This is the beiginning of a short story I've been working on. It's the first one I've done in a while with cutting back and forth between perspectives. Tell my what you think:
Brian glowered at the light reflecting from the point of the knife. This time he would do it. He switched focus to the target twenty feet from where he stood. He brought his hand back so that the knife was pointing back over his shoulder and snapped it forward. It tumbled through the air, instead of spinning as the book had said, and hit the plywood target with a dull thud. It bounced back and hit the dirt a few paces from the board. He tasted the sourness of defeat and trudged back to the oak tree, which had become his favorite reading nook.
He bent down and retrieved the fantasy novel he had been reading and regarded the brightly colored cover with all the disdain his twelve-year-old psyche could muster. It showed the well-muscled hero with a broadsword in one hand about to hurl a dagger at a multi-headed demon lizard with his other. He gave the book the same treatment as the knife but it didn’t even make half the distance to the target before it fluttered to the ground. Maybe Dad was right, maybe reading those stupid books was a waste of time. Bryan’s father was always telling him what a waste everything Bryan did was. Nothing was ever good enough for the old man.
The cold October wind cut through his corduroy jacket and reminded him that it was time to go back in. There was homework to pretend to do. He ran to the makeshift target and retrieved his scout knife making sure to grab the novel on the way. Sure the book might be junk for the brain but a book was a book and in Bryan’s world books were not to be wasted. He ran up the back steps of the house and opened the sliding glass door as gingerly as he could not wanting the scraping noise to disturb his father’s afternoon football game. Once he was inside and the door was secured he tried to creep down the hall.
“Boy !!!, his father bellowed. ”Did ya finish your chores?”
Brian snapped out of his reverie and the roar and vibration of his motorcycle registered on his senses once again. Blackouts like that were incredibly dangerous but Brian had been riding bikes, motorized and otherwise for the better part of 25 years and he trusted his reflexes. Perhaps he trusted them a bit too much but that was his problem. Besides, the blackouts had also been part of his life and he trusted them too.
He saw the lights of an Exxon up ahead and felt the need to “drain the snake” as his dear old Dad used to say and a little caffeine wouldn’t hurt either. He was at least another hundred miles to his destination and he wanted to be there in an hour tops. He pulled his coal-black Harley Dyna Wide Glide into the pool of artificial daylight and up to the pump. He wasn’t the only one that needed some go juice; his hog would need to be topped off too. Bryan cut off the engine, grabbed his keys, and took his black skull bucket off, putting it on the handlebar. The only thing he didn’t understand about Harley riders was the hatred of a faceplate. He hated bugs in his teeth, but he wanted to make sure he looked the part. Another of his Dad’s saying, “If it’s worth doing, do it a hundred and ten percent.” Not very original but it had served Bryan well.
He unsnapped the leg ties that kept his duster under control and his hands brushed the length of the sawed-off Mossberg 12-gague. It stayed secure in elastic loops that he had sewn into the lining of the jacket and its handle could be reached through a slit in his pocket. A matching gun on his left side balanced its weight. Bryan believed in balance in all things, especially fire power. Besides, each gun only held two rounds. That was usually enough but he had once been a Boy Scout and was always prepared. He unsnapped his jacket so that the light breeze could cool him off.He went towards the storefront not even needing to read the sign that said, “Pay before you pump!!” Nobody trusted anybody anymore, what was this world coming to?
His hackles went up as he saw the scene unfolding inside. The punks had obviously heard his bike come up, but they weren’t even trying to hide robbery in progress. He could see one in a Dodge Dart directly across from him on the other side of the store playing wheelman. Another, a tall skinny redneck with long, greasy blond hair, covered the door with nervous glances and a .38. The last one, fat and sweating badly, kept a bead on the cashier with a pawnshop twelve gauge. Bryan reached into his pockets and clicked off the safeties. He could feel the butterflies start to dance.
Bert, the tall skinny redneck, heard the big motorcycle pull in and looked at his cousin expectantly. “What do we do Bubba? Some dude just pulled up on a brand new Harley.”
