provided their boat looks seaworthy.”

* * *

 Jamie and Stuart were up bright and early, highly trained professionals showing not much wear for the long night. Which is how Wes found himself throwing his rucksack into a long-tail boat that was nosed up to the sandy beach. He piled in with the others, leaning up against Bang. The Thai boatman laughed as the unmuffled Isuzu engine roared like a dragon.

Wes still doubted the two old codgers, but when he saw the yacht, he no longer doubted Stuart’s taste in boats. She was called the Miss-Reclined, a forty-three-foot steel hull North Cape. She was a beauty, dark blue against the shine of the sea, a center cockpit sloop with cabins fore and aft. The idea of piracy became more than an idle joke. A man could sail around the globe in that thing.

Stuart took to the cockpit, and the big diesel thrummed to life. Wes liked the sound of it: Solid and deep. If they were in for it, at least the engine sounded good. The girls disappeared below decks. Jamie set Jake and Wes to be the crew.

The first task was to free the anchor from the rocks on the bottom of the bay. After heaping curses on a stubborn windlass, Wes finally got the anchor chain clacking up over the rollers. When the anchor appeared through the blue water, Wes could see it was twisted out of shape. Pulled hard against the rocks on the bottom, it was damaged beyond repair. There would be no anchoring along the way, only mooring.

Stuart motored the yacht into a head wind, rounding the island of Koh Muk and turning into a pass to the west of Koh Ngai. The route led due north, up along Koh Lanta, past the fabled spires of Koh Phi-Phi-Don and finally turning northwest to Koh Phuket. Eight or nine hours cruising, and they would be motoring into the harbor at Phuket Town.

The big diesel pushed the Miss-Reclined through the headwind. Life was slow and grand. Bang and Bee served cool drinks and sliced mango. Wes relaxed, settling into the thing. They lounged about; Jamie and Jake swapping tales, the girls napping down below decks. An idyllic motor-cruise on an idyllic sea dotted with fantastical islands. It was a paradise, another unexpected twist in yet another journey. What could go wrong?

The seas roughened after lunch, the bow cutting into the swells. Jamie asked Jake to secure the anchor chain, which had bounced itself loose onto the deck. Jake made it to the pitching bow without being tossed over the side. Wes watched him struggling with the chain, trying to free a stubborn shackle pin.

Wes grabbed a spud pin and a wrench, moving forward to lend a hand. Jake grunted as Wes knelt beside him in the narrow space. Spray was flying over the bow, salt sticking to their sweating skin.

“She’s an ornery little bitch. The pin is all corroded. Hand me that spud, Wes.”

The bow lofted on a swell, then dropped from under them. Jake and Wes had to cling to the railing to stay with the boat. The chop increased, and the shackle pin refused to budge. Wes pinned the shackle with his free hand, while Jake worked at it with the end of the spud. The pin finally broke free, and they started feeding the chain below.

That’s when the engine died. The comforting thrum of the diesel chugged twice and fell silent. Wes felt the boat lurch against the swell. The hull of the sailboat swung into the trough of the waves, as if being pulled backwards. As last of the chain slid below the deck, Wes turned to Jake.

“This ain’t good; we better get back there.”

Jamie was waiting for them as they scrambled along the pitching deck.

“Lads, the motor has just stopped, and we don’t know why.”

Stewart was peering over the stern, pointing down and shaking his head. Wes fought the wallow of the boat to stand beside the stocky Scotsman.

 Trailing from the stern was a skein of derelict fishing net coiled a meter thick. It was a giant dreadlock of a tangle, like something hanging off the head of one of those fake Rastafarian trust-fund kids down on Khao San Road. The tentacle of tangled net disappeared from sight, fading away into the blue depths of the clear water.

The crew assembled in the cockpit. Stuart was grim. Bang and Bee looked scared to death. Jamie’s eyes fell on Jake and Wes.

