Tag Archives: pie

Literal World

What if there was a world where every phrase was taken literally? Like “Do you take me for a fool?” literally means you  kidnap someone and bring them to a seedy underworld jester that’s, like, part of the Triad or something. And then “easy as pie” would mean that pie was widely known to have loose morals. (Oh, pie. You saucy harlot.) Or have you ever said “close but no cigar” to a kid? What if the kid was right? You’d cough up that damn cigar. People’s brains would rattle around on account of the marbles inside of them, which would frequently be lost by people with large earholes. Old habits would roam around the wild, full of bullet wounds and tough as gristle. There would be a law in place, as well, the final article of the Geneva conventions: “all good things must come to an end.” If a country doesn’t abide, well, then probably the entire world would end on account of them all nuking each other back to the Stone Age (and, of course, the explosions would literally rip the fabric of time and bring us back to the time of Neanderthals).

Man, this stuff is good. I should probably write some of this down… oh wait.

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XXIV

The Lonely Rhubarb

“You’re just a weed,” the geraniums said and the lemon tree looked down on him. The roses were the worst. They ignored him entirely. Though Rhubarb was surrounded by his own brothers, even they were lost in their own misery.

“I don’t want to be alive anymore,” Rhubarb whispered before sobbing half the night.

“Shut up!” a neighboring rhubarb shouted, so Rhubarb suffered in silence instead.

One spring, when the flowers were all in bloom, Rhubarb felt more alone than ever.

“What’s wrong?” a strange little red fruit asked.

Rhubarb knew better than to hope for friendship. He’d only get hurt.

“What do you want?” Rhubarb snapped.

“I just wanted to talk,” the red fruit said.

“Yeah, right. You’re too pretty and sweet. Go talk with the roses.”

“Oh, my cousins are total d-bags…but… you think I’m pretty?”

“Um…” Rhubarb blushed the color of the strange red fruit. “Yeah, I do.”

“I’m Strawberry,” she said.

It wasn’t long before the two plants grew closer, Strawberry entangling herself around Rhubarb. Their caretaker, seeing this, harvested them and together they made the most delicious pie ever.

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XXI

Cherry Pie (Revision)

“Back for more pie, eh?” Curtis whistled through his teeth.

“No,” Judy said, holding her fresh-baked pie. “I thought I’d bring a pie as thanks for last time.”

“What is it?” he licked his lips, though that could have just been to get moisture to his mouth.

“Cherry.”

“Mmmm,” Curtis slid his dry tongue over his lips again. “I’d take a taste of your cherry any day, little girl! HAAaaa~!” His laugh turned into a wheeze and then a wet cough. Judy had a lovely grandfather who was always a gentleman in the presence of women. She had thought that it was just the era, that all men raised then learned to treat women the same way, but this man was dispelling all her illusions.

“Are you all right?” she finally asked.

“Fine,” he coughed. “Fine. Just get me some water with that pie.”

Judy looked for some bottles of water around the kitchen, distilled water in the fridge, anything she thought an old man should have to keep healthy. She eventually decided that there were none and decided to use the tap. “Here. It’s from the tap. I don’t know if you had anything else, ” she said, offering the drink to him. She waited for some kind of response, but he merely nodded his head as he took the glass. “I’ll go cut up the pie.”

Judy had an easier time finding the pie slicer. It was old, silver, with a flower design. Perhaps it belonged to his wife. Given the abruptness of their first conversation, she hadn’t asked Curtis much about his family or personal life. She hadn’t seen her sitting out with him, so she and the neighbors all assumed he was a widower.

When Judy cut into her pie, red cherries oozed out. The crust was golden and resisted a little against the slicer before flaking apart. Curtis’s pumpkin pie was good, but Judy’s pie could win awards! She took two plates out and gave him the second slice that hadn’t fallen apart.

Curtis’s hand shook as he blew on the forkful of pastry. He chewed, slowly, swallowed, then put his fork down on the plate. Judy waited eagerly for a reaction as the man licked his lips.

“You know, my wife was a terrible cook.”

This was not the response Judy was hoping for. Judy smiled, taking a few deep breaths. She reminded herself that he probably didn’t have long to live and strangling him wouldn’t be worth it.

“Oh? I didn’t know you had a wife.”

