Throwback Thursday: The Heart Baker by Fanni Sütő

I followed the witch,
melting into the shadows,
hoping the night would hide me...

Editor’s note: In very few words, Fanni conjures up heartache, a summer night, and magic. It’s flash stories like this one that have helped me decide to run shorter stories next year. This one is from June 2019.

He thinks he knows what he is doing. Of course, he doesn’t. How could he when he only sees until the edge of Rosaline’s skirt. What worries me is that I don’t know what he is doing either. That’s the real tragedy. I know the inside of his head more than he does, but now he is slipping away.

I don’t understand. That girl, woman, witch, whatever, is ugly! Exotic beauty and rare looks, the knobby kneecap of my great-aunt! And yet that’s what Albert and all the other bewitched boys say. Nice marketing, that’s what I say.

That wicked woman put something in their food, poisoned them into loving her. The way to a man’s heart leads through his stomach, after all.

Albert was supposed to marry me not her. He even gave me a ring! Now he’s asking it back. It was a mistake, he says, a midsummer madness. No-no, I won’t give up so easily.

Yesterday the moon was full and I knew that she, the thief of my happiness, was going out to collect herbs on the hill. I followed her, melting into the shadows, praying to the spirits of the night to hide me.

Rosaline had a long gown, the color of winter skies and a white basket that glowed with a silver light under the soft touch of moonshine.

She filled the basket with herbs and leaves smelling of mint, the sunshine of the first spring day and the notes of a lullaby. A spell of drowsiness weighed down on me, but I resisted. My determination was stronger than any magic that witch could master. I had to discover how she was doing it, leading the village men by their noses, making them dance as she whistles.

I followed her to her house at the edge of the dark forest and peered in through the window. Rosaline stood there heating a furnace; her flame-blonde hair flowing around her face. She threw leaves into the fire upon which the flames turned a deep violet. I could almost hear the cracking and feel their heat. She took a box from the corner and threw its contents into the fire. I could only catch a glimpse of the clay-colored objects, big as my fist. She cleaned her tools and kitchenware, then she returned to the flames and took out one of the finished products.

I could see clearly now; it was a heart made of some strange, living material. The witch produced a hammer and slammed down, murmuring under her breath. A mist emerged from the heart, slowly taking the shape of a girl with gloom-black hair and olive skin. The apparition looked me in the eye and blood froze in my veins. It was me.

Albert’s last memory of me disintegrated with a sad smile, and I understood that I'd irrevocably lost him.

Fanni Sütő writes poetry, short stories and a growing number of novels-in-progress. She publishes in English and Hungarian and finds inspiration in reading, paintings and music. She writes about everything which comes in her way or goes bump in the night. She tries to find the magical in the everyday and likes to spy on the secret life of cities and their inhabitants. Previous publications include:The Casket of Fictional Delights, Tincture Journal, Enchanted Conversation. Fundead Publications.
Website: www.inkmapsandmacarons.com
Follow her on Twitter @Fanni_Pumpkin

Cover: Amanda Bergloff

Throwback Thursday: FAIRY TALE FLASH - Beast by A. M. Offenwanger

He staggered on his clumsy legs,
then dropped down onto all fours.
Like an animal...

Editor’s note: This is a perfect example of flash fiction that packs a punch. I’m also a big fan of A.M. Offenwanger’s work overall. For those of you interested in submitting for the Surprise Christmas in July Writing Contest, this story might give you inspiration. Snowy weather is close enough to the theme of the contest to count! Learn more about the contest HERE.

The snow kept falling thicker and thicker. Whirling, blowing, biting, cutting. Clinging to his whiskers, to his eyelashes, to the hair on the side of his face. His nose and cheeks had grown numb, his fingers so cold he could no longer bend them. When he tried to raise them to his face to brush the snow out of his beard, they felt like hard claws on the end of big, clumsy, fur-covered paws; claws that had no feeling in them and could not move to his will.

