A/N: So Cognoscente (her fictionpress name) and I were talking about classic literature, and how authors were paid by the word (hence how long winded the stories could be), so I decided to make fun of classic beauty. It evolved into this. A very long winded, ridiculousmonologue about cherry pie.

Don't look at me like that.

I can feel the crust flaking against my fingers, stabbing like one million fish scales of a serpent from hell. The cherries – little red bubbles in a smoldering entrapment of sugar – scream in tones of agony, popping, stirring the pinkish fluid as they bleed into one another.

I want to run away. I want to escape the caloric after effects of indulgence, but I can feel my knees trembling beneath me like a vibrator wrapped in corn husks, left to dry in a torrential hurricane. I rush towards the delicacy of flour and baked passageways of scarlet, eyes watering from the redolent expression of food uneaten, sweetness lapping at my eyes like a dog's tongue. The tin is like a scolding iron, a manufactured sun, a head light burning out in the middle of the Sahara desert, a manhole covering molten led, MYANIMA LEFT TO BURN IN UTTER ANGUISH AGAINST ALL I'VE EVER STRIVED TO ACHIEVE, drowning in my own insignificance, the nescience of it all.

But no.

I sit.

And the pie, eagerly pulling towards its own demise in tufts of steam, waits.