“Sixty-two years. Loony as a cuckoo bird, that one. Couldn’t read anything without her glasses and she’s dyslexic to boot. ‘Curtis,’ she’d say to me. ‘Why do we have something called “bear slices” in the pantry?’ An’ I’d tell her, “Nonsense! Those are pear slices, you old bat!’ We’d argue like that for fifteen minutes and then hobble to the bedroom and make love. I’d be her papa bear and she’d be my little Goldie Locks.”

Judy tried to erase that image from her head. She put some cherry pie in her mouth. The cherries were delicious, just a little overripe, but the texture tasted bad today, like loose skin. The thought of old people sex was affecting her palate. “What happened to her – your wife?”

“She died,” he took another bite of the pie and made a face. Judy bit her lip, trying to be civil.

“I mean, how did she pass?”

“Pass? Oh. Ovarian cancer. Doctors gave her a year. She lived five months.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” bits of crust flew from his mouth. He pointed his fork at her. “Did you give my wife cancer?”

“No. I just… I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Maaah! I didn’t lose nothin’! She’s dead!” He didn’t seem at all worried about his wife dying. All manners and protocol told Judy that she should be horrified by this, but she also felt a bit of admiration for him. Curtis didn’t tip-toe around death. Her family used to mourn every little thing. When her grandfather died, she wasn’t even sure whether anyone was genuinely sad for his passing or they just felt like they had to act sad. It was a horrible thing to think about them, but…

“Gad damn it!” Curtis cried. His pie fell to the ground.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you some more pie.”

“No. Sit down.” She did as she was told and folded her hands in her lap, just as she’d always been taught. Curtis, cherry filling on his shirt, sat with legs spread out wide and his hands tucked under his belly.

“You know, if my wife heard me say the Lord’s name in vain like that, she would have flayed my hide. Got in the habit of sayin’ it like that fucking Dan Aykroyd guy.”

“Blues Brothers.”

“Huh?”

“That was the movie. ‘W’ere on a mission from God.’ You know?”

He sat for a minute, smacking his gums and staring into space. Just as Judy was about to say something to break the silence, Curtis opened his mouth. “Gad, I miss that crazy bitch.” He sighed, coughed, then closed his eyes. He looked like exhaustion had come and scooped everything out of him in an instant.

“Are you all right?”

Curtis bowed his head. She thought it was a nod.

“Well, perhaps I should be going, let you get your rest. I hope you enjoy the rest of your pie.”

“Goodbye. Don’t bring pie anymore. I’ll bake.”

“Bye, Curtis. Have a good evening. It was wonderful seeing you again.”

When Judy got home, she screamed into her pillow.

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Filed under FEATHERTON II, Flash Fiction

Cherry Pie

“Back for more pie, eh?” Curtis whistled through his teeth.

“No,” Judy said, holding her fresh-baked pie. “I thought I’d bring a pie as thanks for last time.”

“What is it?”

“It’s cherry pie.”

“Mmmm,” Curtis lewdly licked his lips. “I’d take a taste of your cherry any day, little girl! HAAaaa~!” His laugh turned into a wheeze and then a cough. Judy had a lovely grandfather who was always a gentleman in the presence of women. She had thought that it was just the era, but this man was dispelling all her illusions.

“Are you all right?” she finally asked.

“Fine,” he coughed. “Fine. Just get me some water with that pie.”

Judy looked for some bottles of water around the kitchen. She eventually decided that there was none and decided to use the tap. “Here, ” she said, offering the drink to him. “I’ll go cut up the pie.”

Judy was proud of her pie. The crust had turned out gold and flaky and the cherries were just oozing out of the inside. Curtis’s pumpkin pie was good, but Judy’s pie could win awards! She gave him the second slice that hadn’t fallen apart.

Curtis’s hand shook as he blew on the forkful of pastry. He chewed, slowly, swallowed, then put his fork down on the plate. Judy waited eagerly for a reaction.

“You know, my wife was a terrible cook.”

This was not the response Judy was hoping for. She reminded herself that he didn’t have long to live and strangling him wouldn’t be worth it.

“Oh? I didn’t know you had a wife,” she grinned.

“Sixty-two years. Loony as a cuckoo bird, that one. Couldn’t read anything without her glasses and she’s dyslexic to boot. ‘Curtis,’ she’d say to me. ‘Why do we have something called “bear slices” in the pantry?’ An’ I’d tell her, “Nonsense! Those are pear slices, you old bat!’ We’d argue like that for fifteen minutes and then hobble to the bedroom and make love.”

