Hansel and Gretel: A Mother’s Intervention Journal

I tried, dammit. I tried to get my little muffins back. I remembered that day so well, the day their lives changed forever.
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10/01: I went to work. It was like any other day. I left the children at home, thinking they would just watch some television. I warned them not to go off running into those blasted woods! Oh, sure, I could just hear other mother’s pooh-poohing me for not hiring a babysitter. But they don’t realize my situation. That louse of a man ran off with his latest hottie, leaving me to work two jobs just to make ends met. Every time I threatened to take him to court for child support, he came crawling back to me with his, “Yah, I always love yun, me poppy.”

Let him shove his “Yah, me poppy” up a damp, dark place - sideways! I would take him to court this time. But I had to raise enough money for the lawyer. One more paycheck and I would have it. I told Hansel, “Yah, Hansel. Yun listen to yun muoter and watch after yun sustor, Gretel. And stay outten them woods!”

“guten Tag,” Hansel shouted.

I hated that. It was all he said now whenever I talked to him: ‘guten Tag’ this and ‘guten Tag’ that. “Taken outz the trash, Hansel - guten Tag.” He was just saying it to be cool in front of his friends. I now understood how American mothers became so ticked off with their kids whenever they got the answer, “whatever.” So annoying.
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10/02: I didn’t mean to work the double shift, but Olga called in sick and they offered me overtime pay. How could I pass this up? I called home and Hansel answered the phone. He seemed distracted by something. I told him to heat up two frozen entrees for dinner, the diet one for Gretel.

She had become very self-conscious about her weight. Where some girls would diet constantly trying to be the ‘perfect anorexic model,’ Gretel was eating too much. She had given up and sought food for comfort. Everywhere she walked, crumbs fell off her clothes.

Tomorrow, I would talk with her about the overeating. Maybe we could figure it out.
**
Got home late. I collapsed right on the couch, hearing Hansel’s television in his room. He fell asleep with it on, saying his sister snores too loud. I wanted to give them kisses. But I was so tired that I didn’t even think I could crawl up the steps to hop into the shower.

I started to fall asleep to the sound of a commercial - something about friendly neighborhood watch and asking the viewer if they know where their children are.

Mine were in bed, sleeping. I curled up on the couch to visit the sandman myself.
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10/03: Oh, GOD . . .

They weren’t there! I woke up expecting to find Hansel eating his Lucky Charms cereal and Gretel finishing off her fourth Pop Tart. But the kitchen was empty. I ran upstairs and saw their beds neat. They never made their beds. I did them yesterday. I knew I did them yesterday.

Where were my Hansel and Gretel?

The basket was gone from the cupboard and their wooden shoes were missing by the front door. The woods. They went in AGAIN! Gretel would always take along bread to snack on during their exploration trips. She would leave crumbs everywhere. I would follow the crumb trail. They were in serious trouble this time.

No. That didn’t matter. So long as they were all right. That was the only thing important now.

I was frightened. They never stayed out there all night . . .
**
I couldn’t find any crumbs. I crawled around on my knees, looking. Animals must have eaten them first. I started along a trail anyway, hoping to spot something.

Wait! Was that bread there? I rushed over to check, but a damn crow flew down. It glared at me when eating then flew up on the branch. I was about to pick up a rock and hit it but noticed the bird had pooped while eating. And more bird droppings led off further into the brush. I knew it seemed weird, but I had this mother’s instinct and it was telling me to follow the bird poop to find my children.

What had I to lose?

I ran around the trees calling out my kids’ names. In the deepest parts of the woods, a strange smell blew over me. I felt as if I had walked into a bakery. Yet the odor was overpowering, as if the food had been left to spoil for a week. The overabundant sweetness caused my teeth to ache. I pushed through the thicket and came across a strange sight.

A house? I found a house at the center of the woods. I never saw anything built like this before. It had gingerbread shingles and candy cane beams. The fireplace stack consisted of red licorice. I walked up to the sugar-frosted window and peeked inside.

Children. Many children sat on couches eating sweets. Their eyes were sunken in and skin looked unhealthy and bloated. Several staggered when walking across the room. Were they strung-out on sugar? Doped up on gumdrops? I heard of this before, reading it in a school pamphlet. I had tossed the papers out not believing something like this could ever happen to my own kids.

I saw Hansel and Gretel laying on the floor, their mouths lifted in sickly grins, their lips coated in white frosting.

Despite the danger I broke in the door. The dealer sat at the kitchen table, rolling out dough while pocketing the cash. I pushed the hag away when she tried to stop me. She tripped when falling backward and landed into her own oven. Served her right. Let her experience her own evil ways - the horrible witch!

