A New Story Most Thursdays
In This Edition of Thursday Stories: Dark Literary Fiction
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.
You can find all of my stories and more at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:
This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Splinters, a dark literary fiction piece shining a spotlight on one man’s strange past while he delivers a sordid one-man stage show. This story first appeared in the anthology Shadows on the Stage from Scottish publisher Forest Publications, published in 2025. Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.
Splinters
by Marco Etheridge
The venue is a vaulted basement, more subterranean burrow than theatre, where unlucky patrons purchase shelter from the pelting rain and scant hope of entertainment in equal measure. The stage is empty except for a single microphone stand, a tall wooden stool, and a pedestal table. Behind the stage hangs a threadbare curtain that might once have been a shade of burgundy, now mottled to various hues of brown.
Rows of tattered seats confront the stage. Not a full house. Many seats remain empty. The audience shifts and settles. Wet overcoats steam. Someone coughs into a muffling hand. A tearing sound as a well-worn sole pulls free from a sticky puddle.
The house lights flicker and die. A shaky spotlight illuminates the empty stage. A disembodied voice crackles from the darkness.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Grand Illusion. And now, please give a warm welcome to our star, Paolo Pinewood.”
A rail-thin[1] man enters from stage right to a smattering of applause. Paolo Pinewood, a scarecrow in a black suit. He is clean-shaven, a man in his mid-thirties, perhaps, yet his face is smooth as a boy’s.
His most notable feature is his nose. The startling proboscis is a beak-like appendage more suited to a wading bird than a human being. The man stalks across the stage, his nose leading the way, the sleeves and pant legs of his suit flapping over stick-thin limbs. He perches himself atop the stool, places a glass of water on the pedestal table, then raises his face to the audience.
“Buonasera, good evening, welcome. Before we begin, I must offer a warning. Anyone expecting technicolour cuteness, crickets, songs about wishes and stars, or a moral, will be gravely disappointed. I would ask you to leave the theatre. Now. Immediately. Your money will be grudgingly refunded by the troll masquerading as a human, who lurks in the ticket booth. No? No one? Very well, but please remember I warned you.”
A dramatic pause, a sip of water. And then…
“My name is Paolo Pinewood. Yes, the same as the famous movie studio. No reference to trees, I beg you, nor to wood. I came to life in this world in the year eighteen eighty-three.”
Murmurs from the audience, indignant rustling, a shifting of feet. The man on stage raises a bony hand.
“Please. I know many find this difficult to believe, but I assure you every word I speak is true. I am quite incapable of telling an undetected lie. This nose you see upon my face is, to speak kindly, prominent. Should I utter an untruth, my nose will grow most noticeably. Allow me to demonstrate.”
Paolo Pinewood turns his profile to his audience. He projects his firm voice to the back row of the theatre.
“There is no injustice in this beautiful world of ours.”
In an instant, the already protruding nose sprouts four additional inches of fleshy beak. The audience gasps. Paolo gives the crowd a sidelong smirk, then turns his eyes forward.
“Gravity binds us to this sad earth.”
The nose retreats to its former dimensions. Paolo turns to face the darkened seats.
“You see? If I tell the simplest lie, you will know it in an instant. Now, to continue, I came to life one hundred and forty years ago. I was not born. Rather, I was animated. I had no dear mother, only an aging father, a humble and lonely carpenter. Perhaps you have heard his name. He was called Geppetto.”
Paolo knows his audience. He is a veteran performer, after all. He pauses to let this new fact sink into their thick heads. A moment more, a sip of water, and he is ready.
“Yes, good, kindly Geppetto. For is that not how he is remembered? Whereas I, who once answered to a different name, am remembered as a rascal, even a rogue. Why, Geppetto himself called me a wretched boy. But let me caution you, my good friends. Events viewed through the blurred lens of history may not have occurred exactly as recalled.”
Paolo rises from his perch and steps to the edge of the stage. He spreads wide his thin arms, beseeching his audience.
