A New Story Most Thursdays

Thursday Stories: Hi, Friends and Neighbors. Looking back over my herd of short stories, I realize there are a solid handful that have appeared only in print. I know some of you have forked over the dough for this or that literary review, but I don’t expect everyone to be buying 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 we run out of print-only tales.

The Net first appeared in Havik Fiction, published in 2020. I hope you enjoy it.

Thursday Stories: The Net

by Marco Etheridge

Wes was accustomed to dodgy travel, but being adrift on a disabled sailboat was a new experience. He was rapidly coming to realize he didn’t much care for it.

The sailboat rolled to the port side, dipping Wes knee-deep in the warm Andaman Sea. The next swell pitched the hull starboard. He was lifted clear of the water, dangling above it on a flimsy aluminum ladder. The green mound of Koh Lanta shimmered in the heat haze on the far eastern horizon. Miles of open water lay between the island and the sailboat. Wes wasn’t thinking about tropical islands, or the dreamy haze. He was cursing his encyclopedic memory, which gave him the unwelcome ability to recall every species of shark native to the waters of Thailand.

His eyes scanned the rolls of the swells, searching for the telltale vee of a grey dorsal fin. The data rolled out of his memory unasked: Andaman Sea, open water, Bull sharks and Tigers. Sharks big enough to snatch him from under the hull of the sailboat. That would be the last anyone ever heard of him. What ever happened to Wes? Don’t know; he disappeared on one of those weird trips of his.

And yet somebody had to go under the hull and play the hero. It wasn’t going to be the two old Scotsmen, and it certainly wasn’t going to be their Thai hookers. The poor girls were already scared to death. That left Wes or Jake. Wes won the honors based on relative youth and leanness.

The hull pitched to port again, dropping Wes back into the water. They were adrift, the propeller fouled in a long shroud of ghost-net. Before the engine died, the prop had twisted the abandoned net into a massive sea anchor. The phrase dead in the water popped into Wes’ brain, followed by visions of piracy. If he was going to save these sorry bastards, there should be some booty. Free the boat, throw the Scotsmen to the sharks, then sail off with their women. That was a proper hero’s reward.

The others were in the cockpit of the sloop, their eyes on Wes. He liked playing hero to the point of reward and no further. He figured he was well past that point, but there was nothing for it. He nodded his head, scissored his legs, and dropped from the ladder.

The crystal water closed over his head. He cleared his snorkel while trying to avoid forty feet of steel hull. Wes didn’t think about the warm seawater, or the hot season sun, or the thrill of snorkeling in the open sea. Wes thought about sharks. He spun an underwater circle, checking to be sure no blue-grey shapes were cruising around the hull. Then he thought about how in the hell he had gotten here.

* * *

Only the day before, he was standing in front of a new high-water marker in the ramshackle hamlet of Mookville, the only village on the island of Koh Muk. The red steel pole rose two meters above the gravel shore, marking the surge of the Boxing Day Tsunami. He pointed to it, looking back over his shoulder to the open-air coffee bar. The Thai woman behind the bar nodded her head. Wes walked across the narrow gravel pathway and perched on a stool.

The woman placed a steaming coffee on the bar. The April sun baked like an oven, and the heat of it lay over the small harbor. The woman nodded again. She spoke in a sing-song voice.

“It was very bad day. Many peoples hurt. Some peoples killed.”

“You and your family were not hurt?”

“No, not hurt. Very lucky. My uncle, his leg broke, but he okay now.”

Wes sipped the coffee, the heat of it bringing on a cooling sweat. He looked past the idle fishing boats reflected in water smooth as glass. It was hard to imagine a two-meter surge of angry ocean flattening the little town, but Koh Muk had caught it hard.

Dogs panted in the shade, twitching as flies settled on their flanks. The hot season was well on, chasing the last of the tourists to milder climes. By midday, the Thais would be laid out like the dogs, sleeping off the heat, or moaning Roan Mak-Mak: Hot, very hot.

Wes paid for the coffee, leaving enough of a tip to make the woman smile. He rose from the bar and turned to face her, his palms held together under his chin.

“Sawadee-krab.”

“Sawadee-kha. You come back, okay?”

“Yes, I come back.”

