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Wednesday, 3 November 2010


"You'll never amount to anything. You realize that don't you?" The masked figure wearing the blue pinstriped suit spoke.

"You try hard, maybe one day you will get the break you need, but lets face it, the chances are slim." The second spoke. He was dressed in casual clothing, but wore an identical sack-cloth mask which covered his whole face. There were no slits for eye holes, or through which to breath. The material was dirty and greasy yet neither of his two kidnappers appeared to be bothered by it.

"I....." Martin Newchurch tried to speak, but found he didn't have the words to hand.

"No, he doesn't try hard at all. He thinks he does? But come on, look at him, there isnt any real talent there. He's just a hack, thinks he is a writer, calls himself one because he posts on a blog every now and then. You make me sick." The suited mask leant in close. He stunk of aftershave.

Martin's heart was pounding, he looked around but he was shrouded in darkness. He couldn't remember how he got there.

"No, you do try, don't you. You dedicate every second to writing. Ok, maybe we could do more to get your name out there, but hey, if you have talent someone will find out." The casual kidnapper spoke, his tone softer, yet his words far more haunting.

"Don't be stupid. You think he has talent. Come on. Get real. Wake up and stop living in a dream world. It's never going to happen. God!" The suit yelled, his words were filled with rage, and passion behind that, urging it on.

"Why stop, just keep trying. If you are lucky one day it will happen, you have to make sacrifices." Jeans and t-shirt mask spoke, it was his turn to lean in close now.

"I don't know. Be quiet, I have a headache. Please don't talk so loud." Martin whispered. His mouth was dry, his voice mousy.

The two masked men started to laugh, their voices oddly harmonized. They started to spreak again, one voice was threatening and angry, one full of self loathing and uncertainty. The tone of their words was clear, but the were talking over one another and quicker and quicker to the point that the words themselves were nothing but a blur of white noise. It rang in Martin's ears, his eyes started to water. He clamped his eyes shut, gritted his teeth and begged them to stop.

"Stop it. Please stop." He yelled over the onslaught of their words.

They stopped on his command.

He opened his eyes. They both stood before him, staring blankly, the masks gone. The faces that stared back at him were instantly recognizable for they were . . . . Him.

He closed his eyes to blink, felt a warm wind rush over him and when he opened them again, the men, the two clones of himself were gone. Yet their voices echoed in his ears.

As he fell, Martin spun around, turning to look up at the ledge upon which he had just been standing. The ground hurtled towards him and he smiled, for he knew that silence was not far away.

1 comment:

Ranee Dillon said...

Ahh, that voice inside a writer's head that haunts him. I know it well. Your twisted tales continue to evolve, now moving toward self-discovery. I didn't expect the ending, but that is something I look for in your work. Very nice free writing.