Lord of the Pies
Gazing at the stars, the pie-crust breeched, the king of pies is set in place, the centre-piece of both the meal and the table. Cheery twittering, and a few giggles as it arrives, the beady dead eyes, marking a ring of tiny black spots, almost an eerie, dark halo encircling the browned, crisp crust.
Yet the obvious pathos of the morbid scene is lost on those who gasp with delight. For these diners, in clothes that are fine, yet not fancy, this is nothing but a joy. Their own beady eyes, very much alive, and lively, roam again and again across the absurd spectacle.
Lips are even licked, the host sighs a satisfied sigh and calls loudly that it is time for him, himself, to serve up. What bizarre ritual is this, the cheery demeanour as the languid, lifeless form of the once glorious swimming silver flash, icily beautiful in the cool water, is laid gently, grotesquely in front of each ample stomach. How different, this drab plate in this pallid room.
Today I wrote between 20:48 and 20:58. I was prompted by an idea here.
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