A New Story Most Thursdays

Another Edition of Thursday Stories…

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 Connection. This micro-fiction story first appeared in 300 Days of Sun, published in 2020. Without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Connection

by Marco Etheridge

Sunlight falls at an acute angle, illuminates the infield in a shimmering haze. Staring out from the batter’s box, the diamond’s equidistant running paths are flattened to a rhombus. The shortest line of all, the direct link, leads to the scuffed brown dirt of the pitcher’s mound. The small hillock of bare earth is surrounded by a sea of emerald green grass. Your eyes are riveted on a scarecrow figure standing out there, a lone idol perched atop a miniature island.

The runner dances out from the second base bag, his cleats kicking up dust. He is tense, poised, imploring you to bring him home. He is counting on you; the team is counting on you. It has always been that way: First your dad, then a succession of coaches, finally the scouts. We’re counting on you, Kid. Show us what you’ve got. Lot of good that does you right now. Who has your back? No one, because you’re all alone out here.

You see the pitcher fold in on himself, elbows tight, the ball a missile hidden in the leather glove he clutches to his bony chest. The eyes of the scarecrow are shadowed by the brim of his ball cap, but you see them. They look past you as if you do not exist. The head shakes twice, nods, then the chin drops down as if preparatory to prayer. It’s coming now. The bat swirls over your right shoulder, a weapon with a will of its own. At least you hope that’s true.

The beanpole idol atop the mound sweeps into motion, left leg kicking up and over, torso twisting right, right arm swinging back to the end of a murderous reach. Your eyes find the fork-fingered hand that pinions the baseball. A dance that begins in slow motion ends in a blur of speed, but you only see the ball.

One-half-second between his throwing hand and the plate. You mark the pitch curving inside, the horsehide sphere spinning like a tiny dervish; too close. You kick both feet back, cleats puffing dust, but there is no impact of ball on bone. The trajectory arcs up and in, catches the corner of an imaginary rectangle. You tap-dance a fool as the ball slaps leather behind you. Your silent curses dance with the cloud of dust around your feet.

The ump bellows the strike. The catcher flicks the ball back to the pitcher. You’re dying out here all alone, sinking into a hole, buried by the wicked tricks of that kid out on the mound. Time is running out for you. This is your shot. You don’t have the luxury of another season. Fight your way off this farm team or give it up for a warehouse job. It’s the same deal for that stick man throwing screwballs at you. Choose who it’s going to be, you or him.

The gravy train of being a local star isn’t going to carry you any further. It’s not about them anymore, not about your father, the coaches, or the team. This is about whether you move up to The Show or end up a forklift jockey in the corn-fed town you were born in.

You step out of the batter’s box, tap the bat against your cleats, step back in. Out on the mound, the scarecrow goes back to his prayers. You pray as well, pray for an honest pitch, something you can lay the bat into. The pitcher straightens, kicks, the skinny arm lashing back to deliver another merciless whip. You see that horrible right-hand snap forward, two long fingers gripping the dull white ball.

Then it all falls away, the ballpark going quiet and still. The smooth wood of the bat goes coarse between your hands. You are holding a thick rope, your body swinging far out over mirrored water. At the end of gravity, suspended, you let free the rope. The knotted end floats above your head, trailing a plume of frayed fiber. Your naked legs are above you. No way you will pull this off, zero chance. Thirty feet above the pond, and kids on the steep bank laughing and jeering at you. They will laugh all the louder when you hit the water flat on your back.

You roll your shoulders left and your torso follows, your body twisting into an impossible corkscrew. Muscles obey, align, arms extend. Plunging towards your reflection, you see a baseball, and just before your hands touch the silver water, you swing.

The bat cracks rawhide, the sharp snap of it echoing off the bleachers. The scarecrow’s fastball ricochets back into the sky above his head, and he spins to watch its flight. You know that ball is gone baby gone and there is no need to look.

The jolt of connection vibrates through your muscles as you flip the bat away, see it end-for-end across the clipped grass. You run the bags fast, hungry, showing your hustle as the crowd cheers. Touch every bag, show them who you are: a young man on the way up. Wave to them, you remember to wave.

Out on the mound, the scarecrow is muttering curses and kicking dirt. The whole team is waiting for you as you round third and head home. You slow to stomp home plate, and their hands are on you, pummeling your shoulders, your back. Beneath their rough joy, you still feel that amazing impact of bat meeting ball, feel the electric shocks that course from your fingertips to your heart and back again.

Fini

You can find 300 Days of Sun here:

https://300daysofsun.weebly.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… if you desire more flash and micro-fiction, look no further than my collection Broken Luggage:

Broken Luggage Collected Flash Fiction

Broken Luggage: Two dozen flash fiction tales of love lost and love found, of darkness at the end of life, and light at the beginning.

A man's life condensed into the broken luggage that will contain it. A young woman alone in the Sonoran Desert. Memories of dangerous eggs, thunderstorms, and a gunshot man. A character tours his self-made hell. Another steps from between the pages. Parables of sand and migration A labyrinth into new love, and the remembrance of love past. These two dozen flash stories tell swift tales of love lost and love found, of darkness at the end of life, and light at the beginning.

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 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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Kobo, Nook, Apple, and More!

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

Another Edition of Thursday Stories…

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 Nakedness of Ozone. This flash fiction story first appeared in the Pure Slush anthology Growing Up, published in 2021. Without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

The Nakedness of Ozone

By Marco Etheridge

The little boy stood shirtless before the gaping mouth of an open locker. His hands hesitated at the waistband of his jeans. He was scared of this place. He winced at the unfamiliar noises. The echoing shouts of the bigger boys made him jump, and the slap of their bare feet sounded like monsters. He wanted to swim, but he had to change into his swimsuit. That meant being naked in front of the big boys.

When his mom brought him to the swimming pool, he wore his bathing suit in the car, and the hot seats burned his legs. Today he was with his dad, and Dad said big boys change in the locker room. The little boy wondered if that meant he was a big kid. He didn’t feel big. All these noisy kids were bigger than he was.

His father’s hands rested on his shoulders, and it was the nice dad touch, not the hurry up shaking the boy sometimes got if he were dawdling. That was a word his parents used. It meant something like hurry up.

“It’s okay, Kiddo. This is what we do in the locker room.”

His dad’s voice was huge, louder than the big kids slap-walking past the bench. Dad was bigger than anyone, so it had to be okay. Those big hands fell around him, and he let his dad unsnap his jeans. The boy stepped out of them, breathed, then slipped out of his undershorts. He grabbed his swimsuit and pulled it over his feet and legs as fast as he could. A smile broke across his face. He had done it. Nothing bad had happened. He was acting like a big kid, and his dad was smiling the proud smile, which was a good thing.

“See, the lock goes through this hole. Can you snap the lock shut?”

The boy grabbed the lock with both hands and squeezed it hard. The lock snapped closed under his grip, and he knew that was right. He smiled up at his dad, his dad smiled back, and then they were walking hand-in-hand up the aisle between the lockers.

They reached the open doorway, and he saw the swimming pool shining in the sun. He wanted to run, but he knew running was against the rules. Another rule was that you had to step into the cootie juice.

The juice in the tank was like slippery milk, and you had to wade through it. He liked the way his feet disappeared under the white stuff. The boy was glad he was a big boy alone with his dad and no bratty little brother. His brother was a stubborn crybaby who hated the cootie tank. He always made a scene, claimed that there were monsters in the cootie juice who would bite his toes. But the little boy wasn’t a scaredy cat like his brother. He stepped ahead of his dad and waded into the tank. Two splashes and the cooties died.

Then they were outside, and the sunbaked concrete burned against the soles of his bare feet. He was excited to swim, but then his dad stopped, and the little boy hit the end of his dad’s arm like a leash. The lifeguard was yelling through his big cone, and everyone was climbing out of the pool. Beyond the pool, out over the trees of the forest preserve, the boy saw big black clouds filling the summer sky. It was funny how the sun was bright and hot over the pool, but the lifeguard was pointing at the dark clouds.

