“Is this your story?” She asked placing the manuscript on the coffee table and lighting her cigarette. “Does it matter?” He said looking out of the patio, sipping his whiskey. “Maybe. Maybe not. Question is, why are you afraid of confessing the truth?” She said with a mocking smile. “You have always been one nasty little bitch.” he said taking the cigarette from her and smoking a puff. “Yup when it comes to you, I am. Don’t change the topic.” “Oh come on.” He said grunting and shifting in his chair. “So, it is your story then.” She said taking the cigarette back. “Don’t you know by now, that we writers are scavengers. We feed off of our emotions and others alike. Every story we write has a glimpse of our soul.” he said making dramatic gestures. “No no no no, don’t give me your writer’s BS. What if she reads it?” She said shaking her head. “Hmmm” he hummed staring at the sunset on the highway. His apartment was on 22nd floor, with the view of freewa...
There is an inner self to everyone. You might speak, speak a lot; but yet there would be so many things unsaid, so many thoughts not shared, so many emotions hidden; well, here I am - where my silence speaks...