Judy tried to erase that image from her head. She put some cherry pie in her mouth. The cherries were delicious, just a little overripe, but the texture tasted bad today, like loose skin. The thought of old sex was affecting her palate. “What happened to her – your wife?”

“She died,” he took another bite of the pie and made a face. Judy bit her lip, trying to be civil.

“I mean, how did she pass?”

“Pass? Oh. Ovarian cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” bits of crust flew from his mouth. He pointed his fork at her. “Did you give my wife cancer?”

“No. I just… I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Maaah! I didn’t lose nothin’! She’s dead!” He didn’t seem at all worried about his wife dying. All manners and protocol told Judy that she should be horrified by this, but she also felt a bit of admiration for him. Curtis didn’t tip-toe around death. She liked that.

“Gad damn it!” Curtis cried. His pie fell to the ground.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you some more pie.”

“No. Sit down.” She did as she was told but ground her teeth as she did. She probably shouldn’t have or she was going to exacerbate her TMJ. He didn’t notice, anyway. The man just kept talking.

“You know, if my wife heard me say the Lord’s name in vain, she would have flayed my hide. Got in the habit of sayin’ it like that fucking Dan Aykroyd guy.”

“Blues Brothers.”

“Huh?”

“That was the movie. ‘W’ere on a mission from God.’ You know?”

He sat for a minute, smacking his gums and staring into space. Just as Judy was about to say something to break the silence, Curtis opened his mouth. “Gad, I’m miss that crazy bitch.” He sighed, coughed, then closed his eyes. He looked like exhaustion had come and scooped everything out of him in an instant.

“Well, I suppose I’ll be going. I hope you enjoy the rest of your pie.”

“Goodbye. Don’t bring pie anymore. I’ll bake.”

“Bye, Curtis. Have a good evening.”

When Judy got home, she screamed into her pillow.

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Filed under FEATHERTON SESSION, Flash Fiction

Pumpkin Pie

“Pumpkin pie is God’s food,” said the old man on the porch. He was rocking back and forth on an old rocking chair, like he was a character from some old timey flick based in Louisiana.

“Excuse me?” said the woman walking by, carrying her groceries. Her name was Judy.

“You a pumpkin pie fan?”

“It’s, um, I don’t know.” Judy looked around. She wasn’t sure why, exactly, but perhaps she was hoping she could latch onto some passing person’s underbelly like a lamprey and get carried away from the dangers of awkward social encounters.

“Come on, girl! You either like it or you don’t! I have some cooling inside.” The man stood up on creaky legs.

“No, really. I should get going.”

“Nonsense! Who says no to pie?” He tottered through his front door, swinging it open. It slowly almost shut on its own, hanging there, creaking back and forth in the wind.

Judy wasn’t sure how to answer that, but she had a nagging sensaton. It wasn’t particularly hot but it was very humid that day. She could smell the rain in the air and she thought of just bolting down the street to her house. Still, good manners kept her locked in place, if a little fidgety. She kept shifting to one foot, then the other, as if she had to go the bathroom. Maybe that’s what she should have said.

“You know, Van Gogh thought yella was God’s color. Now, I don’t know much about that art crap, but pumpkin pie is definitely something out of God’s cookbook.” He walked to the bottom step but no further. She walked tentatively and he practically shoved the pie in her face. “Now tell me how that is! I make them pies an’ I sell ’em right outta my home.”

“Oh, really?” she said, forking off the first morsel. “I’ve never heard anything about pie sales. Do you do this every year?”

“Nonsense! Um, yeah. I do. Never sell anything, though. Just sit here waiting and nobody buys anything.”

“You don’t have any signs up or anything. Do you put ads in the paper?”

“Don’t need to! Pie sells itself. People just smell pie and come running.”

She looked over her shoulders again. The streets were markedly empty. “But you don’t have any…”

“Nonsense!” The old man smacked at his gums for a while. “Eat your damn pie.”

Judy was worried about poison for a moment. She figured he was crazy enough, after all. However, Judy was more afraid of making a bad impression with a neighbor. She took a timid bite.

“Pretty damn good, eh? I make it with rat testes.”

