Patchwork is an e-magazine released every two months, published by Fish Out of Water Media, and run by very enthusiastic teenagers. All of the profit from this magazine is donated to the charity we are currently sponsoring (2013- Food for the Poor, Inc). Our editors, artists, and authors donate their time and work to create this magazine, which is released every two months and contains continued stories, poetry, artwork, and (in the future) music and video. Because of this, *every penny* our generous subscribers spend on it goes to charity. As of now, we have no PayPal system set up. Please email us at fishoutofwatermedia@gmail.com for more information on purchasing this electronic magazine.
Last year (2012), Patchwork raised over $100 for Food for the Poor.
If you are an artist, author, musician, or film maker who would like to contribute original art to the magazine, feel free to email us at fishoutofwatermedia@gmail.com. This project exists because of the great work of generous artists like you! Thank you!
Patchwork 2 . 1 is now available! Order it while you still can.
Below is an excerpt from this issue's new short story, "Roninflea".
Roninflea stumbled toward [the cellar], anxiety slowing his steps. He hated dusting the barrels of mead, but Madame Rock kept a tight ship, insisting that it must be done. Oreollivan often did it for him, but right now she was nowhere in sight, and hadn’t been all afternoon. Ronninflea steeled himself and opened the cellar door. He took a deep breath. There were lights down there; it wasn’t like he was going into complete
darkness. He could do it. After a minute more of this sort of pep-talk, he made it to the base of the stairs. Unfortunately, right there waiting for him, was the demonic cat.
It was truly a repulsive animal, by anyone’s standards. It was mottled black and orange, not in patches, but in sprinkles—as though it had gotten in the way of two fighting painters and the droplets had permanently discolored its fur. Its eyes were green, large and lantern-like; they glowed in the dim cellar. Ronninflea had tried, once, to refrain from judging the cat’s character by its looks, but its personality was so glaringly evident in its shorn tail and deformed ear (remnants both of an epic battle with some powerful adversary) that it was simply no use. The cat was a monster, surely. And as if that weren’t bad enough, it had the most eerie way of constantly watching Ronninflea and following him around as though it was just waiting for Flea to grow big enough to pop into a stew.
The young elf stood there for a moment, staring back into the green eyes, trying to convince himself that he could do this. That is, until the cat winked at him. Ronninflea bolted back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Thanks to his incredible sense of timing, he arrived at the top just as Oreollivan passed with a large tray filled with ice-water (a rare commodity much demanded by those who partook a bit too liberally of the mead). Ronninflea flew headlong into his older sister and the tray crashed to the ground. Water pooled and broken glass and ice skittered across the polished wooden floor.
Roninflea’s eyes widened in terror as he realized what this meant.
