The Laborers

So, I don't know, are we to post our attempts right here with no fanfare or hullabaloo? I'm going to do it, and I won't bother with disclaimers. I will say this though: my rusty writing brain has got some gunk in its gears:)

The thing of it is, she didn’t build that house. She wasn’t the one spending days on end in a cramped cottage, keeping the fire burning hot, her hands becoming a map of gingerbread burns; we were. Only we could tell the story of the original house (before the addition). It took years to find the exact confectioner’s sugar to water ratio for proper insulation. It took just as long to gather enough materials to break ground. We toiled. We baked and we built and we built and we baked, and in the end we created a beautiful house for an ugly soul. Once the job was done we expected to move on and pursue other passions, but the problem with working for child-devouring witches is that they hardly ever keep their promises. Suddenly we were conscripted and forced to scour the forest for loose breadcrumbs and covert trail markers. While we cringed when we heard the children’s screams (we were always surprised by just how many young people stumbled across those shortbread flagstones), what could we have done? It was better them than us. Did we feel responsible for the death of so many innocents? Lured, as they were, by our candy-laden design and construction? Well, yes, we certainly did. That said, when we saw the house go up in flames, we ran to its aid, hoping to douse the fire while ignoring the witch's wails. Of course, it was too late for the house. The smell of charred gingerbread lingered in our nostrils and hair for weeks.