New Flash Fiction: When Peach Pie is Subversive

Unlike Special Agent Dale Cooper in the cult TV series Twin Peaks, we haven't got "a cherry pie there that'll kill ya" however Canadian writer Christina Klarenbeek has served us up a slice of dystopian flash fiction about an equally lethal peach pie! Christina Klarenbeek writes science fiction, fantasy and horror from a small farm in rural Ontario. She can be found on twitter @MaraGant


Remembering Edith Munroe
by Christina Klarenbeek

When I first arrived for my scheduled appointment, things looked normal enough. An excess of family photos crowded her bookshelves but, as they were institutional in production, I was prepared to overlook their abundance. The rest of her apartment appeared in order. The Conformity Commission granted me leeway to forego balcony inspection. If I hadn’t done that I’d have noted the fresh herb infraction. 

The interview took place at a small dining room table that had obviously been passed down through the generations and been grandfathered in, despite its unrestrained lines. 
It was the pie that gave her away. Everyone knew the only state approved option was industrial apple, served cold and bare, with coffee. Yet she served her auditor a one sixth slice of homemade peach still warm from the oven. The accompanying cream was whipped instead of iced. It topped the pie slice in an over generous dollop came from a bowl rather than a more proper aerosol can. It didn’t stand to stiff attention as whipped cream should. It slid off the egg washed lattice crust in a luscious embrace 

The crust was too fluffy and light. It melted in my mouth. There was an unmistakeable hint of both vanilla and…something else. Too much fruit and none of the double-action corn starch the state relied on to hold together a sparse allotment of thinly sliced apple with rigid efficiency. In its place, unmistakeable pearls of tapioca brazenly peeked between an orgy of peaches that weren’t even uniformly sliced. 

The tea she served was comprised of Bergamot and Mint straight from the garden. Their freshly picked leaves steeped in a clear carafe, in willy-nilly fashion, denying him the possibility of ignoring their unsanctioned origins. Worse still, she’d pulled apart the scarlet flower clusters and added them to the brew, stirring them amongst the leaves where they mingled with adulterous abandon. 

After I’d politely cleaned my plate and drained my tea, I handcuffed her and took her in. The case took a dive when my by-the-book bagging and tagging of the leftover pie, for evidence and forensic testing was called into question. The sample went missing before scientific testing could take place. Luckily I had taken damning pictures as well. The judge ruled her guilty that very night, despite court documents stating the something else having never been identified by the lab. 

There was another glitch when she insisted on exercising her rights. The feds had tabled a bill in the House of Commons late last month, to prevent subversives from receiving visitors. The minority opposition were slowing its passage with a pointless filibuster. The Age of Majority increase, that had been part of the government’s election promise, was still being drafted. There was nothing I could legally do to prevent Edith from meeting with her eldest grandson. 

I oversaw the kid’s search at both ends of the visit to ensure nothing interfered with her execution. Nothing did, but a smuggling did occur. The next morning crudely lithographed copies of a hand-written recipe for peach pie starting showing up pasted to telephone poles and the sides of buildings next to a posterized profile of Edith. The something else had been cardamom. The kid must have memorized the recipe before the State offed his granny. 

The weekend brought news reports of grocery stores experiencing an increase in peach sales. A week later they were running out. A limit of one peach per person was imposed but it didn’t help. In the precinct, we started hearing rumours of underground potlucks. The Mayor banned peaches from the city.  

​I had to drive to Leamington to get mine. All the way home, their fresh scent reminded me of sitting across the table from Edith Munroe, enjoying a slice of pie as individual as she’d been.