“Well,” said his fat cousin “if he’s dumb enough to come in here we’ll take his money and the purty ‘cycle.”
Bert looked doubtful but held his post. The dude got off his bike took off his helmet and was headed towards the doors with his hands in his pockets. He was a tall one but not very big. That long coat he was wearing practically swallowed him. He had on a pair of weird goggles with yellow lenses and his brown, curly hair was matted to his head by sweat and helmet.
The doors wooshed open, automatically letting a puff of conditioned air into the cool, humid night. “Freeze mister.” Said Bert in his best Clint impression with the old Colt clenched in both hands. “Give me your keys!”
“Well which is it? Never mind, here.” The stranger lifted his keys by a small black cylinder and started to hand them to Bert when something came out of the cylinder.
Bryan pointed the cylinder of pepper spray at the goon and a spray of foam came out. You had to be a good aim with the foam, but it stuck better and wouldn’t blowback like the spray. This was military grade stuff, twice as strong as civilian-grade, and formed thick foam over the guy’s nose and eyes. He quickly forgot about the Colt as his hands went to his eyes. Bryan knew first hand that the poor sucker felt like someone had pored kerosene in his eye sockets and lit a match. He also knew that it would leave second-degree burns on exposed skin and might blind you for life. But it was better than being dead which was what the guy had in mind for Brian and the gas station attendants.
With one well-practiced motion of his left hand, he brought the shotgun’s barrel up and whipped the coat free, triggering it at almost the same instant. The sixteen rubber balls came out of the gun with a force that was lethal at ranges of less than six feet. The fat robber was a little over five feet away but his blubber saved him permanent damage. He would come away with some broken ribs, a concussion from one ball that clipped his temple, and a punctured lung. The kick from the anti-riot round was negligible but put Bubba on his butt and down for the count.
The wheelman lost his nerve and laid about six inches of rubber leaving the parking lot. Brian hadn’t realized that a Dart could squeal tires like that. He busied himself be putting heavy plastic ties on the two robbers hands as a precaution and then turned his attention to the counter person. Apparently the excitement had been too much, because he had fainted dead away.
Brian glowered at the light reflecting from the point of the knife. This time he would do it. He switched focus to the target twenty feet from where he stood. He brought his hand back so that the knife was pointing back over his shoulder and snapped it forward. It tumbled through the air, instead of spinning as the book had said, and hit the plywood target with a dull thud. It bounced back and hit the dirt a few paces from the board. He tasted the sourness of defeat and trudged back to the oak tree, which had become his favorite reading nook.
He bent down and retrieved the fantasy novel he had been reading and regarded the brightly colored cover with all the disdain his twelve-year-old psyche could muster. It showed the well-muscled hero with a broadsword in one hand about to hurl a dagger at a multi-headed demon lizard with his other. He gave the book the same treatment as the knife but it didn’t even make half the distance to the target before it fluttered to the ground. Maybe Dad was right, maybe reading those stupid books was a waste of time. Bryan’s father was always telling him what a waste everything Bryan did was. Nothing was ever good enough for the old man.
The cold October wind cut through his corduroy jacket and reminded him that it was time to go back in. There was homework to pretend to do. He ran to the makeshift target and retrieved his scout knife making sure to grab the novel on the way. Sure the book might be junk for the brain but a book was a book and in Bryan’s world books were not to be wasted. He ran up the back steps of the house and opened the sliding glass door as gingerly as he could not wanting the scraping noise to disturb his father’s afternoon football game. Once he was inside and the door was secured he tried to creep down the hall.
“Boy !!!, his father bellowed. ”Did ya finish your chores?”
Brian snapped out of his reverie and the roar and vibration of his motorcycle registered on his senses once again. Blackouts like that were incredibly dangerous but Brian had been riding bikes, motorized and otherwise for the better part of 25 years and he trusted his reflexes. Perhaps he trusted them a bit too much but that was his problem. Besides, the blackouts had also been part of his life and he trusted them too.
