The women had put millennia of years into baking her pie. She had carefully chosen her ingredients, making sure she had everything correct. She was finally ready to give it away. She knew that humans were in desperate need of her pie. She called her pie the Peace Pie. It had sprinkles of hope, with dollops of charity. It had the whites of justice, and a spoonful of fairness. It had a dash of possibilities, and a bag of love. Her Peace Pie was to help humanity heal, to help them learn from their mistakes. She would give a slice to each continent:

North America

South America

Antarctica

Australia

Europe

Africa

Asia

With each bite, old wounds would heal, war would cease, and love would flourish. She would serve it upon a dish of the world, along with a napkin of water and sliver wear of clay. She would send it on a ship of Courage, along with a crew of Luck, Truth, and Wisdom. They would deliver it to Mother Nature, who would warm it up in the fires of Kindness. Then it would pass onto Endurance, who would carry it to each of the continents.

The woman was proud of her pie; with the golden brown center with perfectly crinkled crusts. With the delicate designs etched into the flaky skin. With the floating steam wafting up in sweet scented clouds. She knew her pie would take away the heartache of hatred.

The women held her pie in a green cloth with yellow spots, holding the homey smell within the well-worn and musty blanket. Her wheat colored hair flew back in messy waves as she stood, her piercing blue eyes staring off to some distant ocean, looking for the ship.

When it came, she delivered it to Wisdom. He took it and sailed on the ship of Courage, the ship with the beaten hull and tattered sails. He sailed across the turbulent waves of patience, all the way to the jungle of Mother Nature. She warmed it up in her furnace of kindness, and passed it on to the swift feet of Endurance. He took it and gave a slice to each continent.
All of them, whether it be chilly Antarctica with snow that blinded your eyes, or the desert lands of Africa with sand that burns your feet, welcomed their slice of pie with desperate hope, last hope. Then, all of them took a bite, and with that, the end turned into a new beginning.

Ping Showalter is 12 years old and goes to University Elementary School. She enjoys playing soccer and she especially loves writing poetry. Ping got her interest in writing mainly from all the reading she does; this inspired her to make her own stories and experiment with her own styles. Through all of these things, she is greatly supported by her loving father and sister!