Thursday Stories: Foul Tommy’s Armor

Thursday Stories – A New Story Most Thursdays

Hello 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.

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Foul Tommy’s Armor. This story first appeared in Millennial Pulp, published in 2021. Foul Tommy’s Armor is one story of a trilogy that centers around a dystopian community known as The Ruins. Without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it, and Happy Thanksgiving to my statside friends and neighbors.

Foul Tommy’s Armor

by Marco Etheridge

Foul Tommy shambles through The Ruins, and the zombies step aside to let him pass. They fear Foul Tommy and are repelled by his presence. He is a bear of a man, even in his dereliction, made more ursine by the stench that leaks from beneath his greatcoats.

Zombies from the Outside can’t deter Foul Tommy, not here in The Ruins where they are powerless. He pauses his shuffling walk and looks up the lane that leads through the Day Market. The open stalls on either side are busy, and the zombies closest to Foul Tommy wrinkle their noses and move away. They don’t dare point their devices in Tommy’s direction.

The keepers of the stalls are impassive behind their arrayed wares. They nod to the Outsiders, sell the handmade goods the zombies desire, and take their money. They do not engage in conversation, nor do they wrinkle their noses at Foul Tommy. They of The Ruins are equals. 

The muddy river makes up one undulating boundary of The Ruins, and a crumbling half-circle of ancient wall girds the rest. The Day Market is the center and heart of The Ruins, the only part of it where Outsiders dare to venture.

Only Insiders live in The Ruins, and only in the more or less intact buildings that back up to the ancient wall. Between the Day Market and the river lies a wasteland of fallen walls and tumbled stone. This belongs to Tommy.

Foul Tommy looks past the crumbling buildings and fallen walls that mark the corridor of the Day Market. A tall fir tree rises at the end of the lane, a landmark full of noisy crows. The crows are gathered for a murder or maybe a union meeting, filling the tree from top crown to lowest branch. Tommy doesn’t care why the crows have gathered, only that they mark the way to the Grog Monger.

He raises his grimy hands to check that his armor is in place and properly fastened. He wears two huge greatcoats, one over the top of the other, the mantel that holds the wee ones safe and dear from the screaming and the blackness.

His armor secure, Foul Tommy juts out his chin. His scowl is hidden beneath a tangled black beard. A once-black watch cap is pulled down over a pelt of matted hair that falls to the collar of his mac. He sets out again. The zombies part before him and swirl in his passing wake.  

The fir tree looms ahead, and Foul Tommy plods his unsteady way beneath its branches and the congress of crows. The black birds croak out a dirge stripped of all derision; a professional courtesy extended to a comrade of the deadly field.

The Grog Monger’s shop is empty when Foul Tommy pushes open the door. A bell above the door rings out. The ringing startles Tommy, as it always does. He eyes the bell with suspicion and steps into the tiny shop.

A rough wooden counter runs along the walls and back of the shop. Behind the counter, shelves climb into the dusty gloom. They are laden with bottles and jugs, glass canisters and earthen crocks. The plank floor of the shop will hold four customers, provided they’re on good terms and none of them is Foul Tommy.

The Grog Monger stands behind the counter, a gold-capped grin splitting his ruddy face. The man wears an apron over a denim work shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Almost every bit of exposed flesh is covered in ginger fur. The knuckles that rested on the counter are red-furred, as are the beefy forearms above them. A ginger beard rings the golden smile, and close-cropped red fuzz outlines the man’s skull.

Grog Monger’s shop serves as the portal between the worlds of out and in. If The Outside was hell and The Ruins a purgatory of sorts, Grog Monger is Cerberus guarding the doorway.

The knuckles lift from the counter, and Grog Monger’s hands spread wide in welcome.

— A good morning to you, Sergeant. I was expecting you. Your check come just the other day.

Foul Tommy shuffles forward into the flow of the man’s words, batting them away with an outstretched hand. Grog Monger seems to interpret the waving as if it were spoken word.

— Come now, no need for that. Proprieties to be observed, Sergeant, leastwise within the walls of me humble shop.

He reaches beneath the counter and produces a check printed on heavy bond and a pen. Foul Tommy peers at the lettering, a name spelled out in block script: Brian Sutcliffe, SSgt.

