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  • When my Father and Mother left us in the woods I went ahead with the breadcrumbs and laid a trail.

    The house that took me in was the colour of gingerbread. The woman who lived there was small with the ability to conjure things I had always dreamed of knowing.

    When my sister finally came, hot-footing it across land (this time with her own children in tow) to rescue me from being fattened and eaten, feeling the bones of my fingers, she cried in alarm.

    So I hugged her and told her I understood. "If you lick the walls, Abigail, they don't taste of sugar." I shrugged.
    "this is how life is, no terror in the night, no rotten frogs falling from the skies, Baba Jaga got a bad rap - here in this story I'm not afraid of the dark"

    I don't know what my sister understood. I don't know if she walked a long walk back into the woods and sat down in thought. Waiting for The Woodcutter.

    To chop off her head.
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