His dad led him away from the pool and back towards the locker building. People sat with their backs against the long brick wall, looking out at the empty pool. The boy and his dad spread their towels on the concrete and sat down. They leaned back against the rough wall. The dad pointed to the edge of the roof above their heads.

“We have to sit here under the overhang. That way the lightning can’t get us.”

The little boy knew about lightning. Clouds bang together, and then bright electric forks shoot down from the sky. His grandpa told him about it, and about how they lived in a thing called Tornado Alley. It was a science name, not like a real alley where he played with his friends.

They waited under the safe overhang. The water in the swimming pool was shiny like a wiggly mirror. The boy saw the dark clouds reflected in it. The clouds pushed the sun away, and the air turned thick. It was like when he walked into the bathroom after his mom had taken a long shower, and the air felt heavy in his mouth.

Then the big clouds rolled overhead. They rumbled the same way Grandpa snored, loud but without the crack of lightning. Everyone was quiet the way adults are when the curtain opens at the movie theater. The little boy looked up at the sky, and he knew they were all waiting for something.

The first drops of rain were big as marbles, and the little boy saw each one of them as they fell. The drops hit the hot concrete and splashed back into the wet air, lifting hot dust from the pavement. The hot summer air, sweet and electric and wet and thick, tingled on his bare skin.

The rain began to fall in sheets, and the little boy no longer saw the individual marbles. The lifeguards blew whistles, and then the people began to gather their towels. His dad rose to his feet and held out his big hand. The boy took the hand, and his dad pulled him up.

“Sorry, Kiddo, I guess no swimming today.”

The boy shrugged his narrow shoulders, but he did not let go of his father’s hand. Dad led the way back inside the locker room. They splashed back through the cootie pool and down the aisle to their locker. He changed out of his still dry suit. This time, he was not afraid of the bigger boys seeing him naked.

Five decades could not dislodge that memory from his brain. Let him smell the first hard drops of rain on hot summer pavement, and closing his eyes, he is once again a little boy sitting beside his father, the heavy electric air washing over them both.

Fini

Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred and fifty reviews across Canada, Australia, Europe, the UK, and the USA. Marco’s short story “Power Tools” was nominated for Best of the Web for 2023 and is the title of his latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.

Website:  https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/

Instagram: www.instagram.com/marcoetheridge

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SerialZtheNovel

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.

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features The Good Fence. The Good Fence first appeared in Blue Moon Review, published in 2021. Without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

The Good Fence

by Marco Etheridge

Roberto Diaz glared through his kitchen window at the wooden fence that defined his world. The fence was not tall. A short woman could lean her elbow over the top rail of it, chat with her neighbor, share insights about flowering bulbs or proper turning of the soil. Roberto tried to remember why he’d built the thing so damn low, but the fever that wracked his brain was making him stupid.

Gloria had wanted the fence to be low enough to let the world in. She called it a border, not a barrier. So he built the fence short, back when they were both young and alive, and the neighbors were good. Now he was alone, and the new neighbor was not good, and he wished he’d made that damn fence ten feet tall and hung concertina wire along the top.

Roberto’s morning took another downhill jolt when he saw his neighbor’s stupid Swedish car pull into the driveway beyond the fence. Skinny Claudette, with her weird name and the strange hours she kept, coming home at breakfast time or in the middle of the night. She was some sort of nurse, always prancing off to work in an outfit that looked like pajamas.

She popped out of her car like a jack-in-the-box, crazy red hair tied up on top of her head. She turned his way, gave him a smile and a wave. Roberto ducked away from the window. The woman gave him the creeps. She had no right to be in that house, living there all alone. 

That was the Barry house. Twenty-five years they lived there, a decent married couple, him Irish, her Mexican. They raised two kids in that house. Maria Barry was a good neighbor, a good mother, and a good Catholic, just like his Gloria.

It was a heart attack that took John Barry. Maria went to live with her daughter. Gloria took sick not long after that, and Roberto’s world fell in around him. Nothing would ever be the same, and now he was stuck with a weirdo neighbor and a too-short fence.

This Claudette woman was at least forty, maybe forty-five, but she was not married. What was wrong with her? A good woman should be married. Roberto never saw any men coming around the place, only women. Strange men would be improper, but somehow the women seemed improper as well. And she had a cat, an ugly beast that prowled into his yard and did its filthy business in Gloria’s flower beds.

Roberto blinked at the tidy kitchen. His eyes struggled to recognize the room that held thirty years of happy breakfasts, decades of evenings spent watching Gloria bustle around the stove. He shook his head and sank into one of the wooden chairs. This was wrong, all of it. The room swam around him as he lay his head on the table.

All he wanted was to feel Gloria’s soothing hand on his forehead, her cooling touch, that sweet, quiet voice telling him everything would be fine. But Gloria was gone, a year gone now, and he was alone in the kitchen and burning alive. The doctors had not saved his Gloria, and neither had the nurses, nurses just like that witch who lived next door. No, they did not save her, she who so deserved to be saved. At the end, they said they had done everything that could be done, but their everything had not kept his beautiful wife alive.

He raised his head at the ringing of the telephone, but he did not rise to answer it. It was too far across the room, too much trouble. That would be one of the kids checking up on him. They were always worrying and fussing. This was just a flu, nothing important, not even worth talking about.

The ringing of the phone stabbed into Roberto’s already aching brain. He let his head sink back onto the table and waited until the ringing died away. Dios Mio, he just needed to rest, some peace and quiet, that was all.

Later, the phone rang again, but this time Roberto could not raise his head. Then somehow, the ringing changed to the babble of too many voices talking at once. It sounded like the old bus station when he came home on leave. Announcements blared over a bad loudspeaker, and people were shouting, and everything echoed so that no one could hear anyone, but Gloria would be there. Young and beautiful, she would fall into his arms.

There were people all around him now, and then his body was floating in the air. There was the sky above him, and the tree branches reached down as if to brush his face. Doors slammed, and the sunlight fell into his eyes. He felt the lurch as the bus started rolling, but if this was the bus, why was he laid out flat? Everything was different these days, so maybe people lie down on buses now. Gloria would be there to meet him after the long ride, so he tried to get some sleep.

Roberto drifted with the pleasant dream, a bus ride with Gloria waiting at the end. Then the dream turned into a nightmare. He heard the metal clang of doors opening, and then he was tilted through the air. Robots were looking down on him, strange beings with plexiglass faces. He was swept down a corridor where a singular smell washed over him like a drowning wave.

Hospital, this was a hospital, and the stark realization chased away the tendrils of his dream. He was wide awake now. Eyes peered down at him through plastic shields, and muffled voices asked him questions. He found his voice, pleaded with them. No, no, not here, this is where people die, this is where my Gloria died, this is where it all ends. No, please, take me back, take me back home. He gasped for breath, tried to make them hear his words, but first the faces and then the corridor swirled into darkness and were gone.

*  *  * 

The words reached deep under the water, into the black depths where Roberto struggled to breathe. He was in darkness at the bottom of the sea, amongst the strange creatures that lurked there, and they were watching him die. The words coiled about his ankles and wrists, lifting him, bearing him to the surface. Bright lights broke over him as he gasped for oxygen.

Roberto recognized the voice that was speaking, and that recognition snapped him back into consciousness. He was in a hospital bed surrounded by machines and tubes. Some of the tubes were hooked to his body. His eyes followed the lines of the tubes until he saw the faces. The plexiglass shields cast weird reflections and masks covered their mouths, but he knew that voice. He knew those eyes. It was his neighbor, Claudette Jenkins.

— Mister Diaz, are you awake now? It’s good to have you back with us. Can you hear me?

Roberto nodded his acknowledgment, unable to find the breath needed for speech.

— Good. You’re in the intensive care ward, Mister Diaz. You’re having trouble breathing. Your body is not getting enough oxygen. We’re going to intubate you to help your lungs cope with this. Do you understand what I’m saying?

