Jay Doiron's Blog

Chapter 1: Aroma of Mischief

The fragrance of cinnamon and molasses drifted through Mrs. Maple’s kitchen the week before Yulefest. She slid the final tray of gingerbread cookies onto the cooling rack, humming a carol older than she was. Among the perfect cut-outs—candy buttons, licorice smiles—one smelled the cinnamon in the air and felt something stir beneath his sugared skin.

His name, though he did not yet know it, would be Crispin.

A bead of molten sugar cooled into a drop on his sugary brow, and with it came awareness—a crackling electric tingle from raisin eyes down to frosting toes. Around him, sprites of steam whispered:

“Wake up, little dough. The world is bigger than the baking sheet.”

Crispin flexed, the parchment crinkled, and—pop!—he sat bolt upright between two still-sleeping cookies. From the oven door, a curl of warm air swooped under his feet like a tailwind.

Chapter 2: Off the Sheet

The window above the sink glimmered with fresh snow. Crispin peered at the glittering landscape, longing. One careful hop launched him onto a cooling rack. Another hop, onto a stack of recipe cards. A final leap—thump—into a bowl of powdered sugar, leaving a gingerbread-shaped crater.

Below the countertop, a small black cat named Pepper lifted her head at the commotion. Slanted green eyes watched a sugared figure dust himself off.

“Mreow?” Pepper asked, tail twitching.

“Can’t stop—world to see!” Crispin declared in a voice that crackled like a snapping graham cracker.

He sprinted across a wooden spoon bridge, used a dangling red ribbon to rappel down the knob of a cabinet, and dashed across the tiled floor. Behind him, Pepper’s claws clicked in pursuit.

“Run, run, as fast as you… oh dear!” Crispin squeaked. His sugar pearls clinked like tiny maracas.

The cat pounced. Crispin rolled, skidding under a chair. Pepper’s paw swiped, knocking a lump of icing off his sleeve but missing the dough beneath. A moment later, Mrs. Maple appeared, flour smudged on her cheek.

“Pepper! Leave my cookies alone,” she scolded, scooping the cat into her arms. Crispin slipped through the doggy door before she saw him, into the moonlit yard.

Chapter 3: Midnight on Maple Street

Snowflakes drifted like confectioner’s glitter. Crispin’s gumdrop buttons glowed under a streetlamp as he darted past gnome statues and over a sleeping hedgehog.

At the corner, a rust-red fox raised its snout. “Evening, snack,” it purred.

Crispin gulped. “Many have tried, none have tasted! Good night!”

He somersaulted over a snowbank and landed on a sled left by neighborhood children. Tiny frosting fingers grabbed the rope; with a running start, he hopped aboard. Gravity pulled the sled downhill past maple trees still strung with colored bulbs. The fox gave chase, paws skidding.

A shortcut presented itself: the frozen creek. Crispin steered left. The sled shot onto cracked ice, skittering like a cookie sheet across granite countertops. The fox leapt after him— but the sled hit a protruding rock, launching Crispin airborne. He sailed over the fox’s jaws and landed in a snowy drift on the opposite bank, leaving the predator spinning on unsound ice.

“Crun—ow!” Crispin muttered as he extracted himself from the snow, one arm slightly crumbled. “Good thing I’m spiced tough.”

Chapter 4: The Carnival of Lost Toys

Down the hill stood an abandoned greenhouse, a secret gathering place for forgotten playthings. Lanterns fashioned from mason jars glowed amber inside. Crispin sniffed nostalgia and curiosity.

Pushing open a cracked door, he entered a world of wonders: a teddy bear missing an ear danced with a wind-up ballerina; a tin soldier conducted a symphony of clinking teacups; a wooden puppet, nose chipped, juggled stale gumdrops. They paused at the newcomer who smelled of holidays and hearth.

“Who invites the bakery?” muttered the puppet.

The teddy bear lumbered forward. “Brand-new, aren’t you, cookie?”

“Fresh as they come,” Crispin answered, wobbling with half bravado. “Name’s Crispin. I’m free, and I plan to stay that way.”

The toys leaned in. They too had once been cherished, then forgotten. His newness felt like a sunrise to them.

The ballerina pirouetted closer. “The world can be cruel to the sweet and soft. Stay awhile—be one of us.”

For a moment, Crispin considered it. The greenhouse was warm from old fairy lights, and the company merry. But outside, he could hear sled bells, distant laughter, and that eternal whisper: further, further.

He broke off a crumb of his own cuff, placed it on a saucer, and said, “A keepsake. To remember me.”

Chapter 5: The Bridge of Dawn

A faint peach glow sliced the horizon. Crispin knew the sun’s warmth could spell doom—molten icing, soggy limbs. He had to reach shelter before morning.

He followed railway tracks toward the covered bridge that led into the Pinewood Forest. But on the trusses crouched a crow, feathers slick as oil.

“Sweet traveler,” croaked the bird, “you look… delectable.”

Crispin clutched his crumbed arm. “Better ginger than crow food,” he snapped. He reached into the pouch fashioned from licorice laces around his waist, withdrew a peppermint marble given by the toys, and hurled it. The peppermint struck the rail, spinning madly and catching moonlight. The crow’s predator instinct twitched—it dove for the flicker. Crispin zipped between its wings, scrambling across the bridge.

Behind him, beams groaned. The aging timber gave way with a crack, sending the flailing crow into the icy creek below. The bridge leaned but held. Crispin crossed, panting sugary steam.

Chapter 6: Sanctuary and Sacrifice

Within Pinewood, the cold grew deeper. Pine needles speared the snow like emerald confetti. At last, Crispin spotted a hollow in an ancient trunk glowing from within. Crawling inside, he found a family of field mice bundled together, shivering around a dying ember.

Their whiskers twitched at the scent of ginger and cloves.

“Stay back!” squeaked the eldest mouse. “We don’t eat friends…”

“I’m not here to be eaten,” Crispin assured. He broke off his remaining arm—snap—and tossed it into the ember. The sugared limb sizzled, igniting into a bright caramel flame that filled the hollow with warmth and light.

The mice gasped. Crispin felt lighter, a pleasant ache where his arm had been, as if part of him were now both cookie and candle.

“It will burn long enough for sunrise,” he said softly.

The mice huddled closer to the glow, eyes shining. “You gave us your arm.”

“A small price,” Crispin replied, “for a place to rest until night returns.”

Chapter 7: Never Quite Caught

When dawn broke, its rays filtered weakly through the pine boughs, never reaching the hollow. Crispin’s caramel torch had dwindled, but the mice were safe. He thanked them for their company and set off once more, lighter by an arm but heavier with purpose.

He didn’t know where he was headed—perhaps to the sugar-crystal cliffs spoken of by the wind, or the gingerbread villages rumored to exist beyond the frosted hills. But he knew one thing with absolute certainty:

As long as feet of dough could sprint and a heart of spice could dream, no fox, crow, or well-meaning baker would ever taste Crispin Gingerbread.

And somewhere in Mrs. Maple’s kitchen, a fresh batch of cookies cooled. One twitched, sugar pearls rattling. The adventure, it seemed, was an oven that never closed for long.