“Laddies, we’ve snagged a ghost net. Those damned Thai fishermen, they’re always losing one of their nets. Just leave the things to drift, they do. This bastard has snarled the prop right proper. We’ll have to go over the side and cut her loose. So, which one of you lads is the strongest swimmer?”

For some reason, everyone turned to look at Wes.

* * *

The crystal water pulled at Wes’ body, the same current that was pulling the Miss-Reclined against the mass of the ghost net. He kicked his fins to stay with the boat, trying to avoid the steel hull that was rising and falling above him. He dodged away from the hull, cleared his snorkel, and sucked in a lungful of air.

A quick inspection showed the prop completely engulfed in a mass of net. The body of the net disappeared into the deep as far as visibility allowed Wes to see. The net was a big one, twisted by the prop into one giant, rough rope. He sawed at the mass with a dive knife. A few of the strands parted before his lungs begged for air. Wes kicked clear of the hull and rose to the surface. He gulped air through the snorkel, scissor-kicked into a dive, and gave it another go.

Between fending off the pitching hull and avoiding getting caught in the net, there was precious little breath left for actual cutting. After about ten dives, Wes came back alongside and explained the situation. It was no good, it would take hours. Jamie nodded at him over the side.

“Come back aboard, Lad, we’re rigging the breather.”

Jamie had already rigged the hookah, a sort of umbilical air line that can pump air to a diver down to ten meters. Wes climbed back aboard. He strapped a weight belt to his waist and stuck a spare dive knife into the belt. He fitted the regulator into his mouth. He tested the airflow, gave a thumbs up, and back splashed off the ladder into the sea. Jake followed him into the water, snorkeling on the surface as a buddy watch.

 Wes attacked the net with a vengeance. He got well below the hull and started cutting the tangle away in clumps. The stiff current was trying to pull him away from the boat. Wes gripped the prop shaft with one hand and sawed at the net with the other. He reached for a better grip on the steel shaft and felt a sharp sting. A fine tendril of blood moved past his mask, borne away on the current. He checked his hand. It was just a small slice in the palm, but now blood was in the water. His damned memory was quick to recall that sharks can smell blood from five hundred yards. Wes went back to sawing at the net, pushing away the mental image of grey torpedoes zeroing in on him.

A sudden thought crystallized in his brain: Watch the net, Boyo, watch the net. You don’t want to go with it.  If he was tangled in the net when it pulled loose and sank, there would be no swimming out of it. Looking down, he saw that some strands of the net had looped over the weights in the belt. Not today, Boyo, I’ll not die today. Wes circled to the other side of the prop to keep the net down current from his body. As he cut more of the net, what remained of it grew tauter in the current. Wes slashed at the tightening strands, which curled and whipped as they parted under the knife.

With a last cut, the mass of net fell away. The ragged tentacle sank into the blue depths, as if pulled from below. The severed tendrils of the net waved like grasping skeleton fingers desperate to remain in the light. A last torn fragment of net hung from the prop. Wes tucked it into his dive belt as a souvenir.

He braced his body upside down against the hull. Riding the hull like a barnacle, he inspected the propeller and the shaft. Nothing seemed bent and the prop blades were intact. Wes sank away from the hull, hovering in the shadow of it. He saw Jake off to port, snorkeling on the surface. Jake was waving him up: Enough, already, let’s go. Wes nodded, kicked clear of the hull, and swam for the ladder.

Back aboard the Miss-Reclined, it was smiles and high-fives all around. Wes was the conquering hero, and he was enjoying the role. Jamie and Jake stowed the gear while Stuart fired up the engine. Wes left them to it, soaking up the hero’s welcome from Bang and Bee. Bang kept murmuring thank-you, touching his shoulder. He realized just how frightened the two women were. Adrift in a crippled sailboat was not what they had signed on for.

Bee fussed over Wes. She brought him a bottle of water and set about toweling his hair. Wes’ palm was still seeping blood. When Bee spotted the blood, she threw a hand to her mouth and sprinted for the rail. Wes couldn’t help watching her lovely ass as she bent over the gunwales to chum the fishes. He felt a punch on his shoulder and turned. Bang was waving a warning finger in his face, but she was smiling. She pulled his hand into her lap and began tending the cut.