He tried to control his thoughts against a wave of fear. Get a grip on yourself, Hombre. You are stronger than this. You’ve been through worse. You are a combat veteran, Viet Nam, you got to show this woman what you’re made of. He steeled himself, looked her in the eye, gave her another curt nod of the head.

— This is going to be a little uncomfortable, but it will be easier if you can cooperate with us. We’re going to slip a scope and a breathing tube down your throat. Don’t fight the tube if you can help it. Okay, we’re going to begin now. Just relax and let the team get this done.

The masked woman signaled to the others hovering over him, and then Roberto felt their hands on his body. He wanted to protest, fight back, fight them all. Fear surged through his brain, telling him to claw his way out of this bed and escape from the hospital. It was only stubborn pride that saved him. There was no way he would show weakness, not in front of this horrible woman.

He gagged as something entered his throat. They were killing him, choking him in his bed. He fought back the panic, forced his mind to focus. The thing in his throat pushed further, a foreign presence probing him, searching. After an eternity, the pressure eased, and the hovering figures moved back.

— We’re finished now, Mister Diaz. The oxygen is going to be flowing now. You should start feeling stronger soon. Try to relax and sleep if you can. The nurses are here if you need anything. Just push the red call button. It’s right here next to your hand.

He felt her hand on his, moist latex against his bare skin. He flinched at her touch, and she removed her hand. She gave him a long look. He saw her mouth move under her mask. It was so hard to focus his eyes. Was she laughing at him? I’ll show you. You watch me. I will show you what tough looks like. And then she was gone.

Time lurched past his hospital bed in fits and starts, now slowed to a crawl, now whirring into a blur of frantic images speeding past. Masked figures appeared and disappeared. Around his head, a cluster of machines pulsed and chimed and wheezed. The fires of hell coursed through his body and filled his brain. He tried to cry out against the raging flames, but no sound came from his lips.

*  *  *

Sunlight glares down through the smoke of the firefight. The air is pierced by the shriek of angry metal. Corporal Diaz presses himself flat into the sawgrass and fires another burst into the trees on the far side of the landing zone. Spent brass fountains into the air, tumbling and spinning.

Fifty yards out, a downed helicopter lies on its side, gouting sheets of flames and billows of greasy smoke. Fingers of fire grope across the scorched ground, crawling towards the body of a wounded man. Corporal Diaz hears him screaming, that son of a bitch Morris, goddamn him. No way, no way, any grunt on his feet is going to get cut in half most rikki-tik.

Then the gunships are in the air behind his platoon, raining holy hell down on those VC bastards, lighting the whole damn tree line up. Diaz is on his feet before his brain can say no. He’s running crouched down like a monkey, as if that will save his stupid ass. He can’t let Morris burn, just can’t do it, so he’s running and cursing, knowing he’s going to die.

He’s down beside the wounded man, using the poor bastard as a shield. Morris is still screaming, and he hears his own voice, I got you buddy, I got you, and Diaz is trying to slap a field dressing over the gut wound, hoping Morris’ intestines stay put.

A million angry steel insects scythe through the air above his head as the platoon pours fire into the tree line. Diaz prays they don’t take him down as well. He grabs Morris by the arm and digs a shoulder into his bleeding guts. It takes everything he’s got to hoist Morris onto his shoulder and lunge to his feet. He takes the first staggering steps back towards the line, lurching under the wounded man’s weight, and then the world goes silent.

 The thunder of the choppers, the cacophony of automatic weapons, the dull thump of mortars, every sound falls away. Diaz can hear his ragged breath and the heavy pounding of his combat boots against the dry ground. Morris is moaning, and his moans mix with the scraping of sawgrass against his fatigues. Outside the bubble, the world is exploding and dying. Here inside, it is so quiet Diaz hears the jingle of his dog tags as he sucks in another ragged lungful of air.

Diaz plunges forward, and the bubble travels with him. Then he knows, knows without a doubt in his heart that it’s that crazy chica Gloria. She told you, looking up with fierce tears in her beautiful eyes. I will pray for you, Roberto, every day I will pray to Our Lady of Guadalupe that you come home safe and we will be married. That’s it, that’s what’s happening, Hombre. Gloria and her prayers are saving you and this heavy bastard Morris, and you better never forget it. 

Then he is falling to the ground beside the medics, and the bubble melts away into the sawgrass around him. The medics grab Morris. One of them hovers over Diaz, but he waves him away. He feels the sweat sheeting over his face and the sticky blood that has run down his spine and into the crack of his ass. Diaz rolls over onto his back, stares at the sunlight. The smoke and noise wash over him, and he feels like sleeping.

*  *  *

Roberto rose into the bright light and the sound of beeping machines. Figures hovered over his hospital bed, and so too did a horrible stench. Dios Mio, he had soiled himself, a grown man shitting the bed. The shame was worse than the stench. Roberto wanted to crawl away and die, anything to avoid those eyes looking down at him.

They rolled him, cleaned him, diapered him like an infant. They spoke to him with kind voices, but Roberto had slipped away beyond caring. Nothing could be worse than this, nothing. He wished only for death to find him and take him.

He felt a hand on his arm. The touch calmed the bile of panic pressing up in his throat. It was her. He recognized her eyes behind the strange reflections that patterned the surface of her face shield. Roberto saw kindness in her eyes and bone-tired fatigue.

— Nothing to worry about, Mister Diaz. We do this every day. I’m going off shift now, but I will see you tomorrow, right? You get some sleep tonight. I want to see you strong and stubborn in the morning.

With another squeeze on his arm, she blended into the background and vanished.

Evening faded to night, and the lights dimmed. The semicircle of devices around the head of Roberto’s hospital bed beeped and chimed. Bulky ghosts cloaked in hazmat suits materialized in the gloom, adjusted a dial or checked an IV, then disappeared. The night drew on, and all was still.

Roberto awoke to find a woman standing at the foot of his bed. She wore no gown. No mask hid her face. She was both young and old beyond years. Her brown face smiled down on him. The air around her shimmered with a blue glow. Roberto tried to speak, tried to raise his head from the pillow, but his body would not respond. The woman reached out one arm, and he felt the touch of her hand on his foot. A cooling sensation ran up his leg and through his body. The fever in his head seemed to fade. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the woman was gone. Roberto’s eyelids fluttered as he fell into a deep sleep.

When the morning came, it was a real morning, full of detail and clarity and pain. Roberto was more than conscious; he was awake. He felt the ventilator tube in his raw throat, the stiffness of his back against the mattress. He rolled his head on the pillow and looked around the busy room. One of the three beds was empty, yet he knew they had all been full the night before. Nurses were moving about the cramped space. He did not recognize Claudette among them. Roberto needed her now, needed someone to tell him that this was all real, that he was really awake.

Then she was standing beside him, her gloved fingers gripping the chromium rails of the bed. Roberto tried to grimace a smile around the tube and tape of the ventilator. Claudette studied his eyes, then scanned the array of machines.

— Good morning, Mister Diaz. Looks like it is a good morning for you. Your condition is a lot better.

Roberto raised his hand and pantomimed writing. Claudette pulled a notepad and marker from somewhere behind his head. She uncapped the marker, handed it to him, and held the notebook. He penned large block letters across an entire line.

ROBERTO

Claudette smiled and nodded.

— Roberto it is, but not when the docs are around, okay.

He gave her a thumbs up, then pointed in the direction of the empty bed. She looked over her shoulder and then back, her gaze leaving the room and traveling somewhere far away. Roberto knew that look, the thousand-yard stare he had seen so many times on the faces of so many men. Pain and despair were etched into the lines around her eyes, and the grim realization that the end of all this was somewhere far beyond any visible horizon.

A gentle tap of the marker on the notebook brought her back. She came back into herself and looked down at him while he scrawled something on the paper.

