Thursday Stories – 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 Foul Tommy’s Armor. This story first appeared in Millennial Pulp, published in 2021. Foul Tommy’s Armor is one story of a trilogy that centers around a dystopian community known as The Ruins. Without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it, and Happy Thanksgiving to my statside friends and neighbors.

Foul Tommy’s Armor

by Marco Etheridge

Foul Tommy shambles through The Ruins, and the zombies step aside to let him pass. They fear Foul Tommy and are repelled by his presence. He is a bear of a man, even in his dereliction, made more ursine by the stench that leaks from beneath his greatcoats.

Zombies from the Outside can’t deter Foul Tommy, not here in The Ruins where they are powerless. He pauses his shuffling walk and looks up the lane that leads through the Day Market. The open stalls on either side are busy, and the zombies closest to Foul Tommy wrinkle their noses and move away. They don’t dare point their devices in Tommy’s direction.

The keepers of the stalls are impassive behind their arrayed wares. They nod to the Outsiders, sell the handmade goods the zombies desire, and take their money. They do not engage in conversation, nor do they wrinkle their noses at Foul Tommy. They of The Ruins are equals. 

The muddy river makes up one undulating boundary of The Ruins, and a crumbling half-circle of ancient wall girds the rest. The Day Market is the center and heart of The Ruins, the only part of it where Outsiders dare to venture.

Only Insiders live in The Ruins, and only in the more or less intact buildings that back up to the ancient wall. Between the Day Market and the river lies a wasteland of fallen walls and tumbled stone. This belongs to Tommy.

Foul Tommy looks past the crumbling buildings and fallen walls that mark the corridor of the Day Market. A tall fir tree rises at the end of the lane, a landmark full of noisy crows. The crows are gathered for a murder or maybe a union meeting, filling the tree from top crown to lowest branch. Tommy doesn’t care why the crows have gathered, only that they mark the way to the Grog Monger.

He raises his grimy hands to check that his armor is in place and properly fastened. He wears two huge greatcoats, one over the top of the other, the mantel that holds the wee ones safe and dear from the screaming and the blackness.

His armor secure, Foul Tommy juts out his chin. His scowl is hidden beneath a tangled black beard. A once-black watch cap is pulled down over a pelt of matted hair that falls to the collar of his mac. He sets out again. The zombies part before him and swirl in his passing wake.  

The fir tree looms ahead, and Foul Tommy plods his unsteady way beneath its branches and the congress of crows. The black birds croak out a dirge stripped of all derision; a professional courtesy extended to a comrade of the deadly field.

The Grog Monger’s shop is empty when Foul Tommy pushes open the door. A bell above the door rings out. The ringing startles Tommy, as it always does. He eyes the bell with suspicion and steps into the tiny shop.

A rough wooden counter runs along the walls and back of the shop. Behind the counter, shelves climb into the dusty gloom. They are laden with bottles and jugs, glass canisters and earthen crocks. The plank floor of the shop will hold four customers, provided they’re on good terms and none of them is Foul Tommy.

The Grog Monger stands behind the counter, a gold-capped grin splitting his ruddy face. The man wears an apron over a denim work shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Almost every bit of exposed flesh is covered in ginger fur. The knuckles that rested on the counter are red-furred, as are the beefy forearms above them. A ginger beard rings the golden smile, and close-cropped red fuzz outlines the man’s skull.

Grog Monger’s shop serves as the portal between the worlds of out and in. If The Outside was hell and The Ruins a purgatory of sorts, Grog Monger is Cerberus guarding the doorway.

The knuckles lift from the counter, and Grog Monger’s hands spread wide in welcome.

— A good morning to you, Sergeant. I was expecting you. Your check come just the other day.

Foul Tommy shuffles forward into the flow of the man’s words, batting them away with an outstretched hand. Grog Monger seems to interpret the waving as if it were spoken word.

— Come now, no need for that. Proprieties to be observed, Sergeant, leastwise within the walls of me humble shop.

He reaches beneath the counter and produces a check printed on heavy bond and a pen. Foul Tommy peers at the lettering, a name spelled out in block script: Brian Sutcliffe, SSgt.

— Just a signature as always, and I’ll lay it by on your account.

He takes up the pen in one hand and holds down the check with the other. The nib falters for a moment, then drops to the paper and scrawls a mark on the signature line.

— Now then, that’s seen to. Talking of your account, you’ve got a tidy bit laid by, not a fortune, mind you, but enough for a roof over your head for a few nights. I could book you something over at the Three Flags. Got a mate working there. Nothing fancy, but the beds are clean. What do you say to that, Sarge?

Foul Tommy backs away from the counter, both hands raised as if to fend off a demon.

— Calm yourself now, Sarge, it was just a thought, nothing more. Forget I mentioned it. Here, come now, nothing to worry about. If not a room, would you be minding if I asked Skater Grrl to look in on you? I know you’re fond of her and she of you.

The sound of her name soothes Tommy. Skater Grrl, the angel of The Ruins. It is very hard to talk to an angel, any angel, but he can talk to her. With thoughts of her in his mind, Tommy lowers his upraised arms and steps back to the counter.

— There then, that’s all settled to the good. Now, you’ll be wanting your supplies, I’ve no doubt. Here’s a nice pouch of cavendish for your pipe. It’s sweet as sin, that tobacco, not like the foul dregs they used to give us on the line, aye? Torn newspaper and shredded cardboard that filth was. But this here is the right proper. And two bottles of the Four Shamrock.

 The man lays a twine-wrapped parcel on the counter, then reaches behind himself and lifts two fifths of whiskey from a shelf. The heavy bottles thump on the counter. Foul Tommy peers down at the bottles, then lifts his right hand, four fingers held upright.

— Now Sarge, we talked about this as you’ll no doubt recall. You’re a man what must keep up appearances. I know I’m just a former Lance Corporal speaking to his superior, but I must stick to me guns on this. Two bottles the limit and no more.

Foul Tommy sags like a scolded pup. He reaches for the whiskey and tucks one bottle into each of the outside pockets of his mackintosh. He unbuttons the top of the greatcoat and slides the pouch of tobacco inside. A fetid reek pours from the open collar, but Grog Monger gives no sign of noticing.

Armor back in place, Tommy raises one hand and turns away. The bell over the door rings again as Grog Monger’s farewell reaches his ears.

— Mind how you go, Sergeant.  

Retracing his steps, Tommy turns himself back towards The Ruins, the bottles heavy in his pockets. He shambles under the crow tree and crosses the lane that leads to the day market. He enters a maze of broken buildings and crumbling walls, negotiating passages that only the denizens of The Ruins know. He emerges into a crumbling courtyard. A raised platform girds the courtyard, protected by a doubtful overhang.

Foul Tommy clambers up onto the platform and lowers himself onto a sprawling nest fashioned from cardboard and lined with newspaper. He sticks his legs out in front of him, leans back against the stone wall, and fishes one of the bottles from his pocket.

