A New Story Most Thursdays

This Edition of Thursday Stories Features Magical Realism (and a Hangover)

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 An Inch Either Way, magical realism gone rogue. Here is the tale of a man who suddenly has everything he might have wished for, which unfortunately includes a massive hangover and a very annoying dog. An Inch Either Way first appeared in October Hill Magazine, 2022.

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

An Inch Either Way

by Marco Etheridge

Instead of poking his flat key into the deadbolt lock, Eric Measures poked a small dent into the paint of his front door. A man of set habits, Eric Measures never missed the deadbolt lock. He would climb the stairs, raise his hand, and slip the key into the lock without a fumble. Turn the key, open the door, enter, and close the door. Another workday is done. Simple. Automatic.

Eric peered at his hand as if it might have somehow malfunctioned. He squinted at the divot gouged into his door. That would need a spot of paint. He moved his eyes from the scarred door to the deadbolt, consciously adjusted his aim, then stabbed at the lock three times before the key slipped into the keyway.

The key turned in the lock, and the door opened. Eric’s guts felt jittery. Perhaps that curry at lunch had been a bit off. That might explain why he was feeling as if things might not be completely normal. He pushed the door closed behind himself and fought the urge to lean against it.

Inside the hallway, Bennie, his corgi, danced around his feet. Eric slipped the laptop case from his shoulder and reached for the dog’s lead.

“Walkies, Bennie?”

The corgi ignored the lead and the door. Bennie was behaving as if Robert had stopped by on his way to work. Back in those happy days when Robert walked Bennie and still loved Eric. Dear handsome Robbie, now his ex-boyfriend, whom Eric had not seen in a month. Who had announced that they should start seeing other people, by which he meant he and Eric should stop seeing each other.

Eric gave up on the walkies and knelt for the routine welcome home doggie cuddle. Bennie propped his stubby legs on Eric’s thighs, ready to have his head scratched. Then Eric saw Bennie’s ears, and his hand froze in mid-air. A bad curry was not going to explain this.

Bennie had a droopy ear. The tip of his left ear flopped over while his right ear stood to attention. Eric adored Bennie’s ears, and now they were backwards. Someone or something had switched his dog’s ears. This was not right, not right at all. He did not like things that weren’t right.

A drink, most definitely a drink. Eric hooked his coat over a peg. Passing down the hallway, he set his case atop the console table he’d salvaged from the bin. Had he been less distracted, he might have noticed the scarred faux-Danish birch tabletop had somehow been transformed into gleaming walnut.

Whisky poured, he flopped into his favourite armchair, and Bennie belly-flopped in after him. Eric stared down at the dog’s ears and took a long drink of scotch. Then he peered into the glass, sniffed the amber liquor, and blinked his eyes. Wonderful stuff, but not his normal brand. Three cuts above his league.

He looked to his shabby-chic bar table, which did not appear quite so shabby. His affordable yet quite passable whisky was nowhere in sight. Eric saw instead a top-flight bottle of single malt hobnobbing with several like companions. He closed his eyes, reopened them, and, when that did not help, took a much larger sip from his glass. 

Eric scratched Bennie’s ears, flipping up the droopy one in the hope that it might revert to a proper upright position. The dog’s ears refused to comply. His thoughts careened between those floppy ears and the strange whisky, which seemed to be disappearing at a rather rapid pace. He emptied the glass and spoke to the dog.

“Things are a bit off in Camden, old pal. Have you been down to the off-license buying whisky? No, probably not. You don’t have the legs for it, do you, my stubby little friend?”

He eased the dog aside and pushed himself out of the chair. Strange or not, it was damn good whisky, and another seemed a bright idea. As he settled back with a full glass, Bennie squirmed onto his lap.

His phone chirped, and Eric fished it out from under his thigh. An email from his chief, Darla the Dragon Lady. He braced himself for the usual harangue, but this email must have been sent by an imposter. Great job on the proposal. Sure to knock them dead on Monday. Good work, enjoy your weekend. Praise from his fat cow of a boss? What in bloody hell was happening with the world?

Then Eric saw the icon alerting him to a new text. It must have been sent while he was on the Tube. He thumbed the red dot. He read the text. The words on the tiny screen had the force of a physical blow. It required a superhuman effort not to drop the phone, the whisky, or both.

Hallo E. Walked Bennie on my way to work. Lovely romp in the park. Fancy a weekend away? We could do Brighton. XOXO Robbie.

Eric held a shaking hand to his forehead. Fever, that’s what it was. A fever brought on by a bad curry. He’d read about episodes like this. He was imagining things. Like the posh booze. Well, it was damn fine scotch, imaginary or not. Pity to waste it. He’d miss the stuff when he woke up from this horrible nightmare.

His course of action set, a third stiff drink followed the other two. There might have been a fourth. Then there was the vague memory of a swerving walk while Bennie towed him around the darkened neighbourhood. Somehow, they had made it home. At the last, there was an awful bit where the bed spun around while his stomach lurched into his throat, and he pleaded for it to please-dear-god-stop. It didn’t.