Judy spit out her pie. The man let out a wheeze that could have been a laugh if he were ten years younger. “I’m just messin’ wit’ ya! You shoulda see yoor face! Ha!” He wheezed again. He might have asthma. Or he was really old and his lungs were giving out as God’s punishment on him for playing tricks on unsuspecting ladies. Judy preferred the latter explanation. The pie was really good, though. She took another bite.

“Woman, if I was ten year younger…”

“You’d still be too old.”

“Bah! I’m only 93! Still young enough to do a little of this.” He thrust his pelvis in her direction. Judy heard something pop very loudly and the man had to sit down. She watched him sit and finished her pie. It had a bold flavor, seasoned perfectly, as if someone had crushed up the fall weather and put it in a pie crust. She wondered where he learned to bake like that, or if maybe he was hiding a wife-slave in the house that just made excellent pies all day.

“I think I’d actually deal with your shenanigans for another pie, sir…” She held on to that last word. “Your name?”

“Name’s Curtis.”

“Well, Curtis. Your pie is exquisite, but I must be going.”

“You remind me of Shirley Temple when she and I were going steady. The only way I could snag a girl like that was through my pumpkin pie. Heals the soul, you know!”

“You dated Shirley Temple?”

“Yeah, she was just a newly divorced thing and I was around.”

“You were Shirley Temple’s rebound guy?” Judy wanted to wipe that image from her mind, especially since she could only think of Shirley Temple as a little girl and Curtis as, well, Curtis.

“Yeah, but then she started cheating on me with that Black fella. And I don’t mean no negro. That was ‘is name. Black. Stupid name.” He sounded bitter.

“Well, I’m sure he doesn’t make a pumpkin pie like you do.”

“Yer damn for sure, woman!” He wheezed again, started coughing and rocking back in his chair.

“Are you all right.”

“Maaah!” He dismissed it with a hand.

Judy thought about getting home again. Her groceries were getting heavy. She set the plate back up on the rail. “Well, I should get going. Thank you for the pie and it was lovely to meet you.”

Curtis hacked up something and spit it over the rail. “Yeah.”

“Well, then,” Judy said. She took one last look back at the man before going. He was rocking in his chair, creaking like an old swing set and looking glossy eyed as if he were inside a dream.

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XII

How to Make a Thanksgiving the Single Bachelor Way

Ingredients:

2 pieces of toasted Wonder Bread (toasting optional)

1 piece of bologna

1 piece of Kraft cheddar slices

1 or more heaping spoonfuls of mayonnaise, to taste

12-pack of beer (splurge on something festive, like pumpkin spice or winter ale. It’s Thanksgiving, after all)

1 porno

Directions:

Call your parents and tell them you’re heading to a friend’s house for Thanksgiving. If they live close to you, then you’re out of town on business or, again, visiting a friend. If you have no friends, just throw out a name. What do they know about your personal life, anyway? They never cared about you when you were a kid and the only reason they keep tabs on you now is because they can’t stand the sight of each other now that your dad’s retired and they want you to take them in when they get too old to wipe themselves. Make the phone call short. You still need to get showered and dress to visit your “friend.” Tell them he has a fiancée who has friends and family coming over. You have to look freshen up and bring a dessert. Ignore your mom’s question about when you’re ever going to find a nice girl and settle down. She won’t press the matter anyway, since she figures your friend’s fiancée will probably hook you up with someone. Remind her that you have to go get dressed. She’ll hang up satisfied that you’re finally hanging with good company. As soon as you hang up, you’re ready to start preparing dinner.

Assembling bologna sandwich: For a toasted sandwich, put bread into toaster. The toast is only just tall enough to give you a false sense of security before burning your damn hands on the metal top, so remember to push up the tab with one hand and take the toast out with the other. Have plate ready. If you have no clean plates, just use your hand. Take butter knife and slather desired amount of mayonnaise on bread. Stack pre-sliced cheese on bologna slice and place in between bread.

Put porno in your DVD player. Change setting on TV to video 1. Start popping open beers with your bottle opener keychain. Take a sip every time you see boobies and chug the rest whenever there’s a money shot. Eat some of the sandwich in between sips. It will soak up a little of the beer. Now that you’re shitfaced and the movie’s over, change the channel back to normal TV. Food network. Some hot blond is cooking Thanksgiving food. Imagine bending her over the counter and start jerking off. Pass out with a line of your spunk still running down your thigh. It should dry by the time Iron Chef comes on. Thanksgiving is technically over by then anyway.

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session VII