Gingerbread

January 5, 2012 § 2 Comments

He shivered in the corner, at the back of the alley, crying into his hands. Desperately trying to swallow his sobs, he huddled tighter against the wall. Outside the alley a shadow appeared. Following the shadow was the rotund, bottomless pit of hunger.

Grandma my ass, he thought shrinking further and smaller as she stepped into the alley. He thought about his brothers, burned and tossed away. Eaten. Devoured.

You’ll never catch me. His heart moaned more of a prayer than a statement.

“Run, run,” she whispered, closer and closer.

A jolt of fear shot down his ginger back. His palm touched broken glass, slicing just a small piece to crumbs.

“Fast as you can.” She chuckled.

He screamed — a feral, frightened explosion of sound as he charged from the corner.

The shadows playing across her face turned her look of surprise and fear into a malevolent hunger for death. His heart pounded faster. No mercy. No mercy. His heart pounded harder.

The icing in his veins rushed past his cinnamon ears drowning out her screams, his fear, and her pleas. One pasting hack after another, one bitter pierce to the next, and soon she lay marinating in her own blood.

“Can’t catch…” She coughed, staring at him through wide, frightened eyes. “Can’t catch you.”

“I’m the gingerbread man.”

Day 5 – 365 Stories

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