Farrago's Wainscot issue 6 is now live. It features stories, poetry, and nonfiction by a number of fine folks, among them ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ecmyers, Nancy Jane Moore, and myself, with my story "Flowertongue," a story of orchid hunting, strange botany, river journeying, and love, among other things.
The inconsistencies in Stengott's story were clear to Ames, though not, apparently, to anyone else. He listened through the tigers, the cannibals, and an admittedly entertaining, if entirely fictitious, tribal ceremony, politely sipping his punch, until Alice Seagrove's large-brimmed hat, which she held in her hands, brushed against his thigh. By the tilt of her head, brown hair in its complex twist of chignon, and the occasional slant of her eyes, he knew she knew very well what she was about. He might not have minded, ordinarily, Alice Seagrove being the eldest and most intelligent of the Seagrove brood, with a good wit in her well-turned head. But her hat was brushing the thigh where he'd been skewered by a splintered plank in a pontoon wreck on his last expedition, and though it was finally healing cleanly, it was still sore and Miss Seagrove's attentions weren't quite as subtle as she might have believed.
Farrago's is one of the most artful, well executed, and inviting of internet 'zines; I heartily urge you to check it out. If you like what you see, spread the word; they're a donation- and word of mouth-supported venue.
eta: this is not an April Fool's joke, repeat this fiction is truly available to you at the links above
ecmyers, Nancy Jane Moore, and myself, with my story "Flowertongue," a story of orchid hunting, strange botany, river journeying, and love, among other things. The inconsistencies in Stengott's story were clear to Ames, though not, apparently, to anyone else. He listened through the tigers, the cannibals, and an admittedly entertaining, if entirely fictitious, tribal ceremony, politely sipping his punch, until Alice Seagrove's large-brimmed hat, which she held in her hands, brushed against his thigh. By the tilt of her head, brown hair in its complex twist of chignon, and the occasional slant of her eyes, he knew she knew very well what she was about. He might not have minded, ordinarily, Alice Seagrove being the eldest and most intelligent of the Seagrove brood, with a good wit in her well-turned head. But her hat was brushing the thigh where he'd been skewered by a splintered plank in a pontoon wreck on his last expedition, and though it was finally healing cleanly, it was still sore and Miss Seagrove's attentions weren't quite as subtle as she might have believed.
Farrago's is one of the most artful, well executed, and inviting of internet 'zines; I heartily urge you to check it out. If you like what you see, spread the word; they're a donation- and word of mouth-supported venue.
eta: this is not an April Fool's joke, repeat this fiction is truly available to you at the links above
