Pie evokes folksy food, pasties for miners and a hot pie cooling in a windowsill. Most home-cook diners in the US serve American pie and even McDonald’s has it on the fast-food menu. Yet pie is more.
Possibilities include curious uses from pie-hole to pie-in-the-sky to pie-charts. And as you’d expect, a collection of stories on pie is as varied as the fillings between crusts.
The following are based on the July 20, 2017 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that features a pie.
A Piece of Pie by Norah Colvin
Kye met Jai at the mall.
“Hi,” said Kye.
“Nice day,” replied Jai. “Look at that sky. Wish I could fly.”
“Time for a chai?”
“Aye. And maybe a pie. I’ll buy.”
“What a great guy!”
“I’ll have toasted rye.”
They sat high by the window and played “I spy.”
“Oh my,” said Kye, rubbing his eye.
Kye started to cry.
“Don’t mean to pry.” Sigh.
“It’s no lie. The end is nigh.”
“Will we all fry? Will everyone die?”
“No, just wish I had your piece of pie.”
“Fie! Wish I had Thai!”
Below the Bridge by Bill Engleson
When the tide went out as far as it could, we’d scamper down the steep slope of the bridge.
There were always treasures to be found, rebar, erect in the salted-sludge, a fortune in bottles and cans tossed from the bridge into the sea.
Once, we found a baby carriage. There was even a blanket attached, pink, I think, twisted around one of the wheels.
Sometimes, we would race the incoming tide.
Life or death, we told ourselves.
You needed gumboots.
The swill and the slop would suck you down like you were drowning in a giant mud pie.
Herb’s Pie by Michael
It started every Friday morning at 6am sharp. A steady stream of shoppers knocking on the rear door of the bakery. They were after Herb’s Special Pie. Baked in the early hours, a mixture of meat and secret ingredients.
They were so sought after he couldn’t keep up with demand. Backdoor sales were all he could manage.
At home, you never put your pie in the fridge. You left it out until evening giving the secret ingredients more time to do their thing. Eating your pie gave you the expected tilt in your kilt and smile on your dial.
Flash Fiction by Irene Waters
“I’ve applied for a loan. I’m going to open a line standing business.” Blythe’s grin split her face in half.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’d need lots of employees for it to work and who would hire someone to stand in a line for them?” Beckett said, frowning.
“It would work. The average British adult spends 67 hours a year queuing. Think what you could do if you had even half that time back. Look I’ve done some pie charts.”
“Bly! Look up there. See the apple, rhubarb and I think that could be a meat one.”
“I love rhubarb pie.”
(Pie)ce of My Mind by Kalpana Solsi
She bought all the ingredients from HyperCity.
There is no market for my emotions.
Sieving the flour, granulated-sugar, baking-powder.
Sifting my anger from my failures I should take stock of
my residual expectations.
Kneaded the dough firmly.
I have to shape and mould my ambitions to rise in life.
She stuffed crushed dry-fruits into the pastry and covered it.
My confidence needs to be upholstered to boost my image.
The oven is heated up.
The fire in me has to be re-kindled.
The pie is baked to be devoured by family.
I am going to be MasterChef on television.
The Invitation by Anne Goodwin
His social worker promised it would be better here and, when the invitation popped through the letterbox, Spike knew she was right. Okay, predictive text had added an extra ‘e’, but it was clear from the date – March 14th – what was meant.
From the first of the month he practised, till he had it to the five hundredth decimal point. But he needn’t have bothered. These neighbours were as bad as the last lot. He’d only got as far as 3.14159 when they turned away. Talking shortcrust, flaky and choux. Bonkers the lot of them. A pie party indeed!
A Mother’s Longing by KittyVerses
Settling abroad wasn’t much a craze then, her son had gone there to seek fortunes. Promising to take her along at the earliest, it took him five years to take her with him. It was there, she had the first taste of an apple pie.
Back in her country, she was all praise for that chewy, fruity delicacy.
Her country is economically much developed now,when she looks at the delicacy through the glass lined shops in the malls, she no longer craves it. All that she wants is to be close to her son. So near, yet so far.
Humble Pie by Kate Spencer
The front door bell chimed. Mrs. B. smiled as she recognized the young man entering her shop.
“Hi Jason, what brings you here today? I have freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Your favorite.”
“I know. I could smell them all the way down the street. But no, I need a pie today.”
“What kind of pie?
“A humble pie.”
“Oh-oh. What’ya do?” Mrs. B shook her head.
“I told Sally there was no way I’d ever forget our anniversary…”
“… and you did.”
“It’s gonna take more than just a pie to fix this.”
“A large chocolate cake?”
Flash Fiction by Pensitivity
He was in his eighties and a widower.
I’d made him a promise, one he thought I’d forget, but I’m not like that.
It cost me nothing, just my time. Besides, I enjoyed doing it.
I have no problem cooking whatever Hubby brings in for the table.
I only ask that I don’t see him despatch it, and that he does the skinning and gutting.
Onions, potatoes, swede, black pepper, a stock cube, and a lid of puff pastry.
I made the Old Boy a Rabbit Pie. He was so thrilled.
Well worth the effort to see his smile.
American Pie by Jeanne Lombardo
“Nothing more American than apple pie,” she said.
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s lots of things.”
“Okay, sure, there’s baseball and Mom, too.”
“That’s not what I was thinking about.”
“Oh, oppression of the poor, Wall Street fat cats, imperialism, misogyny, institutionalized sexism and racism, homelessness, addiction, environmental destruction…”
“God, you’re so negative.”
“No, just realistic.”
“I still think it’s a land of opportunity for all.”
“No, you think it’s a zero-sum game. Not enough pie for everyone; some must go without.”
“I never said that.”
“No? Then what’s with ‘the poor will always be with us’?”
Oma’s Wisdom by Kerry E.B. Black
Oma Rochinka relaxed into her rocker, her smile bleeding into the crepuscular rays of the setting sun.
Her granddaughter scowled. “Why’re you smiling? Daddy’s crashed. He coulda died.”
Oma touched a wizened finger to the child’s nose. “But he didn’t.”
“He’s hurt bad, though.”
Oma nodded, assuming an enigmatic expression. “He’ll have a tough patch alright.”
Her granddaughter thrust out her chin with indignation. “And he lost the whole harvest of apples.”
Oma nodded. “Can’t sell bruised fruit.” Cinnamon wafted from within and mingled with petrichor.
“Then why’re you smiling?”
“Cause he’s alive, and we have lots of pie.”
Uninitiated by D. Avery
Now the children and even grandchildren bring their own signature dishes to family gatherings, but her mother remains the pie maker, her piecrusts legendary, the recipe and technique an unwritten mystery. To learn it, she would have to apprentice under her mother, observe and practice. That takes time. She would become initiated later.
At the last gathering even the uninitiated recognized that the slits in the top crust, usually cut so artistically, had been forgotten, the pies uncharacteristically soggy.
At this gathering they mine their pie with worried forks, something less obvious forgotten.
She would never know the mystery.
That’s Amore by C. Jai Ferry
He squinted at the green digital numbers. 350? His stomach growled. He cranked the stove up to 500. His arthritis wasn’t bad today. He could probably work the extinguisher. Where was it? He shrugged.
Two cups flour, half cup water. Mix, mix, mix. What was he forgetting? Salt! A healthy tablespoon full. He spread the dough on the baking sheet.
No tomato sauce. Damn. Ketchup it is. Shame his stomach didn’t do dairy no more. What about vegetables? He found six-year-old parsley buried in the cupboard. That would do. Pizza pie á la Milton.
God he missed his wife.
When the Pie was Open? (Janice vs Richard #14) by Jules Paige
Janice knew Richard thought he was a king who would
never abdicate. What Richard didn’t know the case against
him was nascence. The police were able to find some of his
prints on the cassettes of barking dogs that Richard had
destroyed at Janice’s home. They had gotten a warrant to
search the dwelling the couple had shared. And even years
later were able to retrieve the man’s prints that were
The capture of such a disturbed man who now behaved
like a bohemian would be a hard. His almost illusory trail
would not be easy to topple.
More than one Beer at O’Malley’s (Janice vs Richard #15) by Jules Paige
Longhorn saw sadness in Janice’s eyes. As mother bird, she
often chided herself for Richard’s offhanded behavior. Blaming
herself for the man’s sallow appearance. Richard’s return in
her once insouciant life gave the detective heart pangs.