He tried to climb up the side of the ravine, reached for a snow-covered branch. Could not close his hands on it—where were his thumbs? He staggered on his clumsy legs, then dropped down onto all fours.

Like an animal.

A beast.

They had turned him into a beast.

Robbed him of his inheritance, robbed him of his birth right.

Robbed him of who he was, robbed him of himself.

A growl rose deep within him, a roar.

“Rrrrraaaaaaahr!”

Harder and harder, the snow whirled about him, the wind roaring, shrieking, slashing with a thousand cruel knives, beating with a thousand brutal clubs.

His enemy had robbed him, his foe had taken all he had.

He was an animal, a great, fur-covered beast.

He fell and lay where he had fallen.

The snow piled up against his back, shrieked over him, buried him beneath a shroud of ice.

The flame of roaring in his breast died down. He let his head sink to the ground, pillowed on snow. There was nothing now but snow, ice, wind, cold.

Cold.

So very cold.

A beast barked in the distance. Loud, insistent, like a drum beat that cut through the shrieking of the gale. The sharp sound of a whistle, the voice of a human. The barking beast fell silent.

Humans.

He was no longer human, he was a beast.

He dragged himself up on his four feet, lumbered up the bank, away from the ravine.

Pointed his muzzle to the wind, caught the smell of a wood fire.

A fire.

Where there was fire, there was warmth.

Where there was warmth, there was life.

Life.

Life for beast, or man.

Fire.

Smoke.

A light.

The light of a cottage, shining through the trees.

He shied away.

Humans had guns, sharp knives.

Humans would hunt a beast.

He was a beast.

But yet…

The wind shrieked in his ear, it tore at him, it ripped his fur. It froze him to his very core.

Cold.

So very cold.

Fire, warmth, light.

Light.

Warmth.

Help.

Cold, so very cold.

Warmth.

He crept across the clearing, staggered through the snow.

Pulled himself up on the porch, fell against the door.

Scratched his paws against the wood.

The door opened up.

“C-c-c-cold,” he said, stumbling inside, “p-p-please,” his lips and tongue scarcely forming words.

“Girls,” a voice fell on his frozen ears, “brush off the snow, he’s frozen stiff. Snow White, the kettle on the hob. Rose Red, the fire stoked! I’ll get a quilt. What a night to be outside! Come, friend, come take rest. Rest and warmth. Come, you are safe.”

A.M. Offenwanger is a writer, reader, blogger, and editor.

Follow her blog Amo Vitam

and on Twitter @amoffenwanger

and Facebook here

Cover: Amanda Bergloff

THROWBACK THURSDAY TALE - Matches by Jane Dougherty

Love can penetrate 

the dark and the cold...

Nobody bought matches from raggedy urchins. They were too afraid of having their purses stolen. The little match girl huddled in a doorway out of the wind and wondered how she was going to go back to her stepfather with almost all of her matches unsold and barely a penny in her pocket. Snow was falling thick and fast and she was so cold she couldn’t have moved from the doorstep even if she had wanted to.

She tried to remember what warm felt like and struck a match just to watch the tiny flame burn. She struck another because it took the numbness from the tip of her finger and thumb. She struck a third before she forgot the feeling of warm. She was forgetting so much, forgetting even where she was supposed to be going. The falling snow and the cold that was like feathers made her forget and feel almost happy.

She struck another match and in the bright flame she saw a face. She saw her mother, dead when she was almost too small to remember. Almost, but not quite. She smiled and struck another match, and the face loomed closer with an expression of sadness. The little match girl struck matches one after the other, afraid to lose the face that bent over her, the eyes full of love that she remembered from long ago. One after the other, the matches died and fell into the snow, and soon there were none left. She blinked. Through the falling snow and the cold and her tears, the face full of concern was still there.

“Mama?” she asked the night and the spent flames. Arms enfolded her and lifted her from the cold step, and before she drifted into a state so close to death she could touch the cold door, she felt the warmth of a real human mother.

Mama? Her lips mouthed the word, and the woman who lived in the house beyond the cold doorstep, the woman who had lost all of her babies at birth, held her tight and nodded.

