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

Double Fairy Tale Flash - Pennies Dropping AND Midnight

This week, Enchanted Conversation Magazine 

is featuring two Fairy Tale Flash stories:

Pennies Dropping by A.M. Offenwanger

and 

Midnight by Fanni Sütő.

We hope you enjoy them and share your thoughts

with the authors of these tales in the comments section below.

“So, has the penny finally dropped?” her grandmother would say bitingly. “You cannot give money away to riffraff, or you are left with nothing!”

Then Grandmother died, and she was truly left with nothing—just the cloak on her back. And that she gave to the poor woman with the baby, who sat by the side of the road shivering. The gratitude in their eyes warmed her so much, a corner of the heart that Grandmother had frozen began to thaw.

Her last piece of bread went to a beggar boy rooting through the refuse heap, and through the growling of her stomach she heard her heart singing.

An old woman with chilblains on her feet received her shoes; a blind young one, dressed in rags, her skirt. Her linen shirt, last legacy of her mother, she gave to a poor young bride; the joy in the girl’s eyes lit up her soul.

She stood in nothing but her thin, worn shift in the dark of the night where only the stars could see her, her heart glowing with a wealth of warmth.

A penny dropped, right from the stars. And another, and another, clinging to her shift, forming a cloak of silver, covering her. She stretched out her hands, singing her joy into the night.

A.M. Offenwanger, contributing editor at Enchanted Conversation Magazine, is a writer, reader, blogger, and editor.

Follow her blog Amo Vitam
and follow her on Twitter @amoffenwanger
and on Facebook here

Her steps fell on the street softly like seconds rushing by.

It was an otherwise silent night and the houses of the sleepy town turned their eyes discreetly, while the stars hid their face in the dark drape of clouds. Midnight pulled her sorrow-red cape tighter and hurried towards the castle where her older sister, Prima was waiting for her impatiently. Midnight didn’t feel like going home, her heart rang like an empty bell inside her chest, and the memory of an unsure kiss lingered in the corner of her lips.

She met him in the masquerade; he wore a silver waistcoat and a dark blue mask. When they danced, his fingers felt so light on her waist as if they were just passing thoughts and when he stepped closer to her, Midnight could feel the smell of summer mornings on his clothes.

She knew that this one night full of music was the only thing they would ever have. The cello cried when their hands parted and Midnight only realised that she was still holding his glove when he had long disappeared in the crowd of dancers. She held the aetherial material against her face, it felt lighter than hope, and she hurried out of the hall. When Midnight stepped into the trembling light of street lamps, she realised that the boy was Daybreak, the eldest son of the Morning. Rumor had it that he ignored the strict rules of their people and had broken countless hearts. Maybe Midnight would also end up like that, but she didn’t care about the future, only the few minutes in the day when she could be herself. The cobblestones purred sympathetically under her feet and her sister let out a relieved sigh when the clock struck twelve.

Midnight was home and Prima set out to enjoy the sixty minutes that was her due, an hour full of dreams she would mourn in the remaining twenty three hours of the day.

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 Magazine, and Fundead Publications.
Website: www.inkmapsandmacarons.com
Follow her on Twitter: @Fanni_Pumpkin

Story graphics by Amanda Bergloff

Wuthering Heights Revisited, By Fanni Suto

In one night, Paradise was gained and lost.

Doubt is like the eternal rocks beneath,

out here flowers are killed by the frost,

they say a ghost is roaming in the heath!

My dear, upon the moors the night is cold,

but it’s hot by your paradise of hearth

where bedtime tales and easy dreams unfold...

it’s me, not you who suffers from the curse!

Nothing washes away the stains of fate,

I’m a witch and you left me here to burn

Somebody in my old room stays up late

With their help tonight I might return.

He bruised my wrists, but would not let me in,

I’m lost both outside and also within.

Fanni Sütő is an enthusiastic young poet/writer who enjoys experimenting with magical realism, urban fantasy and reused fairy tale materials.

Altered detail from painting by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

The Witch in the Story, By Fanni Sütő

Detail from "A Visit to the Witch," by Edward Brewtnall, artmagick.com

Editor's note: At last, the catch-up begins with a big batch of stories and poems. Fanni starts us off with an intriguing tale of what happens when we "fall" into a story. 

The old witch was almost feeling the witch hunters' angry panting on the back of her neck. Their heavy ironed-boots were squeaking on her porch and their arrows were trembling impatiently in the quiver. The witch was staring into the orange flames in her fire place and was seriously contemplating giving up escaping. The log on the fire was slowly turning black and the teeth of the flames bit golden runes on its body. On the pyre, she could be like that log; peacefully sleeping, warm in her heart at last.  Her soul would escape the cage of her body and soar to the sky with eagles. These were all futile phantasms. She couldn't run away from her fate and couldn't hide for much longer either. 

Though she wanted to stay dead silent, a bitter laughter escaped from her throat. Strangely, it was not the crooked snigger of an old hag but the silvery giggle of a young maid. It came from a memory from a long time ago.  She was an apprentice and on a lavender-scented summer day she wandered into the labyrinth of the library. She had not been so happy before: The smell of mahogany and parchments, the ancient paintings on the ceilings and walls and the whispering books which spoke of great deeds, dark secrets and the promise of immortality. She was naive back then, a girl of seventeen. What did she know of the treacherous workings of the world? She stroked the velvety spines of books and marvelled at the golden lettered titles. She was looking for something, following the call of a sweet voice whispering in her ears. 

"Come to me, dear Hecate and I will unravel to you the mystery of your life and the flow of your future." 

She found the book in the furthest corner of the library; it was sitting alone on the shelf and the title page read "The Grimm Tales of the Truth Brothers." She sat down leaning her back to the bookshelf and began reading. As she turned the first page a frantic whispering began behind her begging her to close the book and run away until she still can. But she laughed at the voices; no harm had ever come to anybody from reading and she was captured by the tale:  A beautiful princess, her skin as white as snow and her lips as red as the blood, springing from your fingers if the needle of a spinning-wheel stings you. Or as red as the coat of a girl who is taking crispy bread and white wine to her grandmother and doesn't notice the danger eying her from the shadows. The words and sentences were reaching out to her, tangling around her as the tendrils of briar rose or the sun yellow hair of the girl in the tower. Hecate's heart was floundering in her chest because she felt her soul was there in the stories. It was about her. She was to be a princess rising from the ashes to wear dresses of glass and shoes of lace or to be woken by the first kiss of a prince and rule over a kingdom. The books behind her back were already screaming and screeching but she didn't hear them because she was charmed by the song of a piper. She didn't know how much time had passed by the time she reached the last page. There was a letter addressed to her which talked about her fate, which she sealed by reading the book. She wanted to run but the spindles of stories were twisted around her wrist, ankle and neck. She was lured into a trap by promises of happiness and riches and a royal marriage.

"We promised you nothing, silly witch, just a role in the tales. And your role you shall have. Nothing more and nothing less," whispered the pages.

Hecate found herself standing in front of an aquarelle castle in a black wedding dress holding the hand of an old king and feeling the hate burning her from the eyes of his motherless daughter. Hecate wanted to love the child but her words were stuffed into her mouth and her movements were pulled by strings. She tried to kill the girl with an apple, but she failed. 

The witch hunters were after her but just before the first arrow reached her, she dived into the book which she always had on her. She was inside and outside of the book at the same time, a little Chinese box of stories and illusions. When she opened her eyes she was wearing a rich silver fur and was living in the resin smelling pine forest. She was a witch and she was a wolf. She was lurking among the trees and watching a girl and her grandmother. She wanted to like the old lady, because she reminded her of her grandmother who she will never see again. But hunger was roaring in her mouth and her movements were pulled by instincts. She tried to kill the old lady with her teeth, but she failed.The hunter threw her in a river but she managed to open the book before water rushed into her lungs. 

She took a deep breath and her nose filled up with the sweet smell of gingerbread and the sticky scent of cotton candy. She saw a boy and a girl wandering in the forest. She wanted to love them because they were driven away from home just as she was, but her words were baked for her and her movements were pulled according to ancient recipes. She tried to kill them with her sweets but they ran away and the witch hunters were on her trail. They were already rattling with the lock. She had no more time to lose. It was written that she had to climb into the book again and again to play all the roles she was given. The lock fell to the floor and the biscuit door flung open with a creek. The witch had a last message which she wrote on the floor with melted chocolate just before she threw herself into the pages. The leader of the witch hunters arrived in the room with the bow ready in his hand. The old hag was nowhere, but there was a strange sweet smelling scribble on the floor. It said "Burn the book!' and there was an ancient volume lying on the floor. Her codex of witchcraft, he thought but when he looked at the cover he saw a beautiful young girl of midnight-hair reading, her back to a bookshelf and the magical touch of words was weaving their fetters around her. 

"This is wonderful," he sighed "but of course that pitiable old hag is trying to destroy all beautiful things. Why should I destroy it? Maybe it will explode if I threw it on the fire or who knows what evil trickery might happen. No. I will take this book home to my daughter, my little princess, she is always delighted with presents and anyway no harm has ever come to anybody from reading."

Fanni Sütő is an enthusiastic young poet/writer who enjoys experimenting with magical realism, urban fantasy and reused fairy tale materials.