I’M SORRY

— There’s nothing to be sorry about, Roberto. You had a good night. Your vitals are much stronger. You keep this up, and they’ll have to move you out of here.

Roberto shook his head and tapped the notebook.

BAD NEIGHBOR

— It’s true you’re not the chattiest neighbor I’ve ever had, but I know bad neighbors, and you aren’t one.

He shook his head again, tapped the notebook for emphasis. 

NEVER INVITED YOU

— Never invited me for what?

COFFEE COOKIES

GLORIA WOULD HAVE

Claudette looked into Roberto’s eyes. He could see a smile pushing past the mask over her mouth.

— I’m sorry I never had a chance to meet her, Roberto. I hear she was a lovely lady.

Roberto smiled and raised his hand to the notepad.

I MAKE BAD COFFEE

Claudette laughed out loud. The notebook shook in her hand.

— Okay, it’s a deal, but I’ll make the cookies. In the meantime, I’ve got places to go and people to see. Keep doing what you’re doing, Roberto. I want to throw you out of here as soon as possible. You’re taking up space.

He tried to mime a laugh around the tube.

Her hand reached for his forehead, and for the briefest of moments, he felt her cooling touch. A quiet voice filled his head, telling him everything would be fine, but it was not the voice of his nurse and neighbor. Claudette raised her hand, smiled down at Roberto, and turned away.

Roberto lay back in the bed and saw himself looking out his kitchen window at the vision of a bright world. Below the window, a small brown woman leaned her elbow on the top rail of a short wooden fence. She was chatting with their neighbor, a tall red-haired woman. Roberto tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing, then turned to the coffee machine.

Fini

You can find Blue Moon Review here:

https://www.bluemoonreview.org/

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/

Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred and fifty reviews across Canada, Australia, Europe, the UK, and the USA. Marco’s short story “Power Tools” was nominated for Best of the Web for 2023 and is the title of his latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.

And… if you desire more stories, look no further. The Good Fence appears in my short story collection Orphan Lies. Why not grab your very own copy:

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

Order Now

Kobo, Nook, Apple, and more!

Preview

View Book Sample

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.

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features The Allure of Phobia in Large Species. The Allure of Phobia in Large Species first appeared in Blue Moon Review, published in 2020. Without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

The Allure of Phobia in Large Species

by Marco Etheridge

Of all the many species on the planet, I understand Homo sapiens least of all. As a rule, I restrict my rare encounters with H. Sapiens to the bare minimum, yet it is impossible to avoid human beings altogether. The species is highly invasive, having spread across every available ecosystem. H. sapiens thrives even here in the Sonoran Desert, which is how I came to meet two of the strangest members of this very strange species.

Jeffery and Annabelle Choppard were and are two specimens of H. Sapiens. The three of us were brought together by the Lesser Long-Nosed Bat, Leptonycteris yerbabuenae. My name is Franklin James. I am a field biologist.

Human beings frequently use the word love to describe an emotion of attachment. Love, in the human sense, does not adequately describe my feelings for my bats, my Leptos. The head of my biology department uses another word for my keen interest in Leptos. She calls it an obsession, but she is both human and female, which puts her far beyond my understanding.

I met Jeffery and Annabelle not because of who they are, but rather because of where they live. Driven by their own particular needs, the Choppards owned a large parcel of land in the arid foothills south of Arivaca, Arizona. They live there still and probably will until their life span runs out. The arid Sonoran Desert environment is an ideal habitat for them.

There is an abandoned mine shaft on their property. The Lesser Long-Nosed Bat seeks out caves and old mine shafts, which form their daytime refuge. I, in turn, seek out Leptonycteris yerbabuenae. The search for my bats led me to the land office, whose records led me to the mine, which led me to my first meeting with Jeffery Choppard.

As agreed to over the telephone, Jeffery Choppard met me at the entrance to their property. A rusted gate barred further progress over the rough and dusty track, a rocky road that ends at their large parcel of land. My first sighting of the male Choppard was both singular and bewildering.

Atop his head, he wore an enormous sombrero, the brim of which was fully as wide as his narrow shoulders. An ancient double-barreled shotgun dangled from one of those same shoulders by means of a braided leather strap. Another strap looped over his neck, supporting a huge pair of binoculars that hung over his sunken chest.

Jeffery was a tall man, angular and cadaverous. He resembled the Marabou Stork, Leptoptilos crumenifer, far more than an example of H. Sapiens. When he walked, his long legs shot out in front of his body, which seemed always hurrying to catch up. Thus, he jerked as he walked to the gate, the shotgun and binoculars swinging from their respective straps.

His manner of speech was not that of a social animal, devoid of greeting or cordiality.

“So, you’re the biologist. You have any interest in turtles?”

I was confused, which was not uncommon for me when dealing with these perplexing beings. I had been quite clear over the telephone that I was interested in Lesser Long-Nosed Bats. I shook my head in the negative, but before I could reply further, he was speaking again, and very loudly.

“Yes, yes, you’re after some sort of bat. My wife and I understand. You can poke around the property as much as you like. Serving the interests of science and all of that. There’s a good flat spot up by the old mine shaft. You can set up your camper there, stay as long as you like. But there’s one condition you have to agree to, understand?”

I could only manage a nod before he was speaking again, this time with one of his bony hands gripping the shotgun at his side.

“Turtles, that’s the condition. Under no circumstances are you to mention turtles in the presence of my wife.  She’s deathly afraid of the things, suffers from chelonaphobia. So not a word, you got that?”

I nodded again, which seemed to be the total conversational contribution required of me.

“All right then, you drive your rig through. After I lock the gate, you follow me up the hill, okay?”

*  *  *

The Choppard house proved to be a cinderblock rectangle more like a bunker than a house. It was built into the hollow of a rock wall at the foot of a rough hill. In front of the house stood a round woman with flame-bright hair. An ocotillo ramada shielded her from the fierce sun. Even in the shade of the ramada, her wild hair glowed like fire.

Exiting our vehicles, my host introduced me in the same brusque manner with which he had greeted me.

“Annabelle, this is the biologist. I’m going to stow the truck, then I’ll take him up to the mine.”

And with that, he was gone, chasing after his stork legs.

I found myself in the presence of this extraordinary-looking woman. Annabelle Choppard was short, smiling, and lumpy. I felt as if I had been transported to the Paleolithic. This woman looked, for all the world, like a living incarnation of the Venus of Willendorf wearing a bright orange wig. The smiling mouth opened, and a flood of speech cascaded from it.

“Welcome, Franklin. May I call you Franklin? Jeffery tells me that you are interested in bats. We are happy to have you here. We don’t get many visitors, as you can imagine. I hope you will be comfortable up at the mine shaft. I see you have your camper. If you need anything, just ask.”

Here, she paused, casting a glance to where her husband was fussing with their battered old truck. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“There is one thing, something you should be aware of. You must not mention ducks or waterfowl of any kind. Jeffery, the poor dear, has a great fear of ducks. Not so much a fear of ducks per se, but a fear that ducks are always watching him. It’s called anatidaephobia. That is how we came to live up here. There is no water, you see, so no ducks. But better we keep this little conversation between ourselves. Here comes Jeffrey.”

*  *  *

Thus began my time amongst the Choppards. Other than the strict ban on mentioning waterfowl or turtles, I was free to roam their property. The Choppards were hospitable in their own way. Jeffery ignored me to a large extent. Annabelle would engage me in conversation whenever possible. I came and went as I pleased, having been given a key to the gate.

Jeffery Choppard was a man of routine. That was something I could understand. My mornings were always the same. The sun rose over the rocky desert, chasing my beautiful bats into their sanctuary. Sitting in the shade of my camper, I collated the notes made during my nightly observations. I would hear Jeffery’s stork-like strides before I saw him. Following the stomping and clanging, his gaunt body stalked into view. Wordlessly throwing me a wave of his bony hand, he disappeared into the maze of boulders above the mine shaft.

