Fiction: Custard Pie

Dave opened the door to his home and walked in. He took off his cap and jacket and hung them on the coat tree. As he turned to go into the living room he froze in place.

There stood Missy, and she was armed; a custard pie with a high dome of whipped cream rested, rather heavily, in her right hand.

“Missy,” Dave said, “I see you are standing there armed with a custard pie with a high dome of whipped cream. It is resting, rather heavily, in your right hand.”

“Nothing gets past you, Dave. That includes this pie.”

Continue reading “Fiction: Custard Pie”