THE CHRONICLES OF GIN
A Serialized Gingerbread Man Retelling for Adults
Part 4: Into the Barn
I was meant to be someone’s after-dinner treat, so I was born (incarnated, perhaps) right around sunset. That means that when I ran from that kitchen window, my first view of the wide-open sky was a vibrant explosion of pinks, oranges, purples, and blues, steadily darkening to almost black.
I barely noticed any of that as I sped away from the house and eventually forced my way into the barn through a crack in the wall.
It was a tight squeeze, and I lost a crumb or two before I suddenly popped out—flying straight into the hindquarters of a pig.
“What the hell?” she oinked in a husky contralto, turning to find me dusting myself off behind her.
“Hi…” I said tentatively.
“Ah, a talker and a runner. You might be the first to make it this far in one piece. Respect.”
Her tone was amiable, but I felt fear rise in me as I remembered Papa’s words.
“You ate the others, didn’t you? The talkers who couldn’t run…”
“Absolutely,” she chortled. “But don’t get on your high horse about it. After all, you've never smelled fresh bacon sizzling in a pan. I have. I guarantee it’ll change your mind about things.”
I was too horrified to reply that I could never eat another thinking, feeling creature—and it was just as well. Years later, I learned she was absolutely right about bacon.
Instead, I squeezed my way past her blindly and stumbled out of her enclosure to a spot in the middle of the barn, where just about every creature who lived there could see me clearly.
“Oh crap…”
There was a moment of silence as they all turned to look at me in unison.
Then—
“Dibs!” screeched a chicken.
“I saw him first!” boomed the sow.
A cacophony of screeches, squawks, and brays rose up before a distinguished voice neighed, “Enough!”
And, grudgingly, relative silence descended.
“We all want this talking cookie, but clearly, only one of us truly deserves him. And that’s me.”
A chorus of groans rose up.
“Heckle all you like, but I’m the only one here destined to be something other than food. Don’t you see that? You’re all just food fighting over food! It’s pitiful!”
“Quiet, jackass!” squawked one of the hens. “And stop pretending you’re a horse—you’re not even a mule.”
The jackass in question gasped theatrically but held his tongue. The hen went on.
“You’re right—most of us are just here to be food or make food. Or both. That’s why the cookie should go to a chicken. We’re the ones who laid the eggs that went into his batter. He wouldn’t even exist without us, therefore, he’s ours!”
“Is that sooooo?” mooed the cow. “Because if any milk or butter went into that cookie, I have just as much right to claim him as you do.”
“Then why don’t we just crumble him up and sprinkle him in the nearest wheat field while we’re at it? He’s mostly flour, right?” snorted the pig.
“Don’t be jealous because I can make milk, and all you know how to make is more pigs!” the cow mooed smugly.
“And how much longer do you think you’ll be doing that for, you leathery old heifer? You’re basically burgers already!”
“Meh-eh-eh-eh!” bleated the pygmy goats as they hopped around excitedly. They’d just as happily eat the barn door as a cookie, so they couldn’t care less who won. They just loved the drama.
The bickering reached a crescendo.
Then silence really descended.
“Now, now,” purred a voice like warm honey. “Shouldn’t we let the cookie decide?”
To be continued…
