Married Life!
By the third day, the fingers began to twitch. The movement started at the very tipsthose plump, crimson ends that looked like the cap of a fly agaric, minus the spots. Then the grey parts joined in, and by noon, the whole length was squirming. There were no bones insidejust hollow stalks taking full advantage of their flexibility. One by one, they stretched toward the edges of the pot, eager to escape. Marina smirkedamusing, really, that shed chosen a pot shaped like a human head. Clearly, she had a knack for making things think.
The fingers stopped exploring and frozea fly had buzzed up to the window. Wings flickering, the insect landed on the floral curtains and began its slow crawl downward, testing the fabric with its proboscis before flitting onto the glass. The fingers tensed, holding perfectly still. The fly crept onto the red tip of one. A tentative taste, then it ventured further.
The finger struck fast. The crimson tip snapped down, trapping the fly. A faint crunch silenced the buzzing, and all seven fingers coiled into a tight fist, pressing into the soil of the pot. The fungus now resembled a grey brain threaded with red veins.
*”Food for thought,”* Marina muttered, retrieving a small cauldron from the stove. The meat broth was just beginning to simmer.
***
She ladled a bowl of broth, gave it a stirnice consistency, decent aroma. Scooping a spoonful, she drizzled the hot liquid over the pot. The fingers shivered eagerly, soaking up the rich, meaty moisture through the veins between them. Marina stepped back to watch. The fingers quivered, then split apart from the tips, the grey stalks peeling open into crimson petals lined with tiny, grasping suckers. Now fully bloomed, the fungus sprawled like a scarlet flower over the clay head.
Marina chuckled to herself and lifted the pot. One tendril stretched toward her finger. She hissedit froze.
*”Thats what I thought,”* she whispered, carrying it to the open cellar.
Something writhed in the darkness below. She tossed the pot in. A muffled squeak, then a wet *squelch*.
Returning to the stove, she grabbed the cauldron. The thick wool rag in her hands was damp and slippery; heat from the cast iron seeped into her fingertips. Thick, murky stew sloshed into the cellars depthsanswered by eager, smacking lips.
She set the pot aside and lit a lantern. The cellar walls pulsed with grey, finger-like fungi. One by one, they unfurled into red, petal-tipped tendrils, drunk on the meaty brothjust like Grandmas recipe.
Placing the lantern on the table, Marina dragged the bed back into place, the iron legs scraping against the floorboards. She checked the mechanism, straightened the quilt, and draped a curtain over the cellars maw.
A crisp white tablecloth smoothed over the table, steaming dishes arranged on the plates. The floors gleamed, the lamp oil replenished. Shedding her worn dress for a fresh frock, Marina pinched her cheeks for colour and peeked out the cottage door.
A rider in gleaming chainmail approached from the crossroads. How splendidperhaps today, shed get herself a husband! And if he didnt suit? Well, the cellar was always hungry.
The suitor trotted right up to the porchand Marina, the hereditary witch, flashed him a dazzling smile.