He turned away from the tiny kiosk, his flip-flops tossing up fine clouds of dust. Pulling his hat low against the glare, he began to climb over the dusky green spine of the island.

When Wes reached the Charlie Beach Resort, he found Jake at the far end of the beach, whiling away the heat of the day. Wes’ old friend was shirtless, camped under the shade of a casuarina tree. He was wearing that godawful hat; the white straw thing Wes had begged him not to buy. Jake bought the garish hat anyway, just to rankle.

Wes settled himself at the table and popped open a cold drink. The two men expended the minimal talk necessary between old friends. They smoked and drank, letting the heat of the day do its worst.

Wes had known Jake for years, since their early days of motorcycling the backroads of the Pacific Northwest. The two of them had ridden and camped up and down the Cascades and the Rockies.

They shared more than just miles. The two friends shared the good times, which they talked about endlessly. They shared the hard times, which they did not speak of. They had seen each other through Wes’ divorce and the death of Jake’s wife.

When Jake got invited to a family wedding in Thailand, he begged Wes to come along. Jake had never been to Asia and didn’t want to try it alone. Wes had tramped all over Southeast Asia, from Vietnam to Cambodia, Laos to Thailand. The hot season in Thailand; that was something worth doing. Besides, it was a good excuse not to be where he was, and Wes never needed much of an excuse. He agreed to meet Jake after the wedding and booked a cheap flight for Bangkok.

The Big Mango felt like home, as it always did. Wes loved all of it: The noise, the smell, even the heat that hit like a hammer on an anvil. His second city was as devoid of tourists as he had ever seen it.

The old Thai couple greeted him at his secret guesthouse, deep in the tangled alleys of Bangkok’s Chinatown. He wandered through his favorite street stalls, gorging on Guay Tiew Ruea for breakfast and fiery Phad Kee Mao for dinner.

When the time came to meet Jake, Wes caught a cheap flight to Krabi Town, a sweltering little burg set in the mangrove swamps on the East side of Phang Nga bay. He was sitting at a café as Jake climbed down from one of the pickup trucks that serve as taxis. It was always that way, a rendezvous at some far-flung locale, both of them showing up at the same time. Wes had ceased to think it remarkable. It just was.

* * *

Wes and Jake sweated in the heat, squinting across the sandy glare of Charlie Beach. The sun beat mercilessly on the quiet water of the Andaman Sea. The sultry stillness was broken by the arrival of two boisterous Scotsmen. They slogged up through the sand, introducing themselves as Jamie and Stuart. Jamie was tall and lean, a grey scarecrow of seventy, his Scottish brogue thick and rolling. Stuart, who mashed his name into one syllable, was thick and stocky. This Mutt and Jeff pair towed two young Thai women in their wake. Jamie introduced them as Bang and Bee. The girls were decades younger than the two craggy Scotsmen. The four newcomers stood near the table, the Scotsmen smiling and expectant.

Wes looked at Jake, who shrugged and smiled. Chairs were fetched and drinks bought. The Scotsmen and their escorts settled in for a party. The talk ran the usual gamut of foreigners met in foreign locales. Jamie took up the bulk of the conversation, with Jake following a close second. Stuart was content to drink and nod. The girls said nothing. Wes watched the show.

As he smoked a cigar, Wes listened to Jamie spin out the gist of their story. They were ex-pats living in Phuket, looking for a break from the April heat. Stuart was the money man, the owner of a sailing yacht. Jamie was a sailing bum, Stuart’s crony of many years. They had arranged for the hired company of the girls, stocked the boat with groceries and whiskey, then sailed south for Koh Muk. Now they were taking up the air and space around the table.

The shadows were lengthening when Jake started making polite noises about dinner. The newcomers finally tottered off, well up on their daily quota of whiskey. Jamie’s parting words were merry.

“We’ll be seeing you Laddies, for drinks after sunset then.”

It was a declaration, not a question.

* * *

Jake and Wes were back on Charlie Beach, settled at the loneliest table they could find. Their dinner had been fine; the restaurant a bamboo hut, and their waiter the cook’s ten-year-old son. Starlight glowed on the dark water. Behind them, the moon was rising over the spine of the island.

Jamie proved to be a man of his word. Wes caught sight of him plowing out of the darkness, weaving across the sand with Bang in hand. Wes nudged Jake with his foot, pointing. Jake laughed as he watched the Scotsman draw a bead on their table before plunging on.

