Blackberry Pie

The old woman lived in a small isolated house made of twigs held
together by candle wax. She lived alone surrounded by a muddy field
encircled by woods at the bottom of a green fertile valley.

Once a year, on her birthday, she would mix secret ingredients with
blackberries before rolling pastry and encasing the fruity concoction
to make a handsome pie. She would put the pie in her oven and sit back
on her old rocking chair and quietly smile to herself as the baking
began.

Gradually the fumes from the baking pie would drift through her room
and enter her tired old hairy nostrils before escaping through a small
open window out into the muddy field. Birds would chatter excitedly
inspired by its pungent aroma as it circled its way through the trees
and up through the valley towards the small local village.

Children played by the stream and were distracted by the heavenly
smell. The perfumed air seemed to be calling them, heeding them to
follow its heady scent - they followed obediently, silently enraptured
by an inner glow.

They made their way hurriedly downhill following the stream through the
wood that separated the small house from the rest of the valley. Their
shoes became muddy as they trudged through the field but they didn't
notice, so distracted were they by the powerful odour leading them to
the battered twig front door.

She smiled and welcomed them in, they followed expectantly.

The pie was ready and cooling on her kitchen table and she sliced them
one generous portion each which they devoured shamelessly before
falling asleep in a contented heap on the
dusty floor.

The old lady boiled their bones and ground them down into a fine
powder.

Once a year, on her birthday, she would mix these secret ingredients
with blackberries before rolling pastry and encasing the fruity
concoction to make a handsome pie. She would put the pie in her oven
and sit back on her old rocking chair and quietly smile to herself as
the baking began...