I draped Hansel over my shoulder and grabbed Gretel’s hand. I got her to lean against me as we staggered home.
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10/04: Hansel rested on the couch. He hadn’t gone “all the way” while being in that horrible candy house. I had to lock Gretel in her room. When she came down off her “high,” she tried to run back out into the woods. I tackled her to the ground. My own daughter! I tackled her like an American football player. She screamed and cried and cussed me out. “Muoter! Letten me go!”

It broke my heart to see her like this.

Hansel told me everything. They came across the candy house about a month ago. The dealer seemed so nice, offering free samples. Hansel and Gretel had learned in school to, ‘just say no.’ But the peer pressure was there, and they saw a few of their friends hanging out. So what was the big deal? It started innocently, popping a Pez candy pill here and there. Then it migrated to smoking on the bubble gum cigars. Hansel and Gretel thought they could handle themselves. Yet even while at home, they couldn’t stop doing it. At night, they snuck out for more. They sold illegal music downloads on Craigslist to buy treat “baggies.”

This was the real reason for Gretel’s weight gain. Unlike Hansel, who had paced himself between highs, Gretel became swallowed into her addiction. She had moved up to snorting down the sugary Pixy Stix, making the lines on the mirror and using the straw to huff it up. Then, when she didn’t receive any fulfillment from this anymore, she started pulling taffy.

I sat on the front step crying and listening to Gretel banging on her bedroom door. After I got over the sadness, I realized I had to keep strong for my children’s sakes. We would get through this together.
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11/1: I finally had a chance to write in my journal. Things have gotten better for all of us.

Hansel has returned his normal self, doing more around the house without being asked. He won’t even look at any sweets and switched over to eating bagels for breakfast instead of the sugary cereal.

I’ve made progress with Gretel. She still had the shakes now and again from the cravings. Yet she substituted chewing on carrots instead of on licorice. She lost a good 40 pounds too, and felt better about herself with each passing day. The real test came at Halloween. Hansel and Gretel passed out snacks to the trick-or-treaters without eating any themselves.

I was so proud of them. I gave each a big hug. “Yah, me Hansel and Gretel. Yun done made yun muoter so happy!”

Gretel giggled and Hansel nodded as he said, “guten Tag!” I didn’t mind those words this time. It was a good day.

*Note: By the way... if anyone has any other fairy tales or rhymes they want "Surly-fied," drop them in the comments or email me about it (michhickman@gmail.com). I have a cool thing with "The Pied Piper" featuring a "Lord of the Flies" spiel mixed in with "Guitar Hero." But I need others...*

The Accidental Violinist - romantic suspense

Black leather felt so comforting under my fingertips. The hourglass-shaped case popped open with barely a flick across the lock. The instrument appeared fine, but the violin bow had received damage. Broken horsehair curled on the velvet lining, a reddish tint staining the strings. The blood wasn’t mine. It belonged to Harry.

The wind picked up outside the bus stand. I drew my coat in closer and snatched the note fluttering underneath the violin’s fingerboard. I had but a moment to read it before the gust of air blew the paper from my hand.

Anna, meet me at Ashmont Circle bus stop. 10p.m. - Michael

Squealing wheels approached the lighted street corner. The bus pulled up, driver grabbing the handle, the door folding open at his push. He stared at me and I shook my head. I saw the rolling grunt from his belly to his chest, making him hop once in his seat. The bus pulled away before the door even closed. My wrist flipped over and I glanced at my watch.

10:15. What’s keeping Michael?

I had fulfilled my end of the bargain. Humph! More like a blackmail deal between us: Harry for the doctored diploma. I had done my part. He lay on the mortuary floor, a scalpel in the neck, a bottle of white Chardonnay shattered on the tile floor, his cooling hand groping the two-day stiff of Tara Ronsen: Harry’s unwanted secret lover.

No, I didn’t kill Harry. I just bought the wine.
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You’re probably wondering what this post is about. Well, Angie Ledbetter over at Gumbo Writer is holding a photo/book title contest until Sunday. There’s still time for you to enter to win cool prizes, if you wish. Just choose a book title in theme with one of the four photos she posted. Drop it in the comments section with the genre and your email address.

I entered with the title of this post as my entry. I wasn’t going to do anything else. I had other writing projects to work on.

But . . .

I have this, er, writing curse. It happens when people send me emails or make offhand comments on my blog. A little writing worm will burrow into my mind, and I’ll come up with a story on the spot.

The first part of this post is the beginning of a story for the title contest entry I posted.

What is the story about? Heck if I know. As with all my writing, I only know the beginning and the end. The middle is kept secret deep in my subconsciousness. Only my typing fingers know what words will appear on the wordprocessor page.

I like surprises! I have little complaints about being kept in the dark concerning the overall plot. My mind will let me know the rest . . . at the appropriate time.

(btw - the picture is just something I drew maybe 4 years ago. I needed something to go along with this post.)

NaNoWrimo? Sorry... not for me

Yesterday, the writing world came to a lull with the start of NaNoWriMo on November 1st. Blogs across the world experienced a drop in their readership. Several writers’ and authors’ blogs have grown quiet with no new posts.

