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The Life of Pie

The pie's insides were slowly leaking out of its plastic clothing, staining the white paper of the bag, and betraying its contents to the cruel world. The pie's master was serruptitiously eating it, slowly but surely, between pretending to write short fiction on the Library computer. The pie felt it was being treated with even less dignity now then when then when its various components had been pulverised into paste and then baked inside its flaky skin. At least then it had been whole, but now it was being tortured, periodically pierced with a fork, or prodded by its master's hungry finger. It braced itself, preparing for another round of torture as its tormentor grew hungry...

But as the fork tore through the poor pie's soft outer shell, a voice rang out and the fork stopped moving. His tormentor had been chastised for attempting to eat in the Library, so for now it, the pie, was safe.

The pie could feel its body cooling, with its insides exposed to the elements it was slowly dying. The pie does not question its existence, nor its purpose. The pie cares not for word games and family fun. The only thing the pie was contemplating as it lay on the desk was as follows...

Pie: Why me?

Its compreshension of the outside world was too undeveloped to articulate anything else. It had vague recollections of its past lives as a pig, cow and block of cheese, but nothing concrete enough to allow it to increase its understanding of its suffering.

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submitted at 1:53am

20 February 2009