With Pie
Dark and rich, I breathe in the aroma of the coffee in my cup. Out my window I can see the quilt of turned leaves that covers the ground and piles up against the coop in the backyard. A basket of apples sits on the balcony, keeping crisp in the cool air of the autumn afternoon. Later tonight, I’ll peel them, pile them high with a flurry of butter shavings before I put the crust on. I’ll surround myself with the sounds and smells of the last of the season. But, first, I take my axe in hand. It’s time.
first, I take my axe in hand. It’s time.
to go hunt down demons?
(sorry, still stuck on SPN.)
Mebbe we could bend the rules, just for a week?
Bend how? By making it fic?
Better to apologize than ask permission.
Comfort Food
The pie is leaking over the edges of the crust, oozing a deep purple sauce and fat, juicy berries. The shock of it against the bright, white plate makes my eyes go fuzzy. The rich brown of the café au lait in the equally bright coffee cup is much easier to look at. I need this comfort, though dammit. I need something that will make me feel better. This isn’t going to be it.
I pick up plate and cup and head toward the sink. Without rhyme or reason, I throw them both against the wall.
Now I feel better.
I've seen how everyone looks at you; it's the way they once looked at me. It's not that I've grown ugly; it's just that you're new to the neighborhood.
New.
Different.
Certainly not any more beautiful than I (still) am.
I'm not worried. I've learned from the past. I don't need to be shown anyone's heart, and the only oven in my future is the one I work at, while whistling a happy tune.
After all, what could be more friendly than to invite you over for a chat over a cup of coffee and a slice of homemade apple pie?
to go hunt down demons?
No, to start the ritual sacrifice. With pie.
Good one, Jilli! Now, that is spooky.
Jilli, that rocks!
these aren't fic drabbles
I thought the drabbles could be anything on the topic? What are the rules?
