Another Edition of Thursday Stories… And a New Year!
Happy New Year, Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my herd of short stories, I realize that more than three dozen of the little rascals have appeared only in print. Some of you may have forked over the dough for this or that literary review, but I don’t expect everyone to buy all of the reviews all of the time. And so, drumroll please, I give you Thursday Stories. I’m not guaranteeing a new story every Thursday, but I will do my best until all the print-only tales have been set free.
Note: My WordPress scheduling plugin went wonky while I am here in Sri Lanka, so this post is late. My apologies.
You can find all of my stories and more at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:
This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Saragamous, a retelling of the mad Maenads, followers of the Greek god of wine, Dionysus, and their deadly beef with Orpheus. This story first appeared in Mason Jar Press, published in 2023. Content warning: This is a hard story about grisly murder at the hands of demented cult followers. Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.
Sparagamos
by Marco Etheridge
Thus are we come to terrible times when musicians lie in wait for other musicians, intent on murder, and the protection of the nine sisters is null and void. A stage door bathed in a cone of artificial light, a dark alley, the assassins gathered. The would-be victim is deep inside the theater, just leaving the stage after the third encore. This will not be pretty.
Seven women stand under a dismal rain that threatens to soak through their hoodies. Each hoodie is adorned with the logo of The New Followers. Puddles of rainwater liquify the grey-green sludge that leaches from the dumpster, poisonous tendrils flowing across the cobblestones.
The women scowl at the stage door and pass flasks from hand to hand. Nine were to have been here, the full number of the band, but their ranks are thinned. One New Follower is laid low on her thrift store couch, doubled up by the cramps from hell. The other is passed out in a tangle of naked bodies, most still aspirating thank the gods.
One of the seven tosses back a flask and her uplifted face catches a fat drop of rain in one bloodshot eye. She ducks her head, curses the rain, the closed door, and the man behind it.
— How much longer we gotta wait on the old asshole?
— Chill, Maeve. Orson always does three encores. You know that. Then he’s outta there as fast as he can get to his limo.
— Nobody likes a know-it-all bitch, Mame.
— This alley’s creepy. Someone remind me why we’re doing this stupid shit.
— Seriously, Maybelle? Orson has been playing the same tired shit for three decades. Went to hell and lost everything he cared about. No fire, no heart, just pablum, junk for the masses.
— Yeah, and the masses love him for it.
— Wrong, Maya. They love the idea of a time capsule. Orson is a dinosaur, and his fans are mired in the past. We’re going to set them free.
— Naw, we’re going to tear Orson limb from bloody limb. That’s what we’re going to do. Fuck his fans.
— Damn, Megan. Way to keep things in focus.
— Keep it simple, stupid. Gimme a drink.
The flask slides from hand to hand. Megan drains it dry.
— Empty. C’mon, Mason, cough up a fresh dose.
The tallest of the seven fumbles in the pocket of her hoodie. Her left hand appears clutching a huge knife, then her right holding a flask.
— Gods on a stick, Mason, where’d you get the sword? We’re supposed to tear him apart, not slice him in half.
The tall woman shrugs and tosses the flask across the ring. Macy catches it, takes a long swig, and passes it along.
— The gods are dead.
— So you’re always saying, Macy.
— Orson claims his strings came from the gods. That’s reason enough to kill him. I mean, who the hell plays strings anymore?
A hissing frenzy rises from the circle of The New Followers.
— Hair of the dead gods.
— Strings of deceit.
— Webs, not strings.
— Webs to snare fools.
— Spider webs.
— I hate spiders.
— Hubris! The same noose that throttled Arachne and look how that turned out.
— The gods are dead, Mame.
— Yeah, Macy, we got it the first ten times already.
— The squawk boxes killed them. Everyone staring at their tiny screens.
— The people killed them.
— Death by vox populi.
Maybelle raises the flask, then holds up her hand.
— You don’t have to raise your hand, Grrl. Just talk.
— I’m confused. If the gods are dead, why do we have to kill Orson?
— You’re always confused. Tell her, Mame.
A long sigh and a slow head shake.
— Orson has defiled the real music, the dark music of drink and the night. And not only once, but over and over again, show after show.
— And that’s the kind of music we make, right?
— That’s right, Macy. Our music, the sacred music of The New Followers.
— How can our music be sacred if the gods are dead and gone? And who are we following?
— For fuck’s sake, Maya. Do we have to go over this again? It’s irony, right? Drink, debauchery, and dark music for dark times. C’mon, Maeve, back me up here.
— Mame’s right, Grrls. We follow an ancient and holy tradition. Doesn’t matter who’s dead, the tradition carries on. When someone, anyone, shits on our tradition, they gotta pay the piper.
— More like pay the Fates.
— Naw, you can’t buy off those bitches. Bribes don’t sway them.
— I thought they were all dead?
— Try to keep up, Maybelle. Fate comes before everything and goes on after everything. No escape, no mercy. Right, Grrls?
— Damn straight.
— Spin, measure, cut, that’s all those bitches know. They never stop, not even for happy hour.
— Will they cut us too, Mame?
— Everyone, Maybelle, even us. But not tonight. Tonight, we do the cutting.
— I wish that old sonofabitch would get his ass out the door. I’m ready to be an agent of Fate.
— Give him the chop.
— Tear him apart.
— Bloodbath, here we come.
— Quit hogging the booze.
— Dammit, Mame, we’re going to run dry before that old hedgehog climbs out of his hole. What if the limo shows up?
— Always the worrier, Maya. Don’t worry about the limo. Macy took care of him.
