Little Jack Horner has grown big; very big. Thousands of life’s pies of experience, all loaded with pits, have slid down his raw, sad gullet.
Jack's pertinent stats:
• Five failed marriages
• Five failed marriages
• Children not speaking to him
• Plum thumb blown off in The Gulf War
• Back-breaking baking career
• Not much of a sense of humor
Who’d have thought on that long-ago Christmas, as the friendly fire bathed him, his pie, and his special corner in cheerful radiance, and that fat plum spewed sugar down his arm, that life could be such a downer.
Jack is no longer interested in oral gratification. He seeks peace for his heart, because there isn’t enough Summer fruit in the world to pluck out the pain.
Dying of congestive heart failure and diabetes in the Brothers Grimm memorial wing, he closes his eyes. He can hear, faintly, the droning heart monitor, as a staff psychologist plumbs the depths of his psyche. She thinks it odd that he equated sticking his thumb in his food with being a good boy.
Jack is no longer interested in oral gratification. He seeks peace for his heart, because there isn’t enough Summer fruit in the world to pluck out the pain.
Dying of congestive heart failure and diabetes in the Brothers Grimm memorial wing, he closes his eyes. He can hear, faintly, the droning heart monitor, as a staff psychologist plumbs the depths of his psyche. She thinks it odd that he equated sticking his thumb in his food with being a good boy.
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