Finally Writing Again

Time to write!

"You were right," said the old man, leaning back in his chair, his hands folded in his lap. "We were there." His slow, lazy voice and half closed eyes made me feel like he thought this was the most casual conversation in the world.

I didn't know how to answer. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, my wrists tied together behind my back with a zip tie which dug into my skin.

I wish I'd read that full "How To Escape From a Zip Tie" link I'd seen on the internet back at school.

"If you promise not to tell," the old man continued. "We might tell you about it."

"Harold!" whispered the old woman sharply - I assumed she was his wife. She looked at me with distrustful eyes. They had caught me in their cornfield last night. I'd followed them after I realized they looked an awful lot like the people from the background of that picture on the front page of the newspaper.

There had been a massive bombing. New York's remains were plastered all over the papers, and in almost every single picture of the wreckage, there was an old man and an old woman - dead ringers for my captives.