“We’re in for it, Wes.”

“Looks like. At least he brought the girl.”

Jake gave him the eye.

“You’re not going to land us in one of your entanglements, are you? There’s no need to be swiping the old geezer’s escort.”

“Naw, relax, she just improves the scenery. I’d damn sure rather look at Bang than that scrawny old Scotsman.”

And then the scrawny Scotsman was on them.

“Well, Laddies, we meet again.”

Much drinking ensued, and a great deal of talking as well, with Jamie doing most of both. Jake did his best to carve out some of the conversation. Wes contented himself with smoking and making eyes with Bang. Jamie noticed it, laughed it off with a comment, then plunged back into conversation with Jake. The talk was grating on Wes’s last nerve. There were two things he hated: Drunk people when he was sober and sober people when he was drunk. Wes had been sober a long time.

At the end of the conversation, Jake mentioned that he was leaving for Phuket on the morning ferry. Jamie was on him in an instant.

“Hoot, Man! Stuart and I are sailing fer Phuket on ta morrow. You Laddies come with us, right?”

Jake looked to Wes, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Sure, Jamie, we’d love to, as long as we’re not a bother.”

“Ach, Man, no bother; we’re going that way all along. We’ll see you Laddies at brekkie, right? Make an early start.”

Jamie gathered himself up, supported somewhat by Bang. As the two shadows lurched across the dark sand, Bang turned her head and threw them a smile. Her teeth gleamed in the moonlight.

“Well, Wes, what then shall we do?”

“You’re the one who needs to get to Phuket, not me.”

“Yeah, but what do you think about the whole boat thing?”

“You’re asking me what I think about sailing off to Phuket with two lunatic Scotsmen? Once we’re out on the high seas, I guess we can throw the bastards overboard. I’m pretty sure Bang would lend a hand.”

“Funny, but do you think he was serious?”

“Jamie, serious? Yeah, sure, as far as it went; whiskey talk and all of that. Look, even if Jamie remembers inviting us, Stuart is going to have something to say about it. I’ll tell you what. The ferry leaves at around nine-thirty. If those two clowns are up and ready to sail before that, I’ll go with you, provided their boat looks seaworthy.”

* * *

 Jamie and Stuart were up bright and early, highly trained professionals showing not much wear for the long night. Which is how Wes found himself throwing his rucksack into a long-tail boat that was nosed up to the sandy beach. He piled in with the others, leaning up against Bang. The Thai boatman laughed as the unmuffled Isuzu engine roared like a dragon.

Wes still doubted the two old codgers, but when he saw the yacht, he no longer doubted Stuart’s taste in boats. She was called the Miss-Reclined, a forty-three-foot steel hull North Cape. She was a beauty, dark blue against the shine of the sea, a center cockpit sloop with cabins fore and aft. The idea of piracy became more than an idle joke. A man could sail around the globe in that thing.

Stuart took to the cockpit, and the big diesel thrummed to life. Wes liked the sound of it: Solid and deep. If they were in for it, at least the engine sounded good. The girls disappeared below decks. Jamie set Jake and Wes to be the crew.

The first task was to free the anchor from the rocks on the bottom of the bay. After heaping curses on a stubborn windlass, Wes finally got the anchor chain clacking up over the rollers. When the anchor appeared through the blue water, Wes could see it was twisted out of shape. Pulled hard against the rocks on the bottom, it was damaged beyond repair. There would be no anchoring along the way, only mooring.

Stuart motored the yacht into a head wind, rounding the island of Koh Muk and turning into a pass to the west of Koh Ngai. The route led due north, up along Koh Lanta, past the fabled spires of Koh Phi-Phi-Don and finally turning northwest to Koh Phuket. Eight or nine hours cruising, and they would be motoring into the harbor at Phuket Town.

The big diesel pushed the Miss-Reclined through the headwind. Life was slow and grand. Bang and Bee served cool drinks and sliced mango. Wes relaxed, settling into the thing. They lounged about; Jamie and Jake swapping tales, the girls napping down below decks. An idyllic motor-cruise on an idyllic sea dotted with fantastical islands. It was a paradise, another unexpected twist in yet another journey. What could go wrong?

