There was a scraping sound coming from the kitchen. The little old woman trundled around the corner to check.
"Oho," she said. "You're a frisky one."
The gingerbread man did not spare her a glance, busy with his work. He'd gotten the drawer open and was slowly tugging the massive butcher's knife up onto the counter.
"Is that for me?" She clucked her tongue. "Defiant. Insubordinate. Just like your brothers." She reached down and slammed the drawer shut. The gingerbread man spun helplessly across the counter.
"But I've learned," she said. "That's why I don't make you with legs anymore."
Standard Irish Poem No.1
10 hours ago