What is NanoWriMo?

Well, it’s National Novel Writing Month. It's a . . . um . . . sort of writing challenge. The basic gist is to write 50,000 words in one month - the equivalent of writing a novella.

No preparation is required. A writer sits his/her butt down in the chair and starts typing as they throw plot outlines, editing, and revising out the window. Writers sign up under their real names (or whatnot) and people can check in on their progress. There are no actual prizes except the knowledge of pushing oneself into focusing and completing the story. A writer will come to realize their limits and overall desire (or not) for the task.

Hm? No, I have never participated in NaNoWriMo. I find it too limiting. I checked the word count for everything I had written in the past four months. I came up with the estimate of 186,000 words - an average of 46,500 words a month. This includes editing and revisions.

So, yeah, I’m short 3500 words, or a whole chapter. But I’m not going to beat myself up over it. I maintained my writing to 46,500 words for four months straight. I believe writing for the long haul is as good as an accomplishment as is writing 50,000 in one spurt during one month.

I’m happy with my writing limits. I’m happy with my overall desire for the task. Being one chapter short just means that it was 3500 unnecessary words to the plot of my writing life.

Asking for a little help

I have trouble doing this. I’m not a person who asks for help from other people. Yet there are times when I have to do something for a worthwhile cause, and this cause is one I am willing to support.

Before I go into the details, I want everyone to understand something about me. I donate to a charity or someone in need at least once a year. I don’t do it to make myself feel good about it or to toot my own horn. In fact, I don’t really have any feelings about it except the knowledge that I had helped someone in need. That is enough for me.

I had already donated at the beginning of this year. I’m glad I had done so then, because I’m not in any stable financial situation right now. I’m beyond strapped for cash due to unexpected circumstances dating from my blog hiatus in July.

Still, don’t misunderstand the nature of this post. I donated again, back on Wednesday Oct. 28, despite my personal situation. I would never make a post asking for people’s help if I myself did not believe in the cause AND donated first. I gave what I could to help those less fortunate. As the saying goes, ‘even a little bit helps.’

The charity is called Valour-IT, overseen by the Soldier’s Angels Foundation. One of my dear fellow bloggers Suldog made an excellent post about it. I believe he captured the essence of the Foundation’s goals better than I could ever write it, in a way I had never expected.

Suldog talked about one of his fears concerning amputation and amputees. The lost of a limb can be emotionally traumatic not only for the person it happened to, but by those people around them. I shiver when thinking what would happen if I lost a part of myself and could no longer write. Here is a snippet from his post.
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Every day, in military hospitals and physical therapy centers across this land, there are people facing my greatest fear. They’re doing so because they saw it as their duty to put their lives on the line for you and me. They didn’t lose their lives, though. Instead, they lost their ability to function as independently as they did before being wounded grievously.

In fighting for our freedom, they have lost much of their own.

Let me state something important before we go on. Many of you are well aware of how I feel regarding some of the United States’ military adventures. If it were up to me, I’d have most of our troops home before you could wink an eye. I categorically do NOT support my country’s actions in some instances. Some of you may feel the same way. That’s not what’s important in this case, though. Whatever our feelings concerning the actions in Iraq and Afghanistan, the men and women in harm’s way in those conflicts are making the sacrifices they make with selfless intent. And I would be some kind of miserable human being if I used my political beliefs as a crutch to absolve me from helping them during their time of greatest need.

They didn’t ask me my feelings before putting their lives on the line. They just did it. And now I’m doing what I feel is right and necessary. I’m trying to help them heal. That’s the right thing to do, under all circumstances and with no exception.

How am I trying to help, in the small way that I’m able? Via something called Valour-IT.

Valour-IT is a wonderful program (run independent of the armed forces, the Department of Defense, or any other governmental agency) supplying wounded veterans with some good tools to aid in their rehabilitation, both mentally and physically. For instance, those veterans who have suffered major injuries to their hands will be supplied with voice-activated laptop computers.

Most of us are writers of one sort or another, whether professionally or just for pleasure. Imagine yourself suddenly deprived of that ability to write, the ability to use a computer keyboard or otherwise communicate via the written word. What would it be worth to you to regain that ability? You know the answer. It would be worth the world.

Valour-IT performs that miracle. They give back the world to someone who lost it.

I’m donating to this version of an angel’s work. I’m asking you to look into your heart and find it there to do so, also.

(I’m not just using a figure of speech when I say "angel’s work", by the way. This charity was started, and is overseen by, Soldier’s Angels, a 501(c)(3) non-profit charity. All donations are tax-deductible. And, as stated previously, they are not affiliated with the government, and any government employees involved in the organization, or in the fund-raising, are doing so as private citizens.)
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You can read his full post here, or visit the Valour-IT and Soldier’s Angels websites directly.