Watcher Doings 22                  

Join us for a weekly blog party in Six Sentence Stories, hosted by Denise and attended by some mighty fine, fun folk. Prompt word=ACCENT. Two this week, as my brain went holiday numb last week…

“Umm, Ferah…you’ve been a wonderful hostess and all,” mumbled Rockmouse, tugging gently on the hem of the cat woman’s shirt after following her into the kitchen. “And we appreciate the clementines you’ve been supplying us—we don’t get much access in our homeland—but my tummy is beginning to feel a little acid, and too much gives Fernlodth gastric distress.”

“And we’re expecting company soon, which means we’ll need to supply more and varied food,” finished Ferah, understanding at once, as Fernlodth had been adding his own personal and thunderous “accents” to the usual nature sounds of the cottage; the nights had been getting colder and it was no longer feasible to leave the windows open all the time.

“He thinks they’re silent, but doesn’t know how deadly they’ve become,” Rockmouse met Ferah’s gaze with rising panic as Fernlodth expressed himself once more.

“Of course! I have a deep freezer in the shed, and I’ll check what herbs I have in storage to sooth his stomach.”

© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2025)

Watcher Doings 23                  

Prompt word=ECHO. Read, write and come back for more SIX SENTENCE STORIES.   (Link goes active Wed night).

Now that the sun was up, Rockmouse scurried to the damp forested edge of the lakeside to search for mushrooms and set a few traps for small game, while Ferah stepped into the cool shed at the back of the cottage.

The freezer was full with homemade sourdough pumpernickel bread, buttermilk waffles, and ground turkey from the island’s one grocery store; she could make a robust soup with vegetables from the garden, and if Rockmouse was successful in her search, they’d have some fresh mushrooms and herbs for the pot as well. When the three—Redrue, Sangfroid, and Plangeduc—arrived, she could set them to the task of fishing, for greater variety.

They had to eat and ready themselves for what might come next.

The silence of the shed was comforting, the smell of herbs in the rafters, and potatoes stored in sand promised sweet winter solitude, once this business with Montay, and presumably Jimann was dealt with.

It was then she heard a slow rustle from a small corner pile of burlap and felt a logey and very familiar presence echo in her consciousness.

© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2025)

(To be continued)