A New Scary Short Story

Happy Mothers Day to the moms I know and the ones I don’t know.  May you all bask in the joys of motherhood.  As I helped my own mom enjoy her new Mother’s Day gift (a Nook), I knew that I would someday have  a more personal relationship with fatherhood.  I could not help but smile.

 

But on a different note, I must warn you the following is  a disturbing story that I came up with recently for a horror based writing prompt about “pie.”  If you seek not to be unnerved today, don’t read this tale.  For the moms who choose to keep reading, take a gander and then go hold your children a little tighter.  Just trust me on this…

 

 

My Cherry Pie

 

A man sat at the window of the Hawthorne Boulevard cafe and simply watched people go by.  He could see the reflection of his watery, tired eyes as they blinked once.  Passersby would not notice him, for he wasn’t exactly what you’d call a memorable man.  He was of average height and build.  He had a perfectly plain face with small, moist brown eyes.  He had a quarter sized bald spot at the back of his sandy haired head.  He didn’t exude the chest swelling, straight backed confidence of other men he met on the street.  Most who ever met him laughed at the fact that he had two first names, but otherwise he became a passing thought to be wafted out of their lives like a fart on the wind.

 

Still, the corners of his mouth twitched as a pretty server with bright blue eyes brought him a black coffee and a piece of pastry on a small plate.

 

He hadn’t yet brought the first piece of desert to his mouth when a female began to walk slowly past the window.  She wore shorts that barely went past the first third of her thighs.  The skin below her shorts was a silky mocha that reminded him of the color of his own, cream filled coffee.  Sunlight accentuated the vermillion streaks amidst her auburn tresses, and it made her green eyes sparkle even as she hefted a small pack in front of her slender torso.  She wasn’t large-breasted, but some were beautiful enough to get away with that.

 

He bit into the piece of desert that dangled from the end of his fork.  His teeth sank into the middle of a hot, buttery crust.  It reminded him of suntan lotion.  The inside of his cheek burned with the acid tartness of cherry filling, and viscous red fluid oozed between his front teeth as he slowly masticated.  He ran his glittering eyes over the young woman’s legs, beginning with the lime green Converse on her small feet and ending with the pockets of her light blue denim shorts.   She bent at the knees as she laughed, and it took him another few chews to realize that she was using a cell phone.  What had that person said to get her to arch her back in mirth, and could he ever say something like that?

 

The young woman turned her head in his direction, and a gap toothed smile remained on her face as she blinked.  He could feel the blood rushing to his face.  He ached to have this woman near him, and she had given him a subtle, smoldering look that suggested she wanted the same.

 

How sweet..

 

He pierced the remaining sweetness on his plate and felt the girding of his loins as he curved his hand and let his plastic fork slice through the desert.  He brought the piece of food to his mouth and let it linger there, the smell entering his nostrils and suffusing his being with thoughts of the young woman’s body writhing underneath his.  He pictured her smiling for him, thrusting her hips against him as she embraced him and bit his lower lip with those imperfect teeth.

 

“No baby, I’ll make sure you look like Giselle fucking Bundchen someday,” he sighed at himself as he bit into the confection once more.

 

The man felt the bolus slide down his throat before he deigned to take a sip from his white, porcelain cup of mocha goodness.  The silky burn made his eyes water and convinced him that he still craved the pain of young love. As he bit his lower lip and leered out the window, he knew one thing:

 

He wanted to be near this nubile young goddess. He yearned to have her undulating underneath his strong hands, her eyes never leaving his as she slid her light pink panties down and exposed her bald vulva to his deserving eyes.  He would be her white night.  He would guard her against the terrors of high school boys and their tawdry desires.  There was no way she could truly understand the while of the teen-aged  boy, but he could recall the unfocused lust of his own adolescent years; a need that drove him to the ear-piercing, wrist slashing madness of his own “self abuse.”

 

And now, he rejoiced at the recollection that his old Catholic priest was dead.  A car crash had rendered him a silent witness to the demon that dwelled within; the monster that growled with insatiable lust.

 

“Original sin is not so easily washed from the hands of our fathers, and neither is blood,” he thought.

 

Cherry red juices similar to menstrual fluid cascaded down the man’s chin as he greedily licked his lips.  The girl bit her lower lip as she closed her eyes, and he knew she was thinking of his beard tickling her between her luscious thighs.

 

She heaved her pack upon her back and walked away then.  A pen dropped from an open zipper on her backpack like a paratrooper falling into a life or death mission over the jungles of the Congo.  He rose quickly, spearing the leftover cherry pie on his plate like a hunter about to claim the pelt of his latest kill.  His chest heaved, and he forgot about the bill as he hurried from the cafe and dashed toward the pen that lay abandoned on the ground.  His eyes narrowed as he observed the swaying ass of his newest love receding into the distance with every confident runway stomp of her lithe legs.  He ran a sweaty, trembling hand through his hair and stalked off after her.

 

Jesύs Martín could feel the bulge of the knife at his belt as his ordinary legs picked up speed against the dull grey asphalt.  He would be the son of God that absolved her of original sin.

 

Cherry Pie had never tasted better..

 

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