A Taste of Tart

[Harold N Walters]

Crazy, but more than anything, more than escaping from his present predicament bound to a chair, Old Harry wanted a slice of the partridgeberry tart. Gram had left it cooling on the kitchen counter before she backed their Impala out of the driveway and driven off to The Mall.

“Don’t cut that tart. It’s for company,” Gram had charged before leaving.

Old Harry had watched from the window, planning to cut a slice of tart as soon as the Impala’s tail lights disappeared around the bend in the road. He was willing to accept Gram’s wrath. Besides, forgiveness was easier to get than permission.

Old Harry nearly drooled, thinking of the tangy tart. He savored the thought of the tart’s sweet and sour taste penetrating the withered taste buds of his octogenarian tongue. Old Harry steadied himself on his booga stick, a cane he’d whittled himself from a crooked length of witch hazel when he’d felt the first twinges of arthritis in his hip. Then, leaning on the counter top, he hung his booga stick on the oven door.

But before he’d even found a knife, the kitchen door opening in from the backyard exploded open and slammed Old Harry against the sink. His hip buckled and he grabbed at a chair back to keep from crashing to the floor.

Two punks wearing the obligatory ski masks burst inside. Although their faces were hidden, Old Harry recognized in an instant who they were — the not-so-brilliant twin yahoos from down the road. Paint splotched hoodies, stained the same green as their old man’s newly painted garage, announced their identities — Amos and Aaron Lykins.

“In the chair you old fart!”

Amos, Old Harry believed, grappled him and shoved him into his favorite captain’s chair.

“Boys ... ,” Old Harry said.

“Shut up!” Awkwardly, Aaron wrapped frayed duct tape around Old Harry’s wrists, strapping him to the arms of the chair. Bumping against Amos, Aaron bound Old Harry’s ankles to the legs of the chair.

“Don’t move.”

Seemed like an unnecessary command, Old Harry thought.

Crazy, but Old Harry thought more of the tart unharmed on the counter than he did of the hoodlums ransacking his house upstairs and down and cursing with the limited vocabularies of dolts. The reek of the pair suggested Amos and Aaron were tanked on their old man’s homebrew and perhaps drugged up on their mother’s tranquilizers as well. Although he felt that his life might be in some danger, Old Harry couldn’t help staring at the tart, longing to taste its piquant cranberry flavor.

Despite — perhaps because of — his craving for the tart, its crust as golden as a sunset, Old Harry struggled to escape his bonds. By chafing his wrists and ankles Old Harry discovered he was bound ineptly. By the time the brothers returned to the kitchen, enraged that they hadn’t found an imagined stash of cash, Old Harry had freed one hand and a foot. He kept this matter hidden.

Amos poked Old Harry in the chest with a paint-stained finger.

“Where’s the money, you bald-headed old coot?”

From the corner of his eye, Old Harry saw Aaron’s attention focus on the tart, saw his fingers twitch. The boy had some good taste anyway, Old Harry thought. Nevertheless, Old Harry felt obliged to protect himself, to protect the tart.

With all the strength he could muster in his aching hip, Old Harry up-boot and drove his freed foot into Amos’s guts. Caught off guard, Amos stumbled, lost his drunken balance, fell backwards and bashed his skull on the doorknob.

His lights went out.

Before Aaron could turn around, Old Harry snatched his booga stick from the oven door, bent over and hitched its crook around Aaron’s ankle ... and yanked. Aaron fell face-forward, smacked his chin on the counter and drove his teeth through his lips.

His lights went out.

But, oh my, as Aaron fell Old Harry witnessed a horrible sight. Aaron’s right hand, already reaching for the tart, snagged the edge of the pie dish. The tart’s golden crust crumbled as Aaron’s grappling hand clawed for purchase and towed the pie dish off the counter. When Aaron hit the floor, his chest crushed the tart. Partridgeberry juice oozed from beneath Aaron’s inert body like life’s blood.

Unspent adrenalin shook Old Harry and suddenly, his immediate danger ended, he commenced to weep.

Crazy, but Old Harry wept not so much for the invasion of his home; not so much for the darkness of the human heart and the wantonness of misguided men, but mostly for Gram’s mangled partridgeberry tart.

End

[johappy]

Oh, wow. When I started reading I wasn't expecting anyone to break in! First I was kind of upset at Old Harry for trying to eat the tart after Gram told him not to, but I felt so bad at the end when it was ruined.

As for the writing, I'd say you did fantastic. Good grammar and whatnot, and the story was paced very well. Who knew so much suspense could take place over a tart, which I am totally craving now. Thanks a lot for that XD

[ReyvrexQuestor Reyes]

Bravo! This is a nice story, with a twist. What a waste of that Bruce Lee kick and grappling hook, after everything else, the tart was still destroyed. Just the right action sequence. Magnify this into a full-blown novel. Thanks for sharing.

[Harold N Walters]

Thank you for reading. Thank you for positive remarks.

-- 14 N-
ov 2017, 10:57 -

[johappy]

Honestly, this is the most intense food story I've ever written. Thanks for sharing!

[Harold N Walters]

Thank you for reading.

[Armattcia666]

Brave effort by Old Harry, bravo!