— Just a signature as always, and I’ll lay it by on your account.

He takes up the pen in one hand and holds down the check with the other. The nib falters for a moment, then drops to the paper and scrawls a mark on the signature line.

— Now then, that’s seen to. Talking of your account, you’ve got a tidy bit laid by, not a fortune, mind you, but enough for a roof over your head for a few nights. I could book you something over at the Three Flags. Got a mate working there. Nothing fancy, but the beds are clean. What do you say to that, Sarge?

Foul Tommy backs away from the counter, both hands raised as if to fend off a demon.

— Calm yourself now, Sarge, it was just a thought, nothing more. Forget I mentioned it. Here, come now, nothing to worry about. If not a room, would you be minding if I asked Skater Grrl to look in on you? I know you’re fond of her and she of you.

The sound of her name soothes Tommy. Skater Grrl, the angel of The Ruins. It is very hard to talk to an angel, any angel, but he can talk to her. With thoughts of her in his mind, Tommy lowers his upraised arms and steps back to the counter.

— There then, that’s all settled to the good. Now, you’ll be wanting your supplies, I’ve no doubt. Here’s a nice pouch of cavendish for your pipe. It’s sweet as sin, that tobacco, not like the foul dregs they used to give us on the line, aye? Torn newspaper and shredded cardboard that filth was. But this here is the right proper. And two bottles of the Four Shamrock.

 The man lays a twine-wrapped parcel on the counter, then reaches behind himself and lifts two fifths of whiskey from a shelf. The heavy bottles thump on the counter. Foul Tommy peers down at the bottles, then lifts his right hand, four fingers held upright.

— Now Sarge, we talked about this as you’ll no doubt recall. You’re a man what must keep up appearances. I know I’m just a former Lance Corporal speaking to his superior, but I must stick to me guns on this. Two bottles the limit and no more.

Foul Tommy sags like a scolded pup. He reaches for the whiskey and tucks one bottle into each of the outside pockets of his mackintosh. He unbuttons the top of the greatcoat and slides the pouch of tobacco inside. A fetid reek pours from the open collar, but Grog Monger gives no sign of noticing.

Armor back in place, Tommy raises one hand and turns away. The bell over the door rings again as Grog Monger’s farewell reaches his ears.

— Mind how you go, Sergeant.  

Retracing his steps, Tommy turns himself back towards The Ruins, the bottles heavy in his pockets. He shambles under the crow tree and crosses the lane that leads to the day market. He enters a maze of broken buildings and crumbling walls, negotiating passages that only the denizens of The Ruins know. He emerges into a crumbling courtyard. A raised platform girds the courtyard, protected by a doubtful overhang.

Foul Tommy clambers up onto the platform and lowers himself onto a sprawling nest fashioned from cardboard and lined with newspaper. He sticks his legs out in front of him, leans back against the stone wall, and fishes one of the bottles from his pocket.

Sunlight and the shadows of passing clouds play across the walls of the courtyard. Smoke from Tommy’s pipe sweeps up to mix with the dappled light. He nips at the whiskey, but only in a small way, a slow way. He must keep his guard up and his wits about him.

A shadow moves, something darker than a cloud, half-seen but still there. Tommy sees it, or feels it, up where it hovers above the courtyard, slipping in and out behind the broken parapets that top the walls. Foul Tommy lurches to his feet, steadies himself, and raises a fist in the quiet air. His other hand goes to the collar of his greatcoat and clutches it tight against his throat.

Tommy rages against the thing, but anyone standing in the courtyard would see only a silent man waving his fist.

Nae, you know better than coming here, not when I’m ready for you, ready and waiting, you great greedy beast. You’ll not have them, not that easy, so you can just bugger back off where you came from. The wee ones are safe under me armor and cinched up tight. Prowl all you want, you’ll not have a one of them.

The sense of lurking fades, replaced by the shapes of clouds passing in shadow over the stone walls. The shapes become men and the men march past. Tommy can see them, hear their laughter, the voices young and brash. Then the sunlight turns bright as fire, its flames bearing the screams of the dying.

It is gone as quickly as it appeared. There is only Tommy standing alone in the empty courtyard with one fist raised to the sky. He lowers his arm, sinks back into his nest, and picks up his dropped pipe. He crushes out the smoking embers burning holes in the cardboard, tamps the pipe with his forefinger, and strikes a match.

