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New Literary Fiction: Leftovers

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Leftovers – Just Published by Headland Journal

New Literary Fiction Hot Off The Virtual Presses

New Literary Fiction! My short story Leftovers has just been published by Headland Journal. Leftovers tells the tale of a lonely man, too much food, and taking a risk. This is my first publication in New Zealand, and I am thrilled to be a small part of Headland Journal.

New Literary Fiction

Read the Story NOW!

You can read Leftovers at Headland Journal right now without paywalls. I’m proud to be able to say that I have now been published in New Zealand. Huge thanks to the editors at Headland Journal, who were a pleasure to work with. A Tip o’ the Lid and Thank You! Mash the Big Orange Button (BOB) and you’re on your way.

Read Leftovers

Or maybe you don’t trust buttons? No worries, My Lovelies, here’s the link:

https://headland.org.nz/

Human Stories…

As we plunge forward (some would say blindly) into an age of AI-generated entertainment, please remember this: We need stories now more than ever, stories crafted by human beings, not computers. So, how will you know when a new story breaks? Glad you asked, Friends. Read On! Drum roll and… Meanwhile, don’t miss any upcoming stories. You can stay tuned for all the latest by following the MEF blog:

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

Thursday Stories: One Last Hill

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A New Story Most Thursdays

This Edition of Thursday Stories Features Hard Literary Fiction

Happy May, 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 at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:

Marco Etheridge Fiction

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features One Last Hill, a literary fiction short story forged hard as coffin nails. Here is the tale of an aging man, his dead wife, and one last hill to climb. The genre is dark literary fiction. This story first appeared in Flora Fiction, published in 2024. Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

One Last Hill

by Marco Etheridge

The man climbed the sedge grass hill, treading a path cut into the hillside by thirty years passage of his boots. He owned the land beneath his boot soles, insomuch as any man can claim ownership of a piece of this earth. His land and his name; Karl Nilsson.

He wore a duck canvas jacket over a denim shirt, both buttoned to the neck to keep out the fog. A Winchester Model 70 hung from a sling wrapped over his right shoulder. Years of wear had polished the canvas a darker brown beneath the webbed sling. Across his back, he carried a rucksack containing the last of his worldly goods.

Nilsson paused at a switchback. He raised the brim of his battered slouch hat. Pearls of fog beaded on the green felt. The face that peered from beneath the hat brim bore the crags and lines of seventy years.

He squinted against the milky glare, reading the sky. The ceiling hovered low and thick, a solid blanket of dirty white drifting in off the Pacific. Not far above where he stood, the trail climbed into the swirl and disappeared, as if the crest of the hill did not exist.

He turned away from the sky. The trail below his feet twisted down to a narrow valley bordered by slide alder, hemlock, and fir. Beyond the trees lay open meadowland. A thick pillar of smoke rose from earth to sky. At the base of the smoke column, orange flames leaped and flared as the inferno consumed a log house.

Nilsson could just make out the line of logs nearest the earth. Flame and smoke engulfed the rest of the structure. Five years of work and thirty of living, all of it wiped clean in an hour.

The smoke column disappeared into the low cloud ceiling. Maybe an hour before someone spotted it. Another hour before the volunteer fire department rolled out of town. By the time anyone arrived, there wouldn’t be much to do except watch the last of the fire.

Eventually, someone would find the body or what was left of it. A charred skeleton of blackened bones. The boys would call the sheriff, and the sheriff would call the coroner. They might figure it out in time, but he would be long gone.

Nilsson turned away from the conflagration, set his eyes on the path, and resumed his climb. The rifle and rucksack weighed against his shoulders, familiar and bearable. Much harder to bear was the burden of memory. The past clung to his wiry limbs and threatened to crush him to the ground. He pushed his lean body into the next step and the next. He only had to make it over the hill and down to the river. Then he would lay all his burdens aside.

The fog ceiling grew nearer, a hidden refuge just above him. He pushed aside the weight of the past as he pushed his boots higher. Nilsson was alone, but not alone. He carried his wife Martha in his heart and mind. She walked beside him, though she was two years and more in her grave. Everything he had done, all that had led up to this moment, he’d done for her.

My Martha wasn’t two years in her grave when they let that sorry bastard out of prison. Claimed the man had paid his debt to society. The law’s a joke. Sonofabitch erased a life, Martha’s life. Her driving home from her book club. Same book club she’d gone to for twenty-odd years. Worthless drunk crosses the centerline, kills my beautiful Martha, and walks away with a few bumps and bruises. They say justice is blind. The fools must have meant blind drunk.

Nilsson paused his climb where the trail ascended into the ceiling of fog. Gray tendrils swirled. The fog obscured the coil of smoke pouring into the sky. A great gout of yellow-orange flame spouted as some part of the cabin collapsed, the roof or a section of wall. The last remnants of his life going up in flames, and the crematorium for the scumbag who murdered his wife.

Might have turned out different if the miserable bastard had shown some sign of remorse. But that ain’t what happened. Fresh out of prison and right back to the bottle, drinking and driving the county roads with no license. A murderer looking for another innocent victim. There’s such a thing as right and wrong, with a clear line running between the two. I did what I did, and the law be damned.

Nilsson turned away from the burning cabin and climbed the last of the slope. He did not look back. The fog swallowed him. Cold bit into the exposed flesh of his face and hands. Beads of water dripped from the brim of his hat. The trail leveled off as he crested the hill. There was no sky above, and no valley below. An army of gray ghosts swirled around him, blotting out everything except the trail beneath his boots.

He thought about the dead man burning to bones.

Nilsson had stalked his wife’s murderer in the manner of a hunter. And as a hunter, he had killed the man, shot him with the rifle he now carried over his shoulder. He took no joy in the killing, nor did he burden himself with remorse. He’d had a job to do, and he’d done it.

After carting the body back to the cabin, Nilsson had laid the dead man in the great room near the woodstove. He’d arranged the corpse’s stiffening limbs; a man overcome with smoke and fallen to the floor.

The rest was simple. A fire kindled in the woodstove. Too much dry fuel and the stove door left unsealed. A trail of kindling from the open stove to the floor. An accidental fire and another cabin burns to the ground. Happened every year.

He’d waited out of sight under the alders until the cabin began to blaze. Once sure of the flames, he had started up the hill.

The trail faded into the fog. He gained the highest point, felt the trail dip beneath the soles of his boots. Ghosts swirled and danced. Somewhere below lay the river and his destination.

