Marco Etheridge

A New Story Most Thursdays

In This Edition of Thursday Stories: Learning to Wield the Influence….

Happy July, Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my dusty herd of short stories, I realize that some of these rascals haven’t seen the light of day in quite a spell. Time to let them romp a bit! 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 archived tales have been set free.

You can find all of my stories and more editions of Thursday Stories at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:

Marco Etheridge Fiction

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Tiff Goes to the Fair. A young woman on the hunt, learning to wiled influence like a weapon. Tiff Goes to the Fair first appeared in The Insurgence, 2024. My son Liam gets a writing credit for this one, as he had a great influence on this story.

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

Tiff Goes to the Fair

by Marco Etheridge and Liam Etheridge

The scene outside the convention center stops you dead. Hundreds of people scurry around like ants. Geeks and nerds queue up at the doors. Above the crowd, a huge marquee reads Social Media Opportunity Fair.

You do your confidence dance to shake off the fear, throw your hair back, and walk up to the registration stand to claim your badge. You are Tiffany Aikens, you have an appointment, and you are somebody special.

Your heart pounds, but you stuff it down and throw your best power smile at the registration guy. He runs his finger down a list, taps a name, and finds your badge. He points to another set of doors. No queue for you, Girl! You thank him, hang the lanyard around your neck, and hit it.

Past the doors, the hall stretches to infinity. You struggle to get your bearings in the maze of booths and displays of media tools and gadgets. You toss your head and walk it like a pro, ignoring the geeks hawking auto-tracking phone stands, ring lights, LED selfie rigs, and TikTok page-turning rings.

People swarm the merch booths. You breeze past them while ranking the hierarchy. A herd of AI nerds crowd around a software booth. Bottom of the heap, those guys. Not worth your time. And over there, the social media geeks checking out lighting displays and phone stands. They might be movers, but not shakers.

Then you spot a super-hot girl surrounded by a posse. An influencer, for sure, towing her circle. That’s you in a year, Tiff, at the top of the pyramid. 

You take in the scene while pretending to ignore it. Merch is not important. These people are not important. You’ve got an appointment with the big dogs, a one-shot chance. All you have to do is find the booth.

Past the end of the aisle, you see it. The RE3 display is no simple pop-up. It dominates the center of the hall. Five interview tables with a trestle overhead and a mylar banner. RE3: ReNew – ReBrand – RePost.

At the check-in desk, a hot girl eyes your badge, ticks a list, and hands you a ticket.

“They’ll call your number. Be ready. Next.”

She waves you off without another word.

The waiting area is a rectangle of folding chairs bisected by a walkway. You find an empty chair and sit, surrounded by the competition. The paper crackles in your hand. Number seventy-seven. Lucky. Your face breaks into a grin.

Five minutes, then ten. You hear the magic number and you’re on your feet. Remember the power walk. You own this.

“Hi, I’m Tiffany Aikens, number seventy-seven.”

“I’m Maya. Listen, we’ve got too many Tiffanys already. Are you willing to change your name?”

“Of course, not a problem.”

“That is the correct answer. Go for something ethnic. That’s hot these days. Okay, look behind you. What do you see?”

“Umm… people waiting?”

“How many?”

“Like, fifty.”

“Close enough. Fifty people for a one-hour slot, five interviewers, ten people per hour. Guess how long you’ve got to wow me.”

“I’m not really into math.”

“No worries, math’s not an asset. The answer is five minutes. Show me something special, show me fast. Think you’ve got it?”

“I’ve got it, for sure.”

“Then here’s the big question. Wrong answer, you go home. Are you a content creator?”

You shake your head hard.

“No way. There’s already mass content out there waiting to be gathered.”

“Well done. You’d be surprised how many idiots blow that. Next, are you hot or cute?”

You hesitate and Maya raises her hand.

“Rhetorical. You’re not hot, so go for cute and funny. Study the bouncy Japanese chicks. Can you do that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Huh. You sound positive. We like a girl who’s done her homework. Okay, very important. Are you interesting enough to have a vlog? I’ll give you a hint. The answer is always no.”

You smile. Bitch, you don’t know the homework I’ve done.

“No.”

“Follow-up question. Are you narcissistic enough to host a vlog?”

“Hell yes, I am.”

“What does RE3 stand for?”

“Renew, rebrand, repost.”

“And how would you translate that into action?”

“Simple. I use AI to harvest the content created by nerds and geeks, make it my own, and then post the shit out of it.”

“Not bad, Tiffany Aikens.”

Maya checks the timer.

“Two and a half minutes to go. No pressure, right? Next question. Imagine RE3 takes you on as an intern. Who do you want to be one year from now?”

