Storytime: In the Attic (Part 7)

The following will be a multi-part series from a book of short stories I wrote a long time ago. I shall record these stories exactly as they are written with no editing.

Many of the stories are of true events with some embellishments and sometimes a small amount of creative license. All names will be changed to protect the privacy of the individuals mentioned.

Without further ado, let's adventure into my 16-year-old self via our book pensieve. Here is In the Attic.

Apple Thief

An apple tree leans over the road casting a blue shadow on the asphalt. The sun in blindingly bright and the sky in a deep autumn blue. "Almost there..." A small grunt echoes through the still air. "Almost...got it!" Thump. The branch sways violently as a few leaves flutter to the ground like green feathers. I laugh at myself in the moment of victory, for clutching in my hand is a large, green apple. I hold it up like a trophy and grin.

Smiling brightly, I turn toward my grandmother's house. Then, there's a bang. My right foot floats in suspended motion as a mustachioed man strides across the lawn. Frozen to the spot in terror, I turn my head to see him. The world around is speeding by at an incredible pace. A car drives by in the blink of an eye and disappears instantly like a phantom. Closer still the man approaches. His face is purple in anger. "What the hell are you doing?" he shouts. My mouth moves, though no sound escapes. "Gimme that apple."

"I..." I stammer, my voice suddenly reappearing. Something in me snaps. Blood rushes like a flood from my head to my feet. The man is only a few feet away now. I tear off down the street before he reaches me. Adrenaline courses through my veins; heartbeats drum loudly in my ears. "Don't look back. Don't look back. Don't look back," I chant breathlessly. I look back anyway. He stands at the edge of his yard, fenced by and invisible wall.

"You get back here you little brat!" I stare at him, then turn and run.  When I round the corner at the bottom of the hill, I toss the apply up high and catch it with one hand. In spite of the guilt, I grin and saunter home.

---

Later that year, my grandmother takes my brother and I over to this man's house and we pick apples with permission this time. The man didn't even remember me stealing an apple. Anyway, they were great and we baked them with butter, sugar, and cinnamon in the oven.

I thank you for your time. Adiamas.

--Kyriel