The light slips away, and Tommy slips away with it. He is moving through the darkness, walking between men huddled in small clusters. Snatches of murmured conversations, the quick glow of a cigarette held cupped in a concealing hand. They are waiting, these men, afraid in the night. He pauses beside each circle of men, sees their upturned faces, and hears his own voice speaking quiet words of encouragement. They nod their heads, smile their nervous smiles, and he moves on.

As Tommy moves through between the assembled men, he senses other footsteps behind him, something following him quiet as a cat. The feeling grows stronger, and he opens his eyes.

Soft footsteps enter the courtyard, and he sees the Skater Grrl moving across the broken stones, pale blonde and thin as a wisp. She smiles he feels the light return. Skater Grrl pauses below the edge of the platform. When she speaks, Tommy hears flowing water.

— Hallo, Tommy. Grog Monger sent word I might ought to check you up. How’re you keeping?

Foul Tommy worked his mouth, trying to pull sounds from his throat. He managed to utter a single word.

— Gabriella.

The young woman quickly looked about the courtyard and then back to Tommy.

— Ah, we can’t be using The Outside names, Tommy, not even when we’re alone. You remember that don’t you?

He nodded his head, then dropped his eyes from hers.

Skater Grrl laughed, and the sound of it swept away anything that could be wrong.

— Here, no harm done, Tommy, don’t you fret about it. But try to remember, yeah? Hey, how about you come back with me to the shop? You can have a shower and a brush up. I can clean your armor while you’re about it. It’s been a while since it had a good polish. Would you like that?

Foul Tommy nodded his head, and a smile broke out through the tangle of his beard. He rose from his nest and lowered himself from the raised platform. He dwarfed the young woman standing next to him, but she did not flinch. Taking his hand in hers, she led him across the cobbles and out of the courtyard.

*  *  * 

Foul Tommy peeks through the crack in the door, counts the wee lads in the shadows. Naught to fear, Boyos, Gabriella says you’ll be safe here, and we know that she never lies. I’ll only be gone a tick, just long enough for our armor and me soiled self to get a good scrubbing. You lads get some rest. He pushes the door closed and shoots a heavy bolt to lock it.

He lumbers partway across the room and pauses, a huge, ragged beach towel wrapped around his hairy middle. Below the plank floor, he can hear voices and the sounds of the printing shop. Gabriella is down there, and the man who makes the shirts.

Gabriella says to shower off the crusty stuff and won’t that feel nice. She’ll be cross if he doesn’t give everything a good scrubbing. It won’t do to make an angel cross. Tommy stomps over to a makeshift shower and turns on the water.

Skater Grrl walks through the silk-screening shop, holding a bulky bundle at arm’s length. A tall man is working over a spider-armed machine. Each arm has a sort of paddle for a hand, and each paddle holds a T-shirt waiting to be printed. The man wears what were once white coveralls but are now a rainbow of ink spatters and swirls. Silky raises himself and smiles at Skater Grrl. Then he sniffs the air and wrinkles his nose.

— Hey, Grrl. Whew, is it that time again already?

— Hey, yourself, Silky. Can’t be helped. We can’t be letting him rot away altogether.

Silky eyed the stinking bundle.

— What’s with the big fella and the coats, then? It’s near come on summer.

— Don’t know exactly, but he believes he’s carrying folks around under his coat. Calls it his armor, says they’re the little lambs, but I don’t think they’re sheep. It’s dreadful important to him, like he’s paying off a debt or something.

— A debt, you say. Sounds like there’s something to be learned there.

— There’s more than something to be learned from Tommy. Swimming in deep waters, he is. But for now, it’s the devil out of the overcoats.

— Then I expect you’ll be wanting the steam room for them horrible mackintoshes?

— If you please, kind sir. You think this is bad, you should have a go at his shirt and trousers. I’ve already got them in the wash. The socks and unders, those can’t never be saved. I don’t tell him, but I keeps a stash of new hidden away.

— Right you are, my girl. My steam room will take care of those plague rags.

Silky turns back to his work, test-fitting a stencil over a blank shirt. Skater Grrl leans over his shoulder to watch.

