In This Edition of Thursday Stories: A journey through the desert, an accident, and a rosary….
Happy July, Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my dusty herd of short stories, I realize that some of these rascals haven’t seen the light of day in quite a spell. Time to let them romp a bit! And so—drumroll please—I give you Thursday Stories. I’m not guaranteeing a new story every Thursday, but I will do my best until all the archived tales have been set free.
You can find all of my stories and more editions of Thursday Stories at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:
This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features The Rosary of Maria Torres. A journey through the desert, an accident, and a rosary. The Rosary of Maria Torres first appeared in Hotch Potch Literature and Art, 2024.
Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.
The Rosary of Maria Torres
by Marco Etheridge
The mesquite tree offers poor shade from an angry desert sun. Sunrise on the rim of the Sonoran Desert. Shafts of sunlight reach for the figure of a small woman sprawled on the rocky ground beneath the tree. The flesh of her left leg is exposed to the elements. Someone has slit the fabric of her denim jeans from cuff to knee. Her calf is twisted at an unnatural angle and swollen blue-black.
A makeshift shrine adorns a crook in the trunk of the gnarled mesquite tree. The centerpiece of the shrine is a dayglo madonna. Its doll eyes stare out over the young woman’s body as if searching the empty desert. Our Lady of Guadalupe is haloed in a wreath of silver tinsel and aluminum foil stars. Plastic roses faded to pink adorn her feet.
The rising sun illuminates the shrine, gleaming on strands of tinsel and foil stars. Shards of reflected sunlight dance over the rocky ground and find the woman’s face. She opens her brown eyes. A groan passes her cracked lips. The woman is very thirsty. A litter of plastic water jugs lies not far away, but she does not reach for them. The jugs were bone-dry yesterday morning when the men laid her under the mesquite. The plastic madonna has wrought no miracle during the long, cold night; the water jugs are still empty.
Sharp rocks dig into her back, but she no longer feels them. Her head and shoulders are propped up on a small rucksack. The hot sun burns her leg, but the limb is immobile. She cannot shift it out of the burning sun. And there is no shade to take shelter under even if she were able to move.
Only her right hand moves, her thumb sliding rosary beads past her forefinger. Orbs of red coral click against each other on a pathway of silver chain.
The rosary belonged to her grandmother, the family matriarch, and the young woman’s namesake. Maria Torres hopes someone will find her rosary, a good person who has faith. It is very beautiful and very old. Silver from the mines of Taxco, red coral from the Gulf of Mexico.
Her thoughts careen back and forth like the hens she used to feed in her grandmother’s yard. She cannot remember her place on the rosary. Her thumb fumbles for the crucifix. She hears the voice of her grandmother.
Come now, Maria, you are a good girl. You remember, yes? First the sign of the cross and then the Apostles’ Creed. Move to the next large bead, then say the Our Father. Three small beads, one for each Hail Mary. I know you can do it, my beautiful granddaughter.
Maria obeys her grandmother with a voice dry as sand.
“Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
Even as she prays, Maria knows she will not need the rosary much longer. This mesquite tree with its shimmering madonna is soon to be her headstone. The coyote lied to her and the others. No one is coming to save her.
* * *
This should not have happened as it did. Maria is strong and graceful. She grew up a village girl in Chiapas, accustomed to treacherous paths and rocky places. Orphaned at the age of three, she was raised by her grandmother. The years passed, and she grew into a beautiful young woman.
Then two months ago, her grandmother passed from this life. They buried the old woman in the crowded cemetery behind the village church. The funeral severed Maria’s last link to her village. Her only relatives were far to the north, across the border. Maria gathered the little money left to her and prepared for the journey to El Norte. She would travel alone, but she was not afraid.
Maria paid her money, almost every peso she had, and joined a band of migrantes. They crossed from Mexico into Los Estados Unidos west of Nogales.
A quick, brown man led the migrantes across the broken landscape. The man wore the hat of a vaquero. Mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes. A heavy pistol rode beneath his leather vest. This man was their coyote, the onewho would guide them through the darkness of the Sonoran Desert.
The heat of the day caught them a few miles north of the border, following the hard route to Tucson. The coyote urged them on, telling them again and again to hurry. He pointed to the sky, to the arid mountains. The patrols of the gringos were everywhere. Faster, they must walk faster.
It was such a small mistake. Maria took one false step. A loose plate of stone tilted beneath her left foot. Maria’s ankle slipped into a crevice in the rocks, wedging her foot tight. Her body fell forward, but her leg stuck fast in the rocks. A sharp crack filled the hot desert air. Every one of the migrantes heard the bones snapping. Maria cried out as the world went white with pain.