The seas roughened after lunch, the bow cutting into the swells. Jamie asked Jake to secure the anchor chain, which had bounced itself loose onto the deck. Jake made it to the pitching bow without being tossed over the side. Wes watched him struggling with the chain, trying to free a stubborn shackle pin.

Wes grabbed a spud pin and a wrench, moving forward to lend a hand. Jake grunted as Wes knelt beside him in the narrow space. Spray was flying over the bow, salt sticking to their sweating skin.

“She’s an ornery little bitch. The pin is all corroded. Hand me that spud, Wes.”

The bow lofted on a swell, then dropped from under them. Jake and Wes had to cling to the railing to stay with the boat. The chop increased, and the shackle pin refused to budge. Wes pinned the shackle with his free hand, while Jake worked at it with the end of the spud. The pin finally broke free, and they started feeding the chain below.

That’s when the engine died. The comforting thrum of the diesel chugged twice and fell silent. Wes felt the boat lurch against the swell. The hull of the sailboat swung into the trough of the waves, as if being pulled backwards. As last of the chain slid below the deck, Wes turned to Jake.

“This ain’t good; we better get back there.”

Jamie was waiting for them as they scrambled along the pitching deck.

“Lads, the motor has just stopped, and we don’t know why.”

Stewart was peering over the stern, pointing down and shaking his head. Wes fought the wallow of the boat to stand beside the stocky Scotsman.

 Trailing from the stern was a skein of derelict fishing net coiled a meter thick. It was a giant dreadlock of a tangle, like something hanging off the head of one of those fake Rastafarian trust-fund kids down on Khao San Road. The tentacle of tangled net disappeared from sight, fading away into the blue depths of the clear water.

The crew assembled in the cockpit. Stuart was grim. Bang and Bee looked scared to death. Jamie’s eyes fell on Jake and Wes.

“Laddies, we’ve snagged a ghost net. Those damned Thai fishermen, they’re always losing one of their nets. Just leave the things to drift, they do. This bastard has snarled the prop right proper. We’ll have to go over the side and cut her loose. So, which one of you lads is the strongest swimmer?”

For some reason, everyone turned to look at Wes.

* * *

The crystal water pulled at Wes’ body, the same current that was pulling the Miss-Reclined against the mass of the ghost net. He kicked his fins to stay with the boat, trying to avoid the steel hull that was rising and falling above him. He dodged away from the hull, cleared his snorkel, and sucked in a lungful of air.

A quick inspection showed the prop completely engulfed in a mass of net. The body of the net disappeared into the deep as far as visibility allowed Wes to see. The net was a big one, twisted by the prop into one giant, rough rope. He sawed at the mass with a dive knife. A few of the strands parted before his lungs begged for air. Wes kicked clear of the hull and rose to the surface. He gulped air through the snorkel, scissor-kicked into a dive, and gave it another go.

Between fending off the pitching hull and avoiding getting caught in the net, there was precious little breath left for actual cutting. After about ten dives, Wes came back alongside and explained the situation. It was no good, it would take hours. Jamie nodded at him over the side.

“Come back aboard, Lad, we’re rigging the breather.”

Jamie had already rigged the hookah, a sort of umbilical air line that can pump air to a diver down to ten meters. Wes climbed back aboard. He strapped a weight belt to his waist and stuck a spare dive knife into the belt. He fitted the regulator into his mouth. He tested the airflow, gave a thumbs up, and back splashed off the ladder into the sea. Jake followed him into the water, snorkeling on the surface as a buddy watch.

 Wes attacked the net with a vengeance. He got well below the hull and started cutting the tangle away in clumps. The stiff current was trying to pull him away from the boat. Wes gripped the prop shaft with one hand and sawed at the net with the other. He reached for a better grip on the steel shaft and felt a sharp sting. A fine tendril of blood moved past his mask, borne away on the current. He checked his hand. It was just a small slice in the palm, but now blood was in the water. His damned memory was quick to recall that sharks can smell blood from five hundred yards. Wes went back to sawing at the net, pushing away the mental image of grey torpedoes zeroing in on him.

