Married Life!
By the third day, the fingers began to twitch. It started at the very tipsthose plump, red ends that looked uncannily like toadstool caps, minus the white spots. Soon, the whole grey length of them was squirming by noon. No bones inside meant they could bend any which way, and they took full advantagewriggling, stretching, curling around the edges of the pot like cautious explorers. Marina smirked. Amusing, really, that shed picked a pot shaped like a human head. Clearly, she had a knack for stirring things up.
The fingers paused their investigation when a fly buzzed past the window. The insect landed on the floral curtains, wings flickering, then scuttled downward, probing the fabric with its tiny proboscis before flitting onto the glass. The fingers stilled, holding their breath (metaphorically speaking, of course). The fly crept onto one red fingertip, tasting it before crawling further.
The reaction was instant. The red tip snapped down, trapping the fly with a satisfying crunch. All seven fingers twisted into a tight fist and hunched low in the pot. The fungus now resembled a grey, veiny brain with streaks of red.
“Food for thought,” Marina muttered, pulling a small pot from the stove. The meat broth inside was just starting to simmer.
***
She ladled broth into a bowl, stirred it thoughtfullygood consistency, decent aroma. Scooping a spoonful, she tipped it over the pot. The fingers trembled greedily, soaking up the rich liquid between their fibres. Marina stepped back, observing. The fingers spasmed, then burst open from the tips, peeling apart into red, fleshy petals lined with tiny suction pads. The fully bloomed fungus now lay like a crimson flower atop 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, then carried it to the open cellar.
Something shifted in the dark below. She tossed the pot in. A muffled squeak, then a wet smack.
Back at the stove, she hefted the cast-iron pot. The thick, wool-lined mitt slipped slightly in her grip, heat prickling her fingertips through the fabric. Thick, murky stew poured into the cellars depthsanswered by eager, sloppy gulps.
She set the pot aside and lit a lantern. The cellar walls were alive with grey fingers, stirring. One by one, they unfurled into red, petal-like appendages, drunk on the meaty broth brewed from her grandmothers recipe.
Placing the lantern on the table, she dragged the bed back into place, iron legs scraping against the floorboards. She tested the mechanism, smoothed the quilt, and draped the cellar entrance beneath it with a heavy curtain.
The table was set with a crisp white cloth, steaming dishes from the oven, and polished cutlery. The floor gleamed, oil lamps freshly topped. Shedding her worn dress for a fresh frock, Marina pinched her cheeks for colour and peered out the cottage window.
A rider in gleaming chainmail approached from the crossroads. How splendidperhaps today, shed finally marry! And if the groom didnt suit? Well, the cellar was always hungry.
The suitor reined in at her doorstepand Marina, the villages most accomplished witch, flashed him a smile wide enough to hide a dozen secrets.