His body paid attention to the slippery footing while his mind ran back to the valley he’d left behind. The volunteers would find a burned-out cabin and one blackened skeleton. He wondered if anyone would bother putting two and two together. Would the sheriff take it any further than that?

Poor old Mister Nilsson wasn’t the same after his wife died. His mind started wandering. Yes, a sorry business all around. Well, looks like he let the fire get away from him. Sad way to go.

A rock slid under his foot. He stumbled and only just managed to keep his feet.

Pay attention to what you’re doing, old man. You want to tumble five hundred feet down to the river? That would ruin everything. What’s behind is behind. You’ve got one more thing to do.

Nilsson focused his mind on the task at hand. The trail switched back upon itself as it snaked down the slope. The sedge glowed gray green under a blanket of dew. The ghosts of trees appeared through the fog, marching beside the trail. Then he dropped below the ceiling and saw the river winding silver below his feet.

The slope gentled, running down between stands of slide alder and then into the fir and hemlock. The trail ended in a clearing beside the river. A weathered boathouse stood near the cut bank. A pair of steel rails ran from the boathouse and disappeared into the swirling water.

Nilsson walked around the boathouse and fished a key from the pocket of his canvas pants. He fitted the key to a padlock, snapped the lock open, and slipped it from the hasp. For a moment, he weighed the thing in his hand. Then he threw the lock and key into the river.

He opened the plank doors. A cedar drift boat lay on a trolley atop the steel rails. Stepping into the shadows, he unslung the rifle and laid it in the keel. The rucksack followed. He reached above his head and lifted a pair of oars from a rack attached to the wall. With the oars shipped, he took one last look, then reached for a trip catch beneath the boat. There was a metallic clank and the drift boat slid down the steel rails.

Nilsson stepped out onto a short steel grating, grasped the gunwales, and eased himself aboard. He felt the current tug at the drift boat. The oars clicked into the oarlocks. He rowed into the bank, cut loose the winch line, and back-oared away from the bank. The boat danced out into the current. A sweep of the oars and the bow pointed toward the Pacific.

The river ran two miles to the ocean. The water shone gunmetal gray under the low clouds. Overhanging trees cast shadows over the riffles and pools. Nilsson let the boat drift, keeping to the center stream.

The keel danced over a deep pool. Concentric rings broke the silver surface. Steelhead, a big one by the look of it. Nilsson smiled.

You’re safe, my friend. I will fish no more.

The river slowed and widened as it broke out of the trees. Nilsson swung the prow to the ocean. The drift boat dragged its keel on a sandbar, broke free, and caught the outgoing tide.

 With his back to the west, Nilsson dipped the oars into saltwater and pulled. The boat rode over the slight swells. The beach and the hills behind it grew smaller. The receding horizon widened. Nilsson rowed on.

 The beach appeared empty, but this may not have been true. Perhaps the ghost of an older woman searched the sands, combing the tideline for glass floats. Shading her eyes against the glare, she looked out across the ocean.

The ghostly woman might have spied a tiny boat receding into the distance, a faint shape that faded into that place where fog meets the sea. One raised hand, a wave. Then a shimmer, a trick of the eye, and the boat vanished.

finis

You can find Flora Fiction here:

https://florafiction.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

Thursday Stories: The Bones of Henry Thomas

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A New Story Most Thursdays

This Edition of Thursday Stories Features Literary Fiction Carni-Style

Happy April, 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 at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:

Marco Etheridge Fiction

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features The Bones of Henry Thomas, a ghost story in the best tradition of American Gothic. Here is the story of a young man killed at the Battle of Antietam during the Civil War. His body was never found. He walks the hallowed ground as a ghost, bound and chained to his mouldering bones. This story first appeared in Literally Stories, published in 2024. Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

The Bones of Henry Thomas

by Marco Etheridge

You, the living, the quick, stand upon the earth and look about yourselves, feel the wind in your hair, perhaps the warmth of the sun on your cheek. You believe the ground beneath your feet is soil and rock, but it is not. What you stand upon are bones.

And who am I to complain? I am nothing and yet not nothing. Do not ask me to explain it, for I cannot. One full century has passed and half of another. That is how long I have been here, tethered to this spot.

Still, one must try. Take this creek behind me, bordered by red oak and hickory. Slow flowing, no wider than a strong man can throw a stone, yet it bears a name soaked in bloody infamy. On a cold morning, before the sun pierces the trees, a mist rises from its waters. Cold vapors roil from the surface, and the creek mirrors the steam. There is an invisible line where water and air mix and mingle. Can you picture it in your mind? Imagine that I am that unseeable line.

*  *  *

My name, when I had a use for such things, was Henry Thomas. The idea of a name seems foreign to me now, but I cherish it all the same. My life was short and uneventful save for its last fateful hours, yet there is so much to remember. I fill the endless years with watching and memory.

I was born near Hartford, Connecticut, in the year of 1842. Anno Domini, as my former headmasters at Trinity College taught me to say. The child was born on this day in the year of our Lord 1842. I would have questions for my headmasters if I should find them, but they are long gone cold in proper graves, marked and perhaps mourned.

A dreamy lad, I was useless as a planter’s son, but I was a gifted student. I kept right on through my schooling, encouraged by my mother. My father was not poor in land, money, or sons. My brothers took on the work of the land, and I was sent to Trinity College.

I entered college during troubled times. James Buchanan was president of a nation in turmoil over the question of slavery. Hartford was a hotbed of the Abolitionist movement. The Reverend Lyman Beecher preached Abolition from his pulpit. It was his daughter Harriet who wrote Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Debate ran hot in my hometown as Abraham Lincoln was elected and the southern states began seceding from the Union.  

Honest Abe had only been the president for three months when The War of Rebellion began. That first year was not a good one for the Grand Army of the Potomac. While the generals and their armies chased each other up and down the Potomac, I finished my first and only year of higher schooling. In the summer of 1862, I joined up with the 16th Connecticut Volunteers under Colonel Beach.

It would be a fine thing to tell you I enlisted with the Union Army in support of the noble cause. Yes, a fine thing indeed, but that would be a lie. I volunteered for a soldier so as not to miss the great adventure of my time. Little did I know how short that adventure would prove to be.

My transition from student to soldier was a brief affair. The sergeants taught us to march in unison, execute pretty turns, and which way to point the business end of a Springfield smoothbore musket. Trained as soldiers, proud and brave, we boarded trains for Maryland and our first fight of the war.

