Bog Hag Anthology
Story: A Murky Reckoning
ASIN: B0DK41MNRF
Publication Date: October 14, 2024
Genre (for the story): Dark Fantasy, Lovecraftian Fantasy, Horror, Occult and Supernatural, Witchcraft and Magic
Buy Link: https://amzn.to/4h9fQUD
Price:
$0.99 Ebook
$5.75 Paperback
Book Blurb:
Whether she’s crawling across a sweltering bayou or swimming languidly through a swamp, the bog hag watches and waits.
Join sixteen AuthorTubers as they explore the allure and mystery of the Bog Hag, turning her from a villain to a gal with a social calendar, a vendetta, or even a need to be the best she can be.
Any and all proceeds from the sales of this anthology go to Quill Cottage Wildlife, a 501C3 nonprofit.
Story Blurb:
Garwick Greedgill is a fisherman desperate to become a legend in the realm where he dwells. When he pulls a horrific creature up from the polluted sea, he sacrifices it to the legendary sorceress who is said to live at the center of the bog near which he dwells.
Yadira of the Roots is said to be the daughter of Nyarlathotep, the Wish-Bringer From Beyond the Stars. Will Garwick’s actions earn favor from the storied Bog Hag, or does another fate await him?
About the Author:
L. Hart, the owner and sole employee of Naughty Netherworld Press and Ornery Owl Ventures, is spoken of in hushed tones. She is an editor who writes or a writer who edits. She is also described as The Mad Scribe of the Northeastern Colorado Plains, The Terrible Old Woman, and The Author That Should Not Be. She is a member of ACES Editing Society, the Denver Horror Collective, First Coast Romance Writers, the H. P. Lovecraft Historical Society, Passionate Ink (writing as Lil DeVille), Regency Romance Writers, and Rocky Mountain Romance Writers.
Ms. Hart shares a home in a remote rural town of 134 souls with her adult son and three cats. Her sense of fashion is best described as Early Twenty-First Century Unmade Bed. This disabled former nurse can usually be found arguing with herself about subplots or rehabilitating eldritch horrors.
When not penning sanity-destroying works of dystopian fiction, Lovecraftian fantasy, or old-school horror with the occasional sweet romance thrown in to upset the cosmic apple cart, Ms. Hart enjoys creating baked goods she hopes will be considered palatable by someone besides eldritch horrors.
Follow C. L. Hart
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Excerpt
An Aquatic Reckoning
Back at the dock, the fisherman hurried to the stables, paying the stable hand four Electrotokens to rent a cart and a pair of mules to haul his catch away. He promised to return the cart and the animals the next day.
Garwick Greedgill was thick around the midsection and had a sunken chest and narrow frame that belied the strength of his wiry arms. His leathery, tanned skin bore witness to many years spent on a boat’s deck under the sun’s harsh glare. His hair was a bristly mix of silver and gunmetal gray, poking through the many holes in a threadbare red cap embossed with the emblem of a long-forgotten fishing guild. A heavy forehead and scowling brow framed eyes a sickly shade of murky green, reminiscent of a polluted ocean. His broad nose bent slightly to one side courtesy of a mishap with the sail boom. Countless hours spent retrieving catch after catch left his calloused hands stained with fish scales and innards as he searched for the grand haul that always eluded him.
Garwick wore frayed puce trousers held up by a filthy, tattered flaxen rope belt. His once-bright cerise tunic, covered in various colored patches where he had mended it over the years, was threadbare. It hung loosely over his prominent belly. The soles of his scuffed brown boots were worn thin, leaving his feet vulnerable to the cold and damp. He wore a necklace of oddly shaped stones and bones that he believed would attract good luck. The longed-for luck seldom materialized.
Garwick drove the cart as close as possible to the bog extending beyond his property’s edge. He lived in a ramshackle hut between the bog and a twisting, moss-covered path that led to a meandering creek. Near the hut was a dingy shed. Every corner held remnants of his profession—a collection of rusty hooks, tattered nets, and an old, cracked barrel filled with miscellaneous items of dubious worth. A box containing lucky tokens collected over the years sat on a dusty shelf. Best of all, there was a wondrous grimoire. An odor of decay emanated from the book’s brown hide cover. Garwick did not mind the strange texture or unpleasant scent of the tome. Based on today’s catch, the grimoire’s magic had already begun to work.
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