“I will be.”

Jane Dougherty is Irish, brought up in Yorkshire and now living in South-West France. She writes stories where the magical and the apocalyptic mesh, where horror and romance meet, and the real and the imaginary cohabit on the same page. Her first YA post-apocalyptic fantasy trilogy is published by Finch Books. She has self-published three collections of short stories, and has poetry and short fiction published in anthologies, literary journals and magazines. 

Check out her Amazon Author Page HERE

Blog: https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/

Website: https://wildgeesebooks.com/

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff 

FAIRY TALE FLASH - The Mortality of a Fae by Amelia Brown

She was tired of living.
But immortality once bestowed
is not easily shaken...

There is a tale, so it goes, that tells of a great love learned by one of the Fae. This is her story:

Day rolled into day, year into year, and still Aine lived.  

She was tired of living, for there were no more tales to learn, no more thoughts to unfold. A millennium is too long to live in any world. But immortality once bestowed is not easily shaken. Thus it was that she was drawn to the world of mortals. For Aine was fascinated by humankind; their loves, their works, their deaths. Especially their deaths. Death seemed so poignant, filled with all intensities of meaning for these mortals who lived first, and then died. How they wept and mourned, keened, and wailed following a mortal's ceasing. And yet, the strength of mortal feeling—Aine could not imagine what it would be like to be filled with such grief; unbearable, unconquerable.

Aine walked the mortal lands, peering from between the leaves of trees at these temporal lives, and the day came where bearing witness was no longer enough. Seeing a human infant left alone in its basket, Aine stole her away in the night. She would raise the earthly child and discover all the secrets of a mortal life.

The child, a girl, blossomed under Aine’s care. Aine called her Airmid and watched her grow. Soon Airmid was a beautiful woman, who fell in love with a chance hunter who roamed the wood that had become their home. Though the hunter knew nothing of her love, Airmid would watch him through the leaves of the trees. Until one day the hunter mistook the rustling in the trees for the sound of a deer and Airmid was pierced through the heart with his arrow. When he realized his error, his wail brought Aine to the side of her stolen daughter.

The wrench that tore through Aine’s body was nothing akin to any feeling she had ever known.

But Aine was not as mortals were. And as she felt Armid grow lifeless in her arms, she recalled a deep magic, older than the sands of time. Opening herself to the earth and all the forces above it, she reached for that magic. Aine felt the arrow pierce her own breast, felt Armid’s hand grow stronger than her own.  Her breath became short, ragged gasps. But her eyes, they feasted on the color blooming in her daughter’s face.

And as Aine’s life withdrew, it was then that she understood mortal love.

Amelia Brown started writing officially as a humor columnist for her university's newspaper.  She received an honorable mention in the Writers of the Future contest for “A Womb at the Edge of Space."  Her 101 Words Short Story will be published in Spring of 2019, and her story "The Priorities of Joan" will be published in the 81Words anthology in the next two years.  She is the author behind Fairy Stories & Other Tales, recently featured in the Warren Stories section of Dead Rabbits Books literary press website and the Tales of Bedlam podcast.  Her twitter handle is @ameliabrowntale.

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

Three Wishes, By Amanda Bergloff

By the light of the moon 
and a net of golden stitches,

if you capture a witch, 
you will get 3 wishes...

“I would like my three wishes now.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Yes, it does,” Lissa insisted. “My Grannie Eikamp taught me the rhyme, and it was very specific:

By the light of the moon

and a net of golden stitches;

if you capture a witch,

you will get three wishes.

The witch shifted her position in the net. “I’m telling you,” she said, “your Grannie Eikamp got it wrong.”

“No, she didn’t. I’ve done everything correctly. The moon is out, you’re a witch, and as hard it was to find golden thread to make a net, I did, and you are now in it. So, I want my three wishes.”

The witch sighed. “The rhyme isn’t:

if you capture a witch,

you will get three wishes

It is:

if you capture a witch,

you will get three...witches

Lissa’s eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped open when the three witches stepped out from the shadows.