— I damn sure did. Got the driver drunk as a hog and then screwed him silly. He’ll be sleeping it off for a good long while, the pig.
A metallic click cuts through the pattering rhythm of rain on cobblestones. Seven heads turn at the sound. The stage door opens. An aged man steps into the cone of light cast down from above. He stands on a concrete landing two steps above the alley, holding an instrument case to his chest. The door hisses closed behind his back, and the lock falls into place.
His eyes search for a waiting limousine, but there is no vehicle. For one long breath, the alley is empty except for raindrops exploding on the oily pavement. Then the seven New Followers stalk from behind the dumpster. Blades flash in the darkness.
The dark women form a semicircle at the base of the steps. The man named Orson does not try to flee. He stands on the landing as a sacrificial ram upon the altar. As the seven women draw near, he throws back his grey head, opens his mouth, and begins to sing.
The tune is a lament of all that has gone before, a dirge of laurel trees in sunlight and thunderbolts from stormy skies. The words pour from his mouth, mixing horror and rain, filling the alley with the sweet final funeral song that once stopped death, if only for a short time.
Orson’s song rises into the night. Death pauses to listen, but only for the span of two heartbeats. Then the New Followers fall upon him, stabbing and hacking. Still on his feet, Orson slumps back against the metal door.
The woman named Mason wraps her clawing hand into Orson’s hair and stretches his throat. Swinging her huge knife, she hews Orson’s head from his shoulders. The headless corpse falls to the concrete landing, but the song does not cease.
The disembodied head continues to sing, even as the others hack the fallen body to pieces. Mason waves the singing head at Mame, her face plastered with a mask of horror and sprayed blood.
— Ye gods, Mason, hold the old bastard still.
Reaching into a pocket of her sodden jeans, Mame pulls out a silver coin. She stuffs the silver dollar into the decapitated mouth and clamps the dead jaws closed. The song falls to a gurgle and then goes silent.
— There you go, Orson. A silver coin to pay the ferryman for your crossing. Don’t say I never gave you anything.
She drops her bloody hand and turns to face the bespattered assassins. Mason is frozen in the cone of light, Orson’s head still dangling from her hand, dead eyes staring wide. But death has not stilled the old man’s song. Orson’s dead jaws gnaw back and forth. His mouth opens and spits. The mercury-head silver dollar flies through the air, pings to the pavement, and rolls away into the night.
Mame spins around as the song once more floods the alley. Mason drops the old man’s skull and leaps down from the concrete platform. Orson’s head lands amidst the torn pieces of his body, face up to the night’s rain, the song still pouring from his lips. Mame backs away from the carnage, and the others backpedal with her.
— Fuck this noise, we’re outta here.
The New Followers flee into the darkness, boot soles splashing time through filthy puddles. Behind them, Orson’s head raises his song to the night, the song he has sung for three decades of mourning.
Long into that wet night, the denizens of the rainy streets draw near the dolorous song. Lame beggars, homeless waifs, babbling madmen, vacant-eyed women, they gather around Orson’s butchered corpse and listen to the undying melody issuing from his dead lips.
Leaving the skull to its song, the broken ones collect the pieces of the dead man’s body. They bear the severed parts away to a secret place and lay them to rest with words known only to those who suffer and mourn.
In time, the wounded and hopeless build a shrine to Orson’s deathless song. The skull is enthroned on a makeshift altar festooned with wilted flowers and broken offerings.
The alley becomes a place of pilgrimage. Hungry mouths whisper that the singing skull is an oracle. People travel from the far corners of that blighted country to wait their turn at the mouth of a sacred alley.
Approaching with what little they have to offer, the people hear Orson’s sweet sorrowful voice singing a song beyond death, raising the music of light to brighten dark times. And there he will sing until the day the gods return to take him away.
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:
And… if you desire more flash and micro-fiction, look no further than my collection Broken Luggage:
Broken Luggage Collected Flash Fiction
Broken Luggage: Two dozen flash fiction tales of love lost and love found, of darkness at the end of life, and light at the beginning.
A man's life condensed into the broken luggage that will contain it. A young woman alone in the Sonoran Desert. Memories of dangerous eggs, thunderstorms, and a gunshot man. A character tours his self-made hell. Another steps from between the pages. Parables of sand and migration A labyrinth into new love, and the remembrance of love past. These two dozen flash stories tell swift tales of love lost and love found, of darkness at the end of life, and light at the beginning.
Marco Etheridge is a writer of fiction, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His stories have been published in reviews, journals, and magazines in Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. Broken Luggage gathers twenty-four of his best flash stories into one collection. A man’s life condensed into the broken luggage that will contain it. A young woman alone in the Sonoran Desert. Memories of dangerous eggs, thunderstorms, and a gunshot man. A character tours his self-made hell. Another steps from between the pages. Parables of sand and migration A labyrinth into new love, and the remembrance of love past. These two dozen flash stories tell swift tales of love lost and love found, of darkness at the end of life, and light at the beginning. Unforgettable characters struggle against the tides and pressures of an impersonal world, and against the burdens they carry within. There is joy and despair, defiance and acceptance. The inhabitants of these pages learn who they are, and sometimes, who they are not. Welcome, Reader, to the world of Broken Luggage.
Disclosure of Material Connection: Some of the links in the page above are "affiliate links." This means if you click on the link and purchase the item, I will receive an affiliate commission. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."
Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. His story “Power Tools” has been nominated for Best of the Web for 2023. “Power Tools” is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a new ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine. Website: https://bro.uxw.mybluehost.me/