The View From The Barn

March 18, 2011
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With mirrors at every corner he knew someone was there. As courageous as he was shivers adorned his spine like the early morning mist adorned the Valleys. Every twenty minutes the town clock chimed, which even he thought was strange. The early morning birds in Ferndale spoke English to him, nature was calling him to go back, but he couldn’t, not while they were there. He looked up at the clock-tower which struck 07:40 and chimed again. He turned a corner. No mirrors. Down the old cobbled street he strode, being careful to avoid the claiming patches of water as he walked. For warmth he liberated his frozen hands from the harsh cold into his pocket. A torn, damp piece of paper came into contact with his hand. He stopped. Looking over his shoulder he placed the paper towards his face as he read. Though running, the ink made out the name “Cyril Jones”. He wanted to remember but he couldn’t, his mind was as vacant as the street he had ushered himself in to, standing. Feeling a cool breeze on his neck he turned, a black car pulled up next to the lamp post at the end of the road.
Past the valley of mist he saw the blue lights in the distance emerge, his bones were now more frozen than the icicles hanging from the lamp-post above the car. He stood there, emotionless. The piece of paper liberated itself from his ghoulish hands. Three men got out of the car, each grasping their belts. “There” one of them whispered, as if to not wake the crows that rested in the old Barn. Behind them was a young woman, frail, worn and tired. She followed the three men as they slowly proceeded to emerge from the ethereal grey mist that swallowed the entire village. The man remained frozen, making no effort to escape or resist anything.
The three men and the woman became within feet from him, they stopped to take notice of the moment. One of the men placed his foot forward to move, the man then budged, but remained frozen to his position. Another car pulled up next to theirs, this time it was silver. From the moment the car pulled up he knew who they were, the chase was over. The hunter had become the hunted. Two doors of the silver car opened. As the three men tried to walk behind him, thinking he had succumbed, he freed his lips from their icy chains. The man brandished a capsule from under his tongue. The men were set aback and stopped immediately. He was circled, and immersed as the silver car produced another 2 men. He had moments to decide, confinement or sleep? As if nothing happened he cracked the small glass capsule with his molar. The men remained there, watching, not knowing what to do. He collapsed; the men remained silent. He landed on the wet cobbled road. The valley was silent. The clock-tower struck eight.





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