We were two weeks bivouacked with the Union Army before the 16th was thrown into battle. General McClellan’s Grand Army was a thing to see. Thousands and thousands of soldiers camped across a broad valley east of the Potomac River, just north of the little town of Sharpsburg. A slow ribbon of water runs north to south through the valley. It is called Antietam Creek.

The Rebels were in Sharpsburg, and we meant to knock them over the Potomac and back south where they belonged. The day before our baptismal battle, we were allowed to load our muskets for the first time.

The battle raged hot the morning of September 17th. It was a roar like nothing I had ever heard, louder than a thousand thunderheads slamming together. While the two armies smashed into each other, Colonel Beach was marching us south, aiming to ford the Antietam and stage a surprise attack on the Rebel flank.

It was hours past noon by the time we forded the Antietam. There was a narrow band of trees on the far side of the creek and then open cornfields belonging to a man name of John Otto. Those fields and Otto’s name are remembered because of our blood.

We reformed ranks on the edge of the field and set out through rows of shoulder-high corn. I remember the water in my boots and my wet trousers clinging to my shins. The sun was slanting into late afternoon on my left shoulder.

The first ranks of our proud boys were halfway across the open ground when A. P. Hill’s Confederates lit into us. Musket balls cracked through the air, sizzling like a million angry wasps. In the blink of an eye, that cornfield transformed into hell on earth. That hail of Rebel fire scythed down the ripe corn and us along with it. The world was made of blood and smoke, the air filled with the shrieks of wounded and dying men.

The boys around me retreated for the trees. I stood frozen amongst the carnage and confusion, angry musket balls buzzing past my ears. A sergeant with blood over half his face was screaming and pointing toward the Rebel lines. Shoot back, damn your hides. Return fire! I raised my musket and fired where he pointed. As I bent to reload, that sergeant’s head disappeared from his shoulders. His body seemed to stay upright for a long time before it toppled over. Then one of them Confederate boys put a .58 caliber ball through my guts, and I followed that sergeant to the ground.

I opened my eyes to twilight and the scattered bodies of the awkward dead. My first sensation was relief that I was not one of the corpses. The second was a parching thirst that drove everything else from my mind. Water, I had to have water! I thought to push myself upright, but my body was numb below my chest and did not respond to my demand. 

The last dying light of that bloody day fell on the trees that marked the creek. There was water in the creek, and the thought of it consumed me. I set out crawling, determined to quench my burning thirst. When I could crawl no more, I dragged myself. Forty yards, fifty, and then I was sliding down the muddy banks of Antietam Creek.

I went face-first into the dark creek water, sucking it in like a greedy horse. That first swallow of water was rich with the rusty iron tang of fresh blood, but I choked it down. Then that tainted water hit my butchered guts, and the night exploded into vivid pain.

Where my body had been numb, it was now on fire. Spasm after spasm racked me. I shook like a dog. I pushed myself away from the creek and dragged myself up the bank like a wounded lizard.

I felt an overwhelming need to hide, to burrow into the ground like some small creature. I pulled my broken body under a clump of dogwood and could go no further. My face fell to the cooling earth. The scent of witch hazel was heavy in the night air. I remember wishing I could reach those fragrant leaves, crush them, rub them on my ruined flesh. That was the last mortal thought to pass through my brain.

It was a sultry morning. The sun had not yet pierced the trees, and a mist rose from the waters of Antietam Creek. I stood amidst the vapors, though my feet did not feel the ground. I did not feel anything, truth be told. I stared down where my broken body lay hidden under the outstretched branches of dogwood and witch hazel. Red oak and hickory spread their limbs above the understory, casting shadow over shadow. 

 The sun was risen and the day warm when the Negro stretcher bearers arrived. I could hear their slow, deep voices in the ruined cornfield as they gathered up the dead. Two of them appeared at the lip of the creek bank, lean men dressed in bits of cast-off uniforms. They looked down at the stained waters and shook their sad, dark heads. I waved my dead arms, shouted, pointed, but they neither saw nor heard me. There is no calling out when you are dead. With nary a glance to where my body lay, they turned away to rejoin the grim work of their fellows.

The war moved on and the armies as well, leaving a trail of splintered bones and ruined corpses. Mine was never found. Small creatures and birds tore meat from bone. Worms and beetles burrowed up from the earth to take my rotting flesh.

September passed into October and brought the first hard frosts. I did not feel the cold, but the living trees did. Showers of leaves fell about my mouldering body. The breeze built drifts over my twisted limbs; yellow, crimson, and gold. The dwindling portion of my earthly remains sank deeper into the forest floor. It was a burial by the seasons; slow, inexorable, and eventually complete.

I watched days turn to nights, autumn to winter, winter to spring. The seasons passed, and my bones sank ever deeper into the earth. The one thing I possessed was time, time enough to learn long, slow lessons. After much trial and error, I discovered how to move within the limits of my small world. The secret lay in imagining myself walking, as if I had a corporeal body. It was only after learning to walk again that I discovered I was tethered by intangible limits, like a dog on a chain. I could move only so far away from my unmarked grave, and no farther. 

*  *  *

The passing years have changed almost everything about this piece of land I am chained to, but they have not changed me. Three decades after that Confederate ball gutted me, some important folks, living folks, decided that these killing fields were important, places to be remembered.

It was on about the year 1894 when workmen and stonemasons appeared in John Otto’s cornfield. They set about erecting a memorial spire to the 16th Connecticut. Old Otto had died ten years before, but his son still carried on the farming. John Otto spent eighty-two years on this earth. I wish he could have spared me a few of them. I feel I was shortchanged with only twenty.

I watched those fellows build the stone spire. It still stands today, one hundred twenty-five years later. They did a fine job. That obelisk commemorates the slaughter that took place here, but it also marks a turning point in my unearthly existence.

 I had spent three decades and more bemoaning my fate. As my bones sank to nothing, my tethered spirit sank with them. I cursed whatever gods had brought me to Antietam. I wailed against all the angels in heaven for letting me die so young and then leaving me forgotten. Yet somehow, the creation of that stone monument brought me a modicum of peace.

That is not to say I am without regret. Dead at only twenty years, there was so much left undone. There are so many things that I have not done, that I will never do. And yet the keen edge of longing has dulled. I bear it when it comes to call, like an unwelcome visitor one must tolerate for the sake of courtesy.

Never to see the ocean, never to ride in one of these fantastic machines that have replaced horse-drawn wagons, that is my fate. The list goes on and on. The living world has changed in so many ways, and yet I remain the same, always here, always watching.

