By Tim Dadswell

I pass the familiar ‘For Sale’ sign outside our house.

I find Celia reading in bed. Her manicured nails, cream-cleansed complexion and slender body are now meant for another.

Her head turns. She scans me top to toe, spotting a hole in my sock. One corner of her mouth curls upward.

My well-rehearsed sentences shrivel into sun-dried stalks. There will be no showdown tonight.

In the spare room, it’s like I’m in a basket under a hot air balloon. My atomized words swirl overhead, out of reach.

Where are the ropes to return me to the ground?

Tim Dadswell writes “to connect with like-minded readers.”

5 thoughts on “Trapped

  1. I didn’t want to click “Like” for this…
    “Like” only describes my feeling about the piece; there are no words sufficient to adequately laud the excellence of the story-telling.


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