This is about to be my longest post ever. I'm taking a writing class, and I'm finally beginning to work on a story I've been thinking about for a while. Here is the first scene I've begun to work on.

Quick synopsis: This is a story of a girl who works for her uncle in his bakery. He’s known as the gingerbread man because he is famous for his gingerbread. Here is part of a scene somewhere near the beginning where the girl and her friend discover a well of magical molasses. They’re both kids. It's not finished.

Marge squished her feet into the mud reveling in the oily feeling of the syrupy sludge oozing between her toes. She tossed back her head enjoying the soft column of sparkling yellow sun sifting down through the branches of the gnarly old ash tree. The tree leaned its rich green leaves out over the silvery rock ledge where her basket perched near her. Rolling her head over her left shoulder, a small movement near the edge of the swampy clearing caught her eye.

Peter stood at the tree’s trunk peering into its branches where he had spotted two wood sprites. Turning her head to see him, Marge whispered, “Peter! Come look.” Reluctantly, he ambled to the edge of the rocky ledge next to where Marge stood. They gazed over the pool of mud. Green leaved trees and thick bushes with soft-colored flowers surrounded it. Only the occasional draping tree or dull stump disturbed the pool’s surface. Sunlight spotted the clearing in a random pattern creating a warm hazy glow. All but the dancing light sat peacefully still. But then the mud moved.

A glob of gook the size of a large rock glided across the width of the pool out of sight behind some nearby boulders. Peter and Marge looked at each other in surprise. Quickly, they sloshed over to the boulders as quietly as they could. Slipping from the mud, they scrambled to the top. Peaking out between some bushes, they watched the glob drift into a nook beneath them surrounded by boulders and brush.

It coasted to the far side where a miniature well was hidden. A peaked roof covered the opening to the well, its shingles varying in shades of muted green while a bright colored moss crept from the ground up the side of the well’s pale blue stones. The colors blended the well into its surrounding atmosphere. In all, it was no larger than a small child.

The glob grew, rising into the air sprouting wobbly arms and legs until a little man made of mud stood before the well. Large bright eyes shining with anticipation formed as slop dripped from the top of a dull-colored head. The little man opened a drooping cavern of a mouth and began to sing soulfully in a deep croaking voice as he reached for the well’s handle with a dripping hand.

“Mud is what I’m made of. Mud I like to eat. There is nothing but mud. This mud is, ooh, so sweet.” The well’s gears creaked as the little man turned the handle. Up came a copper bucket filled with what looked like more mud. The mud man pulled a spoon from his side seemingly from no where, like an invisible pocket. He greedily smacked his widely spread lips and began to eat voraciously.

Marge giggled at the sight of a mud man eating mud. The little man’s eyes slowly rose to see her, hardening with a vicious gleam. Marge’s eyes widened. With a thump and a splash, the mud man shoved the bucket into the well and melted back into the rest of the goop.

“Run,” Peter breathed. He grabbed Marge’s hand and spun her around. They jumped and slid their way down the boulders leaving the way they’d come. Making it to the bottom, Peter waded through the mud doing his best to run while dragging Marge along behind him. Reaching their rocky ledge, Peter clambered up with heavily-caked feet. Marge stumbled.

“Hurry!” Peter yelled as the glob they had seen zoomed around the corner toward them. Catching herself with her hands, Marge pushed herself up and reached to clasp Peter’s empty hands.

Smack! The glob slapped Marge’s ankles, surrounding them, weighing them down. Peter snatched at her hand pulling her arm with all the energy his fear created. Her short legs stuck in the mud like dried mortar. Peter gave another tug. Nothing. Panicking, Marge teetered as she sunk, thick clay engulfing her calves. Not knowing what else to do, Peter began scooping pebbles from around the ledge and hurling them at the mud. They bounced. Marge grabbed for the rock ledge in an attempt to pull herself from her trap. She began to sink deeper. Mud slurped at her knees. Peter dashed to the tree where some fallen branches lay. Turning it into a pick, he stabbed its tip into the mud around Marge in an attempt to set her free. Like quicksand, the mud absorbed the stick. Caught off balance, Peter fell over.

Hard clay crumbled leaving a cavity of space. It spoke softly, menacingly. “Did the berry thief send you?” Peter and Marge froze in their struggle to escape. They stared at the moving hole before them.

“Excuse me?” Marge asked, unsure if she’d heard correctly.

“Did the berry thief send you?!” the voice growled.

“No. We’re on a picnic. It’s our day off at the bakery. We’re not here to steal anything! We just wanted to enjoy the afternoon, have a picnic and play on my lute,” Peter replied incredulously.