*  *  *

Sunlight slanted through the bedroom curtains. It was a weak London sun, but it pierced Eric’s aching brain like a sodium flare. A groan broke from his parched throat. He threw a forearm over his face, but the weight of it sent shocks of pain stabbing through his skull. Another groan, much louder.

Well, would you look what the cat dragged in.

The voice only added to Eric’s pain. Much, much too early for talking, and much too hungover. Go away, please go away.

Perhaps an aspirin or two. Wash it down with the hair of the dog what bit you. Might help, you know.

Fucking hell, that voice was annoying. And what bastard was in his bloody bedroom? Eric let the dead forearm fall away from his eyes. He squinted into the blinding light, blinked, tried to focus his bleary eyes. There was no one there. The room was empty except for Bennie, who sat atop the foot of the bed.

Eric raised himself on one elbow, regretted it instantly, but managed to prop himself up against the headboard. He gave the bedroom an angry once over. There was still no one there.

He slumped back and his skull conked the headboard. Pain exploded through his head and out his eyeballs. He cursed whisky, cursed the sunlight, and generally damned everything and everyone to hell and gone. Bits and pieces of the preceding night forced their way into his addled brain, each bit of disturbing shite worse for the remembering.

He would need painkillers. For fucksake, let there be a few aspirins left in the bottle. Or something stronger, something to silence the strange voice that had invaded his bedroom. He gave the entire room a solid cursing and then wished he would die. 

Swearing like a right proper sailor boy, are we? If your mum could hear your talk.

Eric’s wish to die was replaced by a very strong urge to kill. Whoever was torturing him wanted slaughtering, with as much violence as possible. Vengeance, that’s what he needed, then perhaps a bit more sleep.

Oh, too right. Kill a harmless doggie, would you?

A horrible premonition caused Eric to look down the length of the bed. Bennie looked back at him, his goofy tongue hanging over the side of his jaw. The corgi then waggled its eyebrows at its master, who almost soiled the bed in response.

“Bennie… wait… what… are you talking to me?”

Not talking, no. Not possible. No larynx you see. Communicating might be the better word.

Eric’s heels scrabbled against the sheets as he tried to push himself through the wall and away from this waking nightmare. The wall held fast, and Eric succeeded only in knocking Bennie off the end of the bed. He saw the corgi’s head bounce into view, vanish, then bounce again. It took Bennie three tries to launch himself back onto the mattress. The dog was not pleased.

Look, I know you’re a poofter, but must you be a coward as well? Kicking a little corgi off the bed. I mean, really.

“So, you can talk. Sort of. In my head, I mean.”

Yes, Eric. May I call you Eric?

“But when?”

When what?

“When did you learn to, um, stick that dreadful voice in my head?”

Is it dreadful?

Eric let go a huge sigh and sagged onto the headboard. He stared at his faithful dog, now a talking dog. Then he surrendered to the hangover, the weirdness, and everything else. It was only going to get worse, so why bother fighting it? His life was in the bin, and he was damned if he knew why. Searching his brain for a reasonable explanation only produced more throbbing. He gave it up and looked at the grinning dog.

“No, not dreadful. You sound quite chummy, matter of fact.”

Good to know. Wouldn’t want to come off like a cat or something.

“Cats can talk as well?”

If you could call what they do talking. When they aren’t uttering beastly curses, they’re busy whinging for food they won’t eat. Horrible creatures on the whole.

“And dogs are better?”

Bennie raised himself on stubby legs and lumbered over the bedclothes. He gave Eric the sad puppy eyes until Eric began scratching his head. The dog closed its eyes and smiled. Eric slipped his hand under Bennie’s jaw and gave the mutt a shake.

Right, sorry. Head scratches are like a drug for us. Well now, truth be told, a dog’s life is a fairly limited existence. Food, walkies, pee-mail, is that bitch in heat, barking at imaginary intruders, that sort of thing. Not like you humans. My, but what varied and interesting lives your sort lead. Take yourself, for example. Alternate realities and you stuck between the two. Fascinating.

“Stuck between alternating what?

Alternating realities. Although I suppose we shouldn’t rule out the possibility that this is all a psychotic episode.

“My dog is speaking to me in my head. Of course it’s a psychotic episode. Or a bad curry. Or the worst hangover in history. All three.”

Does any of that explain the sudden appearance of the stellar booze, the heady email from your evil chief, or the text from Robert? I like Robert, by the way. He always brings me treats. Of course, he’s using the flat to have it off with other blokes. Three other blokes at last count.

Eric’s chin fell to his chest, and another bolt of pain ricocheted around behind his eye sockets.

Is this what he’d wished for himself? If not him, then who else? His hunky boyfriend back in his life, even if Robbie was a cheat and a liar? What about the nicer furniture, the posh whisky? Or a talking dog, for fucksake. Had he somehow conjured all of this? And if the answer to that was yes, how in the hell could he put things back to rights?

The answer was there, a thread of thought his addled brain tried and failed to grasp. Something about desire and suffering. Maybe a book he’d read. He almost had it, but then the idea danced away into the painful corners of his head. He felt a paw pulling at the back of his hand and pried open his eyes.