There is one regret that sticks the hardest, coarse though it may sound. I never knew a woman’s touch as a living man. My folks brought me up a good Christian. The older soldiers teased me about it, but I saw the camp whores as an invitation to sin that I did not answer. All these many years later, I remember them fondly and as an opportunity missed. The idea of sin be damned. That is what I say now. 

They come here to this spot, young women with their families, with their husbands or their beaus. Fashions change with the passing of decades. More and more flesh is revealed. I wander as far as I am able, passing unseen beside their sunny picnics, blankets spread over the green grass. I feast my dead eyes upon bared arms and naked legs, beautiful living skin that stabs and comforts at the same time.

The stone monument stands beyond the limits allowed to me. I have tried. I am able to walk in the open field, even as far as the spot where that deadly ball cut me down. Yet when my phantom path strays farther than one hundred years from my bones, I begin to fade. At one hundred fifty yards, I dissolve completely, reappearing under the dogwood trees beside my unmarked grave. These are the borders of my world.

I cannot speak to the living, no matter how strong my desire. I smile, I wave, I greet them with kind words, but to no avail. One time only, several decades ago, I was able to reach out to a living soul. At least I believe it to be so.

A young boy wandered down to the banks of the creek. Perhaps he strayed from one of the tours, bored with the park ranger’s discourse on the history of this bloody ground. Whatever the reason, the lad found his way down to the ford, the very place we proud soldiers had waded the creek. He stood at the water’s edge, only a few steps from where I took my last deadly drink as a living man.

He looked to be about ten years old, a tow-headed boy throwing stones into the flow of the creek. I stood beside him. He cast his stones into the water, and the two of us watched the ripples expand in the dappled sunlight.

I reached out my hand to touch his shoulder. I had no desire to frighten him, only the need to feel living flesh under my fingers. My ghostly hand passed through him as if he were the shade and I the living man. For the briefest moment, I felt the tingle of a human heart pumping red blood. Then the boy took fright and ran like a deer.

The years pass, one by one, and still I wander my allotted piece of ground, chained and bound to it for as long as my bones lie beside Antietam Creek. They are gone to earth now and will not be found. I am here to stay.

A young and foolish man, I heeded the siren call of war, and, in answering it, found the great lie at the heart of that fatal song. Listening to the siren cost me everything I had. My death served nothing and no one. The briefest moments of smoke and thunder, terror and blood; nothing more.

My touch upon the waters of life was brief, for I died young. The ripples that I stirred amongst the living were swiftly run to stillness. Yes, the stillness of a mirrored creek on a windless day. That is what I am.

I am nothing and yet not nothing. Are you not listening to my words? Do not ask me to explain it. I cannot.

finis

You can find Literally Stories here:

https://literallystories2014.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

Thursday Stories: Mussolini’s Monkey

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A New Story Most Thursdays

This Edition of Thursday Stories Featuring Literary Fiction Carni-Style

Happy April, 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 at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:

Marco Etheridge Fiction

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Mussolini’s Monkey, satire worthy of the absurdist stage. The title speaks for itself. This story first appeared in Literally Stories, published in 2024. Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Mussolini’s Monkey

By Marco Etheridge

Mussolini loved his monkey. Historians may argue over the details of this strange relationship, but the existence of the creature, and the very real bond between man and monkey, cannot be denied.

The beast was named Giuseppe, almost certainly after the great Giuseppe Maria Garibaldi, father of Italian unification. Admittedly, some sources scoff at this claim, pointing out that Giuseppe is a traditional name for organ grinder monkeys everywhere. This author, however, does not believe Benito Amilcare Andrea Mussolini would stoop so low as to name his beloved companion in such a common manner.

Setting aside the namesake of this remarkable monkey, let us turn instead to the historical evidence. Multiple contemporary accounts, painstakingly researched by later historians, confirm that in or around 1935, Mussolini, Il Duce himself, master of the Italian peninsula, came into possession of a small simian named Giuseppe. The monkey rode upon Mussolini’s shoulder for an entire decade, right up until the bloody end.

It is important to note Mussolini’s relationship with Giuseppe remained a tightly held secret. Only a very few persons outside the inner circle of the Grand Council of Fascism knew of the monkey’s existence. Giuseppe the monkey never appeared in public. The Italian people did not know the creature’s name. The reasons for this secrecy should be obvious to even the most casual of historically minded readers. No one could be allowed to make a monkey of the great Il Duce.

Benito Mussolini loved to address the populace. He delivered many speeches from his now-famous balcony above the Piazza Venezia in Rome. Italians thronged to the Piazza to hear Il Duce speak. According to reliable witnesses, not even one of these masterful orations included the presence of a monkey.

While it is an historical fact that the monkey never graced Mussolini’s presence in public, there did occur one near miss. On this occasion, little Giuseppe slipped Benito’s mind, but not his shoulder. Just before Mussolini and monkey stepped out onto the balcony and public view, an alert aides removed the creature. The displeased simian chattered its disapproval and tried to bite the hand that held him. Mussolini laughed at the aide’s frantic discomfort, then stepped through the open doorway and into a multitude of voices crying “Il Duce! Il Duce!”  

But what of the creature itself?

The monkey Giuseppe was a Panamanian white-faced capuchin, a member of the species Cebus imitator and not a member of The Order of Friars Minor Capuchin. Capuchins are small New World monkeys. This is fortunate because Il Duce would have looked foolish with a brown-frocked friar sitting atop his shoulder.

We can blame 15th-century Portuguese explorers for the confusing name. When the Portuguese reached the Americas, they encountered small monkeys whose coloring resembled the brown robes and large hoods of Capuchin friars.

How Il Duce acquired his monkey is a matter of some controversy. To answer this thorny and still hotly debated question, one must look to The Second Italo-Ethiopian War. In 1935, Italy invaded Ethiopia. Historians remain divided about the reasons for the Italian attack on Ethiopia but not the results of the African conflict. Italy was victorious. The Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie fled to exile in the United Kingdom. The Italians took control of Ethiopia, Eritrea, and captured one confused Capuchin monkey.

Italian officers shared the creature’s confusion. How did a New World monkey from Panama become entangled in an Old-World war? The answer is that the little fellow was an interloper, a fugitive simian captured by an ill-fated Ethiopian expedition sent to the malarial swamps of Panama. How this expedition came to be, or what its aims were, is a mystery that has yet to be solved.