You reach out and grab this moment in a death grip.

“Did you hear about that primitive tribe in the Amazon that suddenly got Starlink?”

You smile at the puzzled expression on this bitch’s face.

“I’m not up on primitive people.”

Of course you’re not, you clueless skank. And here’s where I knock you out.

“This tribe lives in the jungle. No TV, internet, nothing. Then some absolute genius brings in Starlink and hooks these people up to the web. Within a month, the whole tribe is addicted to social media and porn. Can you picture it? A bunch of guys in loincloths huddled around the village monitor. They’re so engaged they don’t hunt or fish. Fuck food, fuck shelter. It’s not about what they need. It’s about what they like. It’s about who they like. That’s who I’m going to be, Ma-ya, an influencer who kicks ass at the highest level.”

The bitch doesn’t blink even when you butcher her name. She scribbles something on her clipboard and smiles.

“Wow, you’ve got claws and you’re greedy. Shit yeah, eyes on the prize. I shouldn’t say this but watch your email. We’re done.”

You’re out of the chair. The next wannabe heads for the hot seat. No chance, loser.

Strutting like a queen, you run through names: Lyra, Allegra, Carmen. Lyra, hell yes, that’s the new you. You will own this shit, and every one of them will dream of being you.

finis

You can find The Insurgence here:

https://insurgence.substack.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://bro.uxw.mybluehost.me/whats-new-in-marcos-world-the-blog

A New Story Most Thursdays

In This Edition of Thursday Stories: A journey through the desert, an accident, and a rosary….

Happy July, Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my dusty herd of short stories, I realize that some of these rascals haven’t seen the light of day in quite a spell. Time to let them romp a bit! 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 archived tales have been set free.

You can find all of my stories and more editions of Thursday Stories at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:

Marco Etheridge Fiction

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features The Rosary of Maria Torres. A journey through the desert, an accident, and a rosary. The Rosary of Maria Torres first appeared in Hotch Potch Literature and Art, 2024.

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

The Rosary of Maria Torres

by Marco Etheridge

The mesquite tree offers poor shade from an angry desert sun. Sunrise on the rim of the Sonoran Desert. Shafts of sunlight reach for the figure of a small woman sprawled on the rocky ground beneath the tree. The flesh of her left leg is exposed to the elements. Someone has slit the fabric of her denim jeans from cuff to knee. Her calf is twisted at an unnatural angle and swollen blue-black.

A makeshift shrine adorns a crook in the trunk of the gnarled mesquite tree. The centerpiece of the shrine is a dayglo madonna. Its doll eyes stare out over the young woman’s body as if searching the empty desert. Our Lady of Guadalupe is haloed in a wreath of silver tinsel and aluminum foil stars. Plastic roses faded to pink adorn her feet.

The rising sun illuminates the shrine, gleaming on strands of tinsel and foil stars. Shards of reflected sunlight dance over the rocky ground and find the woman’s face. She opens her brown eyes. A groan passes her cracked lips. The woman is very thirsty. A litter of plastic water jugs lies not far away, but she does not reach for them. The jugs were bone-dry yesterday morning when the men laid her under the mesquite. The plastic madonna has wrought no miracle during the long, cold night; the water jugs are still empty.

Sharp rocks dig into her back, but she no longer feels them. Her head and shoulders are propped up on a small rucksack. The hot sun burns her leg, but the limb is immobile. She cannot shift it out of the burning sun. And there is no shade to take shelter under even if she were able to move.

Only her right hand moves, her thumb sliding rosary beads past her forefinger. Orbs of red coral click against each other on a pathway of silver chain.

The rosary belonged to her grandmother, the family matriarch, and the young woman’s namesake. Maria Torres hopes someone will find her rosary, a good person who has faith. It is very beautiful and very old. Silver from the mines of Taxco, red coral from the Gulf of Mexico.

Her thoughts careen back and forth like the hens she used to feed in her grandmother’s yard. She cannot remember her place on the rosary. Her thumb fumbles for the crucifix. She hears the voice of her grandmother.

Come now, Maria, you are a good girl. You remember, yes? First the sign of the cross and then the Apostles’ Creed. Move to the next large bead, then say the Our Father. Three small beads, one for each Hail Mary. I know you can do it, my beautiful granddaughter.

Maria obeys her grandmother with a voice dry as sand.

“Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

Even as she prays, Maria knows she will not need the rosary much longer. This mesquite tree with its shimmering madonna is soon to be her headstone. The coyote lied to her and the others. No one is coming to save her.