“What now?”

I hate to interrupt and all, but my bladder is about to burst.

Eric groaned. Right, life goes on. Or rather, lives go on, whether they’re wanted or not, real or not.

Sorry, dog thing. Can’t be helped.

“Half a tick, then.”

Eric swung his legs off the bed. He pushed himself up, fell back, tried again. His clothes were heaped in a tangle on a chair.

He fought his way into them. Bending over was no good. He sank to the chair and managed to yank the socks over his bare feet. Bless the poor sod who invented slip-on loafers. Laces would have been beyond him.

Back on his feet, but just barely, he staggered to the bath. A long splash of cold water, a brush through the hair, and he looked a bit less like a corpse. When he stepped back into the bedroom, Bennie was off the bed and padding towards the hallway. Eric followed as best he could.

Remembering the disaster of trying to bend over, Eric sank to one knee to attach Bennie’s lead. He pointed a shaking finger and gave the dog a stern look.

“And not a word, you hear me? Not one word.”

Bennie gave a sharp yip that pierced Eric’s skull. He pushed himself to his feet with a groan and opened the door of the flat.

*  *  *

When Eric arrived at the coffee bar, he saw a single vacant table. He pounced on it like a drowning man onto a life raft. He tied Bennie’s lead to the wrought iron and lurched inside to order coffee.

Two caffè lattes and four aspirin later, Eric felt as if he might live. He tried to pretend this was a completely ordinary Saturday morning in Camden Town. Ordinary except for this massive hangover and a pet corgi who had acquired the ability to speak. Eric risked a peek at the pavement.

Bennie lay under the table, a half-gnawed complimentary dog bone between his paws. The corgi was up to his usual, throwing doggie smiles at cute passersby or growling and lunging at any pigeon that ventured too close. An ordinary dog doing ordinary things, and most importantly, not speaking.

Eric ordered a double espresso for good measure. Able to think again, he was also able to worry. Did he want to go back to his flat? If he did, what would he find there?

He was dead certain on what he could live without, thank you very much. Alternating realities were right out, as were psychotic episodes. Cheating boyfriends and talking corgis were also not required. His life might be knackered and boring, but he wanted it back so very badly. Eric settled his sizable coffee bill and steeled himself for the return walk.

A slightly less hungover master and his eager dog walked back to their shared flat. Bennie read the pee-mail at his favourite tree trunks and added his own piddle to the messages. He dashed around at the end of his lead, pulling his human along as he chased fat pigeons.

Eric followed in Bennie’s wake, feeling as if he might just survive, and afraid of what might happen if he did. Then they were inside the building and standing outside the door to the flat. Bennie gave a few short barks, waggling his tail stub and a good bit of his fat butt.

The key seemed heavy in Eric’s hand. What waited beyond the door, the strange new or the comfortable and familiar old? Eric knew he was about to find out. He made one wish, one fervent and heartfelt wish. He realised his eyes were squeezed shut.

In the next moment, Eric lifted his hand. The key snicked into the lock on the first attempt. The key cuts danced over the tumblers, calling them to order. Fingers turned the key, the lock bolt slid aside, and Eric opened his eyes and the door. He hesitated at the threshold. Before he could peek inside, Bennie trotted through the gap. Eric shrugged and followed the dog. 

Eric bent down to remove Bennie’s lead. The dog looked at his master, head cocked, left ear flopped over and right ear standing to attention. Eric scritched the dog’s ears and looked again. Left ear down, right ear up.

Bennie gave a yip and wiggled his plump butt up the hallway. Eric followed but paused beside the console table. He ran his hand over the scarred birch tabletop, fingered the familiar cigarette burn at the near edge.

Once in the living room, Eric eased into his armchair. He looked to the scruffy bar table. His first glance at the whisky bottles caused him to wince, but then he smiled. Good workingman’s drink and not a posh bottle in sight.

His phone vibrated and Eric fished it from his pocket. Late Saturday morning and a scathing email from the Dragon Lady. Does she never give it a rest? He thumbed a reply full of apologies and promises to fix it on Monday. Muttered ‘cow’ under his breath, made sure cow didn’t appear in his email, and hit send.

 Another message, a text from Robert. Oh-so-handsome Robbie, the lying, cheating bastard, who wondered if they might not have a drink together. Just the two of them, a chance to talk things over. I’ll give you all the talk I can spare, you pompous wanker. Eric typed two angry words, one exclamation point, sent the final response on its way.

He dropped the phone and sank back into the armchair. Bennie waddled across the room, his favourite toy dangling from his jaws. He broke into a run and launched his fat body at the armchair, ending in a clumsy belly flop across Eric’s thighs. The dog righted himself, fussed about until he was comfortable, then looked up at Eric.

“All right then, Bennie?”

The dog did not reply.

finis

You can find October Hill Magazine here:

https://www.octoberhillmagazine.com/

And… if you desire more short fiction, look no further than my collection Orphaned Lies: