Pie

I ate a pie in my dreams. It tasted like blood and crunched like bone. I looked at it, held it before my eyes, and saw that it was filled with many small babies. Tiny children the size of plums, if even that large. I took another bite, and I savored it. It was a cold, cold day in the lost village in my dream. I was feasting with a host of shriveled vampires around a large oval table in a cobwebbed room.

I did not heed the warning in my mind, or the ravenous stares the vampires directed toward me; I took another bite, gore dribbled from my chin, and the table candles flickered in the wind. There was an old Turkey on the center of the table, moldy, dusty, and still I contemplated eating it.

I realized as I took another slice of pie that the vampires around the table had stopped eating and were all inching ever so closer to me. I took another bite of pie. I remembered that I should go before they began to move more quickly. I stood up, not in any hurry though. I side-stepped the withered old woman next to whom I had been sitting and who had risen with me.

And I ran for the door, and I made it to the door, and I stuck my tongue out at the vampires before I slammed said door in their ugly, wrinkled faces.

Then I went for a walk.