— What’s the flavor of the day, then?

Silky answers her without turning around.

— Same as always, revolution in bites so small they don’t know they’re eating it.

— You think it does any good?

— What, to the zombies? Naw, no help for them until their devices fail altogether. Then watch out. Meantime, the revolution serves to cleanse the revolutionaries, even Foul Tommy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, fair maiden, I’ve got a whole run of Mao as Marilynn shirts to see to.

Skater Grrl looked down at the template and laughed.

— Should sell like hotcakes. I’ll leave you to it then. Thanks, Silky.

She walks away bearing the stinking bundle and her thoughts. Hang these in the steamer, fetch out the clean unders, then make sure Tommy ain’t drowning in the shower. She laughed again. Just another day in The Ruins.

*  *  *

The morning light plays out a dull grey across the muddy river. Tommy’s great bulk is sprawled across a cracked bench athwart the skeleton of a wooden boat. The planking has fallen from the hull, and gunwales cling to the bones of broken ribs. The sluggish river has long since swallowed the bow, and water laps the wooden planks not far from Tommy’s boots.

Tommy nips from a bottle of Four Shamrocks, just a morning taste, something to keep the fires stoked. Smoke from his pipe drifts out over the flat water. He watches it for the longest time. As he keeps watch, it begins to take shape.

Tendrils of smoke swirl into a form, and the form builds into shadow. A huge head rises from the water, a monstrous thing like a cat if cats had bloody scales for fur. The eyes are a fever yellow, the pupils black slits, and they glare at Foul Tommy.

The creature surfaces only to its dripping muzzle, the rest of its foul body hidden beneath the surface of the river. A set of huge claws scythe the water beside the hideous head, then disappear like silver fish diving.

The fire in Tommy’s chest blazes hot with anger, and the anger flares into his brain. Get ye gone, demon, there’s nothing for you here. I don’t give a damn for your hunger. You’ve taken all there is, and you’ll have no more. You slice steel and flesh and bone. You drain and drink their blood. But you’ll not have what’s left of them. I guard them, and that’s an end to it. Be gone to a battlefield and do your haunting there.

The creature closes and reopens its horrible eyes in a slow blink that lasts many heartbeats. Then it begins to sink. The muzzle dips beneath the water, then the still staring yellow eyes. Its pointed ears are the last thing Tommy sees. The brown water swirls, and the eddies left behind drift off on the slow current.

The riverbank is peaceful once more. The morning sun grows warm. Tommy smokes down his pipe, knocks the ashes to the mud, and sags against the wooden ribs. Exhaustion sweeps over him like a blanket, and the world falls away.

The sun is high when Tommy wakes from a sleep he did not mean to take. His armor is open, the folds of his overcoats fallen to either side of his slumped body.

A shadow falls across his face. He looks up. The thing is there, fully out of the water and climbing over the sunken bow of the wrecked boat. The demon digs sharp claws into rotting wood, pulling itself forward. Its mouth is open in a silent snarl, and Tommy sees the bared fangs.

Foul Tommy scuttles backwards like a frightened crab, his arms and legs flailing. Pipe and bottle are forgotten. He makes it to the stern of the wreck, and all the while those yellow eyes stare into his. Then his hands find nothing but air, and he falls from the boat to the muddy riverbank.

He rises to his feet and staggers up the bank while trying to pull his greatcoats back into place. He reaches the top of the bank and begins to run for the tumbled walls of The Ruins. Behind him, the creature rises into the air and follows, snarling and drooling, yellow eyes boring into Tommy’s back.

Foul Tommy careens into the narrow passages, bouncing off stone walls as he twists and turns, leaping over piles of rubble. The demon floats above him, claws raking down from the broken tops of the ruined walls. Tommy dodges and runs, one hand clutching the armor closed at his throat, but he cannot stop to fasten the armor. He runs like a man on a battlefield as the demon pursues him.

*  *  *

Tall Boy stands behind his baskets of freshly baked bread and meat pies. The zombies drift down the lane of the Day Market, holding up their devices to record what they don’t see. At the next stall, Dreadlock is smiling broad, white teeth flashing against his ebony face.

— What’s up, Dreadlock? You’re grinning like you’ve got a secret to tell.