“The real story, the true story, is this. Geppetto was a failure, a poor man alone and old. He had no wife, no children.
“To ease his loneliness, Geppetto carved scraps of wood into limbs, feet, hands, a head, a face with a grotesque nose. He joined those pieces together to form a life-sized puppet, then attached strings to this pitiful creation. By manipulating the strings, the old wretch forced the poor, lifeless puppet to caper around for his amusement.
“Harmless enough, you say. A decrepit codger and his new playmate. Perhaps, had he stopped there. But Geppetto wanted more. Desire and loneliness are powerful forces when joined.
“Geppetto wished for a living son. Wishes repeated often enough, and with sufficient fervour of belief, may take on a magic of their own. And so it came to pass that a lifeless marionette became something marvellous, a puppet who walked and talked and danced without the need of strings or a puppeteer. Yes, truly marvellous, but not human. A puppet still – made of wood – not a real boy of flesh and blood.”
The thin man drops his arms to his side, executes two stork-like strides backward, and perches once more on his stool. He lowers his head as if contemplating past sadness, but when he raises his mournful face to the audience, his eyes spark with anger.
“I am remembered as a rapscallion, a bumbler, and a boy prone to telling lies. But think! I was brought into this sad world as a child of nine but with no prior experience of the world. I was not raised in slow steady stages, nor taught how a hot stove burns the unwitting hand. Of course, I misbehaved. Is it any wonder? I possessed no more experience than a newborn babe, yet I was damned for mistakes that any baby would make.
“I was a naïf, thrown into the hard arena of life without knowledge or skills. Show me a naive innocent, gentlemen and ladies, and I will show you a pitiful creature that causes the villains of this world to lick their chops in anticipation. Indeed, I had my faults, but I also had my tormentors. Fox and Cat were my enemies. They dogged my steps, tricked me, humiliated me, and led me astray.”
Paolo Pinewood sags on his stool, casting forth a cloud of practiced despair to hover over the audience.
“Geppetto was not the only slave to wishes made upon stars. I myself came under the spell. Not content with my state, I wanted more. One wish, uttered again and again. A real boy, a boy of flesh and blood, let me become a real boy. How little I understood. That fervent wish would become my destiny and my doom.
“You no doubt know what happened next. I promised the Fairy with Turquoise Hair that I would do everything in my power to transform myself. I ran away from my home, from Geppetto, my father in name. My long journey led me to the Land of Toys. Instead of becoming a human boy, I was changed into a donkey, a lowly beast of burden. In despair, I joined a circus. As if these were not curses enough, I escaped the body of an ass only to be once again a wooden puppet.”
Paolo lets loose a long sigh and raises his hands to the darkened theatre.
“I’m afraid the final act of my little tale is the most contrived ending imaginable. My rescuer appears in the form of Geppetto, who somehow searched the world and found me. Then, in the nick of time, we were all swallowed by a gigantic fish, a flagrant use of deus ex machina stolen directly from the bible.
“Home at last and safe once more, the Fairy with Turquoise Hair came to me in a dream. Yes, friends, the dreaded dream sequence, that hackneyed tool of Hollywood scripts. What apology can I offer? I was merely a character, not the author, a wooden chip floating on the current of this wretched tale.
“But now to our happily ever after. I was changed, once and for all, into a flesh-and-blood boy. Cue the happy melody and the cheerful twittering of birds. Except this is not the end of my story, for magic is a fickle mistress. We have reached the end of the tale as you know it, an old familiar chestnut. But allow me to tell you more. Let us enter the later chapters of my life, which you’ve paid good money to hear.”
The stage fades to a dull glow. A thin figure in shadow, Paolo rises from his stool, slips the suit jacket from his narrow shoulders, and drapes it over the empty stool. He steps to the edge of the stage, unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt, and folds the sleeves back over broomstick wrists.
The spotlight grows brighter in a series of sudden pulses. The pool of light jerks to the left, swerves past its target, then veers back, finally pinning the actor where he stands. Paolo offers a mocking half-bow, then cups his hands to his mouth.