Sunlight and the shadows of passing clouds play across the walls of the courtyard. Smoke from Tommy’s pipe sweeps up to mix with the dappled light. He nips at the whiskey, but only in a small way, a slow way. He must keep his guard up and his wits about him.

A shadow moves, something darker than a cloud, half-seen but still there. Tommy sees it, or feels it, up where it hovers above the courtyard, slipping in and out behind the broken parapets that top the walls. Foul Tommy lurches to his feet, steadies himself, and raises a fist in the quiet air. His other hand goes to the collar of his greatcoat and clutches it tight against his throat.

Tommy rages against the thing, but anyone standing in the courtyard would see only a silent man waving his fist.

Nae, you know better than coming here, not when I’m ready for you, ready and waiting, you great greedy beast. You’ll not have them, not that easy, so you can just bugger back off where you came from. The wee ones are safe under me armor and cinched up tight. Prowl all you want, you’ll not have a one of them.

The sense of lurking fades, replaced by the shapes of clouds passing in shadow over the stone walls. The shapes become men and the men march past. Tommy can see them, hear their laughter, the voices young and brash. Then the sunlight turns bright as fire, its flames bearing the screams of the dying.

It is gone as quickly as it appeared. There is only Tommy standing alone in the empty courtyard with one fist raised to the sky. He lowers his arm, sinks back into his nest, and picks up his dropped pipe. He crushes out the smoking embers burning holes in the cardboard, tamps the pipe with his forefinger, and strikes a match.

The light slips away, and Tommy slips away with it. He is moving through the darkness, walking between men huddled in small clusters. Snatches of murmured conversations, the quick glow of a cigarette held cupped in a concealing hand. They are waiting, these men, afraid in the night. He pauses beside each circle of men, sees their upturned faces, and hears his own voice speaking quiet words of encouragement. They nod their heads, smile their nervous smiles, and he moves on.

As Tommy moves through between the assembled men, he senses other footsteps behind him, something following him quiet as a cat. The feeling grows stronger, and he opens his eyes.

Soft footsteps enter the courtyard, and he sees the Skater Grrl moving across the broken stones, pale blonde and thin as a wisp. She smiles he feels the light return. Skater Grrl pauses below the edge of the platform. When she speaks, Tommy hears flowing water.

— Hallo, Tommy. Grog Monger sent word I might ought to check you up. How’re you keeping?

Foul Tommy worked his mouth, trying to pull sounds from his throat. He managed to utter a single word.

— Gabriella.

The young woman quickly looked about the courtyard and then back to Tommy.

— Ah, we can’t be using The Outside names, Tommy, not even when we’re alone. You remember that don’t you?

He nodded his head, then dropped his eyes from hers.

Skater Grrl laughed, and the sound of it swept away anything that could be wrong.

— Here, no harm done, Tommy, don’t you fret about it. But try to remember, yeah? Hey, how about you come back with me to the shop? You can have a shower and a brush up. I can clean your armor while you’re about it. It’s been a while since it had a good polish. Would you like that?

Foul Tommy nodded his head, and a smile broke out through the tangle of his beard. He rose from his nest and lowered himself from the raised platform. He dwarfed the young woman standing next to him, but she did not flinch. Taking his hand in hers, she led him across the cobbles and out of the courtyard.

*  *  * 

Foul Tommy peeks through the crack in the door, counts the wee lads in the shadows. Naught to fear, Boyos, Gabriella says you’ll be safe here, and we know that she never lies. I’ll only be gone a tick, just long enough for our armor and me soiled self to get a good scrubbing. You lads get some rest. He pushes the door closed and shoots a heavy bolt to lock it.

He lumbers partway across the room and pauses, a huge, ragged beach towel wrapped around his hairy middle. Below the plank floor, he can hear voices and the sounds of the printing shop. Gabriella is down there, and the man who makes the shirts.

Gabriella says to shower off the crusty stuff and won’t that feel nice. She’ll be cross if he doesn’t give everything a good scrubbing. It won’t do to make an angel cross. Tommy stomps over to a makeshift shower and turns on the water.

Skater Grrl walks through the silk-screening shop, holding a bulky bundle at arm’s length. A tall man is working over a spider-armed machine. Each arm has a sort of paddle for a hand, and each paddle holds a T-shirt waiting to be printed. The man wears what were once white coveralls but are now a rainbow of ink spatters and swirls. Silky raises himself and smiles at Skater Grrl. Then he sniffs the air and wrinkles his nose.

— Hey, Grrl. Whew, is it that time again already?

— Hey, yourself, Silky. Can’t be helped. We can’t be letting him rot away altogether.

Silky eyed the stinking bundle.

— What’s with the big fella and the coats, then? It’s near come on summer.

— Don’t know exactly, but he believes he’s carrying folks around under his coat. Calls it his armor, says they’re the little lambs, but I don’t think they’re sheep. It’s dreadful important to him, like he’s paying off a debt or something.

— A debt, you say. Sounds like there’s something to be learned there.

— There’s more than something to be learned from Tommy. Swimming in deep waters, he is. But for now, it’s the devil out of the overcoats.

— Then I expect you’ll be wanting the steam room for them horrible mackintoshes?

— If you please, kind sir. You think this is bad, you should have a go at his shirt and trousers. I’ve already got them in the wash. The socks and unders, those can’t never be saved. I don’t tell him, but I keeps a stash of new hidden away.

— Right you are, my girl. My steam room will take care of those plague rags.

Silky turns back to his work, test-fitting a stencil over a blank shirt. Skater Grrl leans over his shoulder to watch.

— What’s the flavor of the day, then?

Silky answers her without turning around.

— Same as always, revolution in bites so small they don’t know they’re eating it.

— You think it does any good?

— What, to the zombies? Naw, no help for them until their devices fail altogether. Then watch out. Meantime, the revolution serves to cleanse the revolutionaries, even Foul Tommy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, fair maiden, I’ve got a whole run of Mao as Marilynn shirts to see to.

Skater Grrl looked down at the template and laughed.

— Should sell like hotcakes. I’ll leave you to it then. Thanks, Silky.

She walks away bearing the stinking bundle and her thoughts. Hang these in the steamer, fetch out the clean unders, then make sure Tommy ain’t drowning in the shower. She laughed again. Just another day in The Ruins.

*  *  *

The morning light plays out a dull grey across the muddy river. Tommy’s great bulk is sprawled across a cracked bench athwart the skeleton of a wooden boat. The planking has fallen from the hull, and gunwales cling to the bones of broken ribs. The sluggish river has long since swallowed the bow, and water laps the wooden planks not far from Tommy’s boots.

Tommy nips from a bottle of Four Shamrocks, just a morning taste, something to keep the fires stoked. Smoke from his pipe drifts out over the flat water. He watches it for the longest time. As he keeps watch, it begins to take shape.

Tendrils of smoke swirl into a form, and the form builds into shadow. A huge head rises from the water, a monstrous thing like a cat if cats had bloody scales for fur. The eyes are a fever yellow, the pupils black slits, and they glare at Foul Tommy.

