My pumpkin pie sat on the table, untouched.

I’d followed the directions explicitly.
I properly preheated the oven.
I took great pains with the crust.

I’d anticipated delight, feigned or otherwise, once consumed. It was not meant to be.

“Bring a dessert,” they’d said.

Turns out everybody brought pumpkin pie.

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Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. She enjoys writing short stories, poetry, and the occasional song.