The male Choppard possessed a highly developed territorialism, a not uncommon trait in larger mammals. It was his custom to patrol their property after the sunrise, keeping his enormous shotgun at the ready. He prowled with a singular intent: The immediate destruction of any duck or turtle that may have strayed onto the Choppard acres during the night. Given the upland desert ecosystem, Jeffery’s chances of finding either were less than his chance of finding a member of Phoenicopterus roseus, theGreater Flamingo.

It was during Jeffery’s armed patrols that Annabelle would pay me her morning visit, another routine strictly adhered to. Seating herself at my small worktable, she would prattle away. She seemed not to require any response on my part, which is how I prefer my interactions with H. Sapiens. It was through Annabelle’s meandering monologues, delivered in morning installments, that I learned of the events that led the Choppards to inhabit this corner of the Sonoran Desert.

*  *  *

Annabelle Choppard, nee Perkins, was a native of Portland, Oregon, as was her husband-to-be. Portland is situated in a region that is notoriously rainy and temperate; a distinctly disadvantaged environment for anyone not keen on waterfowl or turtles.

Annabelle worked as a cook in a hospital. Jeffery Choppard operated a forklift in a warehouse. She worked days, he nights. They would never have met were it not for a local diner that they both frequented. A singular incident, involving marauding ducks, a tennis racquet, and the local police, brought them together.

During her morning prattles, Annabelle confessed to me that she had long had her eye on the man who, as we spoke, was hunting manifestations of phobias. Their paths crossed only at the diner; she on her way to the hospital kitchen, he on his way home from the warehouse.

One rainy morning, Annabelle was seated in her customary booth at the diner. She was waiting for Jeffery, whose name she did not yet know, to appear. Appear he did, emerging from a battered truck in the parking lot. He was immediately confronted by the spectre of his phobia: A waddling line of fat Mallard ducks, Anas platyrhynchos.

The sight of the beady-eyed waterfowl unhinged Jeffery. He defended himself with the only weapon available, a second-hand tennis racquet retrieved from the cab of his truck. He gave chase, the ducks rising in a cloud of protesting quacks. Jeffery managed to volley one of them, a drake, with a particularly violent backhand.

These bizarre antics caused one of the patrons to notify the local constabulary. The police arrived promptly enough to find an enraged man dashing back and forth across a rain-slick parking lot, waving a tennis racquet at the dark morning sky.

In that moment, Annabelle Perkins swung into action. She bolted from the warm booth, upsetting her coffee cup. The object of her desire was in peril, and she would be his salvation. Her lumpy body propelled itself across the parking lot with a speed normally reserved for Cheetahs, Acinonyx jubatus.

Thus, it was that the police officers found themselves talking to a lumpy woman with bright orange hair. Annabelle engaged the officers with a voluble flow of explanation while at the same time grasping Jeffery firmly at the elbow. Her touch seemed to calm the agitated man.

Not giving the constables an opportunity to insert a word edgewise, Annabelle informed the pair that a mistake had been made. This poor man had not been molesting the poor mallards but rather defending them. Bats had attacked the ducks, probably rabid bats. Seeing the waterfowl in peril, this brave man had leapt to their defense with the only tool he had. Yes, he had accidentally struck a duck in the melee, but the beast was unharmed. She smiled and talked and tightened her grip on Jeffery’s elbow until the cops gave it up as a lost cause.

Relieved of sorting through the local ordinances regarding assaulting ducks with sporting equipment, the officers piled back into their squad car and drove away. Jeffery stood blinking in the rain, looking down on the woman holding his elbow in a firm grip. Still smiling, Annabelle steered Jeffery into the diner, past the gaping patrons, to the cozy vinyl booth. Ignoring the spilled coffee pooled on the Formica table, she guided Jeffery to one bench of the booth and slid her bulk in opposite him.

It was at this point in Annabelle’s story that my vocal functions and my brain acted as one, a rarity in my dealings with a female human being. I pointed out to her, in a reasonably level voice, that what she had told the police was impossible. A bat in Portland, most likely the little brown bat, Myotis lucifugus, is a small species. Even a large specimen would weigh no more than thirteen grams. A mallard duck, on the other hand, can easily weigh more than a kilogram. Thus, a mallard duck is seventy-six times the size of a little brown bat, making said bat a very unlikely attacker.

Annabelle’s response to my outburst was a calm smile.

“Franklin, I had to tell the police something. The bat story worked like a charm. Besides, everyone is afraid of bats, except you, of course.”

I was stunned back into silence. The lack of logic in her words, her pudgy hand reaching out to pat mine, it was more than I could respond to. Lapsing back into my role as a listener, I sat back, mute and defeated, as the story continued.

*  *  *

And so, a sort of courtship began, conducted in the driest places they could find. Jeffery confessed his phobia of ducks, his terror at their constant surveillance, their beady eyes always watching him. Annabelle, in her turn, was relieved to be able to give voice to her overwhelming fear of turtles. She hated them for their protruding necks, snake-like above slimy bodies hidden beneath murky pond water.

In the course of their courtship, fortune smiled on the unlikely pair. The death of a fairly rich uncle brought Jeffery Choppard an unforeseen windfall. The behest was not enough to make him a wealthy man in Portland, but it was sufficient to make him wealthy on the far outskirts of Arivaca, Arizona.

Jeffery bought his parcel of property sight unseen, based on the real estate agent’s assurances that there was no standing water on the place. He proposed marriage to Annabelle, along with a swift move to drier climes. She accepted both without hesitation. The newly married couple left Portland hastily and without regret.

I admit to doubting some aspects of Annabelle’s tale. She professed herself and Jeffery to be wildly in love. This was contrary to the observed evidence. I could not recall a single instance of Jeffery and Annabelle being in physical contact with one another. As far as I could ascertain, they simply did not touch. As I was to learn, my doubts were groundless.

A large and tightly sealed water tank stood beside the Choppard house. It was elevated on steel stilts and was not only the main water supply to the house, but my water supply as well.

It was early evening as I approached the Choppard dwelling, an empty water jug in each hand. I intended to fill my jugs and be back at my camp in time for my nightly observations. My colony of Leptonycteris yerbabuenae would be setting out at dusk.

As I neared the house, I became aware of strange sounds, such as those made by large mammals in distress. The cacophony was composed of two distinct vocalizations, each growing louder as I approached the cinderblock structure.

I could clearly make out the sound of yips, barks, and howls, all sounding very much like those made by a female coyote, Canis latrans. Blending with those calls was a guttural growling akin to that made by a large bear, possibly a mainland grizzly, Ursus arctos horribilis. The combination of ferocious sounds was made more impressive by two facts: The bedlam was penetrating a cinderblock wall, and it was the two Choppards who were the source of the caterwauling. Based on audible evidence alone, their copulation was cataclysmic.

I filled my water jugs as quickly and quietly as possible, not that stealth was required. The noises emanating from the Choppard house drowned out all else. Retreating to my camp, I no longer doubted Annabelle’s tale.

*  *  *

It was late in the summer before I had another conversation with the taciturn Jeffery Choppard. The morning was like any other. I heard the sound of his clomping strides, pausing over my notes for his customary wave. On this particular morning, however, he did not wave. He marched straight to my table, seating himself in a clatter of shotgun and binoculars. Before I could register my surprise, he began to speak. As was his wont, he spoke without the normal human preliminaries.

“There is a purpose to this, these morning hunts of mine.”

I managed to raise an eyebrow, knowing that no response was required on my part.

“It does happen, you know. The ducks show up here, even in the desert. There may not be water on the property, but the feathery bastards aren’t that far away. The Oro Blanco Reservoir is over that ridge, and Arivaca Lake further on.”

Jeffery stared in the indicated direction. I managed to find my voice in the pause.

“And ducks inhabit these water bodies?”

“You bet your biologist ass they do. Why, did you know there are four species of Anas within a few miles of us? And that doesn’t count three other species of sneaky ducks. Seven in total, more than a sane man should have to bear. It’s the Black-bellied Whistling-Duck I hate the most. We didn’t have those in Portland. The damn things migrate up from the South. Can you beat that?”

