Power Tools

By Marco Etheridge

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 more than eighty reviews, journals, and magazines in Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. Power Tools gathers twenty-one of his best short stories into one collection. An elderly woman sets out alone on a journey into a new life. Two soldiers in a bunker share candy and memories. A widower takes on the Supreme Court with a robot. Grief is sung over the cobbled streets of Valletta. Two old heroes question their purpose. These stories tell tales of love lost and found, of the fight for justice, and the glimmering flame of hope that keeps us afloat. Unforgettable characters push back against the crushing weight of the world and shoulder the burdens they carry within. Love, laugh, dance, weep; these are the stories of Power Tools.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marco Etheridge
• Release date: Mar 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223884101

Marco Etheridge

Marco Etheridge is an eccentric world traveler and writer living in Vienna, Austria. He is the author of the exciting and well-reviewed novel "The Best Dark Rain: A Post Apocalyptic Struggle for Life and Love." Marco's second novel, "Blood Rust Chains," has just been released. Marco's third novel, a political satire thriller, is complete and awaiting publication. He is hard at work on other projects, including a fourth novel, a three-act play, and a children's book. Marco's novels lead the reader on intricate literary journeys through different genres. With attention to detail and thoughtful prose, Marco builds immersive worlds crafted to house distinct and diverse characters. Always character and dialogue driven, Marco's novels captivate the readers with dark charm and unforeseen plot hooks. Though born in the USA, Marco considers himself a citizen of the world. Love carried him across the Atlantic Ocean to Vienna, Austria; and love holds him there. The long and winding pathway that has led to writing novels is one of varied experience. Marco has been a soldier, a commercial fisherman, a wanderer, and a jack-of-all-trades. His feet have happily trod the soil of over thirty countries spread over four continents and the odd sub-continent. The world is his playground and his fellow citizens are his playmates. Marco's antidote for everything is to throw some gear in his faithful Deuter backpack and disappear. An avid traveler and a complete street-food junkie, there is nothing he won't try. Munching wok-roasted spiders in Cambodia? Absolutely. How about a four-course meal in Bangkok’s Chinatown, with each course from a different street stall? He is there! If you are interested in tall tales of travel, please check out Marco's travel blog at: https://newland-newtale.blogspot.co.at/

Book preview

Author’s Note

The stories in this volume originally appeared, some in somewhat different forms and under different titles, in the following publications:

Pitstop at Perkin’s Gas & Goods - The Thieving Magpie - Spring 2022

Her Face in the Mirror - Rundelania – Spring 2023

Spiccato - Hotch Potch - Summer 2021

The Digger - Flora Fiction - Winter 2023

Moon Drunk Angel Mine - Santa Barbara Literary Journal - Winter 2022

Horehound Candy - Dream Noir - Winter 2022

Falling Ice - Hotch Potch - Winter 2023

Exit and Entrance - Contemporary Jo - Winter 2023

Reciprocal Debt - Clackamas Literary Review - Spring 2023

Gumpendorfer Station - Aura Literary Arts - Spring 2023

Solitary Stone - Superpresent Magazine - Spring 2023

Sanchez and DQ - The Ear - Summer 2023

Frankie and the Wild Man - Literally Stories - Summer 2023

Shale Hollow - The Thieving Magpie - Spring 2023

The Dishwasher - Red Coyote - Winter 2023

Power Tools - Marrow Magazine - Winter 2022

Giant Vulva Playlist - Marrow Magazine - Winter 2022

Things Broken, Things Lost - The McNeese Review - Spring 2023

Bess Gets High - Fabula Argentea - Spring 2023

Fado Valletta - Hotch Potch - Summer 2021

Fruit Basket - Written Tales - Spring 2023

I wish to offer my heartfelt thanks and gratitude to all the editors and volunteers at small literary journals and reviews around the world.

You know who you are.

Thank you.

Marco Etheridge

March 2024

Vienna, Austria

NOT IMPERVIOUS

Atlas shrugs a solipsistic shoulder at the notion

come unbidden from another and thus suspect, 

beyond pale, past seal hermetic.