A sudden thought crystallized in his brain: Watch the net, Boyo, watch the net. You don’t want to go with it.  If he was tangled in the net when it pulled loose and sank, there would be no swimming out of it. Looking down, he saw that some strands of the net had looped over the weights in the belt. Not today, Boyo, I’ll not die today. Wes circled to the other side of the prop to keep the net down current from his body. As he cut more of the net, what remained of it grew tauter in the current. Wes slashed at the tightening strands, which curled and whipped as they parted under the knife.

With a last cut, the mass of net fell away. The ragged tentacle sank into the blue depths, as if pulled from below. The severed tendrils of the net waved like grasping skeleton fingers desperate to remain in the light. A last torn fragment of net hung from the prop. Wes tucked it into his dive belt as a souvenir.

He braced his body upside down against the hull. Riding the hull like a barnacle, he inspected the propeller and the shaft. Nothing seemed bent and the prop blades were intact. Wes sank away from the hull, hovering in the shadow of it. He saw Jake off to port, snorkeling on the surface. Jake was waving him up: Enough, already, let’s go. Wes nodded, kicked clear of the hull, and swam for the ladder.

Back aboard the Miss-Reclined, it was smiles and high-fives all around. Wes was the conquering hero, and he was enjoying the role. Jamie and Jake stowed the gear while Stuart fired up the engine. Wes left them to it, soaking up the hero’s welcome from Bang and Bee. Bang kept murmuring thank-you, touching his shoulder. He realized just how frightened the two women were. Adrift in a crippled sailboat was not what they had signed on for.

Bee fussed over Wes. She brought him a bottle of water and set about toweling his hair. Wes’ palm was still seeping blood. When Bee spotted the blood, she threw a hand to her mouth and sprinted for the rail. Wes couldn’t help watching her lovely ass as she bent over the gunwales to chum the fishes. He felt a punch on his shoulder and turned. Bang was waving a warning finger in his face, but she was smiling. She pulled his hand into her lap and began tending the cut.

They were well underway again, drinks in hand, when the celebration finally eased down. Stuart’s grunts had warmed up to a level of comradeship, and Jamie was all smiles. He waved his glass at Jake and Wes.

“Lads, I must admit, I only asked ya aboard on a lark, sorry to say it. I needed a bit of conversation, which is sorely lacking in this group.”

Stuart managed a laugh at this, reaching for his drink.

“As it turns out, I’m damned glad we brought you Laddies along. I’ll tell you true, I don’t think we could have got her free. I know this tubby old bastard could nae of, and I’m sorry to say the same for myself.”

Later, sliding next to Wes on the cockpit bench, Jamie nudged him with a bony elbow.

“Wes, lad, if you were of a mind, I’ll give Bang the word. You two could slip down into the for’d cabin there for a bit of the old Eskimo hospitality. You’ve certainly earned it.”

Wes looked into the old man’s face, embarrassed at being caught out that easily. Jamie was a lot cagier than he looked, even with a few drinks in him. Wes was more surprised by the lack of his own temptation. The thought of going seconds after the old man reminded him of a tenuous morality he’d misplaced some years ago.

“Thanks, Jamie, that’s sporting of you, but I’m pretty worn out from that dive. I’m not a young man anymore. That shit took it out of me.”

Jamie slapped a knobby hand down on Wes’ thigh, laughing aloud.

“Righty-O, Lad, but you don’t know what old is yet, that’s sure. Well, we’ve got hours to go afore Phuket. If you change your mind, you let me know.”

Wes glanced across the cockpit and caught a shy smile from Bang. He cursed his conscience for foolishness and let the thing go.

* * *

They brought the Miss-Reclined into Phuket by the light of a full moon. Jamie was nervous, harping at Stuart to keep her well between the channel lights. Wes was tasked with watching the depth meter. The dark blue yacht crept into the harbor, her keel almost skimming the mud bottom.

Jamie did not relax until they were in the marina, searching for the moorage a friend had loaned them. In the end, he gave it up. He pointed to an empty mooring buoy.

“Here, Stuart, we’ll tie her up here until the morning. I do nae know where Charlie’s damned tie-up is. They can bloody well boot us when the sun comes up, but I’m done looking.”

A long stone pier jutted into the harbor from the seawall. Two hundred meters of black water lay between it and the Miss-Reclined. Neon lights blinked along the waterfront. The narrow streets leading off the waterfront were part of the seediest neighborhood in Phuket Town.

“Well, Laddies, we’ll just throw over the dinghy and I’ll be motoring you to the jetty.”