They were well underway again, drinks in hand, when the celebration finally eased down. Stuart’s grunts had warmed up to a level of comradeship, and Jamie was all smiles. He waved his glass at Jake and Wes.

“Lads, I must admit, I only asked ya aboard on a lark, sorry to say it. I needed a bit of conversation, which is sorely lacking in this group.”

Stuart managed a laugh at this, reaching for his drink.

“As it turns out, I’m damned glad we brought you Laddies along. I’ll tell you true, I don’t think we could have got her free. I know this tubby old bastard could nae of, and I’m sorry to say the same for myself.”

Later, sliding next to Wes on the cockpit bench, Jamie nudged him with a bony elbow.

“Wes, lad, if you were of a mind, I’ll give Bang the word. You two could slip down into the for’d cabin there for a bit of the old Eskimo hospitality. You’ve certainly earned it.”

Wes looked into the old man’s face, embarrassed at being caught out that easily. Jamie was a lot cagier than he looked, even with a few drinks in him. Wes was more surprised by the lack of his own temptation. The thought of going seconds after the old man reminded him of a tenuous morality he’d misplaced some years ago.

“Thanks, Jamie, that’s sporting of you, but I’m pretty worn out from that dive. I’m not a young man anymore. That shit took it out of me.”

Jamie slapped a knobby hand down on Wes’ thigh, laughing aloud.

“Righty-O, Lad, but you don’t know what old is yet, that’s sure. Well, we’ve got hours to go afore Phuket. If you change your mind, you let me know.”

Wes glanced across the cockpit and caught a shy smile from Bang. He cursed his conscience for foolishness and let the thing go.

* * *

They brought the Miss-Reclined into Phuket by the light of a full moon. Jamie was nervous, harping at Stuart to keep her well between the channel lights. Wes was tasked with watching the depth meter. The dark blue yacht crept into the harbor, her keel almost skimming the mud bottom.

Jamie did not relax until they were in the marina, searching for the moorage a friend had loaned them. In the end, he gave it up. He pointed to an empty mooring buoy.

“Here, Stuart, we’ll tie her up here until the morning. I do nae know where Charlie’s damned tie-up is. They can bloody well boot us when the sun comes up, but I’m done looking.”

A long stone pier jutted into the harbor from the seawall. Two hundred meters of black water lay between it and the Miss-Reclined. Neon lights blinked along the waterfront. The narrow streets leading off the waterfront were part of the seediest neighborhood in Phuket Town.

“Well, Laddies, we’ll just throw over the dinghy and I’ll be motoring you to the jetty.”

 The dinghy proved a ridiculously tiny affair; a two-meter inflatable barely big enough for one adult. The wee outboard motor refused to come to life, despite Jamie’s ample and creative cursing. Wes intervened, clearing the carburetor and adjusting the choke. With a few pulls, he managed to coax the thing to life. The little motor sputtered and coughed, but it kept running.

Three grown men and luggage pushed the dinghy well down into the water. Jake eyed the thing with deep suspicion. With goodbyes all around, Jamie throttled the motor up and the little inflatable plowed across the dirty water of the harbor.

Jamie aimed the dinghy at a set of stone stairs that dropped into the water from the top of the pier. Wes and Jake scrambled onto the slimy steps, happy to have avoided a last-minute swim. Jamie handed up their bags and bade them farewell. They shook hands over the rubber gunwales of the little boat.

“Stuart, he’s got a big place up on the hill above the town. We’ve lots of room. You Laddies are always welcome.”

With that, he twisted the throttle and spun the dinghy back out across the black water. Jake and Wes climbed the stairs and stood on the paving stones of the jetty, watching the vee of the little boat’s wake recede into the blackness. Jake was the first to speak.

