Watcher Doings 40                         

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Lady Lake continued to rotate her upraised hand clockwise to gather, and the moonlit sky both darkened and lightened as seagulls came from all directions from their nighttime roosting spots, hovering and circling overhead, as she suggested gently to the crew of gnomes and shapeshifters, “You might want to step closer inside the protective circle, because things are about to get even more real.

“Be smart, Jimann, and choose to do the right thing,” she continued, raising an eyebrow at him and adding “You’ve run out of all other options.”

“Bite me,” Jimann sneered a bit too viciously, adding “No one gives me orders and you’re violating my rights…I’ll do what I want and take what I want, whenever I want.”

The Lady sighed, the crew huddled together, and she bent her wrist to point at Jimann. With raucous, savage cries, the seagulls dove down onto the miscreant with beak and claw and battering wings, and tore him to bits.

Flipping her hand upwards, she raised her arm and rotated her fingers widdershins, and the seagulls scattered leaving not even a shred of skin or blood or bone behind.

© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2026)

(continued below)

Watcher Doings 41                         

(The Prompt word is again ORDER)

“Is he…dead?” asked Rockmouse, arms around her cousin Fenlodth. The other three gnomes had dropped to the ground in a pile, arms about each other, shivering fright.

“Bit too much power in that one,” answered the Lady, and smoothing her fingers down one of her dark, lustrous braids, she explained, “But it’ll take about one and a half millenia for those parts to find each other and get themselves back in order to pose any kind of threat to anyone else, or to the environment. He’s got a horrifying track record just about everywhere human, magical, and in between.”

“Have a clementine,” offered Fenlodth, holding a crinkling bag out to the Lady, as he prepared to run toward the ravine on the far north side of the property to relieve himself; he’d waited, locked and loaded for almost too long.

“Or…I can make us all a big batch of Tater Tot Hotdish, just for something different,” countered Farah, smiling in relief, gratitude, and more than a little awe at the copper green-eyed woman now standing by her side, adding “It’ll just take a li’l jif’ or so, as the town postmistress tells me.”   

© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2026)

(To be continued)