He saw the lights of an Exxon up ahead and felt the need to “drain the snake” as his dear old Dad used to say and a little caffeine wouldn’t hurt either. He was at least another hundred miles to his destination and he wanted to be there in an hour tops. He pulled his coal-black Harley Dyna Wide Glide into the pool of artificial daylight and up to the pump. He wasn’t the only one that needed some go juice; his hog would need to be topped off too. Bryan cut off the engine, grabbed his keys, and took his black skull bucket off, putting it on the handlebar. The only thing he didn’t understand about Harley riders was the hatred of a faceplate. He hated bugs in his teeth, but he wanted to make sure he looked the part. Another of his Dad’s saying, “If it’s worth doing, do it a hundred and ten percent.” Not very original but it had served Bryan well.
He unsnapped the leg ties that kept his duster under control and his hands brushed the length of the sawed-off Mossberg 12-gague. It stayed secure in elastic loops that he had sewn into the lining of the jacket and its handle could be reached through a slit in his pocket. A matching gun on his left side balanced its weight. Bryan believed in balance in all things, especially fire power. Besides, each gun only held two rounds. That was usually enough but he had once been a Boy Scout and was always prepared. He unsnapped his jacket so that the light breeze could cool him off.He went towards the storefront not even needing to read the sign that said, “Pay before you pump!!” Nobody trusted anybody anymore, what was this world coming to?
His hackles went up as he saw the scene unfolding inside. The punks had obviously heard his bike come up, but they weren’t even trying to hide robbery in progress. He could see one in a Dodge Dart directly across from him on the other side of the store playing wheelman. Another, a tall skinny redneck with long, greasy blond hair, covered the door with nervous glances and a .38. The last one, fat and sweating badly, kept a bead on the cashier with a pawnshop twelve gauge. Bryan reached into his pockets and clicked off the safeties. He could feel the butterflies start to dance.
Bert, the tall skinny redneck, heard the big motorcycle pull in and looked at his cousin expectantly. “What do we do Bubba? Some dude just pulled up on a brand new Harley.”
“Well,” said his fat cousin “if he’s dumb enough to come in here we’ll take his money and the purty ‘cycle.”
Bert looked doubtful but held his post. The dude got off his bike took off his helmet and was headed towards the doors with his hands in his pockets. He was a tall one but not very big. That long coat he was wearing practically swallowed him. He had on a pair of weird goggles with yellow lenses and his brown, curly hair was matted to his head by sweat and helmet.
The doors wooshed open, automatically letting a puff of conditioned air into the cool, humid night. “Freeze mister.” Said Bert in his best Clint impression with the old Colt clenched in both hands. “Give me your keys!”
“Well which is it? Never mind, here.” The stranger lifted his keys by a small black cylinder and started to hand them to Bert when something came out of the cylinder.
Bryan pointed the cylinder of pepper spray at the goon and a spray of foam came out. You had to be a good aim with the foam, but it stuck better and wouldn’t blowback like the spray. This was military grade stuff, twice as strong as civilian-grade, and formed thick foam over the guy’s nose and eyes. He quickly forgot about the Colt as his hands went to his eyes. Bryan knew first hand that the poor sucker felt like someone had pored kerosene in his eye sockets and lit a match. He also knew that it would leave second-degree burns on exposed skin and might blind you for life. But it was better than being dead which was what the guy had in mind for Brian and the gas station attendants.
With one well-practiced motion of his left hand, he brought the shotgun’s barrel up and whipped the coat free, triggering it at almost the same instant. The sixteen rubber balls came out of the gun with a force that was lethal at ranges of less than six feet. The fat robber was a little over five feet away but his blubber saved him permanent damage. He would come away with some broken ribs, a concussion from one ball that clipped his temple, and a punctured lung. The kick from the anti-riot round was negligible but put Bubba on his butt and down for the count.
The wheelman lost his nerve and laid about six inches of rubber leaving the parking lot. Brian hadn’t realized that a Dart could squeal tires like that. He busied himself be putting heavy plastic ties on the two robbers hands as a precaution and then turned his attention to the counter person. Apparently the excitement had been too much, because he had fainted dead away.