Offhand Longhorn wasn’t sure what to do next. He felt that
Janice wanted to climb the walls of the safe house after just
four days. His team had to work quicker than Neolithic Man
and clinch this case.
Carla Scott thought; Perish forbid we can’t find this creep.
We’ll never have pie with nepenthe, which we’ll need after
dealing the likes of Richard.
Dessert for One by Sarah Brentyn
“There’s nothing like an argument over dessert,” I flung a spoonful of whipped cream onto his cherry pie.
He stabbed a piece, shoved it in his mouth, and pointed the fork at me. “You started it.”
“Lovely. Now we’re twelve?”
He leaned back, arms crossed. “Go to hell.”
“Maybe,” I shrugged. “Maybe I’ll even see you there. But, for me, not today.”
“What’s that supposed to…” he grabbed his throat, glaring at me.
“Don’t worry, love,” I took a bite of my chocolate cake. “The choking won’t last long. Your heart will give out before it becomes too uncomfortable.”
A Ruined Pasty (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli MIlls
Danni settled into the sand of Sioux Beach, burying her heals in warmth. A crowd of locals splashed in the bay off to her left, leaving this bit of solitude near the sloshing waves. She unwrapped her Bayfield Pies pasty from thick paper. It warmed her fingertips, and her first bite of crust filled with thin slices of carrots, potatoes and beef made her toes wiggle.
“Mmm…” Danni’s eyes closed while she chewed.
A shadow crossed her face and Danni opened one eye. Michael Robineaux. Ike’s best friend. He hated her, and he made her pie taste like sand.
Revenge Pie by Susan Zutautas
Look Joe, I made you a pie.
Why would you do that?
I wanted you to know that I still want to be friends even though you made fun of me the other day.
Well it was pretty funny when everyone laughed.
Come on Joe just one little bite, it won’t kill you.
What kind of pie is this anyways, it looks kind of gray.
It’s just the color of the flour I used.
One bite was all it took. Joe spat it right out.
Sandy ran fast to get out of Joe’s reach.
Mud pie, my oh my.
American Pie by FloridaBorne
“Can I learn your meat pie recipe?”
“You know how to make a pie.”
“Fruit pie has sugar from southern cane fields. This has potatoes and onions from our plantation.”
“You know the tradition. When you become a woman, I’ll pass along our secret family recipe.”
I stared out the window, admiring the fertile fields spanning an area once called southern Georgia. Not much left after the civil war but rusting cars and empty buildings. We were prepared when people fled south, and wasted no meat. The fortunate ones died quickly, becoming fertilizer in our fields.
Tia by Reena Saxena
Her childhood was spent, torn between loyalty to her Indian grandmother, and an Indo-American mother. Tia dug into both ‘samosa’, and apple pie, with equal love, and kept both the warring women happy. It had been a way of life with her. Her father disapproved of the diet, but remained silent, as he struggled to balance himself, between the women in his family.
Tia grew up to be a temperamental teenager, swinging between multiple relationships, not good for her.
Today, she decided to give up her chocolate addiction. She weighed close to two hundred pounds, and was single again.
Pies in the Sky by Anthony Amore
Rolling out the dough across the floured countertop becomes her silent lament. Time was the kitchen would filled with bustling bodies. Twice yearly they baked pies — fall apple; summer blueberry. Fruit would be harvested and sorted, washed and peeled, tiny hands sticky with everything.
Fewer local farms now, fruit comes in small plastic supermarket boxes. Sighing, she drops flattened pastry into a glass dish, pale sides overhanging. Her late husband would always reminisce upon pies of the past, still his “Blue Ribbons” went to each resting by the windowsill.
Carrot Pie by D. Avery
“Shorty in the cookhouse?”
“Nope, at her chuck wagon.”
“No, she ain’t goin’ anywhere, just cookin’ at the ol’ wagon. She does love the great outdoors.”
“Well I’ve got the flour she asked for. Second sack. What the heck she up to now?”
“Wants to make pies. Specifically, piecrust.”
“Oh-oh. That can be tricky.”
“Why is she so het up on piecrust?”
“Well, we always wrangle words to fill Shorty’s safe, sturdy corral. This week she just wants us to bring some tasty pie filling to the chuck wagon.”
“Sounds homey. Raw filling ok?”
“Yep. Raw’s ok.”