Dreadlock’s smile grows as he holds his strong hands wide above the twisted wire jewelry displayed on his table.

— I be celebrating, man. Been three years ago today I come to The Ruins.

— Hey, happy jump anniversary.

The smile disappeared from Dreadlock’s face.

— It was a hard jump, man, hard jump.

Tall Boy nodded his head. All jumps were hard, but some were worse than others. Being in The Outside was a frightening thing for anyone. He remembered his own jump well and had no desire to repeat it.

— You came from the South, right? 

Dreadlock sighs, looking to the sky above the ruined walls.

— Yeah, come from the Water World I did. I’m telling you, them were hard times, Tall Boy. Food going scarce on the island, fish gone away. People was making the jump left and right. I was three month on that jump, all the while wandering The Outside, chasing a rumor of this place.

— Yeah, but you found it in the end, and here you are.

Dreadlock nods his head and the smile returns.

— You know, Foul Tommy was the first person I met when I finally got to The Ruins. Took me under his wing, he did. Won’t never forget that.

— Must have been stinking under there.

Dreadlock waves a long finger at Tall Boy.

— Don’t you be running Tommy down. He a good man. You know he was a sergeant in the Big War? Got himself shot up good, he did. He told me about it, about all his soldiers getting themselves killed. Sad story, man.

— Wait, Foul Tommy talks?

Dreadlock shrugs.

— Course he talks. Not so often as most folks, but when he talk, it’s a good idea to listen. He seen a lot, Tommy has. 

As if summoned by their words, Foul Tommy bursts out of the rubble. Tall Boy and Dreadlock are struck silent at the sight of Tommy running like a madman, his greatcoats flaring behind him. One hand is clutching at his throat, the other clawing the air. He runs straight at them as if he’s been struck blind.

They step aside only at the last second. Foul Tommy passes between them, and they see his face is contorted with fear. The big man collides with the edge of Dreadlock’s stall, tangles his feet, and falls to the pavement.

Tommy rolls to his back and raises himself on an elbow, gibbering and waving his free hand at the sky. Tall Boy is staring down at Tommy when Dreadlock grabs him by the shoulder. His long black hand spins Tall Boy round. Dreadlock is pointing at a dark shadow writhing above the stone walls. The thing shifts and roils without any real form, but Tall Boy can feel its menace. Dreadlock’s hand is shaking, as is Tall Boy’s voice when he finds words.

— That the hell is that?

— Don’t know for sure, man, but Tommy told me he had a demon chasing him.

— You mean like a demon from a whiskey bottle?

— Don’t look like that thing come from no bottle.

— Right, well sod this then.

Tall Boy looks around wildly, then snatches up a long breadknife from his stall. He raises his weapon to the shifting shadow and backs away, pushing Dreadlock behind him until they are in the middle of the market lane. They stand between Tommy’s quivering body and the menacing shadow.

Tall Boy waves his breadknife. Dreadlock has no weapon, but he raises two fists.

— No worries, Tommy, you not being here alone.

Dread sees two of the market kids staring wide-eyed.

— Hey… you kids fetch Skater Grrl right fast, you understand? Go! Go!

The urchins race away. Tall Boy speaks without turning away from the demon cloud.

— Skater Grrl?

— Man, Skater Grrl be nothing but good. We need some good about now.

An inhuman yowl rises from the ground behind them, and they spin to face the snarl. Foul Tommy’s mouth is agape, and his lips are flecked with spittle and foam. They turn back to the shadow and see that it is growing denser, as if trying to take shape. A dozen faces stare out from the other stalls, all eyes wide with terror.

Tall Boy finds his voice and raises it to the threat.

— You get back, whatever you are. You’re not welcome here.

Dreadlock nods and waves his fists.

— Yeah, you not welcome here, soul sucker. You go now, leave our friend be.

— Soul sucker?

— D’know, man, never yelled at no demon before. What we do now?

Before Tall Boy can answer, they hear a grinding noise from the end of the lane. Skater Grrl is flying between the stalls, crouched atop her skateboard, wheels growling against cracked pavement. Her pale blonde hair streams out behind her, and Tall Boy swears he sees silver sparks in the wake of her passage.

