Right now, the only thing you want is to thread on something other than the mire of apple sauce and bits you're currently at; the feeling of this pastry filling coating you is getting uncomfortable, and the crust wasn't that far, so you could come to look for your shirt after a brief break; though cleaning your clothes may prove a much more difficult matter, but at least the scent was better than that cheap detergent in your house.
As you reach the beached slope of pie crust, there's a sudden, massive shift towards your back that knocks you off balance and causes you to tumble towards the slope.
Adjusting yourself so you land with your left hand, you immediately turn to your side and direct your attention to the giantess whom you had apparently forgotten about, despite her being the main reason that you had ventured this far in the first place; Ms. Summers was behind you, her eyes fixated on the pie you're on once again, her left hand holding the tray on one side, the other holding a giant knife, seemingly fit to cut through rock, starting to cut into the pie.
With Ms. Summers' enlarged attention-grabbing persona slicing through your landscape, you quickly realize how dangerous your position is. The knife started its path just a few meters away from the crust where you are; it created a visible, wide line in the filling as it impaled the pie, then went enlarging it as Ms. Summers pulled the knife towards her, cutting smoothly through the bog of apple sauce and bread crust.
As you watch startled still, Ms. Summers had removed the knife from the pie as it reached the rim of the plate, only to bring it back again near you; when she plunged the knife again where she had started the section, facing the knife in a different angle this time. Again, she starts cutting through the pie, sectioning off a slice the size of a baseball field once the knife ended the line.
Shortly after, Ms. Summers had put the apple-stained cutlery down, but not before sliding her index finger across its both sides, effectively cleaning the sauce out; and then she tasted the delicious filling that had captivated her with its smell alone. Once again, she let out a loud moan of delight, followed by her hand inserting another giant steel utensil into the distant crust; which then was followed by another brief shift as Ms. Summers removed her sectioned slice from the pie. The moment you feel the slice beginning to lift you crawl a bit higher on the crust slope, then turn back to a stray drop of apple sauce dripping onto your legs; the baked bottom of the slice hovering briefly over its former location, before being pulled out of the tray and into a plate in front of Ms. Summers.
In just a few seconds, Ms. Summers had relocated the sectioned slice to her platter; leaving behind an uncovered patch the size of the slice on the tin tray, along with some brown puddles.
Astonished, you keep watching as Ms. Summers lifts the first bite of her slice towards her expecting mouth; then cringe a bit as she bites down, finally tasting its sweetness to its full extent, save for a single apple sauce drop that fell on her chest, staining her tank top. Though this time she doesn't moan, her expression of delight is still present as she munches on the pie.
At the same time, realization hits you in consequence as you take in how dangerous that was. You were too close to the fault lines created by the passing knife, which no doubt would have sliced you under a blade of solid steel should you had been in its path; or more likely, judging by the small cliff just under the slope, you would be in the filling of the slice that Ms. Summers just cut out, in the front of the triangular slice, AKA the bit that she's eating right now. If she can't see you at all on the pie, it's unlikely that she would have seen you in the bite that she was shoving in her mouth. As she swallows, you shudder at the thought of being in that bite that just went down her throat (even though you're a bit jealous of that sweet-sour drop that fell on her breast). Still, you've better be more careful from now on.
After that close call, you've decided that staying on the pie would be risking it. Ms. Summers is busily enjoying her cut, though you never know if she'll want seconds, so you start to figure a route amongst the loom-like pattern of the pie's crust to get off it. There's a short crust path of loomed slopes where you can see the border; close to where the slice was cut, and by extension, to you.
As your oblivious neighbor enjoys her dessert, you thread on the wavy path ahead of you; dusted extensively with sugar and cinnamon powder, which sticks to your feet thanks to the stickiness of the applesauce, with the same annoying effects as a pebble in a shoe would have. Still, you keep moving, going up and down slopes of loomed crust; the shock of your recent close call slowly subsiding.
Eventually you reach the border, where the crust pattern changes from a loom to sequential indents. By now, Ms. Summers was finishing her slice, and soon after she gets up, taking her plate and fork with her. She certainly looks satisfied with your mom's recipe, as she expresses so verbally, though quietly,
-"Simply delicious, I..."-; before retiring from the table, her voice becoming audible only to herself as she retreats; placing the used kitchenware in the sink and then going into a hallway.
With your neighbor retreated, you're now free to change your size without her attention. Nothing too different from your current height, just add a couple of extra centimeters for the sake of convenience. Taking the mildly wet remote from your substantially wetter pockets, you adjust its settings to your new height; then proceed to grow yourself, feeling the sensation you have grown used to once again as your body expands into a slightly less minuscule size.
*ZZAZZ*
There you go, a more convenient size at the cost of a fraction of the device's available charge, now to get off the pie. You look over the rim of the tray, and certainly, a drop that would have been at least a story high a minute ago it’s just short of your own height now.
Before you drop down onto the wooden surface of the table, you secure your currently loose belongings: the remote it's safely tucked in your pocket, filthy, but functional; your keys, also caked in, are stuck in your pocket; your shirt, filthy beyond cleaning, it's still han... -Hang on...-
...
... It's not on your shoulder anymore... -Crap...-
...
... Neither is it tied to your waist... -Fuuu...-
By now, you remember that it had slipped off before you got on the dry crust; then got left behind as Ms. Summers cut her slice. Turning over to the empty section of the tray, you try to locate your loose shirt in the leftover drops of apple sauce. There are many crumbs that dot the three or four brown puddles on the tin, but no piece of cloth in sight. -uuuck.-
Well, so much for your shirt. It's nowhere on the tray anymore, and most likely it ended up with the rest of the slice and it's now a torn rag in Ms. Summers stomach. Oh well, it's not like it was your favorite shirt anyway; and as long as you don't lose the remote or the rest of your clothing, it's not a serious problem.
Sitting down on the edge of the tray, you jump down onto the table; landing without further incident, save for a brief pain caused by the impact of landing on the crumbs still stuck to your feet, which you immediately lament not scraping off before jumping; each stuck crumb invoking the pain of a thousand building blocks.
After a prolonged moment of expletive cursing and improvised personal hygiene practices, you're finally ready to continue this escapade in your neighbor's house. Well, after getting down the table of course; but first, you have to plan ahead. As far as shenanigans go, you have two immediate options: you could follow Ms. Summers into the hallway, that way you could come up with something on the spot; or you could stay in the vicinity of her kitchen and living room, where you could plan mischief in advance, then execute it when she comes by.
What route will you take?
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