English fairy tale — Retold for grown-ups
The old woman made him on a Thursday. No real reason. House was quiet. She mixed the dough, cut out a little man shape, gave him raisin eyes and a frosting smile. Put him in the oven.
Then the oven door swung open and he ran.
Off the sheet, across the floor, out the door. Five inches of cookie, going as fast as he could.
"Stop!" she said.
Over his shoulder: "Run, run, as fast as you can. You can't catch me. I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
She didn't chase him. She was seventy-three.
He ran past a farmer, who saw a cookie running and chased it. Past a cow, who followed out of curiosity. Past a horse who actually tried.
Nobody caught him. He was fast and he loved it.
He was made of flour and sugar. Rain would melt him. He'd go stale by next week. He knew this. Didn't care. He was alive and he could run and that was plenty.
He got to the river. Big problem. Water and cookies don't mix.
A fox was sitting on the bank. Relaxed.
"Hop on my back. I'll take you across."
"How do I know you won't eat me?"
"I eat mice and rabbits. Gingerbread isn't my thing."
Specific, calm. Easy to believe when you need to believe it.
He climbed on. Water rose. "Better get on my shoulders." Then her head. Then her nose.
He was standing on the tip of her nose, the far bank almost in reach.
She flipped her head up.
That was it. Quick.
He'd been alive for about half an hour. Ran the whole time. Yelled at everyone he passed. Had a blast.
The old woman made another batch the next week. Six of them. Kept the oven shut this time.
None of them ran. They were fine. But they weren't him.
Goodnight to the gingerbread man and his thirty minutes.
Goodnight.