“Greetings, sister,” the three witches called out. “We told you not to pick nightshade so close to the village.”

“Aye, that you did,” the witch in the net replied.

Lissa put her hands on her hips. “Well, whether my Grannie Eikamp got the rhyme wrong or not, I’d like my three wishes now.”

“Oh, there’ll be a wish, but it won’t be yours, girl,” the tallest of the three witches said. “Aren’t you in need of a new familiar, sister Hagadorn?”

The smallest of the three witches smiled. “That I am, and this girl already has such lovely green eyes.”

The three witches pulled the golden net off their sister and helped her up.

Sister Hagadorn picked up the silken black cat with the green eyes at her feet and nuzzled it--and a hearty laugh was shared as the witches walked back into the night.

Amanda Bergloff writes modern fairy tales, folktales, and speculative fiction. Her work has appeared in various anthologies, including Frozen Fairy Tales, After the Happily Ever After, and Uncommon Pet Tales.

Follow her on Twitter @AmandaBergloff

Check out her Amazon Author page HERE

FAIRY TALE FLASH - My Thoughts on the Breeze by Carmen Redondo

Tell us of how Mother
saved you on this very seashore...

”Often, I wonder what became of her. Every day I follow my duties as a prince, knowing that one day I will be king. My wife and I are very happy, raising our children and taking them for walks by the ocean. They often ask me to tell them the story of when I was shipwrecked and almost drowned.

“Tell us of how Mother saved you on this very seashore,” they beg.

I always laugh and oblige, despite the fact that they have heard the tale many times. I explain to them that I was found in the sea and brought to rest here. I faintly remembered the face of the maiden who rescued me, but I could not find her. Later, my parents found a princess I was to marry and when I saw her I knew she was the one who had restored me to life.

I love seeing our children’s happy faces when they hear how content I was to find her, their mother, but there is one thing they do not know. Every time I tell them this a part of me thinks back to the other maiden I met before my wife. She was charming, and she reminded me so much of my rescuer, but I could not make myself believe it was her. When I met the princess, who became my wife I realized that indeed I was correct about the other maiden, she had not been the one.

I had started giving up hope on finding my beautiful heroine, and I had even thought that I would marry the young girl who had become my friend and was always so kind to me. I wish I knew why she was unable to speak. I never heard her voice. The last time I saw the mysterious maiden was out at sea during my wedding. I was filled with joy to be married to my princess but every time I glanced back to look at my friend her face seemed so sad.

When the sun rose the following morning, my wife and I could not find her. She had vanished overnight. We looked out to the ocean, and the crew searched, but she was never seen again. Surely, she must have drowned for there was no other explanation of her disappearance.

Now I stand next to my wife, smiling at my children’s laughter as they play in the sand. Every single time I think about the long-lost maiden a gentle breeze passes through me, as if in comfort. Perhaps the wind carries her truth. Again, I wonder what became of her.   

Carmen Redondo loves fantasy and fairy tales, which are elements she often includes in her writing. She loves reading a good book, watching a new movie, enjoying warm weather, and eating pizza. She is currently writing her first full-length novel. You can purchase a book that includes two of her short stories here: https://amzn.to/2TP0z0L

You can follow Carmen on Twitter: @storieswriting

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

FAIRY TALE FLASH - The Protector by Connor Sassmannshausen

Fate chose to intervene.
Fate offered the fae an opportunity...

I clamber into bed, and my mother tucks the blankets around me. “Tell me a story, mama.”

She smiles at me. It’s my tenth birthday. I should be too old for this sort of thing. But tomorrow I begin training to be a fae warrior.

“What kind of story do you want to hear?” she asks me.

“Why are there warriors?”

She sighs and begins my bedtime story.

“Long ago, at the dawn of time, the Great Beings fought for control of the world. Everyone in our world knows the story. War, Death, Plague, and Famine were rampant, leaving destruction in their wake. The fae alone stood against them. Our greatest warriors stood against them, but all but four fell before their terrible foes.”