The creature surfaces only to its dripping muzzle, the rest of its foul body hidden beneath the surface of the river. A set of huge claws scythe the water beside the hideous head, then disappear like silver fish diving.

The fire in Tommy’s chest blazes hot with anger, and the anger flares into his brain. Get ye gone, demon, there’s nothing for you here. I don’t give a damn for your hunger. You’ve taken all there is, and you’ll have no more. You slice steel and flesh and bone. You drain and drink their blood. But you’ll not have what’s left of them. I guard them, and that’s an end to it. Be gone to a battlefield and do your haunting there.

The creature closes and reopens its horrible eyes in a slow blink that lasts many heartbeats. Then it begins to sink. The muzzle dips beneath the water, then the still staring yellow eyes. Its pointed ears are the last thing Tommy sees. The brown water swirls, and the eddies left behind drift off on the slow current.

The riverbank is peaceful once more. The morning sun grows warm. Tommy smokes down his pipe, knocks the ashes to the mud, and sags against the wooden ribs. Exhaustion sweeps over him like a blanket, and the world falls away.

The sun is high when Tommy wakes from a sleep he did not mean to take. His armor is open, the folds of his overcoats fallen to either side of his slumped body.

A shadow falls across his face. He looks up. The thing is there, fully out of the water and climbing over the sunken bow of the wrecked boat. The demon digs sharp claws into rotting wood, pulling itself forward. Its mouth is open in a silent snarl, and Tommy sees the bared fangs.

Foul Tommy scuttles backwards like a frightened crab, his arms and legs flailing. Pipe and bottle are forgotten. He makes it to the stern of the wreck, and all the while those yellow eyes stare into his. Then his hands find nothing but air, and he falls from the boat to the muddy riverbank.

He rises to his feet and staggers up the bank while trying to pull his greatcoats back into place. He reaches the top of the bank and begins to run for the tumbled walls of The Ruins. Behind him, the creature rises into the air and follows, snarling and drooling, yellow eyes boring into Tommy’s back.

Foul Tommy careens into the narrow passages, bouncing off stone walls as he twists and turns, leaping over piles of rubble. The demon floats above him, claws raking down from the broken tops of the ruined walls. Tommy dodges and runs, one hand clutching the armor closed at his throat, but he cannot stop to fasten the armor. He runs like a man on a battlefield as the demon pursues him.

*  *  *

Tall Boy stands behind his baskets of freshly baked bread and meat pies. The zombies drift down the lane of the Day Market, holding up their devices to record what they don’t see. At the next stall, Dreadlock is smiling broad, white teeth flashing against his ebony face.

— What’s up, Dreadlock? You’re grinning like you’ve got a secret to tell.

Dreadlock’s smile grows as he holds his strong hands wide above the twisted wire jewelry displayed on his table.

— I be celebrating, man. Been three years ago today I come to The Ruins.

— Hey, happy jump anniversary.

The smile disappeared from Dreadlock’s face.

— It was a hard jump, man, hard jump.

Tall Boy nodded his head. All jumps were hard, but some were worse than others. Being in The Outside was a frightening thing for anyone. He remembered his own jump well and had no desire to repeat it.

— You came from the South, right? 

Dreadlock sighs, looking to the sky above the ruined walls.

— Yeah, come from the Water World I did. I’m telling you, them were hard times, Tall Boy. Food going scarce on the island, fish gone away. People was making the jump left and right. I was three month on that jump, all the while wandering The Outside, chasing a rumor of this place.

— Yeah, but you found it in the end, and here you are.

Dreadlock nods his head and the smile returns.

— You know, Foul Tommy was the first person I met when I finally got to The Ruins. Took me under his wing, he did. Won’t never forget that.

— Must have been stinking under there.

Dreadlock waves a long finger at Tall Boy.

— Don’t you be running Tommy down. He a good man. You know he was a sergeant in the Big War? Got himself shot up good, he did. He told me about it, about all his soldiers getting themselves killed. Sad story, man.

— Wait, Foul Tommy talks?

Dreadlock shrugs.

— Course he talks. Not so often as most folks, but when he talk, it’s a good idea to listen. He seen a lot, Tommy has. 

As if summoned by their words, Foul Tommy bursts out of the rubble. Tall Boy and Dreadlock are struck silent at the sight of Tommy running like a madman, his greatcoats flaring behind him. One hand is clutching at his throat, the other clawing the air. He runs straight at them as if he’s been struck blind.

They step aside only at the last second. Foul Tommy passes between them, and they see his face is contorted with fear. The big man collides with the edge of Dreadlock’s stall, tangles his feet, and falls to the pavement.

Tommy rolls to his back and raises himself on an elbow, gibbering and waving his free hand at the sky. Tall Boy is staring down at Tommy when Dreadlock grabs him by the shoulder. His long black hand spins Tall Boy round. Dreadlock is pointing at a dark shadow writhing above the stone walls. The thing shifts and roils without any real form, but Tall Boy can feel its menace. Dreadlock’s hand is shaking, as is Tall Boy’s voice when he finds words.

— That the hell is that?

— Don’t know for sure, man, but Tommy told me he had a demon chasing him.

— You mean like a demon from a whiskey bottle?

— Don’t look like that thing come from no bottle.

— Right, well sod this then.

Tall Boy looks around wildly, then snatches up a long breadknife from his stall. He raises his weapon to the shifting shadow and backs away, pushing Dreadlock behind him until they are in the middle of the market lane. They stand between Tommy’s quivering body and the menacing shadow.

Tall Boy waves his breadknife. Dreadlock has no weapon, but he raises two fists.

— No worries, Tommy, you not being here alone.

Dread sees two of the market kids staring wide-eyed.

— Hey… you kids fetch Skater Grrl right fast, you understand? Go! Go!

The urchins race away. Tall Boy speaks without turning away from the demon cloud.

— Skater Grrl?

— Man, Skater Grrl be nothing but good. We need some good about now.

An inhuman yowl rises from the ground behind them, and they spin to face the snarl. Foul Tommy’s mouth is agape, and his lips are flecked with spittle and foam. They turn back to the shadow and see that it is growing denser, as if trying to take shape. A dozen faces stare out from the other stalls, all eyes wide with terror.

Tall Boy finds his voice and raises it to the threat.

— You get back, whatever you are. You’re not welcome here.

Dreadlock nods and waves his fists.

— Yeah, you not welcome here, soul sucker. You go now, leave our friend be.

— Soul sucker?

— D’know, man, never yelled at no demon before. What we do now?

Before Tall Boy can answer, they hear a grinding noise from the end of the lane. Skater Grrl is flying between the stalls, crouched atop her skateboard, wheels growling against cracked pavement. Her pale blonde hair streams out behind her, and Tall Boy swears he sees silver sparks in the wake of her passage.

Skater Grrl leaps from her board. It skitters away under one of the stalls. She lands on her feet like a cat, fierce as fire, and raises her arms wide, a shield between Tommy’s defenders and the dark, seething shadow. Tall Boy looks past her narrow shoulders, feels the heat of her fierce as a flame. A silver light seems to shimmer from her hands and head. She faces the demon cloud, her voice ringing out loud and strong.

