Holiday Story

On the licorice grass outside of the gingerbread house, the gingerbread woman sat gazing at the cotton-candy clouds. Three months ago, she had at long last caught the fast fruit of her husband’s loins, and she had watched joyfully as her brown belly grew. The two sat many evenings by the fireplace, candy-eyed and hopeful, as the gingerbread man recounted stories of mischief and his legendary quickness to his bride and yet-to-be-born baby son.

On this particular day in the licorice grass, she felt the thick molasses feeling of dread in her body, and she went to bake outdoors to put her at ease. No sooner had her sweet brown flesh began to bake fresh and rise in the heat, than she felt warmth between her legs. Her blood began to flow, all cherry and strawberry syrup from between her gingerbread legs. She felt the earth moving and unmoving from within and around her, from inside and outside, and felt as though she was turning inside out. As she dizzily watched the blueberry sky weaving in and out of sugar-crystal stars, her heart collapsed in the all-too-early and all-too-lateness of becoming and unbecoming a mother. She watched the nightmare of terrible treats emerge from her insides, small crumbs and gumdrops and mint sprinkles, and the sweet candied eyes of the gingerbread son she would never know. And it was that day the gingerbread family crumbled.