From the void flung as a pebble novel thought

strikes titan holding high our sacred orb 

balanced like a salad bowl

Iron resolve of stillness shaken only for a moment

he makes minute adjustment to his planetary

burden borne on brawn.

Shift begets a spasm, oh so slight, a brushing

feather, gossamer wing that tremors bedrock,

ripples ocean, puddle, and pond.

Sways the walk neath a child's footstep, soft as 

silk small hand is shifted, cone is shaken,

ice cream falls to Sunday's shiny toe.

PITSTOP AT PERKIN'S GAS & GOODS

SILVIA CARTER IS hiding in her Mercedes sedan. She is alone, huddled in the backseat, swaddled in blankets. Steam rises from a chromium thermos cup she holds between her hands. Warm tendrils of fragrant steam swirl around her parchment skin, rise past the stocking cap pulled low over her grey hair. The vapors find the windows of the sedan, frosting the glass into a delicate filigree.

Whatever else has gone wrong with her plan, Silvia is prepared for the unforeseen. Albert taught her to always be prepared for surprises. It was one of her dead husband’s maxims. Expect the unexpected, My Darling, and you will never be surprised.

Silvia smiles to herself. Yes, Albert, you would be proud of me. I have my blankets, my hot soup, everything that I need. I only have to wait a few more hours, and I have patience.

Patience was another lesson I learned from fifty years married to you, my dear Albert. You were a wonderful husband, but no one would say you were an easy man to live with. Certainly not our Rayna. But difficult or not, you and I had so much happiness together.

Which is why Rayna’s behavior drives me to distraction. What shall I do about our daughter, Albert? How could two such happy people raise a child who is so manifestly unhappy?

And speaking of difficult, no one is harsher than our Rayna. Rayna Parks now. I don’t know how her husband deals with her. I really don’t.

Our daughter has grown into a hard-edged woman, my dear. She sees only black or white, good or bad. If she decides something is good, then it is good for everyone, one-size-fits-all and no compromises. I love her as only a mother can love a bad-natured child, but I will not let her imprison me.

I’m an old woman, Albert. That’s what the doctors are telling Rayna. The worst thing is that Rayna believes them, every word. She thinks her own mother is a dangerous lunatic.

I heard them speaking together, Rayna and her precious doctors. They used words like dementia and moderate decline, speaking right out loud in the next room, as if I was a child too dim to understand. I’m surprised they didn’t spell the words aloud, S-E-N-I-L-E, like we used to do when we didn’t want Rayna to know what we were talking about.

It’s all so absurd! Forgetting a few little things is not a mental illness. I’d like to see how sharp Rayna’s memory is when she turns seventy-eight. Why, I can remember the names and faces of almost every one of my students, over forty years’ worth of children. Rayna can’t remember a simple appointment if her gadget doesn’t beep to remind her about it.

The point is, I don’t believe the doctors, and I don’t trust our own daughter. You’re lucky, Albert. You are dead and gone. They can’t threaten you with some seedy nursing home. Oh, Rayna calls it a nice facility. She forced me to take a tour of the place. A prison is what it is. There is nothing wrong with our old house.

Rayna keeps bringing up the fire as if I burned the entire city down. It was only a little grease fire. It could have happened to anyone. That’s what the nice firemen said. The insurance took care of everything and that was that. You would think that Rayna could let it drop, but no.

So, I’ve decided to take control of the situation. Isn’t that what you were always encouraging me to do? Rayna and the doctors want to put me into old people storage. I don’t intend to sit still for that. I’m moving to Newfoundland, to that little town of Gander.

Do you remember the townspeople of Gander, Albert? They sheltered thousands of stranded travelers in the days after 9/11. All those jumbo jets were forced to land at that little airport, and the people of Gander took them in, right into their own homes.

You were so enthralled with the idea that such good news could come out of such an immense tragedy. That’s why I’ve decided to go there. If those good people can find it in their hearts to shelter thousands of strangers, surely they can find room for a widowed schoolteacher.