— I don’t know what you are, or what Tommy thinks you are, but this is The Ruins, and you have no place here.

Tall Boy sees the dark shadow waver and shift.

— You will be gone. You will leave my friends alone. I curse you back to The Outside.

A long heartbeat of silence is broken by Skater Grrl’s raging scream.

— You will get the fuck out of here. Now!

Her last word pierces The Ruins from end to end, echoes of it rebounding from stone and wall. The echoes raise the crows from the fir tree at the far end of the market lane. The huge flock of crows swirls once above the crown of the tree, then their wings drive a screeching black phalanx to answer her call. They sweep above the market lane, above Skater Grrl’s outstretched hand, flapping and cawing, snapping razor beaks and wielding needle-sharp talons.

The crows boil in the air over the market, engulfing the shadow in a blackness of their own. The flock rises higher and higher, carrying the formless demon at the center of the maelstrom. The screaming black birds drift away, circling and wheeling, and at the center of the whirling flock pulses a darker shadow.

Far out above the river, the crows begin diving through the center of the shadow. The flock condenses into what looks like a solid ball writhing in the sky. It pulses, once, twice, and then a black shape falls from it, plummeting to the river. There is the sound of a muffled splash, and then nothing.

The flock disperses, the crows spinning off in fours and sixes. They flap their way back to the top of the tall fir tree. Settling onto the many branches, they begin to preen their ruffled feathers.

Skater Grrl’s arms fall to her sides, and she leans back into Tall Boy. For the briefest moment, he feels her small body pressed to his. Then she spins past him and kneels beside Foul Tommy.

Dreadlock is standing stock still, his mouth opening and closing. He sags against Tall Boy’s shoulder.

— I thought we be cooked, Boy. Never saw nothing like that, not ever. Never want to see it again, neither. Damn, I thought we be cooked for sure.

Dread slaps him on the shoulder. They turn away from where the shadow had been. Skater Grrl has pulled Tommy to his feet and is buttoning up his greatcoats. The big man is staring down into her face. She murmurs words that only he can hear, and he nods his head. When he speaks, his words are clear.

— But not forever, it’s not gone forever.

She smiles and nods.

— P’raps not, Tommy, but it’s gone for now. And you’ve got friends to protect you.

Tall Boy stares, his body quivering in spasms. A question bursts from his mouth before he can think.

— What just happened? I mean, what in the hell just happened?

Skater Grrl turns her smile to him, and the light of it stills him.

— You were very brave, that’s what happened.

She lifts herself on tiptoe, grabs Tall Boy’s face, and rewards him with a hard kiss. When her hands and lips fall away, Tall Boy stands stock still, his mouth hanging open.

— You too, Dread.

She kisses Dread’s cheeks, left and right, and smiles at them both.

— I’ll see youse all later, yeah? I think Tommy could use a lie down.

One of the market kids holds out the errant skateboard. Skater Grrl grabs it and pats the kid on the head. She takes Tommy’s hand in hers and leads him away, the board dangling from her other hand. The big man shuffles beside her as the pair of them walk up the market lane.

Tall Boy stands frozen in place, stunned by what has just happened. Dreadlock is beside him, a big grin plastered across his face.

— Hey man, you was just kissed by an angel.

Tall Boy blinks as if waking from a dream.

— She kissed you, too, Dread.

— Naw, Tall Boy, she give me a peck on the cheek. She kissed you, man, I mean, she kissed you. I think you just find yourself an angel.

Tall Boy looked down the lane to the receding backs of Foul Tommy and Skater Grrl.

 — I’m not the only one.

Fini

You can find Millennial Pulp here:

https://millennialpulp.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/

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.

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 Reciprocal Debt. This short story first appeared in Clackamas Literary Review, published in 2023. Without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Reciprocal Debt

By Marco Etheridge

Ted Gretzky—never Theodore, unless you’re with the IRS—stands on the metro platform, keeping the maximum distance possible between himself and his fellow commuters. Human beings top the long list of things Ted Gretzky does not enjoy. His list has grown over forty years, but Ted’s fellow citizens still hold the number one spot.

Gretzky is a big man, a full head taller than the suit-and-briefcase drones who mill about the platform. Not much of a puzzle how he got that way. Ted’s tata, Piotr, was the biggest Polack in the old neighborhood. Cecilia, his mama, was a tall black woman. Her height was only one of many anomalies, not the least of which was being married to a giant white man in a time when heads still turned as the couple walked down any street.

Because Ted looms above them, people don’t crowd too close. Perhaps they sense his dislike of humans. Maybe they just need some distance to maintain a perspective view. One can’t see Mount Rushmore standing on Washington’s nose.

Whatever the reason, Ted waits on his train in a small bubble of space enjoyed by no one else. This special status, along with his extraordinary height, gives Ted a wide view of the crowded platform. That is why he sees what is about to happen before anyone else. 

Ted hears the rumble and screech of the approaching train as it hurtles through the darkness. The grimy mouth of the tunnel belches a billow of stale air down the platform, rustling the skirts and papers of the commuters. A stab of light chases the foul air, and the nose of the train appears in the darkness behind.

A scrawny guy darts out of the waiting herd. He’s walking fast, a few steps ahead of the charging train. Time freezes. Ted Gretzky sees the train driver silhouetted behind his glass panel. He sees the yellow caution stripe at the edge of the platform. And he sees how this young guy just stepping past him is going to intersect with all of it and mess up Ted’s commute. 

Ted swings out one meaty hand and catches the dude mid-chest. The skinny punk sort of folds up around Ted’s forearm, and the big man pivots to bring his left hand into play. He plants his left paw over his right and shoves. The dude backpedals away, arms windmilling the stagnant air.

It’s a tiled column that stops him. Dude hits it like a sack of spuds, slides down it the same way that stupid coyote used to slide down a rock wall in those Roadrunner cartoons Ted used to love.

The train lurches to a stop and the doors hiss open. The herd of commuters takes one look at the man slumped in a heap, one look at Ted, and then city-dweller instinct kicks in. They ignore everything as if it never happened and rush for the impossible chance of a seat on the metro.

Ted looks down at the mess he’s made of this skinny idiot, then glances over his shoulder. Down at the other end of the platform, he sees two transit cops showing an interest in what’s happening. The cops are heading his way, weaving through the crowd of drones that pulse out of and into the train.

The big man curses under his breath and bends to grab the fallen would-be jumper. Ted doesn’t like human beings, and he likes cops even less. It’s not that he’s doing crime on the streets. Piotr and Cecilia raised him too hard and strict for any of that nonsense. Naw, Ted follows all the rules all the time, not because he likes rules, but because he doesn’t like to talk to cops. Ever. About anything.

He yanks the little dude to his feet, gets one arm wrapped hard under the guy’s armpit, glad to feel the guy’s heart beating in his birdcage chest. He frog-marches the asshole toward the nearest exit, hoping the punk isn’t seriously broken, that this guy maybe took a shower sometime in the last week, and that the cops are too lazy to follow. He half drags, half carries the dazed would-be jumper up the stairs.