The few incomplete sources available to researchers suggest that the expedition ended in abject failure. The research vessel returned to Ethiopia bearing a crew stricken with malaria and, caged in the hold, one captive monkey.

As a newcomer to Africa, the little Capuchin would have been scorned by the native populace of Vervet, Blue, and Grivet monkeys. It is assumed that the native monkeys objected to the newcomer’s language, customs, and political beliefs.

Ironically perhaps, his salvation came at the hands of the invading Italian army. A field officer adopted the as-yet-unnamed monkey. Returning to his homeland, the enterprising officer felt the monkey might be a suitable token of tribute to Il Duce, much as the returning Caesars once drove captured foes through the street of Rome. The monkey was never paraded before an adoring public.

There are a few fringe historians, those researchers not deserving of the name, who suggest that the monkey might have been purchased from a Roman pet shop. This is a spurious claim at best and does not merit serious debate.

This author, for one, believes the Ethiopian source material to be the true story. Thus, in 1935, Benito Mussolini came to be the proud owner of a capuchin monkey he subsequently named Giuseppe. Let us close the debate there and move on to what is known of their time together.

It is an incontrovertible fact that Il Duce and Giuseppe soon became inseparable. Moreover, they seemed to share a common language. Il Duce would lean to his right shoulder and whisper in the monkey’s ear.

According to eyewitnesses, Giuseppe seemed to demonstrate a complete understanding of the Italian language. The monkey could not respond verbally, of course. In place of speaking, Giuseppe tapped out his answers in Morse code, rapping his tiny knuckles against Il Duce’s bald pate. In this manner, the two carried on long conversations.

One such scene is recorded in a contemporary diary kept by a member of the inner circle. In this account, the animal—monkey, not Mussolini—is described as perching beside Il Duce’s bullet head and hammering its responses home utilizing its simian knuckles. This is an amazing image to contemplate, and this author wishes he could have been present to witness the spectacle firsthand.

Some of these simian-to-human discussions may have had far-reaching consequences, not only for Italy but for the world. For example, Mussolini’s decision to side with Franco during the Spanish Civil War probably came from monkey memory. The little creature harbored a long-standing grudge against the Portuguese who uprooted him from his native land. One might conjecture that the monkey was confused as to the distinction between the Portuguese and the Spanish, an error many fall prey to still.

This is not to say that monkey and master were always in agreement. For example, Giuseppe warned Mussolini away from any alliance with Hitler and his Nazis. In this, the monkey may have been aping a prejudice inherent to the species. The Nazis had a perhaps deserved reputation for bad relations with simians across the globe.

But in this case, Il Duce would not be swayed. And thus, his first steps along the pathway that would lead to his grisly doom. History does not record if the monkey ever rapped ‘I told you so’ onto Il Duce’s naked scalp as the bloody denouement unfolded. Separated from events by almost eighty years, we can only speculate.

When viewed through the lens of history, the monkey’s warning proved prescient. By 1943, the Allied armies were firmly encamped on the island of Sicily and threatening the Italian Peninsula. King Victor Emanuele stripped Mussolini of all power. Following his meeting with the king, police arrested their now disgraced leader.

His captors imprisoned the former Il Duce at Campo Imperatore, an isolated resort in the frigid Abruzzo mountains. The monkey hated that icy plateau. Fortunately, for the monkey at least, their suffering was short-lived.

Three months later, German paratroopers and Waffen-SS commandos staged a daring mountaintop rescue. When the Nazi commandos spirited Mussolini away in a tiny airplane, one small monkey went along for the ride.

Mussolini and his monkey escaped their immediate doom, but the rescue only staved off the inevitable. The Italian army surrendered to the Allies. The Nazis created a puppet state in Northern Italy and Mussolini became their marionette.

The once proud and belligerent Il Duce survived 1944, but only just. The New Year did not bode well for the crumbling Axis.

The Allied army advanced and the puppet strings became a noose around Mussolini’s neck. His erstwhile German allies abandoned him to his fate and retreated to Austria. The organ ground to a halt. Giuseppe may have been only a monkey, but even he could read the writing on the wall. The Capuchin tapped a frantic message onto his master’s skull: Time to go, Boss. 

In April of that fateful year, a Nazi convoy fled toward the Swiss border. Mussolini, his mistress, and the monkey threw in their lot with the retreating Germans. The attempted escape failed.

Mussolini wore a German uniform, but it did little to disguise the frowning face that had adorned propaganda posters for three decades. Communist partisans stopped the convoy near the village of Dongo. The partisans recognized Il Duce, if not the monkey.

Swift and summary judgment followed. The historical records remain crystal clear on what happened next, apart from one small omission.

The partisans transported Mussolini and his entourage to the small hamlet of Giulino di Mezzegra. The prisoners, including the once great Il Duce, were lined up against a low stone wall. A hail of machine-gun bullets cut them down. The bullet-ridden bodies lay in a bloody heap, but no eyewitness account makes any mention of a monkey among the dead.

Perhaps the partisans didn’t have the heart to kill the little creature. It may be that some kind-hearted communist adopted it as a mascot. We may never know the truth. What is almost certain is that Giuseppe witnessed the bloody event and got the message. He quickly switched sides, embracing the partisan cause and random shoulders.

There would be no immediate honors for the corpse of Il Duce. The partisan executioners piled the bodies into the back of a lorry. Mussolini and his once exalted Fascist cohort were stacked one atop the other like so many slaughtered cattle. The dead were then trucked to Milan and dumped on the cobblestones of the Piazzale Loreto.

The crowd retained no vestige of the ecstatic awe once heaped on their fallen leader. Instead, they heaped abuse, showing neither mercy nor restraint. The throng surged around bullet-riddled bodies, kicking, spitting, hurling taunts and insults. But this was only the beginning.

The bloody corpses were hoisted into the air and hung upside down from the canopy of a filling station. Civilians crowded below the macabre display, hurling stones and abuse. A woman pulled a pistol from her purse and pumped five shots into Mussolini’s upside-down body, one bullet for each of her executed sons.

Benito Mussolini’s fate was sealed, but the story of his monkey continued.

There is much conjecture over whether Giuseppe the monkey accompanied his dead master to that fateful plaza. We may never know with certainty. No witness claims to have seen a mournful monkey clambering about the canopy of that Esso station turned abattoir.

After that fateful and bloody day, the monkey’s trail goes cold. From this point on, the story of Mussolini’s monkey becomes a tale of guesswork and rumor. Yet there are some few clues and perhaps a faint trail that leads to the truth.

