I need feedback on this story, so please post opinions! This story is called ' Clash of WWII."
I walked across the street to the general store. It was three days after the sinking of the Benwood. I was in the Florida Keys, some islands off the coast of Florida, and I would be staying there for several more days while they searched for another boat for me to accommodate. But for the meantime, I would stay in a small brick house at the edge of town until the ship arrived, so I had 2 or 3 days off because of the boat's journey soon to be across the ocean to get to Key Largo. I was remembering the incident of the shipwreck when I turned a corner, and there it was.
The General Store was a brick building with a wooden sign boldly displaying “Bryan's General Store” in big, bold letters. I went inside and swung the door closed behind me. A big room with shelves 3 feet apart filled with things from clothes to decoration to food items. A sketchy-looking man with red hair and a red beard stood behind the counter, looking at me. He usually looked sketchy, so I tried to ignore my suspicious feelings by running by hands on a silk waistcoat hung on a nearby clothing rack.
“Can I help you with something?” the man said in a deep, gruff voice. I hesitated. I turned to look like him, and sure enough, his appearance didn't look right either. His shoulders were wide and he was built like an ox, but the last man who was here was skinny and built like a toothpick. This man had a short, bibulous nose, but the man who was here before had a long, sharp nose. This man's eyes were brown, but the last man's eyes were a light sky blue. The last man had no beard, and his hair was brown. Why didn't I notice it before? I pushed my thoughts to the side and spoke to the man at the counter.
“Um...I would like to know where the tool isle is, please.” I tried to keep my voice casual. He looked at me with a bit of interest, but then he shook his head in dismissal.
“Just this way, please.” He gestured for me to follow him down to an isle. When we reached the tools isle, he suddenly grabbed my sailor's shirt and pulled it to his chest so that I was staring at his face. I struggled to free myself, but he held tight to my shirt. When he spoke, his voice sounded angry and threatening, like I had kicked one of his favorite cats.
“How did you survive the wreck of the Benwood? The faster you talk, the faster you stay alive.” His breath was acrid, like he had eaten a box of onions, and it smelled so awful it made me choke with disgust and loss of air. But I managed to choke out a few words of effort.
“I'll...never...tell...you.”I gasped. His face contorted with anger, and he tightened his grip on my shirt, cutting off my air supply. I started to make huffs of effort to breathe in air. “Answer me!” the man yelled. “How did you survive?!”
“I...told...you. I...won't...tell...you.” The man's eyes blazed with cold fire, and he let go of my shirt, leaving me gasping on the ground. I felt his fist punch my stomach, and the blow knocked the air out of me. His second punch hit me in the face. Then his fist swung back a third time and prepared to punch my chest.
I noticed it at the last second and rolled aside. His fist barely grazed my backbone and instead of hitting it, missed and hit a shelf of china. It fell over and shattered on the ground, and one glass shard sliced his middle finger. More glass crashed down on me and cut through my shirt into my skin. I felt like a tiger clawed me repeatedly, and my shirt was torn.
He yelled with agony and rage and prepared to punch me again. But this time, I was ready. Adrenaline was coursing through me like acid as I dodged the punch and his fist hit a shelf of shovels. I caught one and jammed the butt of the tool into his stomach. He coughed with air loss, and taking my chance, swung the end of the shovel to the back of his head. There was a loud “PANG!” and the man's brown eyes went wide. He crumpled to the floor and lay still, apparently knocked out. I was about to leave when my whole body started aching. Wounded and bleeding, with a couple of bruises and a torn-up shirt, I dropped the shovel and limped out of the shop and to the police station.
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