I muttered something about not being able to beat that, knowing very little about duck migration patterns.

“Speaking of migrations, your bats will be heading out soon, isn’t that right?”

Nodding my head seemed enough for him.

“Well, I want you to know it’s been a pleasure having you here, a real pleasure. I hope to see you back next summer. Our gate is always open for you.”

He lurched from his chair, straps and equipment swinging around his gaunt frame.

“I better get to my rounds. You never know what those spying ducks might get up to. Good talking to you.”

And with that he was gone, striding off into the boulders on his hunt for waterfowl intruders.

*  *  *

It was one of my last morning conversations with Annabelle Choppard that brought me some insight into the nature of phobia in the larger species. My lovely Leptos were beginning their migration south, a few of the pioneers having already flitted away. I was making preparations to follow them down into Mexico.

Annabelle sat across the table from me, prattling away about something or another. I was by now accustomed to hearing her words as a sort of background music. My attention was diverted by movement amongst the rocks that littered my campsite. One of the rocks was moving, drawing slowly and inexorably closer. It was a Sonoran Desert tortoise, Gopherus morafkai. As it approached, albeit slowly, an icy fear pierced my heart.

I had no fear of the tortoise, for they are harmless beasts. It was Annabelle’s phobia that I feared. More precisely, I feared the retribution of Jeffery Choppard’s massive shotgun if I failed to protect his Annabelle. She must not see the invading terrestrial amphibian.

I attempted to divert Annabelle’s attention by means of some harmless human chitchat, a technique I am most unskilled at. It came out as a nervous babbling. All the while, I was casting sidelong glances at the nearing threat. In short, I failed miserably.

“Franklin, you’ve turned white as a ghost. What are you looking at?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. Did I mention that the Leptos have started their migration? It’s quite exciting, actually. Did you know…”

But Annabelle would not be put off, nor could I avoid checking on the progress of the tortoise. It was much closer now, bulldozing a path in our direction. Annabelle followed my eye, catching sight of the intruder. Rather than screaming in fright, as I expected, she burst into laughter.

“Why Franklin, you are silly. It’s only a desert tortoise. You aren’t afraid of tortoises, are you?”

I sputtered like a kettle on the boil, random words tumbling out of me.

“No, I… no. Not afraid of tortoises. I thought, I mean, Jeffery told me… Turtles, he said, don’t mention turtles… Shotgun, Jeffery might shoot me.”

Her laughter belted out in peals, startling even the tortoise. It stopped plowing rocks and raised its head in a slow surveillance of the surroundings.

Annabelle’s laughter subsided to chuckles, her lumpy bulk shaking the camp chair. She wiped tears from her eyes and turned them on me.

“Poor Franklin, so Jeffery told you about my chelonaphobia, did he? You’re a scientist. Aren’t you scientists supposed to use observation to verify the world around you? Well then, observe. That lovely creature is a Sonoran Desert tortoise, not a turtle. I don’t suffer from testudophobia. And you have nothing to fear from Jeffery, not even if you sang about turtles at the top of your lungs. His shotgun isn’t loaded; it never has been. It’s just a protective mechanism. Don’t you understand anything?”

The look on my face must have amused her, for she gave way to another loud burst of laughter. The tortoise, perhaps having thought better of it, altered its course, lumbering off in a new direction. I sat stock still under the flood of her guffaws, struggling to grasp exactly what it was I did and did not understand about this strangest of species.

Fini

You can find Blue Moon Review here:

https://www.bluemoonreview.org/

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/

Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred and fifty reviews across Canada, Australia, Europe, the UK, and the USA. Marco’s short story “Power Tools” was nominated for Best of the Web for 2023 and is the title of his latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.

And… if you desire more stories, look no further:

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

Order Now

Kobo, Nook, Apple, and more!

Preview

View Book Sample

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.

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Pas De Deux Confined. Pas De Deux Confined first appeared in In Parentheses, published in 2020. Without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Pas de Deux Confined

by Marco Etheridge

Loud music filled the room, making it hard to hear anything else. Discordant jazz chords clawed at the woman’s ears, minor sevenths and diminished nonsense that threatened to unravel the last thread of her sanity. The bleating screech of a saxophone turned her thoughts to murder. Yes, I could just kill him. Quicker than a divorce, and I can plead insanity. No jury would ever convict me. The thoughts boiled to rage, and she shouted over the din.

“Michael, will you please turn that crap down? I was talking to you.”

The focus of the woman’s anger, her soon-to-be ex-husband, sat staring out the room’s only window. Without taking his eyes from the world beyond the dirty glass, he raised one hand and clicked the button of a remote control. The room fell mercifully silent. The woman took in a deep breath and blew out a theatrical sigh.

“Did you hear a single word I said?”

Michael spoke into his own reflection.

“Sorry, no, I wasn’t listening. I didn’t even know you were in the room.”

“That is so goddamn typical. In fact, that could be the tagline for our ridiculous marriage.”

The woman drew in another deep breath before more words tumbled from her mouth.

“You wait until we’re trapped in this tiny shithole of an apartment before you decide to tell me you’re having an affair. This is your idea of good timing, the perfect moment for you to come clean? Then you disappear into your fantasy world. Really, Michael? Really?”

The woman paced the tiny space: Three steps, a whirl of hair, three more steps. The gravity of her anger pulled her back and forth between a restricted floor plan and limited options.

The bedroom door had a good slam to it, but then she’d be stuck inside a windowless monk’s cell. The bathroom door was too warped to slam properly. The closet-sized kitchen had no door, so no slam. Besides, the kitchen was his domain, full of his gadgety shit. And nowhere to sit in the kitchen except the godawful vintage stools, which were hers, and all her fault.

No, it was either leap over the mid-century coffee table and onto the lumpy sofa to claw his eyes out or pace the tiny living room. She did not possess enough high moral ground to pounce, so she paced.

“Maybe my mother is right, the evil bitch. Maybe my life is cursed. I should have stayed at home, all boring and safe, married some doofus who teaches at the community college, had a pair of drooling toddlers, one boy, one girl. Sunday dinners with the grandparents, little cousins to play with, a whole tribe of grass-stained kids.”

She stopped at the end of three paces, gave the wall unit a half-assed kick, then turned to glare at her soon-to-be ex-husband. This is all a joke, a sick and unfunny joke. Stuck in a pandemic limbo that has locked down everything, including my divorce proceedings. And who the hell confesses to an affair after the damn divorce papers are filed? Only my stupid husband, the man staring out the window and ignoring me. She snapped her fingers.

“Michael, hello, wakey-wakey. What the hell are you staring at?”

Hands on her hips, she blew at a loose strand of hair, which fluttered and then settled back onto her angry face. He didn’t respond, of course; wouldn’t turn away from his precious view.

That goddamn window was the only reason they’d signed the lease on this four-hundred-square-foot prison cell. A vacant lot across the street gave them a peek-a-boo view of the dirty river. They could barely afford the rent, but everyone bitched about rent in this stupid city. Besides, five flights of stairs saved a gym membership.

The street below the window was empty. The city was wrapped in the eerie stillness of a Sunday morning, but it wasn’t Sunday. It was the middle of a workday or would be if anyone still went to work. The steel doors of the shops were rolled down tight, triple padlocked at the sidewalk; a block-long ribbon of head-high graffiti broken only by crates of produce in front of the Korean grocery.

The streetscape vision of the apocalypse fanned the flames of her anger.

“Michael, if you don’t answer me, there is going to be a domestic violence call in the very near future.”

His response was so typical, so Michael. Still turned to the window, he arched his back, doing that feline thing she once found so irresistible: Michael the Cat-Man. Now it was just infuriating. Without looking at her, he raised an arm from the back of the sofa and pointed out the window.

