The Siren’s Song Of Pie, by Sam Pasternack

Hey there, big boy. You look hungry.

Very hungry.

Don’t be troubled by my appearance. I know I may look like the white smoke that rises when a new Pope is chosen. But honey, I ain’t no saint.

I am the scent of pie. And we’re going to have some fun, aren’t we?

You seem nervous. Let me swirl around your body for a moment. Yeah, just like that. You can make some room for a sweet, delicious pie. I know you can.

Still ill at ease, aren’t you? Here, let me show you that we’re not so different, you and I. See? I can form a hand. A slender, sexy, feminine hand, waving you closer, closer, closer.

Perfect, honey, that’s right. Let my aroma wash over you. Consume you, Overtake you.

Smells good, doesn’t it?

Now I’ll just gently lift you a few feet off the ground, caressing you as you float though the air horizontally. You look like Superman flying through the air, honey. Only your weakness is pie.

Don’t worry about where I’m taking you, and don’t worry about who is watching. Let them watch. They’re all jealous anyway, honey. They’ve never floated through the air. Not from an aroma like this, that’s for sure. Not from a pie like this.

No, I won’t tell you what flavor pie it is. That would take all the fun out of it, wouldn’t it? No, of course it’s not pecan pie. I knew you were allergic.

You were supposed to go to work today. Another dull day at the office. But look at where we are now, honey. We’ve floated over 70 miles, from Poughkeepsie all the way to the Big Apple.

We’re almost there. Almost at the pie.

Just another few minutes and your wait will be over. You’ve been a very good boy, so patient. You’re very close, honey, it’s in this skyscraper right here. Let’s float up the side of the building. Up, up, up.

You’re moments away. Moments away from pie.

I wish that I didn’t have to tease you like this, honey. I wish that I could just form that slender, sexy, feminine hand once more and just hand you the delectable treat that you now so intensely desire. I wish that my scent wasn’t deriving from a pie 40 stories up. I wish that the windowsill where the pie is sitting right now was wide enough for you to grab on, hoist yourself up, and save your chubby little life once I evaporate into sweet nothingness. I wish that the whole cat-and-mouse game of my aroma wasn’t just another siren’s song.

But I’m no genie, honey. I am the scent of pie. And you’re about to fall for me.

Sam Pasternack is a writer living in New York City. His work has been featured on McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. He is currently thinking about pie.

The Humor Section features a piece of original humor writing each week. To submit, send an email to Brian Boone.

The Siren’s Song Of Pie, by Sam Pasternack