Skater Grrl leaps from her board. It skitters away under one of the stalls. She lands on her feet like a cat, fierce as fire, and raises her arms wide, a shield between Tommy’s defenders and the dark, seething shadow. Tall Boy looks past her narrow shoulders, feels the heat of her fierce as a flame. A silver light seems to shimmer from her hands and head. She faces the demon cloud, her voice ringing out loud and strong.

— I don’t know what you are, or what Tommy thinks you are, but this is The Ruins, and you have no place here.

Tall Boy sees the dark shadow waver and shift.

— You will be gone. You will leave my friends alone. I curse you back to The Outside.

A long heartbeat of silence is broken by Skater Grrl’s raging scream.

— You will get the fuck out of here. Now!

Her last word pierces The Ruins from end to end, echoes of it rebounding from stone and wall. The echoes raise the crows from the fir tree at the far end of the market lane. The huge flock of crows swirls once above the crown of the tree, then their wings drive a screeching black phalanx to answer her call. They sweep above the market lane, above Skater Grrl’s outstretched hand, flapping and cawing, snapping razor beaks and wielding needle-sharp talons.

The crows boil in the air over the market, engulfing the shadow in a blackness of their own. The flock rises higher and higher, carrying the formless demon at the center of the maelstrom. The screaming black birds drift away, circling and wheeling, and at the center of the whirling flock pulses a darker shadow.

Far out above the river, the crows begin diving through the center of the shadow. The flock condenses into what looks like a solid ball writhing in the sky. It pulses, once, twice, and then a black shape falls from it, plummeting to the river. There is the sound of a muffled splash, and then nothing.

The flock disperses, the crows spinning off in fours and sixes. They flap their way back to the top of the tall fir tree. Settling onto the many branches, they begin to preen their ruffled feathers.

Skater Grrl’s arms fall to her sides, and she leans back into Tall Boy. For the briefest moment, he feels her small body pressed to his. Then she spins past him and kneels beside Foul Tommy.

Dreadlock is standing stock still, his mouth opening and closing. He sags against Tall Boy’s shoulder.

— I thought we be cooked, Boy. Never saw nothing like that, not ever. Never want to see it again, neither. Damn, I thought we be cooked for sure.

Dread slaps him on the shoulder. They turn away from where the shadow had been. Skater Grrl has pulled Tommy to his feet and is buttoning up his greatcoats. The big man is staring down into her face. She murmurs words that only he can hear, and he nods his head. When he speaks, his words are clear.

— But not forever, it’s not gone forever.

She smiles and nods.

— P’raps not, Tommy, but it’s gone for now. And you’ve got friends to protect you.

Tall Boy stares, his body quivering in spasms. A question bursts from his mouth before he can think.

— What just happened? I mean, what in the hell just happened?

Skater Grrl turns her smile to him, and the light of it stills him.

— You were very brave, that’s what happened.

She lifts herself on tiptoe, grabs Tall Boy’s face, and rewards him with a hard kiss. When her hands and lips fall away, Tall Boy stands stock still, his mouth hanging open.

— You too, Dread.

She kisses Dread’s cheeks, left and right, and smiles at them both.

— I’ll see youse all later, yeah? I think Tommy could use a lie down.

One of the market kids holds out the errant skateboard. Skater Grrl grabs it and pats the kid on the head. She takes Tommy’s hand in hers and leads him away, the board dangling from her other hand. The big man shuffles beside her as the pair of them walk up the market lane.

Tall Boy stands frozen in place, stunned by what has just happened. Dreadlock is beside him, a big grin plastered across his face.

— Hey man, you was just kissed by an angel.

Tall Boy blinks as if waking from a dream.

— She kissed you, too, Dread.

— Naw, Tall Boy, she give me a peck on the cheek. She kissed you, man, I mean, she kissed you. I think you just find yourself an angel.

Tall Boy looked down the lane to the receding backs of Foul Tommy and Skater Grrl.

 — I’m not the only one.

Fini

You can find Millennial Pulp here:

https://millennialpulp.com/

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://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/whats-new-in-marcos-world-the-blog/

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 and fifty reviews across Canada, Australia, Europe, the UK, and the USA. Marco’s short story “Power Tools” was nominated for Best of the Web for 2023 and is the title of his latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.