The old woman rubs at the frosted window with a gloved knuckle and peers through the foggy peephole. The deserted main street glistens under a scrim of ice. Spring in New Hampshire is a tentative creature, shy and slow to show its face, especially in the dark hours at the end of the night.

Across the street from her hiding place, three fuel pumps stand sentinel in the cold. Shabby piles of dirt-crusted snow mark the boundaries of the gas station. Fluorescent light pours down from the canopy above the pumps, throwing ghostly shadows across the icy asphalt. The station is closed up tight, like everything else in the little town of Franconia, New Hampshire.

Silvia leans back into the leather upholstery and raises the mug of soup to her lips. There is nothing to worry about. She imagines the interior of the Mercedes as a snug and safe cocoon. When morning comes and the gas station opens, Silvia will emerge. She wonders what sort of butterfly she would like to be.

* * *

It would have been better if she hadn’t gotten lost. Things had gone well enough at the beginning. Silvia left Boston before traffic got too hectic. But the interstate was far worse than she remembered. Albert had done most of their freeway driving. All of it really, even when he was very tired. He could be so stubborn sometimes.

Silvia is ever the careful driver. She kept the Mercedes well under the speed limit and stayed in the far-right lane. Cars and even the big trucks honked their horns at her, but she remained calm. She slowed down a bit more, thinking it would be easier for the others to pass, but they still honked at her and flashed their headlights.

She managed the interstate for seventy miles, past the New Hampshire state line to Concord, before she could not bear another moment of the frenetic rushing. Smaller roads were better, safer, and more enjoyable. And they were slower.

Once Silvia was off the interstate, she began to enjoy herself. She puttered north through the small towns of Franklin, and Hill. When she reached Bristol, Silvia treated herself to a cup of coffee and a long break.

An hour later, surely not more than two, Silvia drove past Newfound Lake. The sun was low on the far horizon, glinting across the silver waters.

A few miles past the lake, she missed the turn that would take her back to that horrible freeway. Well, not missed exactly. Her brain knew to turn east, but her hands decided for the west.

By the time she realized her error, Silvia was lost, wandering in a long loop until she came to the Ammonoosuc River, which most certainly could not be right. She and Albert had been this way once before, or so she thought.

Some nice teenage boys had pointed her in the right direction. They were good boys, very polite once they saw her. They argued amongst themselves about the best route, finally getting Silvia on her way.

The blackness of the night surprised Silvia. The evening had disappeared so quickly. The twisting county roads seemed to go on forever, but it was far better than the frightening blare and rush of the freeway.

Silvia saw the neon lights of a roadhouse and a few men gathered around pickup trucks. They were workers, the kind of men who know the local roads. She eased the Mercedes off of the road and pressed the button to roll down her window.

One of the men, a big bearded fellow, told her that yes, she was on the right road for Franconia. The man had seemed grumpy at first, then very curious. The other men eyed the out-of-state plates. The bearded fellow asked her if she was sure she was okay.

Silvia regretted her foolishness. These men might remember her or remember her license plate number. They might even contact the sheriff. Who knows what could happen if the sheriff phoned Rayna. Rayna was prone to hysterics.

It was late when Silvia pulled into Franconia, far later than she had planned. She found a diner on the quiet main street, but it was closed, as was most everything else in the town. Worse yet, the fuel lamp on the dashboard of the Mercedes shined a bright red. Albert would never have let that happen.

The gas station was closed as well. The pumps were open, of course, for customers with credit cards, but Silvia cannot use her credit card. Her daughter, Rayna Parks, née Carter, is the kind of person who knows all about computers, and how to track things like her mother’s credit cards. Rayna would be on her heels like a bloodhound, trying to drag Silvia off to some facility. But Silvia knows that Rayna cannot track cash, and Silvia has brought plenty of cash, enough to get her to Canada.

Silvia is not afraid. She will simply sleep in the car until the gas station opens. She has blankets, a thermos of soup, everything will be fine.

