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.
Discover more from Marco Etheridge Fiction
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
Leave a Reply