 The dinghy proved a ridiculously tiny affair; a two-meter inflatable barely big enough for one adult. The wee outboard motor refused to come to life, despite Jamie’s ample and creative cursing. Wes intervened, clearing the carburetor and adjusting the choke. With a few pulls, he managed to coax the thing to life. The little motor sputtered and coughed, but it kept running.

Three grown men and luggage pushed the dinghy well down into the water. Jake eyed the thing with deep suspicion. With goodbyes all around, Jamie throttled the motor up and the little inflatable plowed across the dirty water of the harbor.

Jamie aimed the dinghy at a set of stone stairs that dropped into the water from the top of the pier. Wes and Jake scrambled onto the slimy steps, happy to have avoided a last-minute swim. Jamie handed up their bags and bade them farewell. They shook hands over the rubber gunwales of the little boat.

“Stuart, he’s got a big place up on the hill above the town. We’ve lots of room. You Laddies are always welcome.”

With that, he twisted the throttle and spun the dinghy back out across the black water. Jake and Wes climbed the stairs and stood on the paving stones of the jetty, watching the vee of the little boat’s wake recede into the blackness. Jake was the first to speak.

“Shit, Wes, I’m going to miss those silly bastards. That was a hell of a thing.”

“Yeah, not what I expected from the day, that’s for sure. C’mon, let’s go find a guesthouse. If I remember right, you’re going to get to see one of the more colorful parts of Phuket Town.”

Wes shouldered his rucksack. Jake’s rolling bag clattered over the flagstones of the pier with a noise that annoyed the crap out of Wes.

The two men walked off the pier and into the glare of neon lights. They took the first lane that led away from the harbor.

The narrow street was lined with open-air bars. A cacophony of competing sound systems assailed the night. Giggling B-girls sat in front of each bar. The girls called to them in sing-song voices.

“Hey, Handsome, you buy me drink?”

“You come inside, nice cold beer here.”

They passed another bar and another bevy of girls. Jake turned to Wes.

“Holy shit, Wes, you weren’t kidding.”

“Yeah, this is the hot season, not enough customers to go around. Listen, let’s stop here and ask. We’re never going to find a legit guesthouse if we just keep wandering.”

Wes stepped up to the girls and gave them a traditional greeting. They giggled and smiled.

“Where is the boss tonight, Girls?”

One of the young women answered him with a wave of her hand.

“The boss, she inside, but she old. You stay with me, buy me a drink. I’m pretty, yes?”

“Yes, you are pretty, but I need to talk to the boss.”

The girl shrugged.

“Okay, I get her.”

An older woman appeared, eyeing the two men. Wes turned to face her.

“Sawadee-krab.”

“Sawadee-kha. You want a drink, maybe a girl?”

“Thank you, but we are very tired. We are looking for a regular guesthouse, something quiet. Maybe you know a place.”

“Sure, I know a place. My cousin has good guesthouse. You go one kilometer up this road. Where the road splits, you go right, up smaller street. Easy to find. My cousin’s place, it called Purple Orchid. You want Tuk-tuk?”

“No, we will walk. Kob-kuhn-krab Khun Paa.”

The girls giggled at Wes’ formal Thai. The older woman smiled at him.

“You come back, you make sure come here, okay?”

Wes smiled and nodded, tilting his head toward Jake. They set off up the street, Jake’s stupid bag clattering over the cobbles. When they were out of earshot, Jake spoke.

“What was that you said to the madam?”

“I guess you would translate it as Thank-You Missus Auntie, a term of respect.”

“You always were a charming son of a bitch. Let’s see if we can find this guesthouse. I need a shower in the worst way. I’m smelling like a whore in church.”

“Interesting choice of words, Jake.”

He gave Wes the eye.

“Are you coming back down here?”

Wes looked down the gauntlet of bars. When he turned to face his old friend, he was shaking his head.

“No, Jake, I don’t think I will. I believe I’ve seen enough of this.”

Jake shrugged and began walking. Wes followed him, sweating under the weight of his rucksack. The neon and noise faded away behind them.

Fini

That’s it for this 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/

And finally, with your indulgence, allow me a blatant book plug. A lovely concept: Artists being paid for their work. And, yes, even writers need to eat. So please, buy a damn book. Thank you!