*  *  *

This should not have happened as it did. Maria is strong and graceful. She grew up a village girl in Chiapas, accustomed to treacherous paths and rocky places. Orphaned at the age of three, she was raised by her grandmother. The years passed, and she grew into a beautiful young woman.

Then two months ago, her grandmother passed from this life. They buried the old woman in the crowded cemetery behind the village church. The funeral severed Maria’s last link to her village. Her only relatives were far to the north, across the border. Maria gathered the little money left to her and prepared for the journey to El Norte. She would travel alone, but she was not afraid.

Maria paid her money, almost every peso she had, and joined a band of migrantes. They crossed from Mexico into Los Estados Unidos west of Nogales.

A quick, brown man led the migrantes across the broken landscape. The man wore the hat of a vaquero. Mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes. A heavy pistol rode beneath his leather vest. This man was their coyote, the onewho would guide them through the darkness of the Sonoran Desert.

The heat of the day caught them a few miles north of the border, following the hard route to Tucson. The coyote urged them on, telling them again and again to hurry. He pointed to the sky, to the arid mountains. The patrols of the gringos were everywhere. Faster, they must walk faster.

It was such a small mistake. Maria took one false step. A loose plate of stone tilted beneath her left foot. Maria’s ankle slipped into a crevice in the rocks, wedging her foot tight. Her body fell forward, but her leg stuck fast in the rocks. A sharp crack filled the hot desert air. Every one of the migrantes heard the bones snapping. Maria cried out as the world went white with pain.

The migrantes gathered around her. Maria looked up into a ring of shadowed faces. Her leg was on fire, and tears streamed down her cheeks. The circle parted. She felt strong hands reaching under her body. Someone worked her rucksack loose from her shoulders. More hands gripped her. She screamed when they lifted her leg, then fell into a black void.

Four men carried her to a small mesquite tree nearby. One pulled a clasp knife from his pocket. He cut through the hem of her jeans, then slit the denim up to her kneecap and laid the fabric aside. Maria opened her eyes. Men crouched on either side of her. They were looking down at her and shaking their heads.

The women stood behind the men, peering over their shoulders. One woman crouched down beside the men. She spoke quickly, and the men did as she said. They raised her head and shoulders. The woman tucked Maria’s rucksack beneath her, and the men lowered Maria’s torso onto the makeshift pillow.

Blinking against the sun, Maria saw the coyote stalking back and forth. The man harried the edge of the group the way a sheepdog nips at a straying flock. And she heard his voice like the hiss of a snake. They must hurry. Everyone would be caught by the patrols.

The coyote pulled a cell phone from his belt and walked away from the migrantes. Someone seemed to answer the call, because the coyote ducked his head, speaking low and fast. While he talked into the phone, he threw sharp glances at the group clustered around Maria.

When he returned to the group, he told them not to worry, everything was arranged. A compadre would come for the girl. But now they must hurry, or the patrols would find them. Maria heard the lie in the coyote’s voice. Perhaps the others heard it as well, but they did as the coyote said. Those crouched around Maria stood up.

One of the older women knelt beside Maria.

She felt the woman’s hand dig into the rucksack beneath her shoulder blades. A thought flew through her addled mind.

She is taking whatever might be useful. That makes good sense.

But no. The woman pulled a water bottle from the rucksack and propped it on the rocks close at hand. Maria felt a gnarled palm brush over her forehead. She looked into the woman’s eyes and saw a deep sadness she knew from the women of her village.

From somewhere out of sight, the coyote growled at the small herd, trying to get them into motion.

“¡Ándale! Nos vamos.”

Maria felt the hand float away from her forehead. She heard the woman’s voice.

“Vaya con Dios, chica.”

The small band of migrantes began to move away from Maria. Those at the front followed the coyote. The rest bunched up where a narrow trail led away from the clearing, the way goats will crowd a gate.

Maria watched their bent backs bobbing up and down under the harsh glare of the sun. The file of migrantes moved like a giant caterpillar. They disappeared behind boulders, reappeared further on, and grew smaller with each step into the north. Finally, she saw them no more.

Stillness surrounded Maria, but the still desert was not silence. Maria heard whispers all around her. Lizards skittered across dry stone. Tendrils of parched air shifted through the branching cholla. A cactus wren landed in the tangle of the mesquite, then flitted away. The desert creatures got on with the business of surviving. They ignored Maria as if she were a broken statue.

The pain in her leg subsided to a strange tingling. The sensation felt very wrong. Maria raised her head and looked around the small clearing. Others had been here before her and discarded what they did not need. Scattered across the stony ground lay candy wrappers, a broken huarache, and, just out of reach, a jumble of milky plastic jugs.

