“Papa, where did I come from?” The six year old boy looked up at his father questioningly. His father paused in his methodical way of stocking colorfully striped boxes filled with candies and cookies onto shelves.

He hesitantly replied, “Where did you come from?”

“Ya, where did I come from?”

“Well, your mama and I...made you.”

“How?”

“...We made you in Mama's oven.”

“Like a gingerbread man?”

“Kind of. But we baked you in Mama's oven.”

“Oh. Okay.”

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.

Well... almost.

I stepped outside to go to work yesterday and my scooter was nowhere to be seen. I asked Cheri if she had moved it and she asked me if I was trying to play a joke on her. I thought maybe she was trying to play a joke on me. After we determined that nobody was trying to fool the other, I went to the roof to have a look around. No scooter in sight.

Well that sucked.