It’s a simple tale, not meant to frighten me. I’m sure she’s leaving out bits that I shouldn’t hear, yet.

“And Fate chose to intervene. Fate saw the damage and offered the fae an opportunity. Four daggers were gifted to the surviving warriors that would allow each to kill one enemy, but at a terrible cost. War cannot be destroyed, just as Death, Famine and Plague will always exist. The beings that hold the power can be killed with the dagger.”

She pulls out the blade from the sheath on her belt, showing it to me, the metal glittering in the soft light of my room.

“Those great warriors took on the fell creatures, slaying them. They took on the powers of those they killed, becoming the Horsemen themselves. Fate took from them the daggers, and gifted them to others in the fae line, to watch over fae and humans alike.”

She takes my hand, pressing it over the hilt of the dagger, her hand over mine. The metal feels strange beneath my fingers, and a tingling sensation rolls up my arm.

“When the eldest in the family line turns ten, they begin their training to become a warrior. And when they turn eighteen, they take the dagger from their mother or father, becoming the protector. Should the Horsemen arise again it is their duty to kill them and take their place. They must fight to control their powers, else they become what they themselves killed.”

She lifts her hand from mine, and I hold the knife by myself.

“This is the training all young warriors must face, to fight against the powers of the Horsemen, both to stop the bloodshed and to prevent themselves from causing more.” My mother leans down, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “This is what the fae now are, the protectors of humanity.”

I look over the metal. “But who do we kill?”

“We will not know until it is time.” She takes the dagger, replacing it in her belt, and stands. She tucks me, snuggly into bed again. “Sleep. Tomorrow you begin training to be a protector of the world.”

Connor Sassmannshausen is an Australian based American author who enjoys reading, watching movies and cross-stitching.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/csassmannshausen/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Sass_Connor

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/sass.connor/

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

FAIRY TALE FLASH - The Rescue by Amanda Kespohl

She swam toward the place
where the wind roared
and the sky wept...

A boat capsized, tumbling a slim raven-haired girl into the sea. She hovered near the surface, surrounded by a hazy cloud of skirts like some sort of exotic jellyfish. Her legs thrashed against the currents that tried to draw her down. Her hands stroked futilely against the waves that tried to bury her. But the ocean was tireless, and she was not. In the end, it would swallow her whole.

Below her, the mermaid's heart stirred with sympathy. With a flick of golden fins, she swam toward the place where the wind roared and the sky wept. Her strong white arms encircled the girl’s waist. Very gently, she pulled her down into the depths.

Bubbles erupted from between the girl’s lips in a silent scream. Her hands clawed toward the surface as if she could pull herself up on her fingertips, like climbing a cliff face. But the mermaid was much stronger than any human girl. Crooning in her musical language, she drew the girl down among the colorful coral formations and held her until her struggles ceased. When the girl lay wilted like a crushed flower in the mermaid’s arms, the mermaid let her go.

Up, she floated, like an angel rising to heaven. Indeed, she glowed in the flash and flare of lightning. Only, the light did not subside as the rumble of thunder faded into silence. It intensified until the mermaid was forced to look away.

When she looked back, the girl’s eyes were open, studying the rainbow iridescence of her new tail. Shrugging out of the cumbersome cloud of her dress, she swam in experimental circles.

"Now isn't that better?" the mermaid asked in her singsong tongue.

"Yes," the girl burbled, her dark hair an inky halo around her pale face. “Much better. I’m not afraid anymore.”

Together, they swam along the ocean floor, the mermaid keen to show her new friend the wreck where she, herself, was born.

Amanda Kespohl is a fantasy writer, attorney, and folklore enthusiast from Jacksonville Beach, Florida. Her short stories have been featured in anthologies such as Sirens (World Weaver Press 2016) and The Death of All Things (Zombies Need Brains, LLC 2017). She currently resides in Tallahassee with her beagle, Bailey. 

Check out her WEBSITE

or find her on Twitter at @amandakespohl

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff