“Take a bite,” the old woman said, her voice the soft murmur of a dying fire.
The girl reached out trembling fingers, brushing the tips softly across the scarlet top. It was large, almost the size of her outstretched hand, with tiny white dots and a thick, slightly twisted stem.
“Just a bite,” the old woman whispered, her tongue clicking softly against shrivelled lips.
The girl stroked the mushroom’s soft hood, desire a rare, flickering thing in her deep brown eyes, twisting her pale rose lips.
“One bite,” the crone sub-vocalized, just loud enough to be heard, just quite enough to be mistaken for the wind whispering through snarled branches.
The girl grasped the stem in her hesitant grip and worked it out of the earth, bits of dirt clinging to its severed ends. Up close the scarlet was streaked with lighter orange, and the white dots looked raised, like almonds sprinkled across a strawberry sundae. The girl nudged her chin forward, her whole posture bent to strike.
But something made her hesitate. Made her look up into the face of the crone, and for a moment she saw something there: a flash of tension in the cold blue eyes, tiny nostrils slightly flared, washed-out lips open in anticipation. Then it was gone, the kind old woman returned, warmth chasing the cold away, and the girl smiled, and lifted the red red circle to her lips.
And took a bite.
Image by: Wren Handman