“Well done, Guido!”
Throws an aside to the audience.
“You must excuse Guido. He does his best with the one arm.”
A half-hearted chuckle from the crowd. Another tough room. They all are, these dingy, third-rate theatres. Most certainly not the Strand, but these rubes paid their dime. Paolo rubs his hands together with a flourish. Time to deliver the goods, such as they are. Time, yes, the very word.
“Magic, ladies and gentlemen, is a powerful force. You need look no further than my beak of a nose as an example. Yet magic is not the only power in this beautiful, sad world. Time waits for no puppet, no old man, and no magic.
“And so, we take up our tale at the supposed happy ending. The Fairy with Turquoise Hair, her duty done, moved on to other projects. I do not blame her. She had other mortal lives to attend to.
“Time marches on, but not in the same way for all things. A tree ages over a century, but a human grows old in mere decades. Geppetto’s flesh and blood were not crafted of magic. Nor were Cat and Fox. Time gnawed at them, and they died, one by one.
“I was left alone, without father, friend, or enemy. Yet lest any call me bitter, know that I hold no grudge against Geppetto. He did his best. His loneliness brought me forth. And who among us is not lonely in the long black night?
“Two decades passed, yet I aged no more than a handful of years. To human eyes, I seemed a teenage orphan. No matter my appearance, I was alone and hungry. To earn my daily bread, I joined a traveling minstrel show. I learned the craft of slapstick, pantomime, juggling, all the usual farcical fare.
“Sleight of hand became my stock and trade. I juggled seven balls at one time while bouncing an eighth on my nose. No small feat, I assure you. And after the show, my quick hands might lift a purse or two. I am not proud of this, but itinerant jugglers earned only a pittance.
“Thus, I wandered with the wagons, but I could not stay ahead of time or magic. I am forever cursed by both. Other players aged naturally, but not I. The denizens of stage and circus are a superstitious lot. Suspicions led to mutterings and mutterings to threats. They called me unnatural, a changeling, the son of witchcraft.
“And so, I took my leave one night, a sack of purloined goods slung over my shoulder. Just enough to sustain me upon my dark road, I assure you. I travelled far, found another minstrel show, and was hired on the spot.
“This pattern continued for many years; one show replaced by another. I existed in a circle of merry players, yet always alone, without friends or love. For there are other things, darker things, which magic cannot alter. And now the time has come to tell you of these.
“When old Geppetto carved my body from scraps of wood those many years ago, he fashioned a puppet. There was no thought in his grey head that I might one day spring to life. Hence, he neglected certain anatomical details. Yes, I have hands, feet, limbs, a head, eyes that see, ears that hear, and a truly magnificent nose. At first glance, one might consider me normal. But a crucial item is missing. What I lack is genitalia.”
A rustle washes through the darkened crowd. Paolo knows his audience from long experience. It is time to set the hook and reel them in. He waits, one heartbeat, two. An indignant voice shouts from the back rows.
“Prove it then!”
Tonight’s shill is good, his timing perfect. Paolo smiles to himself. A few coins slipped into a greedy hand, a small price to move the show along.
Paolo shouts down his paid heckler.
“You doubt me?”
More cries from the audience now, the others joining in as they always do, night after night. Paolo drops his head as if in shame. He waits until the audience falls silent. Then he raises his eyes and glares.
“Very well. But remember, it was you who forced my hand.”
The denouement is swift and sure, a feat performed a hundred times and more. One hand to the waistband of his trousers, a pinch and a zip. The right hand pulls the loosened trousers down while the left sweeps the white shirttail aside. The spotlight gleams over the star’s naked crotch, nether regions as unadorned as a girl’s doll.
A gasp whistles from the crowd. Those patrons in the front rows push themselves back in their seats, turn their heads, but cannot avert their eyes.