Emerging from the Metro station, Gretzky gets lucky on all three counts. The cops are nowhere in sight. He drops the skinny guy on the nearest bench. The dude is breathing and he’s staring up at Gretzky with big stupid rabbit eyes. And he looks reasonably clean for a hipster. Hard to tell since these white dudes like to dress like homeless guys, but at least he don’t stink.

Ted waves a thick finger in the guy’s face. The dude blinks his eyes like he’s trying to figure out why someone stuck a kielbasa in his face.

“You stay, hear me?”

The white guy frowns at the big finger under his nose, then looks up at Ted, manages a nod that seems coherent.

The big man walks away, muttering under his breath. Stupid white guy messing up my schedule. Not like I don’t have better things to do. And now I’m buying this asshole coffee. Guy’s probably one of those trust fund babies. Million dollars in the bank, and they wear clothes look like they sleep under a bridge.

The old Greek is at the window of the Athena. Like where else would he be? Ted orders two coffees, carries the blue-and-white cups back to the bench. The dude is still there. Ted lowers himself to the bench, and the thing creaks under the added load. He holds out one of the coffees.

“Hope you like it black. If not, cream and sugar are over there.”

The scarecrow takes the coffee, doesn’t say a word, not even a thank you. Ted sips the coffee, waits for what he thinks is an appropriate space of time, and gets nothing. The asshole is just sitting there holding his coffee, staring at a pigeon that’s mooching around his feet. Ted does not have time for any of this shit.

“Yo, strange white guy, do you talk or what?”

Guy blinks at the paper cup he’s holding in his hand like he’s never seen such a thing in his life. Takes a couple of big swigs from it, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Then he looks up at Ted like he’s never seen him before.

“Strange white guy, that’s the best you can do?”

“You got a name you like more, feel free to give it up.”

“We’re like buddies now, or what?”

Ted shakes his head just like Celia did when he tried some sass on her.

“Not even close to buddies. I just stopped you jumping in front of a subway train. While we’re at it, I saved you having to explain that shit to the cops. Oh, and I bought you a damn coffee. So, yeah, I think we’re on solid ground for an introduction.”

He looks away from Ted, stares into his coffee like maybe the answer is floating in there. Nods his head, looks back up.

“I’m Tyler, Tyler Ruskin.”

“Ted.”

Then there’s one of those awkward pauses. Ted wonders what the hell he’s let himself in for and why he’s doing it. The stranger beside him salutes Ted with the half-empty paper cup.

“Thanks for the coffee, and for the other thing, too.”

“You wanna tell me what that was about? I mean, what happens if I get up and leave? Do you run back down there and wait for the next train?”

“So, Ted, you normally ask so many questions?”

 Ted hears the smartass tone in this guy Tyler’s voice. Smartass would usually piss him off in a huge way, but instead, it makes him chuckle.

“Normally, I don’t talk to people at all if I can help it. But here we find ourselves, new buddies and all. And one of us just tried to jump in front of a train. So yeah, I got questions.”

“Okay, fair enough. I got a problem.”

Ted’s eyebrows and Tyler’s hand go up at the same time.

“Wait, just listen. I get it, someone tries to off themselves, obviously there’s a problem. But I’m not some broken-hearted putz throwing himself in front of a train. To quote the head docs, I suffer from Impulsive Control Disorder. They call it ICD for short.”

Ted has an automatic bullshit response, a gift handed down by his tata. Ted remembers Piotr’s rough complaints. All these new syndromes, Theodore, Bah! This is just excuse for bad parents with lazy kids. These are made-up things, fairytales.

But Ted isn’t Piotr. Sure, he dislikes adults, but he enjoys working with kids. Does some volunteer coaching, helps out on a couple of city youth programs, that sort of thing. He knows kids who struggle with one of these alphabet syndromes, good kids who puzzle over written directions or have to work extra hard on homework assignments.

Right, so give this Tyler the benefit of the doubt, at least for the moment.

“Sorry to hear that, Tyler. Nothing with an acronym is good news. ICD, IBS, IED, they all suck.”

“Right? No one wants to hear that. It’s weird that you mentioned IED because that’s a good way to describe my fucked-up brain. Like there’s an improvised explosive device hidden in my head. I never know when it’s going to explode, shoot off crazy messages. Hey Tyler, let’s step in front of this bus. Tyler, what do you think it would feel like to sail off this balcony?”

“That really how it happens? Shit just comes out of the blue like that?”

“That’s how it works for me. My doc tells me some people experience it differently. They’re walking past a jewelry shop. Next thing they know, there’s a five-thousand-dollar charge on their visa card for a watch they don’t even like.”

Ted’s listening now, nodding his head. He finishes the last of his coffee, tosses the cup into a trash can beside the bench.

“Tyler, I’m not trying to be an asshole here, but you’re seeing a head doc for this shit, and yet here we are. You know what I’m saying?”

Tyler spreads his arms, mea culpa.

“Yeah, I know how it looks. And I was making progress, too. Hard to, but it’s true. You gotta understand, Ted. I don’t want to off myself. Didn’t and don’t. That’s not how this sneaky shit works. It’s more like this overpowering desire that pops out of nowhere and then my body responds.”

Ted shakes his head again, but this time with something like commiseration. This Tyler cat is hurting, and he doesn’t seem like a bad guy.

“You saying you’re okay now? I’m asking because I gotta be somewhere. Same time, I’m worried about you. Maybe we should stay in touch. I don’t want to lose no sleep over you.”

Tyler laughs at this, laughs right out loud. The pigeons at his feet started and flutter off. He reaches for his wallet, pulls out a card, hands it to Ted.

“You’re not as hard-ass as you like to put on. You know that, right?”

Ted rolls his eyes, takes the card. Tyler Ruskin, graphics design. He tucks the card in a pocket, stands up, sticks out a huge hand. Tyler splashes the last of his cold coffee at a passing pigeon, crumples the cup as he rises from the bench. His hand disappears into Ted’s and the two men shake on some unspoken deal.

“Okay, Tyler Ruskin, later for you. Gotta tell you, weird way to meet someone. No repeats, hear?”

Tyler rolls his shoulders and tries to crack his neck.

“I don’t think I could stand a repeat. I’m going to be aching tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is a good word. Let’s leave it at that.”

Ted turns away without another word. He walks to the metro entrance, pauses at the top of the stairs. He looks back in time to see Tyler Ruskin walking away.

*  *  *

It’s the next evening, one of those perfect evenings in spring that the city offers up maybe three or four times in a whole season. Ted is walking across the bridge, commuting home on foot. It’s something he does three days a week. He knows what happens to big men who don’t keep after it.

He’s out on the long span of the bridge, high above the swirling waters of the filthy river. The lighted skyline of the city rises behind him and on the far shore before him, but the river is a dark gulf between the two.

Ted reaches the midspan of the bridge, the highest point above the water. He has no fear of heights, never has, but in a flash, a wave of vertigo crashes over him. He reaches for the steel railing, grabs at it with both hands. He steadies himself, looking a hundred and thirty feet down. At that moment, it looks like thousands.

