It was meant to be a perfect portrait, an image of a happy couple with a happy, albeit probably not perfect, life.  Nothing too glossy, too shiny, too fake, too staged of course.  That wasn’t their style.  But a happy couple who enjoyed good food, trips away and walks on the weekends and who eventually managed to get their own happy home, nothing too fancy because that wasn’t their style but compact, sunny and home.

That was the dream, that was the picture you should see before you.

But somewhere along the way things went pear-shaped.  The happy home is virtually derelict, in no small ‘helped’ there by the well-meaning advice and pushing of so-called friends who walk away once the mess is made.  The happy lifestyle has been hit by illness, loss and recession and the burden of a falling apart house.  The happy couple wracked by the pain of loss and illness, burdened by a falling apart house.

There are too many cracks.  It seems a miracle that the fragments are holding together, somehow.  And some days I wonder how much longer that will last.


I'd love to know what you think, concrit is especially welcomed on fiction pieces. Thank you.

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