There is no escape. Paolo Pinewood swings his barren groin a quarter turn stage-left, then a quarter stage-right, and once more to centre. The landscape between his belly and the top of his thighs is empty. There is no hair, no shaft, no scrotum, nothing but pale skin as smooth as polished wood.
Paolo hides his naked secret with practiced sureness. Before the crowd can regain their lost composure, he has lifted, zipped, and tucked himself back into a state of proper dress. His lips curl in a lurid smirk. He holds this audience in the palm of his hand, and he knows it.
“Now that we have removed all doubt, a small feat of magic. I will conjure answers to the questions you dare not ask. I told you I existed without friends or love. But I did not say I was devoid of sexual desire. All humans and most creatures on earth are driven by the powerful stimulus of lust. Some call it the urge to procreate. In that regard, I am no different than you, my friends. I lust for the pleasures of the flesh. Oh, how I lust.
“While it is true that I cannot receive sexual pleasure in the traditional fashion, I am not without means to provide the same. Oh, now I see your puzzled looks. You’re asking yourselves how is this possible? The poor wretch lacks the essential gear. The answer to your confusion is that I compensate. It is my nose, you see, which comes to my rescue.”
Paolo Pinewood turns in profile, leers out of the corner of his eye, and gives his audience an exaggerated wink.
“Recall my earlier demonstration if you will. I lie, my nose grows. I tell the truth, my nose shrinks. I love you, I hate you. I hate you, I love you. The order of the words does not matter. The result is the same, only the rhythm changes. In and out; out and in. Think of that, then, as my substitute for the normal way of performing the act.
“But normal is such a false word, is it not? What I mean to say is, who amongst us is truly normal? Look to your left, to your right. Do you truly believe that not one of your fellow patrons is above a small deviance, a wobble away from the straight and narrow? And what of ourselves? Are not each of us capable of something more, or far less, than the accepted norm?”
He pauses at the edge of the stage, lets his words fan the unease of the audience. He senses the fear of disclosure oozing up and down the rows like a spilled soft drink. So many skeletons out there beyond the spotlight, an entire graveyard of sordid bones hidden in many closets.
“Fear not, folks. We are all consenting adults of a certain age. There is no need to be embarrassed. Your secrets are safe with me. That was our arrangement, was it not? Our little contract. You paid your entrance fee in the coin of the realm. That same payment obliges me to spill my guts onto this humble stage, while your dark secrets remain safely locked away. And so it shall be, gentlefolk. A fair contract, spit in the hand and shake on it.
“Done is done, but before I bid you adieu, I must confess to one small lie, an untruth so subtle as to remain undetected even by my over-sensitive hooter. At the beginning of tonight’s entertainment, I warned you not to expect cuteness, silly songs about stars, or a clear moral.
“In this last item, I fear I misled you. There is a bit of a moral to my sordid tale, and it is this. When you wish upon a star, ladies and gentlemen, make certain you truly, deeply desire that for which you wish. And if you dare to wish, be clear, be exact, and don’t blame me if things turn out for the worse.”
Without another word, Paolo Pinewood bends himself in the middle, bows almost to the boards, and backs across the stage. As he disappears behind the curtain, the end of his nose is the last thing the audience sees.
You can find Forest Publications here:
https://forestpublications.co.uk/
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
And… if you desire more literary fiction, look no further than my collection U6 Stories:
U6 Stories – Vienna Underground Tales
Every train carries a story.
The U6 is one line of the Vienna underground transit system. The silver and red trains carry stories, many stories. A woman mourns her musical lover, and a man discovers his courage. A Syrian family flees to a fragile new beginning, and a young man helps circus performers during a pandemic. Lovers rediscover each other after decades apart, and a man finds a father he never knew. A contract is broken, and neighbors defend their own. Eighteen tales of love lost and found, of the darkness within us, and the glimmering light that keeps us afloat. Unforgettable characters struggle against the pressures of an impersonal world, and against the burdens they carry within. Welcome, Reader, to the stories of the U6.
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