“Shit, Wes, I’m going to miss those silly bastards. That was a hell of a thing.”

“Yeah, not what I expected from the day, that’s for sure. C’mon, let’s go find a guesthouse. If I remember right, you’re going to get to see one of the more colorful parts of Phuket Town.”

Wes shouldered his rucksack. Jake’s rolling bag clattered over the flagstones of the pier with a noise that annoyed the crap out of Wes.

The two men walked off the pier and into the glare of neon lights. They took the first lane that led away from the harbor.

The narrow street was lined with open-air bars. A cacophony of competing sound systems assailed the night. Giggling B-girls sat in front of each bar. The girls called to them in sing-song voices.

“Hey, Handsome, you buy me drink?”

“You come inside, nice cold beer here.”

They passed another bar and another bevy of girls. Jake turned to Wes.

“Holy shit, Wes, you weren’t kidding.”

“Yeah, this is the hot season, not enough customers to go around. Listen, let’s stop here and ask. We’re never going to find a legit guesthouse if we just keep wandering.”

Wes stepped up to the girls and gave them a traditional greeting. They giggled and smiled.

“Where is the boss tonight, Girls?”

One of the young women answered him with a wave of her hand.

“The boss, she inside, but she old. You stay with me, buy me a drink. I’m pretty, yes?”

“Yes, you are pretty, but I need to talk to the boss.”

The girl shrugged.

“Okay, I get her.”

An older woman appeared, eyeing the two men. Wes turned to face her.

“Sawadee-krab.”

“Sawadee-kha. You want a drink, maybe a girl?”

“Thank you, but we are very tired. We are looking for a regular guesthouse, something quiet. Maybe you know a place.”

“Sure, I know a place. My cousin has good guesthouse. You go one kilometer up this road. Where the road splits, you go right, up smaller street. Easy to find. My cousin’s place, it called Purple Orchid. You want Tuk-tuk?”

“No, we will walk. Kob-kuhn-krab Khun Paa.”

The girls giggled at Wes’ formal Thai. The older woman smiled at him.

“You come back, you make sure come here, okay?”

Wes smiled and nodded, tilting his head toward Jake. They set off up the street, Jake’s stupid bag clattering over the cobbles. When they were out of earshot, Jake spoke.

“What was that you said to the madam?”

“I guess you would translate it as Thank-You Missus Auntie, a term of respect.”

“You always were a charming son of a bitch. Let’s see if we can find this guesthouse. I need a shower in the worst way. I’m smelling like a whore in church.”

“Interesting choice of words, Jake.”

He gave Wes the eye.

“Are you coming back down here?”

Wes looked down the gauntlet of bars. When he turned to face his old friend, he was shaking his head.

“No, Jake, I don’t think I will. I believe I’ve seen enough of this.”

Jake shrugged and began walking. Wes followed him, sweating under the weight of his rucksack. The neon and noise faded away behind them.

Fini

That’s it for this 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://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/whats-new-in-marcos-world-the-blog/

And finally, with your indulgence, allow me a blatant book plug. A lovely concept: Artists being paid for their work. And, yes, even writers need to eat. So please, buy a damn book. Thank you!

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“Clouds Before Rain” is the exciting prequel to “The Best Dark Rain.” This gripping novella sets the stage for an epic post-apocalyptic adventure. The world is dying a swift death, and the city of Seattle is dying along with it. A handful of survivors remain amongst the deadly ruins.

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“Clouds Before Rain” opens on a city dying a swift death. But not quite everyone died. Better if they had. Armed bands are not the only perils. In the shadows worse enemies prowl, horrible enemies. At the center of this bleak urban waste lies a makeshift fort. It is the tenuous refuge of Liz Walker and Pat O’Shea. They are the last living couple in the shell of what was once Seattle.

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Series: Best Dark Rain, Book 1
Genre: Post-Apocalyptic Fiction
Tags: Post-Apocalyptic Fiction, Recommended Books
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ASIN: B07KNXZT9D
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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."