Maria felt the dust in her throat and the metallic taste of fear on her tongue. The empty jugs taunted her, a reminder of water and thirst. But perhaps they weren’t completely empty. There might be a bit of water hidden in the bottom.

She’d heard the stories during the long night of walking. Los mexicanos bound for El Norte were not the only people who prowled the desert. Sometimes kind-hearted gringos, las activistas, left supplies of water along the desert trails. A jug of water in the desert might save a life.

But the others, los vigilantes and la migra, the border patrol, they did not care. They only wanted to stop the migrantes. When the patrols found cached water along the migration routes, they poured the water onto the thirsty ground and left the empty jugs to mark what they had done.

Maria stretched out her hand. The nearest jug lay just beyond her fingertips. Her heart said the jug was empty, but her parched tongue begged. She twisted her torso off the rucksack. Pain seared through her leg. Her fingers threaded through the plastic handle. She rolled back onto the rucksack and pulled the jug close. It felt far too light.

She waited until the pain in her leg dulled, then held the jug before her face and shook it. Her effort had not been worth the pain. Not a single drop remained. Her heart had known the truth. The jugs were as dry as the stones cutting into her back, each methodically drained of life-saving water.

Despair engulfed Maria and panic followed. She called for help, crying out until her throat was raw. Nothing and no one answered her desperate pleas. The desert remained silent save for the dry rattle of mesquite leaves above her head.

The day wore on and with it a baking heat. Maria fell into a torpor. When she could bear it no more, she sipped from the single bottle of water left by her side. In lucid moments, she tracked the sun’s passage overhead. Then her head lolled onto the rucksack, and visions swam through her skull. She heard the voice of her dead grandmother.

You must make the water last, my granddaughter. Be strong. There are others in this desert. One of them may find you. You must have faith and keep yourself alive.

In her delirium, Maria argued with the old woman, a thing she would never dare when Grandmother Torres was alive.

No, Abuela. The coyote lied. No one is coming. I will count my prayers on your rosary, but no one will save me.

The long day passed into evening. The sun dipped toward ragged mountains on the far horizon, throwing eerie shadows across the desert floor. Night fell and brought with it a searing cold that numbed her flesh.

Maria struggled with the rucksack and the throbbing in her broken leg. She pulled her only jacket from the rucksack, fought her way into it, and zipped it to her neck. The effort exhausted her last reserve of strength.

After a meager sip of water, Maria stared into the bottle. More than half the water had vanished. She placed the bottle on a flat rock near at hand. Weariness washed over her. She did not see the forgotten screw top lying on the rock beside the bottle.

Her eyes closed. Maria drifted into an uneasy escape of jumbled dreams. Deep in the night, her arm fell to her side. Her unfeeling hand knocked against the water bottle. The bottle teetered, then toppled over. While Maria slept on, the last drops of water trickled out and sank beneath sand and stone. Below the desert floor, thirsty mesquite roots sucked up every last drop.

*  *  *

The sun climbs into the sky, burning away any promise of respite or shade. The rocky ground beneath the mesquite tree bakes in the heat.

Maria Torres lies slumped atop her rucksack. On the ground beside her is an empty water bottle. She exhales with a rattling wheeze, then fights for another lungful of blistering air. Her cracked lips move. She pushes a few fragments of prayer past her swollen tongue.

“Hail Mary… The Lord is… Blessed art thou among women… “

Maria Torres clutches the rosary to her heart. The sun cooks the flesh of her hand. She struggles to move one coral bead along the silver chain. Her thumb falters as her hand goes limp. The rosary slips from her grasp. The silver crucifix obeys the pull of gravity and slides to the ground, dragging silver chain and beads as it falls. Maria’s thumb twitches with feeble spasms, counting rosary beads that are no longer there.

Her eyes flutter open. She looks down into her empty hand, sees her thumb twitch once, twice. Then her hand goes still. The brilliant sunlight begins to dim, and she is glad for the shade.

With the last of her strength, Maria lifts her head. Where is the rosary? The world swims in and out of focus. She blinks, looks again, sees the rosary on the ground beside her hip. Grandmother Torres will scold her. Her brain reaches for the precious treasure, but her hands do not obey.

I’m sorry, Abuela. I have lost your rosary.

The desert fades to grey around her broken body, yet the rosary is illuminated. Maria stares at the gleaming crucifix, coral beads glowing red on their silver chain. Then the rosary blazes bright as a star fallen from the desert sky. Maria Torres falls into searing white light. Darkness closes behind her.

finis

You can find Hotch Potch here:

https://www.hotchpotchliteratureandart.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://bro.uxw.mybluehost.me/whats-new-in-marcos-world-the-blog