Once the Mercedes is full of gasoline, she will travel up old Highway 3 up to the Beecher Falls border crossing. She knows that country. She and Albert hiked there when they were younger.

No one will notice an elderly lady crossing the border at Beecher Falls. Then it’s on to Newfoundland and the shelter of kind people.

* * *

Silvia finishes her soup, wipes the cup out with a paper napkin, and screws the cup back onto the thermos. She rubs one gloved finger over the frosted glass and leans to peep through the blurry glass.

The fuel pumps still stand guard over the glistening asphalt. Nothing moves, as if the night itself has frozen. The dark scene reminds Silvia of something, a painter she admired once, but her brain is so sleepy that the name escapes her.

Silvia tightens the blankets around her shoulders and leans her head back against the leather seat. Her eyes are so heavy, she cannot keep them open a second longer. Sleep envelops the old woman, alone in the darkness. She sleeps with her lips parted, a trace of fog curling from her quiet snores.

In her dream, Silvia is hurrying down a long white corridor, passing uncountable pairs of identical doorways. She is wearing a cheap robe that chafes at her neck. The slippers on her feet are far too big. They try to fly off her bare feet as she scurries down the cold tile floor.

Silvia keeps moving because there is someone behind her, someone who means her harm. She does not see her pursuers, but she hears them. She hears their echoing footsteps, hears them opening doors and calling out. Mother, Mother, where are you? And knocking, a knocking that fills the hallway and dissolves the world.

Tap-tap-tap, and then a pause. And in that pause, Silvia opens her eyes. She blinks at the interior of the Mercedes. Her cocoon is illuminated by a grey half-light seeping through the frosted windows. Her waking mind struggles with time and place, and then she hears it again, tap-tap-tap.

Something is tapping on the window beside her head. There is a shadow outside the Mercedes, and it seems to be moving. Silvia shakes some of the sleep from her brain and wipes her glove across the frosted glass.

Silvia recoils when a smiling face materializes on the other side of the blurred window. She sees what appears to be the head of a young woman half-hidden under a furry trapper’s hat. Then the phantom face is holding up a paper cup. The stranger is pointing at the coffee cup and smiling, like someone tempting a wild creature with scraps of food.

The window button doesn’t respond. Silvia pushes it several times before she gives up. Her brain struggles with fragments: Keys, purse, electronic gadgets. What was so difficult about cranking down a car window? She gives up, pulls the door latch, and manages to open the passenger door.

G’Morning. Brought you some coffee.

The voice is both girlish and not, with nasal vowels as thin as the morning light.

Silvia tries to focus on the girl’s face. Her eyes drop to the proffered coffee and the hand wrapped around the paper cup. She sees smooth strong fingers that end in clipped fingernails painted black. Why black? Then she realizes she is staring and forces her mouth to speak.

Thank you, dear. That’s very kind of you.

Two creams, one sugar. That was my best guess.

Silvia takes the cup from the young woman. Their fingers brush for a moment, hers gloved, the other’s bare. Silvia raises the coffee to her lips, blows on it, takes a first sip, and smiles.

Relieved of the coffee, the young woman slips her bare hands into the pockets of an oversized canvas coat. Silvia watches her through the steam of the coffee. The girl rocks back and forth, looking up at the dawning sky. She is anchored to the ground by a pair of heavy rubberized boots. Silvia sips her coffee, trying to catch the image, and it finally floats into her brain. The girl reminds her of Elmer Fudd.

This coffee is perfect. Two creams and one sugar is exactly how I like it. But how did you know I was here? Or that I needed coffee?

The young woman stops rocking, smiles down at Silvia.

Ah, easy guess. I saw the frosted-up windows. That means someone’s in the car. Happens all the time, somebody waiting for me to open the station. Usually waiting for gas, or coffee, but mostly both. I open the station for my dad. Folks come here because I make better coffee than anyone else.

The flood of words washes around Silvia, pulling at her like currents in a stream.

Well, it is very good coffee. I’m sorry, dear, I don’t mean to sound rude. I’m just waking up. My name is Silvia, what’s yours?