The migrantes gathered around her. Maria looked up into a ring of shadowed faces. Her leg was on fire, and tears streamed down her cheeks. The circle parted. She felt strong hands reaching under her body. Someone worked her rucksack loose from her shoulders. More hands gripped her. She screamed when they lifted her leg, then fell into a black void.
Four men carried her to a small mesquite tree nearby. One pulled a clasp knife from his pocket. He cut through the hem of her jeans, then slit the denim up to her kneecap and laid the fabric aside. Maria opened her eyes. Men crouched on either side of her. They were looking down at her and shaking their heads.
The women stood behind the men, peering over their shoulders. One woman crouched down beside the men. She spoke quickly, and the men did as she said. They raised her head and shoulders. The woman tucked Maria’s rucksack beneath her, and the men lowered Maria’s torso onto the makeshift pillow.
Blinking against the sun, Maria saw the coyote stalking back and forth. The man harried the edge of the group the way a sheepdog nips at a straying flock. And she heard his voice like the hiss of a snake. They must hurry. Everyone would be caught by the patrols.
The coyote pulled a cell phone from his belt and walked away from the migrantes. Someone seemed to answer the call, because the coyote ducked his head, speaking low and fast. While he talked into the phone, he threw sharp glances at the group clustered around Maria.
When he returned to the group, he told them not to worry, everything was arranged. A compadre would come for the girl. But now they must hurry, or the patrols would find them. Maria heard the lie in the coyote’s voice. Perhaps the others heard it as well, but they did as the coyote said. Those crouched around Maria stood up.
One of the older women knelt beside Maria.
She felt the woman’s hand dig into the rucksack beneath her shoulder blades. A thought flew through her addled mind.
She is taking whatever might be useful. That makes good sense.
But no. The woman pulled a water bottle from the rucksack and propped it on the rocks close at hand. Maria felt a gnarled palm brush over her forehead. She looked into the woman’s eyes and saw a deep sadness she knew from the women of her village.
From somewhere out of sight, the coyote growled at the small herd, trying to get them into motion.
“¡Ándale! Nos vamos.”
Maria felt the hand float away from her forehead. She heard the woman’s voice.
“Vaya con Dios, chica.”
The small band of migrantes began to move away from Maria. Those at the front followed the coyote. The rest bunched up where a narrow trail led away from the clearing, the way goats will crowd a gate.
Maria watched their bent backs bobbing up and down under the harsh glare of the sun. The file of migrantes moved like a giant caterpillar. They disappeared behind boulders, reappeared further on, and grew smaller with each step into the north. Finally, she saw them no more.
Stillness surrounded Maria, but the still desert was not silence. Maria heard whispers all around her. Lizards skittered across dry stone. Tendrils of parched air shifted through the branching cholla. A cactus wren landed in the tangle of the mesquite, then flitted away. The desert creatures got on with the business of surviving. They ignored Maria as if she were a broken statue.
The pain in her leg subsided to a strange tingling. The sensation felt very wrong. Maria raised her head and looked around the small clearing. Others had been here before her and discarded what they did not need. Scattered across the stony ground lay candy wrappers, a broken huarache, and, just out of reach, a jumble of milky plastic jugs.
Maria felt the dust in her throat and the metallic taste of fear on her tongue. The empty jugs taunted her, a reminder of water and thirst. But perhaps they weren’t completely empty. There might be a bit of water hidden in the bottom.
She’d heard the stories during the long night of walking. Los mexicanos bound for El Norte were not the only people who prowled the desert. Sometimes kind-hearted gringos, las activistas, left supplies of water along the desert trails. A jug of water in the desert might save a life.
But the others, los vigilantes and la migra, the border patrol, they did not care. They only wanted to stop the migrantes. When the patrols found cached water along the migration routes, they poured the water onto the thirsty ground and left the empty jugs to mark what they had done.
Maria stretched out her hand. The nearest jug lay just beyond her fingertips. Her heart said the jug was empty, but her parched tongue begged. She twisted her torso off the rucksack. Pain seared through her leg. Her fingers threaded through the plastic handle. She rolled back onto the rucksack and pulled the jug close. It felt far too light.
She waited until the pain in her leg dulled, then held the jug before her face and shook it. Her effort had not been worth the pain. Not a single drop remained. Her heart had known the truth. The jugs were as dry as the stones cutting into her back, each methodically drained of life-saving water.
Despair engulfed Maria and panic followed. She called for help, crying out until her throat was raw. Nothing and no one answered her desperate pleas. The desert remained silent save for the dry rattle of mesquite leaves above her head.
