The Scent of Bliss – The Baron

Posted on by March 25, 2026
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The Baron from ZOMGsmells

It won the vote last night, so I wore it today!

The Product Description Sez:
Rich, complex, and powerfully masculine, the Baron is a scent to wear when conquering towns and administrating with a practical-minded, questionably benevolent hand. Bergamot, lavender, and amber mellowed by spiced rum, bay leaf, and cedarwood.

The only word I could really apply to it in the bottle was… complicated. Upon initial uncorking, there was just SO MUCH going on all at once (which isn’t surprising, seeing as how The Baron has his hands full with taming and unifying Europa and keeping peace with Britannia without letting Her Majesty see him as week OR a threat, not to mention the difficulties presented by his own brilliant and stubborn son…) It was woody, plant-tangy, with a sharpness that was faintly metallic, soothed by an exotic spice warmth.

Upon the skin, that combination of metallic and spiciness became all the more pronounced. The woody hit faded as it dried, the tanginess relaxed, and new notes came to the fore, warmer notes: leather, parchment, brandy. Even The Baron needs some downtime – or especially the Baron, if you really think about it, and he demands fine things for what little relaxation he can attain, between keeping a continent to heel beneath his high boot and the irritatingly recurring drama of family.

I applied this around half past eight this morning, so roughly twelve hours have gone by – and The Baron is definitely still there, without reapplication. I am a fan of a scent that can hold out for the long term. What I’m smelling now I suppose is the lavender and amber with a bit of the spiced rum and a hint of cedarwood. It reminds me of nothing so much as it does CBihateperfume’s In The Library, actually. I should do a One On Each Wrist comparison of the two some time.

Overall, I find The Baron to be even better than my expectations. It comes on strong in a good way, making it clear that it has a lot going on and no time to waste. As the day progresses, it quiets, subtles, smooths – becoming finer with age, if you will, and subsiding with watchful grace into administrative duties. Yet it never disappears entirely, and I caught hints of it hither and thither throughout the day. Watching me.

This is currently contending with Jäger #3 for Favorite Smell of the Set.

The Scent of Bliss – Jäger #2

Posted on by March 25, 2026
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Jäger #2 from ZOMGsmells

The product description at the site sez:
Two leafy mints, gnarly patchouli root, balsam, and a speck of black liquorice. Robust! This Jäger likes long walks in the woods, getting caught in the rain, and hitting things with other things.

Two leafy mints indeed! It’s hard to pick out what the mints are exactly; the overall impression is of old school unsweetened mint toothpaste dried on the edge of a porcelain porous sink in a granny’s bathroom. Not very Jägery.

Let me try that again.

On first opening to smell in the bottle, the two mints are all I can really latch on to – it’s as if the Jäger split in two and was using huge bundles of the mints to beat the hell out of each other inside the bottle.

On the skin, the mints were very strong, but there was more to it, a sort of damp earthiness – as if the mints-of-beating had been uprooted whole and dragged wet deep-forest loam up with the roots.

As it dries, it becomes unexpectedly subtle. After a few hours the mints have faded to a background, making way for a soft spicey/earthy combination of the patchouli root and licorice, with a hint of brightness from the balsam. The Jäger tired of the mint fight, snagged a bag of candies, and headed off into the rainwet woods to roam and hunt for a new fight.

This Jäger is surprising. I expected to thoroughly dislike it from the first wetsniff, but have ended up ultimately enjoying what it settles out into after the initial near-harsh blast of mint has gone by. I can see this being in rotation for a day-to-day scent, as long as I have a good half hour before I’m really around anybody, so it has time to dry. There isn’t much last to it, though – while yesterday’s scent (Jäger #3) was still delightfully sniffable on my wrists as I was falling asleep, this one I applied first thing after my morning shower, and again around lunchtime, and I’m having trouble catching the scent of it on my wrists now.

The Scent of Bliss – Jager #3

Posted on by March 25, 2026
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So last week, Eric Milliken was awesome. He’s awesome all the time, actually, but this time it was this flavor of awesome: “I’ve enjoyed your posts here for a long time. They frequently make me laugh which is worth a lot.”

And he decided it was worth buying me a particular set of Squees (1mL samples) from ZOMGsmells, one designed with Girl Genius in mind: http://www.zomgsmellsshop.com/girl-genius-collected-works-squees/

Poor bastard. He had no idea it was going to mean a week straight of me pestering every day to find out if it shipped yet. Now he knows what it is like to be a shipment tracking site at the other end of my refresh key!

They came today! dances happily in a circle

It’s a set of 9 squees in the following scents (and as a bonus, they sent me a Brownie In Motion scrub bar):
Jägers 1, 2,& 3
Nize Hat
Madboy
The Baron
Nuremburg Pudding Incident
Pirate Queen (on duty)
Pirate Queen (off duty)

I sniffed my way through four of them before I stopped myself; I want to do good proper reviews of them, which means limiting myself to one a day on clean skin.

I began with Jager #3, which is described on the site as follows:

A little dark, a little dirty, but with undeniable sweetness under the rough edges– this is a Jäger to watch out for. No Jäger is subtle, but this one approaches suaveness wearing elephant boots. Dangerously sexy. Olibanum, ginger, toasted cardamom, vetiver, and molasses.

The description is fantastically apt. The scent on first opening is like wet, sweet loam – dark and moist, with just a hint of the molasses. The dirt on the boot of a Jäger.

It smooths and opens on application to the skin. The dark, wet dirt scent is still there, but it’s the scent of dirt thick with freshly-growing spices. The molasses sweetness remains, but with a fascinating tang of the ginger and particularly the cardamom coming through. It’s the cardamom, I’m sure, that reminds me of a particular bread that I’ve only had a few times, thick and dense. The bread a courting Jäger might share with a sveethot.

After a while I catch hints of the olibanum floating through all of it. Almost floral, almost dusty – the hint of years of fight-strewn travel caught up in the brim of a Jäger’s hat.

I think I’m in lurve. I want to have this Jäger on my skin all the time!

The Scent of Bliss – Dead Writers

Posted on by March 25, 2026
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I splurged on myself to celebrate the release of Inner Workings. I used some small monies I had sitting in Paypal from selling a crochet thing I’d made, and picked myself up a bottle of Dead Writers perfume oil. I waited and watched, mostly not obsessively checking the tracking, and it came, and of course I opened it and put it on immediately!

I, uh… I don’t like it. 🙁

https://www.etsy.com/listing/108625077/dead-writers-perfumecologne-oil-5ml

The listing says it’s Tobacco, Heliotrope, Vetiver, Black Tea, Vanilla, and that it “evokes the feeling of sitting in an old library chair paging through yellowed copies of Hemingway, Shakespeare, Fitzgerald, Poe, and more. The Dead Writers blend makes you want to put on a kettle of black tea and curl up with your favorite book.”

This is not my experience of it. It’s very strongly sweet in the bottle, and much more lightly sweet on the skin. I’m not familiar with the scent of heliotrope or of vetiver, but as it doesn’t smell like tobacco or tea or vanilla to me I am guessing those are what I smell coming through strongest. Rather than evoking libraries and classic literature and tea, it evokes interesting old ladies picking through sunshiny antique shops with freshly-picked sprigs of lily of the valley tucked into the band of their hats.

It isn’t at all unpleasant, but it wasn’t what I was expecting and it’s not what I wanted. If you’re looking for something with the evocation mentioned by the seller, I would much more recommend that you check out the perfume In The Library from CB. http://www.cbihateperfume.com/in-the-library.html I have a 2ml bottle of it that, even using sparingly, I’m rapidly running out of.

Dead Writers is billed as being suitable for a man or a woman, and don’t let my assessment of it above deter you from trying it – your skin chemistry is likely to differ from mine, and your experience will be different.

You are loved.

Posted on by March 25, 2026
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In light of the events of the day (and the events of many days, though today more deliberately and starkly than usual) I find myself evaluating my parenting, particularly in terms of my personal response to emergencies, and my overall approach to the world.

I’m realizing that my response to this was, in essence, the same as one one of my lads got pushed by the other, and came to me with blood streaming down his face the other night. I gathered him in, held him close, took care of what I could, let him take care of himself when he took the tissues away from me, and after a cuddle I put him to bed where he belonged, with a kiss and a hug, and telling him I love him.

Today, when I found out what happened in Connecticut, I went into the living room where the lads were watching television with my mother, and sat on the couch. “Can I snuggle with you, mama?” asked the older boy, and of course I said yes. For a half hour or so I simply sat with him tucked under my arm, and his little brother sprawled across my lap, holding them close and letting them wriggle away when they wanted to.

I’m back at my computer now, having made them dinner, and am trying to wrangle in my focus on work. They’re enjoying a Friday night movie-and-pizza in the next room, and I’ll probably pop back in there again for more snuggles. Later there will be popcorn for dessert, and then likely the usual rigamarole of bedtime boo-hoos and idunwannas, which will be laid to rest with a story and a tucking-in and a kiss on the forehead. I will tell them I love them, and good night, because I tell them every night that I love them.

Something happened today, and it was something terrible. It’s something I cannot change. I cannot fix. I cannot offer the cold comfort of a stranger to anyone who was or is there. That piece of the world is out of my reach, and I have no control.

I have trouble with not having control. So I look at where I do have control.

I have the ability to not force my children to attempt to comprehend this event that is not immediately affecting them. They will probably learn about it when they’re older. I have control over giving them their dinner and some entertainment, and the evening routine to which they are used. Tomorrow they will probably snuggle me awake as I groan and ask them to go play quietly in their room for ten more minutes. We’ll get dressed and I will tell them I love them, and make them breakfast. We will see friends, and we will play. They will learn things about their world, because they learn things every day. They are always learning, and I love to teach them.

One of the things they’re going to need to learn is how to cope with the painful fallout of fear; my deep hope is that they learn from the way that I cope with their own pains, their own fears. Fear has a way of replicating and begetting itself, of becoming blame and accusation and more fear and more pain, terrible and cyclical and and and and and.

And I don’t like fear. I don’t like fear, or anger, or the sick clinch of my gut in bitterness and rage. I don’t like feeling wounded.

So I love them.

I love them and I heal them, or I give them room to heal themselves, and I love them.

To help the world, to even just help the boys, I must first help myself to simply let my heart be open. It does not mean that I am not sad. I take a deep breath and I breathe in the sorrow, and the fear, and I let it back out. I love. I love, and I relax myself inside, and I will not ball up tight inside myself with fear. That road is a tightening gyre that gets me twisted up and lost inside myself, and helps nothing, heals no one.

Even if I can do nothing concrete, I can love. Because love has a way of replicating and begetting itself, of becoming hope and strength and help and healing and and and.

And.

If you can see this, know this: you are loved.

One more reason I’d really like a teleporter

Posted on by March 25, 2026
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On Sunday afternoon, after a long afternoon of children’s party and swimming in the pool, I went indoors to check y mobile phone and discovered that it would not turn on. It took no charge, either plugged in to a regular socket, or plugged into my computer with a different cord, for any length of time. This in conjunction with the ‘e’ key on my laptop having been broken for a while, I figured it was time to head up to the Apple store the next morning.

I started off bright and… well, mid-morning, only to have a christmass tree of lights come on when I was partway up the highway. Pushing the gas pedal had no effect. I threw on my flashers and veered to the breakdown lane, discovering in the process that my power steering had gone. By the power of inertia, I rolled to the offramp, and came to a halt.

There was me, with two kids, on a sunny offramp, in a dead car.

With a dead phone.

I opened the hood and tied a plastic bag to my antenna to signal for help to the passing motorists. I lost track of how many passing motorists there were, looking at me, after 30. By the time a very nice man named Chris stopped, I was in tears. He was very kind, calling the state police for me, and giving my children bottles of water and gatorade from the back of his car. We stared into the engine compartment together, and he pointed out how the serpentine belt was slack, and told me that was likely the culprit, which is good because those are far cheaper than an alternator.

There was a spendy tow to the garage my family uses – I just HAPPENED to have on me a carefully hoarded sum of cash left over from a yard sale, plus enough pulled from two separate bank accounts, to cover it. I’m at least glad I WAS able to cover it. What do they do when you don’t have the money? Does the tow company keep the car on the truck?

My father came to pick my kids and I up from the nice air conditioned waiting room, and we proceeded up to get lunch and hit the Apple Store, where they resurrected my phone and Macguyvered a fix for my E key that saved me $200 – which is good, because as previously mentioned, I’d just spent that amount on the tow.

I’d been told on Monday that they’d know what the problem was by the next day. They only finally just called me, to tell me that the problem was in fact a massive leak in my power steering pump, which had sprayed fluid all over the belt, which slipped off. The pump and belt both need replacing, with labor and tax to the tune of half a grand.

So I’ve returned the Pick Your Things! Widget from the preorder sale to the left sidebar, so that anybody who wishes to purchase books to Help The Bliss can do so. The 20% discount for both books still applies, and you’ll still get the signing and the fun extras that were part of the preorder sale.

If you’ve already purchased books but still want to help, donations can be sent via PayPal to bliss.morgan@gmail.com – or messages of floatyhearts and cheering-up can go to bliss@callmebliss.com

Thank you.

What I’m reading: “Moa” by Tricia Stuart Shiu (Novel Publicity Tour)

Posted on by March 25, 2026
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Please enjoy this excerpt from Moa, a paranormal YA novel with a literary bent by Tricia Stewart Shiu. Then read on to learn how you can win huge prizes as part of this blog tour, including $600 in Amazon gift cards, a Kindle Fire, 5 autographed copies of Moa, and 5 autographed copies of its sequel, Statue of Ku.

 

Eighteen-year-old, Hillary Hause’s left thumb searches frantically to turn on the “I’m Okay to Fly” hypnotherapy recording. Her nerves on edge, fuchsia fingernails press into the blue pleather armrests of her airplane seat.

“No spells can help you now,” she whispers to herself under her breath—then checks to see if anyone notices. Nope, they don’t.

The plane lifts through the early morning, gray fog of California, “June Gloom” giving way to the azure sky, and Hillary covers her curly brown head and retreats beneath the questionably clean plane blanket cranking the volume to drown out the drone of the engines.

“Outer shell close to breaking.” This time she doesn’t care if anyone hears.

I hover just beyond her “outer shell”—a movement in the periphery, a faintly familiar scent, a fond memory just beyond recognition, a non-human observer. Before the week is up, Hillary will save my life, as I will hers. But, for now, more about Hillary.

The drink cart rolls past the blanket, which has, by now become a moist steamy cave.

 

“Hey, freak. I hope your plane crashes.” The memory reverberates through her brain despite her attempts to distract herself with the hypnotherapy recording. She increases the volume, but the ugly conversation, which occurred just before school ended, still haunts her mind.

“I guess the only people they check on those flights are the suspicious ones,” Krystal Sykes, a bully from her home room, leans in as Hillary hastens to grab books for her next class. Krystal, also a senior, has hounded Hillary since the first day of freshman year and this is the final day during the final hour at this tiny high school of 376 students —where everyone knows everyone else’s business.

“Look, Krystal.” Hillary turns her eyes toward the sneering blonde. “It’s the last day of school, we’ll never see each other again. Can you give it a rest?” These are the most words the two young women have exchanged in the entire four years of high school.

A look of shock replaces Krystal’s smug snick, “Oh, so now you talk.” She leans in, so close that her spray tan becomes a patchy Impressionist painting. Her pores are blotched with cakey, two shades too dark powder, her unblended cream eyeshadow creases across the center of her lid and her tropical breeze flavored breath threatens to strangle the words right out of Hillary.

“I know all about your witchcraft practices and have made a few spells of my own. Trust me. You’ll never make it to your sister’s house in Hawaii.” Krystal’s backpack jingles and Hillary watches her spin around and skip down the hall.

 

Hillary is not a witch. She has, however, carefully crafted a “shell” to protect herself from bullies like Krystal—who, as far as Hillary can tell—is not a witch either. She has watched Krystal throughout elementary, middle and high school and has not been able to discern whether or not she practices witchcraft. No matter what Krystal’s background, her intent is to harm. And there is nothing worse than a spell with an aim to hurt. Hillary has had no choice but to remain in a constant state of defensiveness.

The twenty-minute recording ends and Hillary falls into a troubled sleep—feeling every bump and hearing every creak of the plane.

With about an hour left in the flight, Hillary awakens with a “turtle headache.” Hillary’s older sister Molly taught her this term which means a headache caused by sleeping too long underneath the covers of one’s bed.

Sadly, Molly lost her husband, Steve, last year in an unfortunate surfing accident. The throbbing pain in Hillary’s left temple could be the result of remaining submerged beneath an airplane blanket and wedged between the window and armrest, or it could be from worry about how Molly and her niece, Heidi are dealing with their devastating loss.

Disoriented, Hillary pokes her head out just in time to glimpse puffy clouds and sparkling sea below. A flood of excitement and sheer wonder flows through Hillary in the form of a tingle from her head to her toes. And then, a lovely thought: “…And for an Everlasting Roof, The Gambrels of the Sky…” She will enjoy this plane ride, thanks in part to Emily Dickinson.

 

As part of this special promotional extravaganza sponsored by Novel Publicity, the price of the Moa and Statue of Ku eBook editions have both been dropped to just 99 cents this week. What’s more, by purchasing either of these fantastic books at an incredibly low price, you can enter to win many awesome prizes. The prizes include $600 in Amazon gift cards, a Kindle Fire, and 5 autographed copies of each book.

All the info you need to win one of these amazing prizes is RIGHT HERE.

Remember, winning is as easy as clicking a button or leaving a blog comment–easy to enter; easy to win!

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About Moa: Eighteen-year-old, Hillary, anticipates adventure
as she embarks for trip to Honolulu, but gets more than she bargained for when Moa,
an ancient Hawaiian spirit, pays her an unexpected visit. Get it on Amazon.

About Statue of Ku: The second book in the Moa Book Series, “The
Statue of Ku” follows Hillary and Moa as they jet to Egypt on the Prince’s private plane
to reclaim Moa’s family heirloom, the inimitable statue of Ku. Get it on Amazon.

About the author: Tricia Stewart Shiu combines her addiction
to the written word with her avid interest in the healing arts and all things metaphysical
in her novels Moa and Statue of Ku and looks forward
to finding new ways to unite her two loves. Visit Tricia on her website, Twitter, Facebook, or GoodReads.

The Adventures of Jasper!

Posted on by March 25, 2026
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The following story was just dictated to me:

A long time ago, when there was one boy named Jasper who had lots of weapons, including shield and a sword, he went on an adventure.

But then one day he forgot which way to go – he got lost! He tried to think of which way he should go. He picked the path found to the left, instead of forward, or right, or back the way he came. He forgot he should have gone backward.

He went on and on until he came to a waterhole with no poison in it, and no yucky stuff. He was glad because he was very thirsty. He scooped the water to drink it – and discovered a tadpole in his hand! He put it in the water of a nearby swamp.

Then he found a tank full of fresh-looking water. He almost drank out of it – and found a fish. ALL the fish! He put them in the swamp as well, where they could live and breathe. Only then did he drink the fresh water, and he was no longer thirsty.

But he was hungry. Luckily, he had brought along one big fresh carrot. He ate it, and was no longer hungry or thirsty, and returned to his adventure.

Next, Jasper found some ants. He gave his leftover carrot crumbs to the ants to bring to their ant home – but they were no ants, they were termites! He stepped on all of them until they were dead. Walking over the dead termites, he found the King of the Termites, who was enormous! He sliced him before he could get pinched, and stabbed the King of Termites dead. Then he came to the Queen Termite, and stabbed her with his sword.

Then there were no more termites, just ants scattered all over. He gathered back up his crumbs to feed to them, and they were no longer hungry.

He went on. The ants followed him. He gave them bits of cheese, which they brought to their holes. He gave them water, which they carried in pouches to their holes, and there they stayed to rest in their ant beds.

Jasper followed their example, going backward the way he came until he, too, got home to rest. The end!

This story was dictated to me by my younger son, who just turned five in March, and will be beginning Kindergarten this fall. My mother tells me that he is quite like me, very independent and self-directed, and always with a story to tell.

You can see in this particular story the evidence of the storytelling culture in which he is being raise, not only with kids’ movies and such, but with books I read to him, and stories that I tell him on the fly. In the simplified parlance of the unit his older brother did in his first grade class this year, on the elements of a story, this has a beginning, a middle, and an end. It has a main character, who has an overarching conflict or problem. It has minor characters and smaller troubles with which to contend along the way, the solving of which in part end up helping guide the main character to the solution of the overall problem.

It is at once childish and childlike, this story, and yet it contains the same things that all great stories do, in essence. Moreover, it gave him great joy to sit by my side and tell this story to me to type for him. It gave me joy to listen to it developing, and recognize the frameworks in it.

Writing and storytelling are crafts that are often considered esoteric and solitary, but the truth is that a writer cannot exist in a vacuum. Many authors’ advice to young writers includes “Read.” Reading fills our mind not just with ideas and tales, but the form and frame of them, the paths they follow, the structures of world-building, life-building, problem-solving.

Reading and learning these things starts before we can read at all – while we are being read to, our human brains which are undeniably attracted to patterns will start noting these subtle similarities among the tales we are told, learning them to put forth years later in our own work.

In this way, the Adventures of Jasper are the adventure of all storytellers – we learn from the tiniest things.

~~~

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A man named Mark

Posted on by March 25, 2026
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Let me tell you a little story about a man named Mark.

Mark is the firstborn son to a couple that started their family in the mid-fifties, and in true Catholic tradition didn’t stop adding to it for quite a while, not until Mark was the oldest of seven. Son of a teacher and a news photographer and erstwhile leader of the band of siblings, he had a storied youth in a waterfront town, the whisperings of which even now keep slipping forward into the future. Mark grew up, got married, became a firefighter, and had children.

Where some people will spend a good portion of their initial working years jumping from job to job, Mark went with fire fighting, and he stuck with it. It takes a particular kind of person to fight fires, to run into a burning building while others are rushing out. To help those others get out, and then try to prevent the utter ruin of their worldly goods. Mark also became and EMT, the better to help folks in need.

Son of a teacher and a photographer who went back to school late in life to also become a teacher, Mark learned a lot about learning. He learned a lot about teaching. Every day and in his own way, as his small children grew, he sought to teach them – starting with the little, essential truths that every parent tries to instill in their child:

Be kind.

Be thoughtful.

Don’t hit.

Tell the truth.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Then, as those children grew, so did the depths and complexity of the lessons:

Choose a seat where you can see a lot of the room.

Be quiet, be still, and see what you can learn while people talk over and around you.

Always ask for and use your waitress’s name, and leave a good tip. They work hard.

Be kind.

This is how a lever works.

This is breaking strain, these are different kinds of rope.

This is how to cast your line into the shade under that tree just along the brushy shore, where the fish probably are, without getting it caught in the tree.

This is how to be still while you wait.

Be thoughtful.

This is how to tie a knot. This is also how to tie a knot. This is how to tie another knot. Here are some other knots as well.

Water mains are large and hoses are small for volumes of water, as well as for pressure.

People are under pressure, just like water.

Don’t hit.

This is how to drive stick shift, check your oil, change a tire.

Think about what your friends are asking you to do, and about what could happen. Take a step back and imagine consequences, and don’t just follow the pack.

Tell the truth.

This is how to transplant a tree so that the roots get enough water while it settles in its new spot.

Do unto others as you would have them do to you.

This is how to mix cement, and this is why people stick pennies in them.

Do unto others as you would have them do to you.

Do unto others as you would have them do to you.

Do unto others as you would have them do to you.

The total lessons were so much more than that, and in so much complexity. Mark was teacher and father to his children. He pushed them not just to do their best, but to be their best. He led by example as well as words, teaching them how to work, how to stick to it with things that are hard. How to act and react with dignity when things go wrong. How to live, how to love. To respect others. To talk, and to listen.

How to teach, and how to learn.

Today Mark is 56 years old, and without him, I would be nowhere near the person I am today.

Happy birthday, Dad. And thank you.

Wuff? Pie if uh perfefctly fvvfalid brehfuff fuhd.

Posted on by March 25, 2026
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“To foreigners, a Yankee is an American.
To Americans, a Yankee is a Northerner.
To Northerners, a Yankee is an Easterner.
To Easterners, a Yankee is a New Englander.
To New Englanders, a Yankee is a Vermonter.
And in Vermont, a Yankee is somebody who eats pie for breakfast.”
— credited to E. B. White

I’m not from Vermont, but eating pie for breakfast is definitely something I grew up with. I’m from the South Shore of Massachusetts, below Boston but Above the Cape, and from when I was a child right up through present day, if a pie appeared in the house for dessert, whatever was left over was totally going to be breakfast the next morning.

Only when I moved to New York did I discover that it was strange. Whereas I had never really been into the idea of pizza as a breakfast food, the first time I served myself a piece of pie for breakfast I got this look of confused horror, as if I were breaking some heretofore unknown rule delimiting breakfast foods and desserts as having no crossover whatsoever.

But here’s the thing about pie: it’s fruit. It’s grains. It’s a pastry with fruit filling. It is a filling thing, and it tastes amazing, and if it’s sugary and buttery and glazed, that means you have the whole day to work off the sugar high and the fats and the calories! It totally beats eating something like that right before you go get prone and still and unconscious for the night, don’t you think?

This pie, for the record, was apple.

~~~

There’s a story involving an apple in Nightmare Fuel! Have you read it yet? Curious as to how a fruit so well suited for filling in a tasty, tasty pie can become creepypasta? Click the My Books link up top to find out where you can get the eBook – or for a limited time, click the Buy Now button on the left to purchase a signed print copy.

Buy it and Bits of Bliss at the same time for a 20% discount off both volumes!