Coming out of nowhere, a voice cuts through the spinning sensation in his head. You could jump. It’s his own voice, but saying crazy shit, saying it loud, shouting it.

Jump, man. Just to see what happens, feel that sensation of flying. Two steps back, a quick lunge, nothing to it. That little railing ain’t gonna stop a big dude like you. Go for it, Theodore. What are you waiting for? Do it!

Ted grips the steel railing as hard as he can, his muscles straining to hang on. Then, as quickly as they came, the urgings are gone.

He’s panting, his heart pounding in his chest. He blinks his eyes, looks up and down the length of the bridge, tries to figure out where he is and why.

He sees other walkers heading out of the city. No one stops to ask him if he’s okay. They slide past him and keep walking, earbuds insulating them from anyone else’s troubles.

Ted forces himself from the railing, falls into step with the others. Gotta walk before someone gets the bright idea to call the hotline on one of those phones that line the bridge. He’s weak as a kitten, but he keeps moving, keeps putting one big foot in front of the other.

He gets home somehow, doesn’t remember much of the walk. Then he’s in the hallway of his apartment, shucking off his shoes. He stands at the kitchen counter, pours a stiff drink. The whiskey burns his throat. Empties his pockets onto the counter, sees the pasteboard card with raised letters: Tyler Ruskin. That skinny son of a bitch. What kind of sick joke is this? What did you do to me?

Then the memory of the bridge slams into him, the dark water swirling far below his feet, calling to him. And his memory drags in more. There are unwelcome ghosts in the room now, ghosts uninvited and kept at bay for years. Ted drinks off the rest of the whiskey. He waves the empty glass at them, but they don’t go away.

Piotr and Cecilia, tall and beautiful, salt and pepper, sad and watchful. Ted can only say their given names. Has done every day since the funeral. Can’t call them Tata and Mama out loud. He can barely think it in his head without doubling over.

Two decades they’ve been gone, lost in the dark water. The same water that flows beneath the bridge he walks across. The bridge you can see from the harbor, and the harbor that opens into the sea.

They named their little boat Nimfa Wodna, the Water Nymph. Piotr loved to catch the silver-bright fish, and Cecilia loved Piotr. That’s what they were doing when they died, somewhere outside the harbor on an evening tide.

The next morning, a tugboat found the Nimfa Wodna capsized and drifting. Divers searched the waters and volunteers combed the beaches, but the bodies of his tata and mama were never found. Now both of them are here in his apartment, a place they never saw in life.

Twenty years Ted has built and tended walls to keep the world out, to hold the hurt at a distance he can manage. He made a mistake today. Let this Tyler Ruskin guy get inside, and see what happens? Ghosts are passing through walls as if stone has turned to tissue.

Ted tries another whiskey to chase the past away, but the past ignores him and settles in for a long evening. A third drink on an empty stomach tucks everyone in together. Ted’s head sags to the arm of the couch and the room goes dark.

It’s three AM when he comes to with an aching neck and a pounding head. The room is dark and empty except for his groaning when he sits up.

Ted drags himself off the couch and into the kitchen. He chugs a glass of water and waits to see if it will stay down. Then four aspirin chased with another glass of water. Braces himself against the sink while his guts lurch and gurgle. That’s what you get. Act stupid and pay the price.

Shakes his head, regrets it instantly, walks down to the bedroom with one hand sliding along the wall. The bed groans under his weight as if it’s dreading the coming day as much as he is.

*  *  *

The next morning is bad. Somehow, Ted toughs it out, slogging through his work without making a fool of himself. It’s touch-and-go, but he survives until his lunch break. After he chokes down a sandwich and yet another coffee, Ted fishes Tyler Ruskin’s business card from his wallet and makes the phone call.

Ted is expecting voice mail. He’s surprised when the phone picks up. Says it’s Ted Gretzky from yesterday, hears the hesitation on the other end. Tyler tries to laugh it off. Hasn’t been twenty-four hours and you’re checking up on me already? Ted ignores the joke, tells Tyler they need to talk, he needs to talk, the sooner the better.

Tyler hesitates again like he’s trying to figure out how far this goes. But then he’s saying sure, he owes Ted a beer at the very least, suggests a place and a time. Ted knows the joint, says he’ll be there. They hang up.

Ted stands on the street with his phone in his hand, not seeing the people moving past him. He shakes it off, pockets his phone, and heads back to work.

It’s a mercy when his workday ends. The worst of his hangover has passed, leaving him empty and tired. He heads off to meet Tyler, threading his way through the currents of pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalks. A hard lump of dread is lodged in the pit of his stomach.

When Ted rounds the last corner, he sees Tyler Ruskin sitting at an outside table, a beer in front of him. Ted turns his bulk sideways to squeeze into the narrow space. Tyler is up and sticking out his hand. The two men shake hands and sit.

Tyler is smiling until he gets a good look at Ted’s face. Then the smile vanishes.

“Damn, Ted, you don’t look so good.”

“Don’t feel so good.”

A waitress squeezes up beside their table. Ted orders mineral water, a big bottle please. The woman nods and disappears.

“So, I’m guessing a rough night?”

Ted nods his head, puts his big hands on the edge of the small table.

“More than rough. And then I made it a whole lot worse. Stupid.”

Tyler sips his beer, doesn’t say anything. Ted waves his hand like he’s trying to brush something away.

“Yeah, so thanks for agreeing to meet. How are you doing?”

“Pretty good, considering. That probably sounds weird, but it’s true. I guess it’s like a pressure valve or something. Me doing what I did, you saving my ass, then afterward all that pressure got released. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

Tyler takes a long draw on his beer, his eyes on Ted. The waitress returns with the mineral water, pours it, steps to another table. Ted drinks off half the bubbly water without a pause, then refills his glass. The silence grows longer.

Then words are tumbling out of Ted’s mouth, out of his guts, and they keep on tumbling. He tells Tyler about walking the bridge, the dark water below, the voice in his head, terrible compulsion to jump.

He doesn’t stop there. He talks about losing his parents, the grief of not having their bodies to lay to rest. About the walls he built to hold his grief at bay, and the ghosts that haunt him despite his walls.

Ted blurts all this out to a total stranger, a guy he’s known less than a day. He wants to stop himself, but he can’t. And with the words come anger and then blame. The blame looks for a place to settle and finds the man sitting across from him.

“What I want to know is, what the hell did you do to me?”

He expects anger in return, something he can push back against, something to refute his confession to this broken guy who is just sitting there listening to him. That’s not what he gets.

“I’m sorry, Ted, sorry about your parents, sorry about your grief. That’s a heavy load to carry around. But there’s something you’ve got to understand. I don’t have the kind of power you’re talking about. I can’t curse people and I sure as hell can’t fix them. If I could, I’d be fixing myself. I’ve got way too much of my own grief to bother throwing curses on other people. And for sure not on people who just saved my life.”

Ted’s anger deflates like air from a balloon. He’s left empty and wrung out.