The day wore on and with it a baking heat. Maria fell into a torpor. When she could bear it no more, she sipped from the single bottle of water left by her side. In lucid moments, she tracked the sun’s passage overhead. Then her head lolled onto the rucksack, and visions swam through her skull. She heard the voice of her dead grandmother.
You must make the water last, my granddaughter. Be strong. There are others in this desert. One of them may find you. You must have faith and keep yourself alive.
In her delirium, Maria argued with the old woman, a thing she would never dare when Grandmother Torres was alive.
No, Abuela. The coyote lied. No one is coming. I will count my prayers on your rosary, but no one will save me.
The long day passed into evening. The sun dipped toward ragged mountains on the far horizon, throwing eerie shadows across the desert floor. Night fell and brought with it a searing cold that numbed her flesh.
Maria struggled with the rucksack and the throbbing in her broken leg. She pulled her only jacket from the rucksack, fought her way into it, and zipped it to her neck. The effort exhausted her last reserve of strength.
After a meager sip of water, Maria stared into the bottle. More than half the water had vanished. She placed the bottle on a flat rock near at hand. Weariness washed over her. She did not see the forgotten screw top lying on the rock beside the bottle.
Her eyes closed. Maria drifted into an uneasy escape of jumbled dreams. Deep in the night, her arm fell to her side. Her unfeeling hand knocked against the water bottle. The bottle teetered, then toppled over. While Maria slept on, the last drops of water trickled out and sank beneath sand and stone. Below the desert floor, thirsty mesquite roots sucked up every last drop.
* * *
The sun climbs into the sky, burning away any promise of respite or shade. The rocky ground beneath the mesquite tree bakes in the heat.
Maria Torres lies slumped atop her rucksack. On the ground beside her is an empty water bottle. She exhales with a rattling wheeze, then fights for another lungful of blistering air. Her cracked lips move. She pushes a few fragments of prayer past her swollen tongue.
“Hail Mary… The Lord is… Blessed art thou among women… “
Maria Torres clutches the rosary to her heart. The sun cooks the flesh of her hand. She struggles to move one coral bead along the silver chain. Her thumb falters as her hand goes limp. The rosary slips from her grasp. The silver crucifix obeys the pull of gravity and slides to the ground, dragging silver chain and beads as it falls. Maria’s thumb twitches with feeble spasms, counting rosary beads that are no longer there.
Her eyes flutter open. She looks down into her empty hand, sees her thumb twitch once, twice. Then her hand goes still. The brilliant sunlight begins to dim, and she is glad for the shade.
With the last of her strength, Maria lifts her head. Where is the rosary? The world swims in and out of focus. She blinks, looks again, sees the rosary on the ground beside her hip. Grandmother Torres will scold her. Her brain reaches for the precious treasure, but her hands do not obey.
I’m sorry, Abuela. I have lost your rosary.
The desert fades to grey around her broken body, yet the rosary is illuminated. Maria stares at the gleaming crucifix, coral beads glowing red on their silver chain. Then the rosary blazes bright as a star fallen from the desert sky. Maria Torres falls into searing white light. Darkness closes behind her.
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… are you desiring more short fiction with a radical bent? Look no further than my collection Orphaned Lies:
Orphaned Lies – Collected Stories
The Journey of Orphaned Lies
The fifteen stories contained within these pages tell tales of love lost and love found, of darkness at the end of life, and light at the beginning. Unforgettable characters struggle against the impersonal forces of the outside world, and against the flaws they carry within themselves. There is quiet heroism and unwanted heroes discarded, acts of defiance and of acceptance. The inhabitants of these pages learn who they are, and sometimes, who they are not. Enter here, Reader, and join in the journey that is Orphaned Lies.
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 by reviews, journals, and magazines in Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. Here, for the first time, fifteen of his best short stories are gathered together in one collection.
An aging veteran who despises his neighbor ends up in hospital under her care. An isolated married couple search for help to deliver their first child. A man pauses on a wind-swept cliff to converse with a dead friend. A young kitchen boy is sent on a perilous journey across a pestilential land. A man and women find love at the end of their lives.
The fifteen stories contained within these pages tell tales of love lost and love found, of darkness at the end of life, and light at the beginning. Unforgettable characters struggle against the impersonal forces of the outside world, and against the flaws they carry within themselves. There is quiet heroism and unwanted heroes discarded, acts of defiance and of acceptance. The inhabitants of these pages learn who they are, and sometimes, who they are not. Open these pages and join in the journey that is Orphaned Lies.
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/