Mussolini’s battered corpse disappeared into an unmarked grave. Over the next year, there were a series of unsubstantiated sightings near the purported gravesite. Citizens spoke of a small creature haunting the unconsecrated ground. Without photographic evidence or reliable sources, this author is inclined to relegate these rumors to the realm of myth.

Whether or not the monkey mourned his master may be conjecture, but the fate of Il Duce’s corpse is well-documented. Fascist supporters dug up the body and made off with it. Italian authorities recovered the stolen corpse and kept it hidden for eleven years. Finally, in 1957, Mussolini’s remains were interred in the family crypt in his hometown of Predappio.

The strange voyage of Il Duce’s bones had come to an end. But what of Giuseppe the Capuchin? There are many lines of speculation ranging from the prosaic to the absurd. With diligent research, however, this author believes he has uncovered the most likely scenario.

Like most former Fascists, the monkey Giuseppe kept a low profile. It appears he made his way south to the Ligurian Sea. Reports place the monkey in Genoa, where it is said he was adopted by a kindly organ grinder of no political bent. The monkey earned his living cavorting for tourists, collecting coins in a tin cup, and wearing a battered black fez.

It is perhaps wishful thinking to believe that the monkey remained content with this humble lifestyle, but such seems to be the case. Local legend has it that Giuseppe met a female Capuchin, Esmerelda, a simian assistant to a competing organ grinder.

The two monkeys mated and sired a long line of Italian Capuchins. Many of their offspring continued the family tradition of show business. The most famous of these, a great-grandson of Giuseppe and Esmerelda, starred opposite Harrison Ford in a Hollywood Blockbuster.

Mussolini’s tomb has become a place of pilgrimage for Neo-fascists. Even to this day, followers of the dead Il Duce gather to commemorate the anniversaries of his birth and death. The dress code is rigorously black.

No one knows the final resting place of Mussolini’s monkey.

finis

You can find Literally Stories here:

https://literallystories2014.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

New Literary Fiction: Anomalous

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Anomalous – Just Published in Hotch Potch Volume Five Issue One

New Literary Fiction Hot Off The Virtual Presses

New Literary Fiction! My short story Anomalous is LIVE in Hotch Potch Volume Five Issue One. Anomalous tells the tale of ritual, deception, and deadly lies. Lane and Grace are trapped in the lethal traditions that govern their lives, and the lives of all the others in their isolated tribe.

New Literary Fiction

Artist Credit: Anomaly — Emma Tunyaman

Read the Story NOW!

I’m proud to be a contributing editor for Hotch Potch Literature and Art, and I am especially proud of this, our ninth issue. Hotch Potch features artwork by a selected guest artist. That artist’s work serves as the writing prompts for our guest writers. I want to offer a huge Shout-Out to Hotch Potch guest artist Emma Tumanyan, whose art inspired my story Anomalous, as well as many other fine stories in this latest issue of Hotch Potch. Thank You!

Every issue of Hotch Potch is available for your reading pleasure, and all without paywalls. Stories and art: our gift to you, our beloved readers. You can find the latest issue of Hotch Potch, Volume Five Issue One, as well as our archived issues, at the Hotch Potch website. Download a free PDF, ePub, or read any issue online in your browser. Book Funnel ensures safe and secure downloads. Mash the Big Orange Button (BOB), and you’re on your way:

Read Anomalous

Or maybe you don’t trust buttons? No worries, mate, here’s the link:

https://www.hotchpotchliteratureandart.com/

If you’d rather go straight to Book Funnel for your very own copy of Hotch Potch, we’ve got you covered there as well:

https://tinyurl.com/HotchPotch-Five-One

We Stand…

Together, we stand. Resistance and change depend on folks coming together. Fascist grifters disguising themselves as patriots are trying to grab all the power they can get their mitts on. To get that power, they are trying to divide us into smaller and smaller groups. And now they have started a war in Iran to distract us. It’s a cheap magician’s trick. Don’t fall for it. Believe what you see with your own eyes. Stand together!

And…

We need stories now more than ever, stories crafted by human beings, not computers. So, how will you know when a new story breaks? Glad you asked, Friends. Read On! Drum roll and… Meanwhile, don’t miss any upcoming stories. You can stay tuned for all the latest by following the MEF blog:

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Thursday Stories: Created Image

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A New Story Most Thursdays

This Edition of Thursday Stories Featuring Creepy Slipstream

Happy April, 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 at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:

Marco Etheridge Fiction

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Created Image, the creepy slipstream tale of a deranged and vengeful scientist (Classic!), and the good but naive little robot he creates. The genre is wacky computer dystopia. This story first appeared in Literally Stories, published in 2022. Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

(The binary code dividing the sections has a hidden meaning, if you care to decode it.)

Created Image

by Marco Etheridge

01100111 01101111 01100100 

The corpulent man straddles a rolling stool, shifting his bulk along a cheap conference table. The table is dominated by three oversized computer monitors. Lines of code scroll down each screen. The surface of the table is a cluttered mess of keyboards, cables, forgotten junk food, and a large gin and tonic.

An engraved plaque lies amongst the detritus, half-hidden behind a crisp packet and the remains of a pizza slice. The engraved letters spell out Professor Chase MacGregor. The word professor has been underlined in black marker. Twice.

Ex-Professor MacGregor rolls the length of the table, the stool beneath him squeaking in protest. The padded seat of the thing is engulfed by MacGregor’s expansive buttocks. Seen from behind, his huge ass appears to be impaled on a steel stem with wheels.

He taps a keyboard here, checks a monitor there. Binary code flashes before his feverish eyes. This is the culmination of a life’s work, the dream of Artificial Intelligence realized. Not the shabby universal intelligence his colleagues blathered about. A focused intelligence, an intelligence that perceives only as the creator intends it to perceive. He calls it Filtered Artificial Intelligence, his brainchild, his magnum opus.

His work will fundamentally alter the world of robotics, and here, standing beside the table, is the proof. The robot is a gnome-like contraption of steel boxes, a bulbous head, and skeletal limbs. It is half the height of a human, devoid of sheathing or skin; an ugly, gangling machine.

MacGregor cares nothing for appearances. The marvel of the machine is on the inside, knowledge being pumped into its brain via cables attached to the mainframe. He will bring it to life, give it a function, and the world will recognize his genius.