“I’m telling you, I don’t know what to do with all of this. It’s not working anymore.”

Tyler holds up his empty glass, catches the waitress’s eye, looks back at Ted.

“I think we’re going to be here for a bit.”

“Yeah, so it seems. Look, sorry I dumped on you like that. Not a fair thing to do.”

Tyler waves it away.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve done my fair share of blaming other people for my troubles. Besides, I owe you. Mean, I owe you a life, right? The least I can do is listen to your troubles.”

Ted laughs, and it startles him as much as it startles Tyler.

“You think that’s funny?”

“No, not funny. Something else, maybe. A life debt is what they call it. Like you owe me a life, or I owe you a life. I forget how it’s supposed to work.”

Now it’s Tyler’s turn to laugh and he does.

“That’s not a real thing, you know. People talk about it being ancient wisdom, but life debt is a Hollywood thing, like Han Solo and Chewbacca.”

“That doesn’t work cause you’re not big enough to be a Wookie.”

Then they’re both laughing, and something evaporates in the laughter and drifts away from their table.

“Okay, Tyler, I get it. The life debt thing is bullshit.”

He hesitates but says the next thing.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, right?”

“Nope, nothing in the rules preventing that. So, from one new friend to another, you need to know that I’m one messed-up monkey. I’ve had other yesterdays.”

“I get that.”

“What I’m not is any kind of mental healthcare guru. I’m a recipient, not a provider. So, friend to friend, you need to be talking to someone about this load you’re lugging around. You owe it to yourself.”

“Same goes for you. You owe it to yourself not to jump in front of any more trains.”

Tyler nods his head, then holds a hand across the table.

“Then here’s to reciprocal debt.”

Ted reaches for his new friend’s hand.

Fini

You can find Clackamas Literary Review here:

https://clackamasliteraryreview.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/

And… if you desire more flash and micro-fiction, look no further than my collection Power Tools:

Power Tools

There are moments in life when having the right tool makes all the difference.

An elderly woman sets out alone on a journey into a new life. Two soldiers in a bunker share candy and memories. A widower takes on the Supreme Court with a robot. Grief is sung over the cobbled streets of Valletta. Two old heroes question their purpose. These stories tell tales of love lost and found, of the fight for justice, and the glimmering flame of hope that keeps us afloat. Unforgettable characters push back against the crushing weight of the world and shoulder the burdens they carry within. Love, laugh, dance, weep; these are the stories of Power Tools.

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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 eighty reviews, journals, and magazines in Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. Power Tools gathers twenty-one of his best short stories into one collection. An elderly woman sets out alone on a journey into a new life. Two soldiers in a bunker share candy and memories. A widower takes on the Supreme Court with a robot. Grief is sung over the cobbled streets of Valletta. Two old heroes question their purpose. These stories tell tales of love lost and found, of the fight for justice, and the glimmering flame of hope that keeps us afloat. Unforgettable characters push back against the crushing weight of the world and shoulder the burdens they carry within. Love, laugh, dance, weep; these are the stories of Power Tools.

Details

Genre: Literary Fiction
Tag: Literary Fiction
Publisher: Marco Etheridge Fiction
Publication Year: 2024
ASIN: B0CXMV1HS4
ISBN: 9798884290907
List Price: 11.95
eBook Price: 3.99

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Preview

Disclosure of Material Connection: Some of the links in the page above are "affiliate links." This means if you click on the link and purchase the item, I will receive an affiliate commission. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."

A New Story Most Thursdays

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 neo-Noir Between the Pages. This flash story first appeared in Red Weather, published in 2020. Without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Between the Pages

by Marco Etheridge

It was a grimy alley in a gritty city slum, and the drizzling rain did nothing to wash clean the filthy night. Detective Ogden Mallory crept through the dismal shadows, his left shoulder brushing one rain-spattered brick wall. Mallory’s right hand was buried in the pocket of a soaked trench coat, his fingers wrapped around the butt of a snubnosed thirty-eight revolver.

The detective knew what he had to do. He was a good cop, and a good cop trusts his instincts. He was following a hunch, chasing it down a dark alley, but Mallory knew he was right. The killer was here, trapped in this narrow dead end with nowhere left to run.

Detective Mallory sidestepped an oily puddle, moving as quiet as a cat. He wished O’Brian were sweeping the other side of the alley, but his partner was in the ICU after taking two bullets to the chest. He could hear O’Brian’s voice rasp around a chewed cigar, as if the hulking Irishman were standing beside him in the rain. What the hell, Kid? You gonna get this guy or what? Yeah, Partner, I got this son of a bitch. Don’t you worry.

The young detective was not completely alone as he ghosted further into that dark alley. Rats skittered around his feet, revenge burned in his heart, and somewhere ahead was the shooter who had capped his partner.

Mallory should have called for backup, a couple of uniforms with shotguns. He should have done a lot of things, but this was not a moment for regret. The Sunset Shooter was in this alley, and Mallory was here to bring him down. This case ended tonight. 

Six months they’d been tracking this homicidal maniac. Six months of Mallory being the new shield, the rookie detective, of being called Oggie. Detective Ogden Mallory would rather take ten bullets than hear his dreaded nickname even one more time. So what if he was eager? So what if he showed up early for the daily briefing? Mallory loved his job. He loved being a detective, even the most junior shield. And after he brought the Sunset Shooter down—carted the bastard in horizontal—there’d be no more of this junior shit.

At the end of the alley, a lone lamp sagged down from above a blank brick wall. The hooded lamp buzzed and flickered, casting more shadow than light. Dark caverns opened out of the brickwork on either side of the alley, the seedy backdoors to derelict barrooms and bordellos. Each dark doorway held a deadly peril.

Mallory saw a dull flash of silver rise from one of the hollow pools of blackness. A figure dark as night stepped from the shadow, a gleaming pistol held in one black-gloved hand. The pistol was pointed at Mallory’s chest. The shooter’s face was hidden behind a mask of black silk.

The young detective looked for a play, anything to hold off the inevitable. His hand worried the pistol in his pocket, but the eyes behind the mask saw everything. The Sunset Shooter flicked the barrel of his pistol, indicating the back wall of the alley. The meaning of the gesture was all too clear.

Mallory cursed himself, cursed the rain, and cursed his luck. O’Brian’s raspy voice filled his head. This is it, Kid, the moment of truth. You’re not going to let this murdering bastard put your back up against any wall. Go on, make your play.

  The doomed detective spun to his left while yanking his thirty-eight from his trench coat. Three steps to that dumpster, one lucky shot from his trusty revolver, he just might make it.

Before Mallory could shoot or be shot, his feet tangled and he plunged to the pavement. The side of his head caromed off the brick wall as he fell. The pistol flew from his hand and clattered away across the filthy cobblestones.

He landed hard, his back in a fetid puddle. Dark rain pelted down onto his face. Mallory rolled his throbbing head, tried to focus his eyes on the far wall of the alley. The dark figure still stood in the doorway, and the silver pistol still stared Mallory in the face. There was a flicker behind the silk mask, the faintest hint of a smile. Mallory braced himself for the roar of the automatic and the killing bullet.

