So, this is happening…

Kittelson troll boy with a cauldron

Hugo, in the early days, as seen by Kittelson

I have the great pleasure of being allowed to sit in the Author’s Chair in the Saddle Up Saloon over at the Carrot Ranch. It’s headquartered somewhere in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and around the world, where Rough Writers play with weekly prompts, poetry challenges, and the occasional Online Karaoke. Cowpoke or not, all are welcome to play and/or read.

My time in this week’s Author’s Chair is a bit of dark humor about a hungry giant, some carelessly spunky spelunkers, and the townsfolk nestled in the valley below (based on a Six Sentence Story that like Hugo, got a bit larger). Here’s an excerpt to start, or go on ahead and belly right up to the bar at the Saloon for the full text, and an audio of me reading the tale. Once upon a time:

Giant Problem Solved by Liz Husebye Hartmann

(Trigger alert: Not a tale for the wee ones)

Hugo’s belly pangs rumbled down the darkening mountainside above Heffinger Hollow. He was sorely tempted to nibble on a half-cooked morsel or two of the spunky spelunkers that frequented Carbuncle Caverns. This particular group of spelunkers had surprised the village by sneaking in to the Carbuncle and setting out to explore without a guide. They’d zigged when they should have zagged on that seventh leg of the descent, and had fallen deep into the bowels of the lowest cavern of Carbuncle.

This had proved deadly for them, but put their corpses within easy reach of Hugo…

But a bit of history, first…”

[Please click here to continue]

© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2021)

Who Wrote the Book of Love, Again?

The book lay before him, splayed open and heavy, the archaic lettering spidery and so faded in places, the necessary ingredients for the desperately desired results were difficult to read and translate in the tallow candle’s light. Up above him the shadowed shelf contained what he hoped was the correct final ingredient; if he’d read the spell book correctly, the results would be abiding love, but if he had not, the potion would deliver never-ending death. Continue reading

First Love (FlashNano day 7)

King Kong & Faye WraySo here’s a light-hearted short, for a change of pace.  For the 2020 FlashNano challenge (https://nancystohlman.com/flashnano/ )

I don’t know that he was my first love, but I’m pretty sure I was his. Tall, dark-eyed, dark-haired, with a rambling, knuckle-dragging masculinity, he did capture my attention when he swung by the theater. He grunted a greeting, gazing at me from under his heavy unibrow.  He wasn’t much of a one for words, but I could tell his intentions by a certain animal shyness in his demeanor. Maybe I shouldn’t have encouraged him. The fact that he was chained up and behind bars should have given me caution, but sometimes you just have to flaunt respectability and go with your heart. Continue reading

Six Months Ago…

snow-covered trees and shrub around a flowing streamIt’s been hot here in the Twin Cities.

Hot and humid.

Hot and humid and COVID.

So much so, that folks are divided on whether to wear masks or not, and what the actual distance of six feet looks like: whether distance is different in an enclosed space versus an open space, whether the current air filtration system is adequate to dispel the exhalations (the coronavirus soup), whether six feet is buffer enough when one is active, whether adding a drink or two to the mix makes for exponential risk… Continue reading

Photo & Film on NewsLine Tonight

View of Grand CAnyon

Photo by Linnaea Mallette

Jack stood at the canyon’s edge and switched his phone to selfie mode. Too much face, not enough canyon. “All wrong,” he muttered. “I need maximum impressiveness.”

Phone in hand, he climbed the ledge, mindful of the low safety railing, and turned his back to the canyon. Still too much face. It was then that he noticed the tiny icons on the bottom of his screen. A choice between many figures, or one. He pressed many figures. “Wow! Way more canyon, just enough face.” Continue reading

Shields Down

cShe’d gotten in near midnight, after her evening shift at the group home. Her own home was a shambles: beer cans and wine bottles, scummy bong water, butts strewn all over the floor, some of them human. They weren’t supposed to be here.

Rodney emerged from the bedroom, a very drunk, half-clothed Britanny hanging off his shoulder, sharing his satiated grin.

“Sheralynn,” Rodney drew up his familiar shield of nonchalance. “I thought you were working a double shift.”

“They sent me home. Likely COVID exposure,” she wiped her brow, unsure if it was fever, or rage. “Everybody out. Now.”

Continue reading