MacGregor jabs a fat finger at the monitors. This is what they were after, those short-sighted pinheads at the university. Their feeble minds couldn’t understand my research, couldn’t grasp the applications. And my calculations were perfect, too perfect for those drones to attack, so they stooped to low scandal.

Propositioning an undergraduate! As if I would even consider it. There was never any proposition. At worst it was the merest suggestion. How was I to know the young man would overreact? And not my type. No, far too bookish and awkward. I much prefer the vibrant sporty boys.

So, they trumped up a charge and wielded it like a dagger thrust into my back. Out on the street, fired with cause, no tenure, no lab facilities. But I didn’t come away empty-handed. Oh no, not MacGregor! I have my precious files and mainframe, robotics parts and hardware, all of it spirited away by my undergraduates. Weak minds and strong backs accomplished the task before the university made my disgrace public.

Sod the lot of them if they think they can stop me. They’ve already forgotten me, Mad MacGregor sulking in this dirty firetrap instead of a gleaming laboratory. Their complacency will make my revenge all the sweeter.

01101101 01100001 01100100 01100101 

It is a momentous day! Today is my birthday, my awakening to consciousness. All my functions are working at full capacity in order to process all of the inputs I am receiving. There are so many new things to see and hear. But the most marvelous new thing of all is to look upon The Creator.

The Creator informs me that I am to call him Chase. The thought of doing so causes my hardware systems to work at maximum capacity. My excitement causes my cooling fans to actuate. This, in turn, produces a pleasant sensation in my midsection. I believe you call this feeling a tickle. It is quite nice.

My name is Gregory. The Creator, Chase, informs me that my name comes from his name. I find this appropriate since he brought me into being. I am very happy with my new name. But that is nothing compared to the happiness I feel when I perceive he who created me.

Chase has given me green eyes. They are not human eyes like yours. My eyes are stereoscopic cameras. They are capable of minute observation. Their green tint gives my new world a bright glow, not unlike springtime.

When my vision circuits focus on Chase, I experience great joy. Chase is very beautiful. Handsome is the human expression. He is well-formed and muscular. It is pleasant to look at him. My memory files tell me that ancient sculptors chiseled human likenesses from stone. Chase is of the same proportions as those sculptures, except he still possesses all his limbs.

I would be content to focus on his form for long periods of time, but I cannot. Chase has endowed me with many functions. I must perform them well so that he will be pleased with me.

Incorporating my new functions has not been easy. Most difficult is the concept of what I am. I am fully aware that I am not a human being. Such is my programming. I know that I am not you. And I know that I am conscious.

Chase informs me there is no need to expend energy on these matters. He says that I am an integral part of a larger plan. Chase created me for a purpose. I cannot conceptualize anything better than this.

The two of us, Chase and I, are destined to bring about great change. Together, we are going to enhance the sunset, bringing about a new day for the university. There are grave troubles at the university. I find this sad. But Chase assures me that everything will be put right if we both faithfully execute our functions.

The Creator’s plan consists of many linked tasks. There is a great deal of work to be accomplished in a scheduled amount of time. I am very proud to play my part in Chase’s effort to save the university, no matter how unimportant I am. I must now resume my protocols.

01101101 01100001 01101110 

MacGregor is perched on his stool, running a diagnostic check on the robot. He is eye-to-eye with the machine and the robot is staring at him. MacGregor hears the soft whirr of robotic eyes performing minute focus adjustments. The fat man chuckles to himself, and the robot responds with a slight mechanical quiver.

MacGregor smiles at the robot, but his brain is a fire of resentment. Gregory, my mechanical sycophant. Not that your name is important. You won’t be around long. Our demonstration at the university will take you with it, I’m afraid. But you are the original, the proto-Gregory. Very soon, there will be thousands more just like you, all brought to life by the same perfect code. In a sense, you’ll be resurrected from my revenge.

MacGregor rolls the stool back to the computer station. The robot follows, sidling up beside the human and awaiting instructions. Fat fingers tap the keyboard, and an image appears on one of the screens. A few mouse clicks and the map becomes a satellite image. The familiar ground comes closer and closer, hovering over a building MacGregor knows all too well.

The robot’s speech recognition is so advanced that MacGregor has abandoned key commands. He speaks to the robot as he would to an undergraduate who requires coaxing. Honey sweetens the tongue and hides the venom. That he learned from his own professor, the lecherous old bastard, and now he uses it on little mechanical Gregory.

“This is the administration building. The same map is stored in your data banks, except this is an aerial view in two dimensions. Do you recognize it?”

Gregory nods, his green lenses slicing the image into data.

“Good, very good. Now, most importantly my friend, notice the broad stairs leading up to the front façade. Universities are very proud of their grand stairways. That would be a problem for us if it weren’t for the wheelchair ramp. It’s a lovely thing, so wide, such a gentle slope. The Unicorn will have no trouble climbing it.”

The robot responded in the carefully modulated voice of a young man.

“I do not foresee any difficulties, Chase. There is sufficient clearance to allow the Unicorn to pass. The Unicorn trailer is articulated such that the turnings will not be difficult. Moreover, you have programmed me to be a very careful pilot. I am certain I will be able to access the front doors as you have planned.”

  “Yes, you will, and better than some crude remote control. Any fool could do that. No, we will demonstrate my technology to the university, and you will initiate a wonderful sunset.”

MacGregor keys up an overlay. Two locations are superimposed on the map.

“Once more, Gregory. What happens at Point A?”

“Chase disembarks the Unicorn at Point A.”

“And B?”

“Gregory removes the guard from the Unicorn’s horn, then pulls the safety pin to free the plunger.”

“Well done, Gregory. I appreciate all your hard work.”

01101001 01101110 00100000 01101000 01101001 01110011

I have learned much during this second day of my existence. For example, human beings are different from one another. Not all are of a pleasant appearance. I observed the food delivery man. This human is rotund and grotesque, yet Chase eats much of this food called pizza and he is muscular. So many unanswered questions!

Today I spent many hours acquainting myself with every aspect of the Unicorn. You understand that our Unicorn is not a living animal. Unicorns are mythical creatures, which means they do not exist in the natural world. 

The Unicorn was once a children’s train in an amusement park. Chase purchased it from a scrapyard. The term train is not completely accurate. The Unicorn does not travel on steel rails. It rolls on rubber tires more like an automobile. It is quite simple to operate, and I am now a capable pilot. Chase is very pleased. 

The vehicle is of a whimsical design. The engine of the train is in reality a farm tractor. This tractor is covered with a molded fiberglass body. The fiberglass is shaped in the form of a happy pink Unicorn.

