Grazie for both your story and the SBI opportunity F3nix! This time I'll be playing and hoping to win for another freewriter! Sorry that I'm so late to the party! (Next time I'll bring some bread! 😉)

Theo had seen many of his Aunt's sourdough starter jars through the years. They'd been a mainstay on her counters, waiting to be fed the flour, sugar and water that the bacteria needed to grow. The way she had tended to the jars with motherly care had often made him giggle. He'd teased her that she should tuck them in with a blanket and a kiss. Agnes had smiled and been proud to tell of the fact that she'd maintained the original batch. The one she began back when her children first left the home for their schooling.

Aunt Agnes' had been oddly overprotective of the jars. Once, Boufry had knocked into her legs as she'd pulled one from the fridge. It had fallen to the floor, shattering the jar and the sweet disposition of his aunt. That night had been the only time Boufry had been put outside for the night. He remembered Agnes' tears as she swept up the spilled mess of starter, speckled with shards of glass. Then, Theo had that her outburst of anger had been of frustration. But now, with his aunt's trance and the plethora of jars in the fridge, he realized that her obsession was more than a baker's quirk.

Slowly, Theo approached his aunt, repeating her name with each step, with no response from the entranced woman. Coming to a stop next to Agnes, he reached out, gently grabbing her shoulder to turn her away from the cold light of the fridge. Slowly, her eyes moved from the jars of sourdough to the meet with his.

"...Theo...dore..." Aunt Agnes whispered, his name missing her usual loving cadence. Her gaze didn't brighten, didn't seem to register that she was actually seeing her nephew.

"Yeah, Aunt Agnes," Theo softly replied. "It's me. What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

At first, his questions didn't garner a response. Then, haltingly, as if she was a puppet controlled by another, her hand raised up. It wavered for a moment, shaking in front of Theo before lashing out to grip his throat tightly!

Agnes' merciless grip, strong from the years of kneading and lifting that come from baking, was unmovable. Theo struggled, heaving himself backwards and scratching at the hand that was cutting off his air. Nothing was working, nothing was making her budge. Why? It hurt!
Why was she doing this? What had happened to his sweet aunt?

Agnes' other hand, holding a jar of starter, came up. As the speckled darkness ate at his vision, Theo saw that it was open. Inside, the creamy mass began to heave and move, bubbling over the rim of the glass and oozing down his aunt's hand. Her gaze, still alien, was locked on his. Lips parting, she said, her voice cold as steel, "The use of family creates the conditions in the art of baking for optimal sourdough fermentation."