Cherry Pie

Sitting on the window sill was a cherry pie, steaming from the oven. Too hot to touch, but Milo wanted it anyway. It was, after all, a cherry pie.

The smell of the pie had filled the house for the entire hour it was in the oven. Milo went mad wanting a taste, the sugar and butter and just deliciousness too much for him. Now that the pie sat on the window sill, he stared at it. Waiting.

“You have to wait for two hours,” his mother said. That was ten minutes ago. The pie was still steaming.

One little bite couldn’t hurt, could it? he thought. Just a taste. Make sure it isn’t poison.

Reaching a hand up, Milo curled three fingers and a thumb in, leaving just his index finger extended. He hovered over the pie, his mother’s warnings of a burn fighting his desire. Try it don’t try it try it don’t try it try it.

Try it won.

He plunged his finger into the pie. Then he tore his finger out of the pie, yanking it off the sill and onto the floor while jamming his finger into his mouth, succeeding in burning both his finger and his mouth.

Milo ran to his room before his mother returned.

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