The sky was getting brighter by the second, as if the sun was about to appear, but the cursed rain just would not let up! He hated it, hated school, hated the kids that teased him. He hated that he had to walk a mile to a bus stop because the district had to cut back on stops to save fuel.
He stepped off the curb, and something punched him in the side.
Bryon swung around, thinking that a bully had shot him with a rubber band or maybe even one of those airsoft guns.
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and dropped his backpack. He put his cold hand under his shirt and felt around for damage. His hand rubbed over his back and butt cheek. He tried to look over his shoulder, keep his head down so rain didn’t drench his hood, and turn all at the same time, and nearly ended up on his face.
He pulled his hand out from under his shirt and saw red. Lots of red. He was bleeding? Jesus Christ on a jalopy!
That should’ve been the clue right there that this day would be a complete wash. First the news of an explosion near the freeway, then all the damn rain. His mother still didn’t believe that school would be canceled, or that his few friends had reported on Twitter with gleeful tweets stating they were “Off ‘cause Dad freaked about stuff blowing up. Snow day in September!”
Bryon dropped his backpack and lifted his shirt. He found red smeared across his back and some soaked into his shirt, but he needed a mirror to see what kind of damage had been done.
He wanted to freak out and return home, but when he ran his hand over the area that had been stung, he didn’t feel a wound, just a little bit of a bump, and then even the pain was already fading.
He was embarrassed by the fat that rode his waist like a tire’s inner tube. He hated that he couldn’t see his junk because it was under a belly big enough to stuff a rack of ribs and half a cake into, like he’d done on his birthday a few months ago.
Mom had said not to overeat, but Bryon hadn’t been having any of that on his birthday, and had gorged himself with abandon. Then he’d felt sick for the rest of the night.
Bryon dug around, but there didn’t seem to be any fresh blood. He was all too familiar with how even a little could spread around and feel like a gallon. He’d popped enough zits in his day to make a full coat of warpaint.
Bryon held his hand out and let water run over it, washing his blood onto the sidewalk. His eyes followed the flow to the ground, and then around his Nikes. By then, the crimson was diluted enough not to matter.
“Whatcha doin, fatass?”
Jesus! Rod Steckman was the worst of the bullies, and today of all days he’d decided to cross paths with Bryon.
Rod took any chance to pick on Bryon, any chance at all, whether it was slamming him into a locker—no mean feat considering Bryon’s weight—or spitting in Bryon’s hair. He had a group of cronies—on the football team, no less—and if it got any more cliché than that, Bryon didn’t know what else would qualify.
They’d once surrounded Bryon and made him crawl around while snorting like a piggy. The guys had pelted him with food, books, paper, trash—anything they could get ahold of.
Bryon had lost it and cried until they’d left him alone. One of the guys had been unzipping his pants, threatening to piss on Bryon, but a teacher had intervened and chased the kids off. He hadn’t exactly been nice to Bryon, either; more like a father scolding a child about being nicer to people if Bryon wanted to be treated with respect. The entire experience had left a sour taste in his mouth, and he’d stopped reporting the bullying to the school staff.
What he dreamed about was taking a bat to Rod Steckman and beating the jerk black and blue. He’d read articles on the internet that offered advice on how to deal with bullies. Some of them spoke of standing up to tormenters, because once you took a stand, they backed down.
He didn’t want to just take a stand; he wanted to hurt Steckman and his cronies. The Vulture could handle this guy with one hand tied behind his back.
Bryon launched himself forward, pretending like he hadn’t heard the bully. Rod picked on the guys who didn’t fight back, just like a bully. Bryon had plans for him, someday.
He was going to stand up to him by delivering a line like Batman, something along the lines of: “I’ll break you in half,” even though The Vulture came up with better dialog. He’d be all menace and hate, then he’d throw a pair of haymakers that would put Rod on his ass.
He’d hit the jerk so hard that teeth would fly and Rod would slide across the school hallway—because all of his fantasy fights took place in the school hallways. That way the girls could see what a badass he was.
Today was not his day to have a battle, but he did intend to fight back, one day, after he’d lost some of his girth and learned how to actually throw a punch. Right now Bryon had to get his project to school in one piece.
“I was talking to you, fatass!”
Rod’s voice was closer. Bryon pressed on, swinging his arms faster and faster as he launched into hyper mode. He only had another block to go before he could hop on the Metro bus so he could avoid the public school bus and the ridicule attached to riding the yellow behemoth.
More importantly, he would be at a bus stop where other commuters could be his silent sentinels.
A swish of air, and then Bryon was flung forward. Rod was on a bicycle, and when he was close enough, he grabbed Bryon’s backpack and pulled.
Then Rod was past, with his close-cropped hair gleaming with rain water, his giant American flag sewn onto the back of his old Levi’s jacket, his NRA patch on one shoulder and pot leaf on the other, his legs pumping as he howled laughter. Rod looked back as he pedaled away, and shot a middle finger in Bryon’s direction.
Bryon had gotten his hands out as he’d fallen—that was instinct. He’d had his head up, but impact with the ground had never actually happened.
As he’d been tossed toward the sidewalk, a tremendously painful pinching had occurred where he’d been stung a moment before, and his back had wrenched in agony as a muscle had spasmed, and pain had ripped through his right leg all the way down to his foot. The torment had raced up his side, and it had felt like his heart had been clenched in a tight fist.
But he hadn’t struck the ground. He hadn’t torn the skin off his palms, his jacket hadn’t been soaked by the standing water, and the breath had not been knocked out of his body.
Bryon stared down at the concrete, a few inches from his face. He looked from one hand to the other, where his outstretched fingers hovered nearly half a foot off the ground. Then he looked down, and his mind was truly blown.
Bryon was floating.
AFTERWORD
I’m an indie author and I work very hard on my books. I love hearing input from readers and the best way to provide that is via a review.
When you leave a review on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, or where ever you purchased a book, it helps other readers. This also helps the author out more than you can imagine.
So please, friends, if you can spare a few minutes of your time, go and review THE FRONT: SCREAMING EAGLES on amazon.
Be honest and know that I read every review and use feedback to better my writing as well as have a positive impact on future novels.
Watch for THE FRONT: SCREAMING EAGLES from David Moody in early 2016.