Ghost In the Tweet. (Fiction)
The cursor blinked consistently.
Kneading his hands, Marcus read the Twitter feed over again.
"Can't be..."
Silently hunched over the keyboard,
a hand propped his head, fingertips to temple.
He typed with one hand: Why won’t
you talk?
A knock at the front door made him
jump.
How did you get my account access? (Marcus)
The open window displayed the fire
escape.
"Marcus Brennon! Open this
door--now!"
~
(HinderedMag) So you write?
Yeah, have a few stories. (Marcus)
(HinderedMag) If you do all the
edits in this last story you sent, I'll consider publishing it.
Ok. I'll get right on it! :-D
(Marcus)
~
The crack in the mirror split
Marcus' face in half. The center was distorted, merging the two sides in a
Frankenstein way.
"Just wanted to be a
writer..."
Marcus turned his head slightly.
"You are a writer. You just
needed some ... inspiration."
The crack had a slight blur at the
center.
"You killed them."
The white sink held two drops of
crimson, then a third and forth. Marcus flexed his bloddy fist.
"I just needed--"
"Shut up!"
The split in the mirror exploded
into a spider crack that quickly formed to all sides of the frame. In the center
was Marcus' fist. Blood spilled in a thin line down the middle of his
reflection, splitting the two distorted sides of his face.
~
How did you make it so real?
(Marcus)
(HinderedMag) I did it. To
understand, you have to act. To write, you have to experience.
Did what? (Marcus)
(HinderedMag) You know what...
No. Tell me what, and how did you
get into my account?(Marcus)
~
"It wasn't me." Marcus
gripped the phone. "You gotta believe me."
"They have video, man--watched
you all the way home." Marcus's friend sighed. "Someone even got you
on their cell. The video's all over YouTube. It's gone viral, bro."
"I don't--but, I didn't
even--"
"Can't be on the phone with
you, man--I'm on parole. They tap your phone I'm toast..."
~
(HinderedMag) I must kill to write.
There are other ways. (Marcus)
(HinderedMag) You must do, to know.
To feel
~
Marcus looked at the screen. He'd
just finished typing: To feel.
He picked up a smartphone beside the
keyboard and began typing under his Twitter handle.
~
"I repeat, last warning. We
will break down this door. OPEN NOW!"
An explosion of splinters and metal
as the deadlock ripped the door frame.
Inside, there was nothing. No
furniture except a rickety table and a single chair. On the table was an open
laptop. Power off.
The window was propped open, a
breeze blowing in.
"Radio the guys on ground, I
want a team surrounding the perimeter! You go and assist."
"Will do!" A man with
thick bulletproof padding rushed out of the apartment.
"Sir!
The squad leader came over to the
table where a second from his team stood looking down at the laptop.
"Get a look at this."
On the screen was the Twitter name:
HinderedMag. There was a
conversation open with Marcus:
All I wanted to do was write like
you.(Marcus)
(HinderedMag) You have to find the
writing in yourself. It's there, waiting to come out.
I didn't steal them. (Marcus)
They were mine.
Do you hear me?
Hello?
I didn't kill him I dfheh
Fffft: "Boss?"
The squad leader pressed TALK on his
communicator: "Come in."
"We got 'im. Hiding in a
dumpster."
"Good work. Be right
down."
"Sir!"
The squad leader turned.
"Manuel, what d' you got?"
"Sir, look."
Hindered Magazine was typing. The
keys on the laptop depressing before their eyes.
(HinderedMag) Maybe you didn't. But
who are they going to believe? hahahahahahaha
THE END
William Marchese
Copyright
Let me know what you think. Did you
like it? Did it suck? Follow and comment below. Do you prefer this font over
Courier New? I'm doing a poll on Twitter. Let me know.
WCM
Comments