The Swing




‘Where’s Jamie?’

Phil tilted his head, seeking the sound of his son’s footsteps in the empty house.

Sue turned to the estate agent, furrowing her brow.

‘He was here a moment ago!’

The agent nodded, peeking at his wristwatch.


Phil hurried from room to room. Each had ghosts – cupboards, tables and chairs draped in sheets.

Beyond the gallery lay the master bedroom. Phil peered through the bay window, his heart ticking.

The lawn was a tangle of weeds bordered by oak and Scot’s Pine.

Something moved, beneath the trees.

Phil murmured his son’s name.


Jamie stood alone.

A breeze sighed through the pine needles, lifting the swing.

Phil rested his hand on his boy’s shoulder.

The knotted ropes, green with age, screeched against tree bark.

‘A swing! Climb aboard, kiddo. I’ll push.’

Jamie glanced at his father.  ‘Maybe…’

His gaze fell to the empty seat.

‘When she’s gone,’  he whispered.


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