Backpack (first draft)
Maybe he just climbed up into the tree. But the predator shriek echoes from behind.
( Heart beat thing here )
(bump bump) (bump bump)
He exits the port-a-potty. Across the parking lot lays his longboard, in the shade. On the table next to the trashcan is his backpack; 60 cents in the side pocket encased by mesh. Crickets chirp in tune with the swaying tree branches. He shields his face from the sun while crossing the parking lot. There you are, facing away from the unexpected appearance. He slows his pace as you start to write faster. The pen moves furiously across the page.
Sweat drips from his eyebrow onto the stained white shirt. He licks his lips and swats at a gnat. In his pockets is a knife. Your backpack? Probably worth more that 60 cents. You feel a push against your back. The man screams and swipes for your backpack with his other hand. You shout a scream aswell. You look up to see your backpack getting further away. The man is making a run for his 60 cents and longboard. Squirrels skitter across the branches above. You refuse to let this happen again. The last time you got robbed set you back months! Leaving the notepad and pen at the table, you spring from the bench. There is a crazed look in your eye. You grit your teeth and take a deep breath. The man has almost reached his longboard.
60 cents jingles alongside the 6 inch blade sheathed inside pocket. Not thinking, you make a grab for your backpack. The man winds up and swings it. The zippers and buttons hook into your face. Your eyebrow and lip start to feel a warm dripping of pain. The man picks his longboard up and makes a run for the street. Barely fazed in your primal state, you grab his hair. The sweat and grease shine throughout his leathery scalp. He is yanked to the ground. He cries out, brining the backpack and longboard with him. You make another grab for your backpack; but steadier this time, and you secure it from his grasp. The man pushes up from the ground. His left hand is going to his back pocket. You put the backpack on after zipping it up. The notepad and pen sit waiting at the table.
He lunges with the knife. You feel a red hot pain shoot up from your left side. And the backpack now only swings from your right side. You make a run for the table, grabbing only the notepad. The wet patch in your shirt spreads to your hips. The man has to backstep after running into the table and just missing you. You are now halfway across the lawn. A family sits at the pond feeding the ducks.
"Help! Help!" you shout. The ducks seem to get louder as they fight over the food.
"Get back here!" He demands. You feel for your car key and press the unlock button. Your backpack swings into the passenger side. And you feel the wet pain in your back once again. Your shirt becomes increasingly soaked. You slam the car door and lock it. He bangs on your window and pulls at the handle. The car hums to life. You slam your foot down after shifting into drive. Another shriek can be heard from the man. But the noise slowly fades away.