Pleased to meet you, Silvia. I’m Annie, Annie Perkins. Just like the sign over the station there, Perkin’s Gas & Goods. Which is where I should be. Customers will be showing up for the morning rush. You drink your coffee, Silvia. When you’re ready, just pull over to the pumps. I’ll help you pump the gas.

Silvia smiled at this young woman named Annie, the rush of her words becoming a bit more familiar. Is she always like this?

Thank you, Annie. You go mind the store and I’ll be over in a bit.

Annie pops a hand out of her jacket, waves it, then spins and bounces across the street. Silvia watches her go, imagining Roo or Tigger dressed up for duck hunting.

She shakes her head, then eases her stiff legs out of the car. Careful not to spill her coffee, she closes the door, walks around the Mercedes. She opens the driver’s door and slides behind the wheel. The key fits into the ignition and the car growls to life.

Silvia sits, sipping the best coffee she’s tasted in a very long while. When the German engine settles into a familiar purr, Silvia turns the heat on as hot as it will go. Warm air swirls around her legs, and she feels her body begin to unknot.

The windshield has defrosted, and the coffee is gone when the need to find a restroom becomes very important. Silvia puts the sedan in gear, checks the street both ways, and then eases the big car across the main street and into the station lot. Driver’s side to the pumps, she remembers it as if Albert were speaking in her head.

She leaves the keys in the ignition and hurries across the asphalt lot. A quartet of heavy plank steps leads up to a wide porch under the Perkin’s Gas & Goods sign. A bell jangles when Silvia pushes open the door. Her eyes search the front of the store and land on Annie. She’s smiling, one hand pointing to the rear of the store.

The Ladies is just at the back, Silvia. Can’t miss it.

Silvia nods and hurries on without speaking.

When Silvia retraces her steps to the front of the store, she sees what she missed in her rush to the ladies. The narrow aisle is full of merchandise. There are displays of fishing rods and stacks of picnic supplies, insect repellant, and household cleaners.

The mercantile aisle ends at a ramshackle lobby that guards the store’s front door. One wall is sequestered behind a counter and bar. The scarred countertop holds a cash register and a huge assortment of snacks. Opposite the bar is a half arc of mismatched chairs drawn up around a woodstove.

A coffee maker perches on a table beyond the black stove. A half-sheet of pegboard climbs the wall above the coffee station. Assorted mugs hang from hooks laid out in careful rows. Beneath each mug is a label bearing a name.

Annie is standing beside the woodstove in her heavy boots and oversized jacket. She turns at Silvia’s approach. Now Silvia sees that they are not alone. An old man sits in one of the chairs near the woodstove. He leans to one side and stares off across the room. Before Silvia can say a word, Annie’s voice fills the lobby.

I see you found your way back. Sit yourself down by the stove and warm up. This here is William. Bill, this is Miss Silvia. He doesn’t say much, but he’s good company. I’ll get you another coffee, in a proper mug this time. Then I’ll get that car of yours filled up. Are the keys in it?

The rush of Annie’s voice had not slowed down. Inside the store, the young woman’s voice finds its way into every nook and cranny. Silvia sorts through the torrent of words, looking for a starting point. She decides on the old gentleman. Manners, after all, are still manners

Hello, William. I’m pleased to meet you.

The man does not respond. His left hand and wrist are stranded in his lap like dead things. Silvia realizes she needs to sit down. She lowers herself into the chair beside the silent William.

She feels the warmth of the fire, soft tongues of heat licking away the cold. She settles back in the chair. Annie disappears to the coffee table and somehow materializes in front of Silvia’s chair. She sets a heavy mug down atop an upended wooden crate.

There you go, Silvia. Two creams, one sugar. And what about those car keys?

Silvia smiles up at Annie. She realizes she will take her coffee this way for the rest of her life.

The keys are in the ignition, dear.

Alrighty, then.

Annie squats beside William’s chair and lays a hand on the old man’s arm.

"You doing okay