The Yellow Brick Road: The woebegone story of a Gingerbread house

Me, the gingerbread house Vanessa made.

Where to begin my short yet deplorable story... You could say that my origins are in a candy store... or possibly in the graham cracker manufacturing warehouse. But as I have little recollection of that time scattered across continents in cold unfeeling buildings, I will begin my story at what I consider the genesis, my design and construction by my ingenious master (sarcasm): Vanessa.

Merry notes of Alvin and the chimp monks Christmas song grazed the sickeningly sweet icing flavored air. They sat around a glass table, sipping their drinks chatting away as I lay waiting. I had been waiting a long time. From the time I was conceived of that loud machine, I knew I was destined for more that just someone's mouth and gut. Other crackers called me arrogant and idiotic, but really they were jealous because they must have known too. They must have seen that I was made to one day be the greatest invention of our century at least for our kind; A GINGERBREAD HOUSE. There was no doubt in my mind that one day some munchkin would mold me as the main decoration for Christmas. My life would be at least double as those of my sad pathetic kin folk. Each day, I worked to remain strong yet agile, solid yet malleable so that when the day came for my destiny, I would be the creme de le creme for a designer to mold me into that creation of such desirability amongst us.

"Why won't they stop talking and build already!" I demanded from my boxes and bags I lay dormant inside. Didn't they know that this was the moment I had waited for all of my life. Couldn't they feel my anticipation emanating from directly in front of them. Gingerbread making is the most prestigious of arts and yet they laughed and joked. Had I not been raised with more dignity, I might have smite them, but I held my composure.

My designer, an older specimen, not exactly munchkin size, seemed unprofessional as she hastily threw graham crackers up in a structure needing many more supports than she understood. But of course, what could her tiny brain understand? Did she feel the weight of the peppermints, chocolate chips and gum drops on her back? No, she did not, so what I ask, could she know of the needed structure I so desperately lacked. I deserved to be created into a ten story mansion, a tree house of great magnitude, even a Santa's workshop would have been acceptable, but how was I created, into what unseemly base construction? I'll tell you. A ONE story, yes O-N-E story house with a pitiful wrap around porch. I guess I should be grateful at least for the porch, even if it was poorly designed, but there were so many other grander homes being constructed around me, I yearned to be part of their creation. A church with stained glass windows, a home with solar panels and a palm tree, another with a chimney and a sign atop the roof with Santa and an arrow written out of red hots, but the most impressive was an igloo complete with penguins made from gummy drops and an Eskimo ice fishing made from tootsie rolls. My eyes roamed about envious of my kin who laughed in my direction. I didn't actually hear them laugh, but I knew what they thought of me, lamentable and inferior.

I was surprised how long I remained whole considering, but as soon as my delicate state greeted the humidity of San Antonio, I could feel my strength give way to the moisture. The car trip was miserable as the driver took each turn like a racecar and seemed to find every single pothole and bump in the road purposefully, just to mock my sad state. When we arrived to our destination, my creators aunt's house, my gumdrop doorway was falling, but worst of all, one of the side porches had taken the plunge. And my standing only deteriorated from their. It is always said of miserable situations that their intentions were good, but what use do we of "good intentions" if they end in slaughter. Yes, slaughter. And no I am not exaggerating. Her grandmother "accidentally" spilled tea on me and then "unintentionally" crushed me with her arm as she attempted to rescue the tea. What became of me? I was drenched and dejected. I had lasted as a whole and complete gingerbread house for an entire evening and met my fall the following day. I guess I should be grateful that I was created into a gingerbread house at all rather than ending my days in some sticky handed two year old's gut, but I can't say I'm not disappointed. Because as I said before, I was deemed for great things and my time has come and gone. And soon, as those greedy hands pick at me, I will diminish into nothingness, and only be remembered as the gingerbread house who could have been.