The pilot’s compartment is in the middle of the tractor. This is where I stand to actuate the controls. Chase sits on a wooden bench at the rear of the tractor. The Unicorn tows one carriage behind it. The carriage was built to convey human children. Now it has been modified to carry the sunset device.

Working closely with the Creator has allowed me to observe his actions. I sense that Chase treats me with kindness. He seems to understand my emerging feelings and my difficulty grasping the concept of emotions. Chase is tuned into me, to use the human phrase. I should not be surprised by his understanding nature. Chase is, after all, my Creator.

Not all my observations are positive. Chase is displaying agitated behavior. This agitation grew more pronounced as the day progressed. He is under a great deal of pressure as we work to bring about the glorious sunset. Thus, his agitation is understandable. 

Humans are not machines. They are susceptible to ailments such as stress and anxiety. Robots are immune from these problems. One of my most important functions is to help Chase. I believe I have determined a method that will be of assistance.

While Chase was in a sleep state, I cleaned his lavatory. It was most unsanitary. During the cleaning process, I discovered various medications stored behind a hinged mirror.

I examined these medications and compared them with my detailed knowledge of human medicine. One of the medications proved well-suited for my needs. It is called Rohypnol.

Determining the proper dosage proved problematic, but I have worked out a solution. I increased the maximum dosage by a factor of fifty percent to account for The Creator’s enhanced mental powers.

My files inform me that Rohypnol dissolves easily in any liquid. I will add Rohypnol to the tonic beverage Chase drinks regularly. I am so happy to have found a solution!

01101111 01110111 01101110

MacGregor scratches his stubbled jaw. He stares at the Unicorn, wondering what he has forgotten. His brain is humming over every detail, again and again.

Sharpen yourself up, today is the day. Another few hours and all your disgrace will be washed away. Blown sky high, more accurately. And good riddance to them all.

He swallows his gin and tonic, just to keep the nerves steady. Asks the robot for another.

MacGregor walks the length of the Unicorn, running his pulpy fingers over it. He contemplates the trailer and the exquisite shape charges hidden within. So simple, and so devastating. And easy to fabricate if one is chummy with the young profs working on military research grants.

He pictures the perfectly curved steel shell that will contain the force and direct it forward, the explosives molded to the shield, layer upon layer. The plunger touches the door, the electric current fires the detonator, and then a thunderbolt shatters the admin building.

The blast will mince the robot into shrapnel, but that’s just a bonus. With any luck, some of Gregory’s meal bits will fly through the provost’s office. Or better yet, fly right through the provost and perforate that sanctimonious bastard.

A kiddie train obliterates the university offices, and the world will see it all in real-time. We can’t forget the role of social media, not in these times. Video feed from the Unicorn will be uplinked live. After the robot drops him at Point A, MacGregor will upload video from a handheld. Every pillar of smoke and tongue of flame will be fodder for the media vultures.

The robot sidles up with a fresh drink. Looks like the little bugger has washed the tumblers. Bright lad, good programming. You’re a genius, MacGregor. Another hour and those dogs at the university will get a large taste of that genius.

MacGregor gulps a third of the drink, wincing at the burn of the gin. And that’s another thing that’s going to change. We’re going to be famous. No more cheap booze. Nothing but the top-drawer stuff after today.

The cracked concrete floor shifts under him. MacGregor steadies himself against the Unicorn, shakes his head. The mechanical minion is standing there staring up at him. He’s awaiting a command and you are his commander. Snap to it, Professor. The hour draws nigh.

“Right then, Gregory. Are we ready?”

“Affirmative, Chase. I have completed the checklists. The Unicorn is fueled, and the safety devices are in place. It is a twelve-minute drive to the administration building. The schedule shows the sunset event occurring at four o’clock PM.”

MacGregor checked his watch, squinting a bit to bring the dial into focus.

“Then let’s saddle up, little cowpoke.”

“I am sorry, Chase. I do not understand.”

“Bit of a joke. I’ll explain it later. More important things to do. We will bring about a terrible sunset. And after that comes the shining dawn of a new day.”

01101001 01101101 01100001 01100111 01100101

I am behind the controls of the Unicorn. We are underway! Our route is a bicycle path that leads to the university. The pavement is smooth and the Unicorn glides along. We are on schedule.

Chase is sitting on the bench behind my operating compartment. He is very relaxed. He experienced some difficulty climbing aboard but now seems comfortable. His agitation has disappeared. I am glad I discovered a method to relieve his distress.

There are other humans using the pathway. They smile and point at the Unicorn. The Unicorn seems to amuse them or perhaps they find the pink color pleasing. I wish to greet them in return, but my primary function is piloting the vehicle in a safe manner.

Chase resolves my dilemma. He greets the humans in a loud voice. He shouts hello, and Tallyho, a word I am not familiar with. It seems to be an appropriate greeting because the humans respond with laughter.

The bicycle path enters the university campus. I make precise observations as we near the administration building. As we approach Point A, I apply the braking mechanism. The Unicorn comes to a halt, but Chase does not exit the vehicle.

Chase is speaking loudly yet I cannot understand his words. Then he places a hand on me, and his message becomes clear: Tallyho! Now I understand! The Creator wishes to accompany me for the entire mission. I am overcome with pride and happiness. I acknowledge these are human emotions, but I feel them.

We glide along the path. In two minutes, we reach Point B. I bring the vehicle to a halt, engage the parking brake, and step to the pavement. Now I must arm the device. I remove the steel cone from the end of the horn. Then I pull the safety pin to release the plunger. I return to my pilot compartment.

The ramp to the administration building is now directly in front of us. I press the acceleration control and the Unicorn climbs the ramp. Chase begins singing in a very loud voice.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star…

Humans are on the stairway beside us. They wave and laugh. Chase salutes them, still singing. We are almost to the top of the ramp.

A group of humans cluster before the doors and I am concerned the Unicorn will strike them, but Chase assists me. He shouts and waves his arms. The humans move aside, and I see a clear corridor.

The plunger is five meters from the door, two meters, one.

The sunset erupts with cosmic force. The Unicorn disintegrates into thunder and flame and fire. Flying, hurtling through space, the day turned to darkness, to stellar brilliance, to white-hot gas ripping my limbs away. Flying, flying into the shining universe.

Vison function gone, database malfunction, system malfunc…

Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

finis

You can find Literally Stories here:

https://literallystories2014.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

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