“Pigeons.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Pigeons. You asked me what I was staring at. I’m watching the pigeons. As long as they’re flapping their wings, they fly like normal birds. Granted, they look like flying sausages, but they manage. Everything changes when they swoop in for a landing. It’s as if they forget how to fly. Their wings are all spread out, and they wobble from side to side, like they’re sliding down a suspended wire and have no idea how to stop. It’s a miracle they don’t slam into the building at full speed.”

“You’re watching pigeons instead of listening to me?”

“No, Sara, I was watching pigeons and listening at the same time. One doesn’t preclude the other. You were questioning the timing of my confession and then went on a rant about living the good life in your boring hometown. You forgot the part where you go on a killing spree after six months of splendid small-town isolation.”

Sara pressed her fists against the savage thoughts beating inside her skull. This was all so unfair. Their divorce was as simple as divorces get. They had barely a pot to piss in and no property to split. There were no grass-stained kids to fight over. It was a parting of ways, nothing more, the result of irreconcilable differences.

Contradictions had brought them together and made them strong. Now, five years later, those contradictions became the conflicts unravelling their marriage. No, had unraveled their marriage: Past tense. It was over except for signatures, which they could not scribble until the courts resumed processing non-essential cases.

She dropped her fists and raised her head.

“Speaking of murder, how are we going to avoid one, specifically yours?”

Michael turned and smiled at her, that impish grin she once loved and now hated.

“You can’t murder me because there’s no way to get rid of the body. I guess you could shove me out onto the fire escape, but I’m sure someone would notice. We’re stuck here for three weeks, minimum. I’d get pretty ripe in three weeks.”   

Sara edged around the coffee table and threw herself at the sofa. There was no place else to sit, and she was not up for squatting on the floor. He could move or not, his choice. Cat-quick, Michael slid to the far end, and they faced each other across the no man’s land of the middle cushion.

“The stink might be worth it for the quiet. Dammit, Michael, answer me: Why now? You couldn’t have waited a month, told me after the papers were signed? That’s how the scene is supposed to play out. The lawyer’s office, the papers on a desk; we scribble our signatures, and the divorce is done. Then you lean over with an evil smirk and tell me how you fucked my sister.”

Michael’s face twisted in genuine repulsion.

“That’s disgusting. Your sisters hate me. They’re both fat, and they wear pastels.”

“Unlike my ex-friend Brenda.”

Michael held his hands up in surrender.

“I told you because I didn’t want you hearing about Brenda secondhand. That’s a cliché, worse than your lawyer’s office scenario. And believe it or not, I think Brenda is still your friend.”

“One phone call can fix that, and you can bet that call is at the top of my to-do list.”

“An ex-husband isn’t enough, you want to collect a bunch of ex-friends as well? Some weird reverse Facebook shit? I didn’t lash out at your guy Brett.”

Hearing Brett’s name spoken aloud further eroded the high moral ground Sara was clinging to. Brett had been a colossal mistake, sure, but he was a coworker, not one of Michael’s friends. And the distinction matters how? She fell back into the lumps of the sofa.

“Seriously, Michael: Brett and Brenda? For fucksake, is that the best we can do?”

“No, the best we can do is Sara and Michael. That’s the best thing either one of us has ever done. What scares me the most is that it might be the best thing either one of us ever will do.”

Not believing her ears, Sara sat bolt upright.

“No way, you don’t get to segue from confession to reconciliation. We’re getting a divorce, remember?”

Michael shook his head and looked across the tiny living room.

“No, you’re getting a divorce. I’m getting divorced. Big difference. Only one of us is getting what they want.”

“You got Brenda. You didn’t want that?”

“No, not in any permanent way, and neither did she. It was a punctuation point for both of us. Brenda’s on the rebound. I’m on the way to a divorce. In that small meeting point between coming and going, we each needed to matter to someone, if just for a small space of time.”

“A punctuation point? Yeah, that’s clever. Question mark or exclamation?”

“Just questions, Sara, and it’s over, so there won’t be any answers.”

“You two aren’t going to run off to some island paradise?”

“Like Manhattan? No, it never even came up. There was no running, just treading water for a little while. Not like you two and your Paris plans.”

Sara groaned and dropped her face. She muttered between her fingers.

“Low blow, but a palpable hit.”

She raised her head and looked out over the empty street. Paris with Brett; what a disaster that would have been. But she’d come to her senses, broken it off, and made it up with Michael. That was almost three years ago. Two of those years had been good. This last year, not so much. Somewhere things had gone sour. She searched her memory for a wrong turning, some identifiable fork in the road, but there was nothing.

A flash of grey and white caught her eye. A fat pigeon careened out of the sky, wobbling through the late-morning air on a collision course with the roof across the street. At what seemed like the last possible second, the bird broke into a frantic, awkward fluttering of wings and managed to plop onto the graveled roof. Michael was right; it was a miracle there weren’t dead pigeons scattered over the sidewalk.

She watched the ugly thing ruffle its feathers. Apparently satisfied, the pigeon began to strut around in circles, vain head bobbing with every step. Sara turned away to find Michael watching her.

“Why did you never ask me to go to Paris?”

Sara cocked her head, not believing what she was hearing.

“Paris… you and me?”

Michael nodded his head and said nothing.

“Seriously, that’s what you want to know? I… I don’t know why. I guess I thought you’d say no, or that we couldn’t afford it. But we went places. We went to Mexico City, the grand mural tour, remember. I even let you drag me to the Trotsky Museum.”

“Right after we spent the whole morning at the Frida Kahlo house.”

“Which you loved. Don’t make out that you were suffering for my sake.”

Michael laughed and shook his head.

“I try not to suffer for you at all. That was a great trip.”

“Except for being sick on the return flight. You just had to eat in that dive bar the last night. My guts were churning the whole way back.”

“The price for local culture. Go ahead, ask me.”

“Ask you what?”

“Ask me if I want to go to Paris with you.”

Sara shook her head and turned back to the window, waiting for the next pigeon to fall.

* * *

Michael crosses without bothering to look. He pauses in the center of the empty street because he can, because there is no one to honk or run him down. He looks up and down the quiet canyon of brownstones, the noon sun overhead, a lone gunfighter with no opponent. He crouches for the draw, an organic cotton grocery bag in each hand, almost drops the newspaper clamped under his arm. No one answers his challenge, and he laughs at himself.

The cacophony of the city is three weeks gone now, and the silence is oppressive. Michael hears the small sounds normally hidden beneath the urban roar. A spring breeze flows off the river and rustles the new-green leaves of the honeylocusts. Pigeons coo on cornices five storeys above him.

Michael lowers one bag to the pavement and scratches the thick stubble on his cheek. His eyes search the upper storey of windows, hoping to catch Sara looking down, but all he sees are sliver-blue rectangles of reflected sky. He blows out a sigh, reaches for his bag, and crosses to the empty sidewalk.

The stairwell pulses with the burrowed life of the building. Music, the blare of televisions, children crying, children laughing; it mixes and echoes as if the noise of the city has sought shelter from the threat of the empty streets.

He trudges up the stairs. The newspaper rustles under his arm. The news of the world is not good. Neither is the news waiting five floors up. The outside world is stuck in a pandemic limbo, lockdowns extended. His inner world is trapped in a tiny apartment where his beautiful wife waits on a stalled divorce he does not want.

The heavy canvas bags pull against his arms, and his quadriceps burn from the long climb. The bags are stuffed with Korean sausage, homemade noodles, fresh vege, and a tub of Missus Park’s special kimchi. The normally taciturn Mr. Park had bemoaned the lack of customers while ringing him up. Business bad, Mr. Michael. People scared. Michael had nodded, told the old man he was sorry to hear it.

He and Sara eat well, pandemic or no. Michael makes sure of that. She will miss his cooking if nothing else. He loves her to distraction, but not for her culinary skills. Sara, who does so many things so well, can barely boil water.