There was a long moment filled only with the sound of falling rain and the harsh last breath of a man who knew he was about to die. Then a dull plopping sound rolled up the alley, as if a giant had dropped three wet phone directories onto a formica tabletop. The rain, the night, the alley, and everything in it disappeared. 

*  *  *

“What in the hell, who does that? Who closes a book in the middle of the big shootout?”

He was sprawled in a sagging leather armchair. The walls of the smallish room were painted a pastel green, and no rain fell. Mismatched chairs and a well-worn sofa orbited a low coffee table. Across one wall was a low counter which held an automated espresso maker and a chrome toaster. The only other occupant in the room was standing at the bar, fiddling with the coffee machine. The older man half-turned his head and spoke over his shoulder.

“There’s no accounting for readers. What are you gonna do, right? Hey, there’s bagels. You want I should toast you one?”

“No, I don’t want…”

His voice drifted off as he tried to make sense of the room. A trench coat lay over the arm of his chair, bone-dry and neatly folded. He heard the pop of a toaster and looked to the coffee bar. The man standing before it was tall and lean, his handsome head crowned with a shock of silver hair.

He watched the man finger-toss the hot bagel onto a paper plate, then wave his manicured fingers as if he had burned them. The silver-haired gent lifted a plastic tub to his nose, sniffed the schmear inside, spooned a dollop onto his bagel.

“Never pass up the free food, that’s my motto. This business is tough enough. Last call, while I’m standing here. No?”

The man shrugged, threaded his way past the sofa while holding a sagging paper plate and a small cup of coffee. He deposited the fare on the coffee table and lowered himself into the next armchair. After mauling a quarter bagel in one bite, he swilled half the coffee and leaned back.

“Ah, that’s better.”

He turned to the younger man, gave him the once-over. He nodded his head, as if coming to a conclusion. The younger man bristled under the examination.

“What?”

“You seem really tense, am I right? You gotta learn to relax, Kid.”

“I know how to relax; that’s not the point. The point is why anyone would close a damn book at the big finale.”

“You mean right before you tripped and fell flat in a puddle?”

“Hey, it was just a device to heighten the tension.”

“Whatever you say, Kid. Look, I’ve been doing this a long time. Who knows why she put down the book? Maybe she had to pee, maybe the cat jumped on the bed, maybe the boyfriend grabbed her ass. Readers do all kind of crazy shit.”

“Wait, how do you know it’s a woman?”

“It’s an easy guess. Working the averages for fiction, eight outta ten says I’m right. If women ever stop reading, we’re out of a job.”

The younger man ran a hand through his hair, blew out an exasperated sigh.

“It’s just I’ve got a lot riding on this one, you know?”

“Like what, hoping for a series?”

The younger man nodded. The veteran downed the last of his coffee and leaned back in his chair.

“I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that this is your first hero gig. Am I right?”

“If we’re talking main characters, yeah, but I’ve had lots of other gigs.”

“Sure, sure, sidekicks and supporting characters, I get that. That’s how we all come up, believe me. Look, hoping for a recurring character is okay, but don’t get your hopes up too high.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a bad guy, right? Villains don’t get too many return engagements. Sure, there are exceptions, but not many. You pull the heist, murder the girl, or plan to take over the world. Then the good guys chase you around for a few chapters. Last chapter, the axe falls, and justice is served.”

“So, what you’re saying is that you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Damn, Kid, bite my head off. What I’m saying is that I’ve seen a lot of heroes up close and personal. Usually, they’re pushing me off high places or dragging me around in handcuffs, but you get the idea. Most of those heroes, I don’t see them again. Characters come; characters go. That’s the way it is. Relax and enjoy the gig, that’s my motto.”

“I thought it was never pass up free food.”

The remark made the older man laugh out loud. He wagged a finger at the young hero-hopeful.

“You remember lines, anyway. That’s a good thing.”

“Like that’s what’s important, spitting out lines on command. I want more than that, something with substance.”

There was no laughter now. The older man gave him a long, serious look.

“And you think that a recurring character is going to give you some kind of permanence?”

The would-be hero waved his hand as if trying to grasp something in the air before him. Before he could form an answer, the older man was speaking again.

“Look Kid, I’ve been around a long time. I know this serial gig sounds like a good idea, but I’m here to tell you it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Think about it. Those damn authors are always trying to make the hero interesting. And you know how they do that, right? They scribble in a bunch of character flaws, that’s how. Just look at your more famous detectives. Poirot was a hopeless obsessive-compulsive. Holmes was a cocaine addict. I could go on and on, but I think you get the picture.”

The young man stared at him and shook his head. When he spoke, his words carried the weight of a declaration.

“I understand what you’re trying to say, but I want more than this.”

He waved his hand around the room.

“I want an identity.”

The older man stared at him with a look of open-mouthed disbelief.

“Jesus wept! An identity? Isn’t that the author’s job?”

Before the hero could answer, the red light over the door blinked three times. There was a pause, then three more blinks.

The silver-haired man pushed himself from the armchair.

“C’mon Kid, it’s showtime.”

*  *  *

Mallory’s head caromed off the brick wall as he fell to the pavement. His pistol flew from his hand and clattered away into the wet shadows. Bright stars danced in his eye through the rain that pelted his face. He tried to focus his eyes on the far wall of the alley. The dark figure stepped out of the doorway; his silver pistol trained on Mallory’s prone body.

The detective thought he saw a flicker behind the black silk mask, the faintest hint of a smile. There was a long moment filled only with the sound of rain splattering on filthy cobblestones and of a failed hero sucking in a last harsh breath. Then the shooter pulled the trigger. The roar of the pistol shot filled the alley and the last thought of Detective Ogden Mallory.

The rain, the night, the alley, and everything began to fade and blur. As the scene swept away into nothingness, the Sunset Shooter’s last words were swept away along with everything else.

“Sorry Kid, it was nothing personal.”

Fini

You can find Red Weather here:

https://www.redweather.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/

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.

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About the Book

Marco Etheridge is a writer of fiction, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His stories have been published in reviews, journals, and magazines in Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. Broken Luggage gathers twenty-four of his best flash stories into one collection. A man’s life condensed into the broken luggage that will contain it. A young woman alone in the Sonoran Desert. Memories of dangerous eggs, thunderstorms, and a gunshot man. A character tours his self-made hell. Another steps from between the pages. Parables of sand and migration A labyrinth into new love, and the remembrance of love past. These two dozen flash stories tell swift tales of love lost and love found, of darkness at the end of life, and light at the beginning. Unforgettable characters struggle against the tides and pressures of an impersonal world, and against the burdens they carry within. There is joy and despair, defiance and acceptance. The inhabitants of these pages learn who they are, and sometimes, who they are not. Welcome, Reader, to the world of Broken Luggage.

Details

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

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Preview

Disclosure of Material Connection: Some of the links in the page above are "affiliate links." This means if you click on the link and purchase the item, I will receive an affiliate commission. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."