Flash Fiction #19 – Apple Pie

Sara reread the text once, 


then three times: 

something came up, can’t make it. 

She looked at the apple pie 

steaming in the oven. 

The smell wafting through the kitchen 

no longer smelled so sweet; 

there’d be no date.

Hours of scouring the attic 

for Grandma’s dusty recipe. 

Made with apples Sara handpicked. 

Weeks of preparing 

because he once said he loved apples. 

All ruined an hour before, 

no call, 

no explanation. 


It’s okay, she texts back. 

Sara eats her apple pie, alone.

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