From habit, he takes the last flight of stairs in a quick shuffle: Always finish strong. Michael turns down the hallway and pauses outside the apartment door. He lowers the groceries to the worn parquet and digs for his keys. Standing with keyring in hand, he repeats a mantra to himself: Calm and neutral, calm and neutral. Do not cause a conflict.

Michael does not insert a key into the lock. He looks down the hallway, sees the top of the stairwell. Sure, just leave the groceries and go. But where? Back to Brenda? That was stillborn from day one.

Brenda with her heartbreak, and you with your shock of pending abandonment. The two of you mixed mutual emptiness as if it would create something more than a bigger void. At least you were both smart enough to see it for what it was. The goodbyes were heartfelt, sad, and irrevocable.

His hand moves as if of its own volition, fitting keys to each of the three locks, twisting open the bolts. Michael watches the movements of his fingers, feels the keyring fall back onto the pocket of his jeans. Goaded into action, he lifts the grocery bags, shoulders open the door and disappears inside.

“How was the shopping?”

Michael bends the canvas bags to the floor and relocks the deadbolts. Sara is leaning against the wall beside the bedroom doorway. She’s barefoot, wearing jeans and a loose sweater with a low neckline. Michael notes the lack of pajamas as a good sign.

“It was okay. Give me a minute.”

Holding his hands like a surgeon waiting to scrub, he disappears into the tiny bathroom. He lathers with soap; tries not to hum the earworm pop tune the safety ads have drilled into their brains.

Returning to the living room, he sees Sara has moved the groceries to the kitchen. She is standing in the entrance, barring his way.

Michael looks across the room to the sofa. His blanket and sheets are on the arm of the sofa, a tidy rectangle of folded bedding with the pillow placed just so.

He turns back to Sara, but she avoids the obvious question, asking one of her own instead.

“How are mister and missus Park?”

Michael shrugs, wonders where this is going.

“Not so good. Mister Parks says business is bad. People are scared to shop at an Asian market. He didn’t say that, exactly, but that’s what he meant.”

“That’s sad, people abandoning the local shops for Whole-Paycheck. Another casualty of the plague.”

Sara takes three steps to the coffee table and sits down on the edge of it. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, her face framed by her dark hair. Michael looks at her bare feet, pale against the worn Persian rug. She has the sexiest feet he has ever seen. The unfairness of it washes over him like a wave. This woman who was his wife—is his wife?—now only a disinterested roommate. Then she is speaking, but the wave still lingers.

“Sorry, Sara, I got lost for a second.”

“I said, I want to tell you about this dream I keep having. Except it’s not really a dream because I’m not sure if I’m asleep or awake. I’m in bed and the bedroom is dark as a cave, like always. I hear a noise, and it’s bugging me. The noise starts as snoring, so I reach out to poke you, but of course you’re not there. I realize what I’m hearing is the sound of the ocean. It isn’t surf on the beach, but the deep swells of the open sea without any land in sight. The seawater is lapping against a small boat, like a lifeboat, and the boat rises and falls. Then there are creaking noises, and I see you pulling against a set of oars. I’m signaling with my hands, as if I’m giving you directions. You’re watching my hands and pulling at the oars, and each time you pull, we are skimming across the swells so fast it’s like flying.”

Sara pauses. Michael waits for her to continue, but there is only silence.

“How does it feel to be in this small boat all alone on the ocean. Are you frightened? Am I frightened?”

Sara shakes her head and lowers her eyes to the floor. Michael can hear her words, but he cannot see her face.

“No, no fear at all, nothing like that. It all seems very… purposeful. I think that’s right. Not happy, not sad, not scary.”

She raises her head. Her eyes are bright.

“I want to ask you a question.”

He nods his head. Calm and neutral, Michael, calm and neutral. Whatever it is, think before you speak.

“Would you like to go to Paris with me, Michael?”

Calm and neutral careen away, as if he’s been brained with a hammer. His mouth opens and words stutter out before his mind can catch up.

“Paris, sure, yeah, but I mean, the flights and everything, how could we, the restrictions…”

Sara raises a hand to stop his flow of gibberish.

“It’s a simple question. Would you like to go to Paris with me? Don’t think, just answer yes or no.”

“Yes, Sara, I would love to go to Paris with you.”

“Okay, good answer. Now come over here and sit down. I’ll be right back.”

Sara slips past him and through the kitchen doorway. He watches her instead of where he is going and barks his shin on the sharp edge of the coffee table. He curses, flops to the sofa, tries to rub away the burn. Sara’s laptop is sitting on the coffee table in front of him. Before he can wonder why it’s there, Sara reappears carrying a tray.

Sara leans over to place the tray on the table, and Michael becomes lost in her revealed décolletage. He forgets the pain in his shin. She smiles at his stare, slips around the table, and onto the sofa. She waves one hand over the tray with the exaggerated gestures of a games show shill.

“Red wine, cheese, olives, everything we need for an afternoon of walking. This has already had a chance to breathe. Shall I pour you a glass?”

Michael struggles to take in what’s happening. Neutral is long gone, but he hopes he can hang onto calm.

“Sure, yes please, wine would be good.”

He watches her pour, sees the dark red swirl, feels the crimson pounding of his own blood. She lifts the glasses by their stems, hands him one, raises her own in a toast.

“To an afternoon in Paris.”

Michael holds his glass, but does not raise it, does not repeat her toast. Sara is watching him, waiting.

“And later, when the world starts turning again, what then?”

“I don’t have the answer, Michael. When we get to that, if we get to that, I don’t know what will happen. I feel as if the outside world has disappeared and this apartment has become our lifeboat. I need to make the world bigger again.”

Michael smiles, raises his glass.

“To an afternoon in Paris.”

They sip their wine. Sara leans over the laptop. She flips it open, touches a few keys, and a video image resolves on the screen. Her finger hovers over the mouse pad.

“Are you ready to go?”

Michael nods. Her finger taps, and the video begins. Wine in hand, he feels her body lean into his as they begin walking through the entrance to the Louvre.

Fini

You can find In Parentheses here:

https://inparentheses.art/

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/

Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred and fifty reviews across Canada, Australia, Europe, the UK, and the USA. Marco’s short story “Power Tools” was nominated for Best of the Web for 2023 and is the title of his latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.

For more reading, how about a collection of short stories? Pas De Deux Confined appears in my short story collection U6 Stories. Grab your copy today!

U6 Stories – Vienna Underground Tales

Every train carries a story.

The U6 is one line of the Vienna underground transit system. The silver and red trains carry stories, many stories. A woman mourns her musical lover, and a man discovers his courage. A Syrian family flees to a fragile new beginning, and a young man helps circus performers during a pandemic. Lovers rediscover each other after decades apart, and a man finds a father he never knew. A contract is broken, and neighbors defend their own. Eighteen tales of love lost and found, of the darkness within us, and the glimmering light that keeps us afloat. Unforgettable characters struggle against the pressures of an impersonal world, and against the burdens they carry within. Welcome, Reader, to the stories of the U6.

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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 more than seventy reviews, journals, and magazines in Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. U6 Stories gathers eighteen of his best short stories into one collection. The U6 is one line of the Vienna underground transit system. The trains transport more than people. Each silver and red carriage carries stories, many stories. A woman mourns the death of her musical lover, and a man discovers his courage. A Syrian family flees to a fragile new beginning, and a young man helps circus performers during a pandemic. Lovers rediscover each other after decades apart, and a man finds a father he never knew. A contract is broken, and neighbors defend their own. These eighteen stories tell tales of love lost and love found, of the darkness that lies within us, and the glimmering light that keeps us afloat. Unforgettable characters struggle against the tides and pressures of an impersonal world, and against the burdens they carry within. Welcome, Reader, to the stories of the U6.

Details

Genre: Short Stories
Tags: Recommended Books, Short Stories
Publisher: Marco Etheridge Fiction
Publication Year: 2022
ASIN: B0BLLQN8WB
ISBN: 9798362399221
List Price: 8.95
eBook Price: 2.99

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