Marco Etheridge lives in Austria, writing fiction shaped by the sharp edges and small mercies of European city life. His work appears internationally, and he also lends his eye to a new ’zine, Hotch Potch, where he handles editing and layout.
On a rain-streaked street, she watches a man clutch a damaged fruit basket, the torn cellophane dripping onto his trousers, the closed door behind him explaining more than his expression...
