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