What does freedom mean to you?

The struggle was futile, an old cobweb proving more mighty than the exhausted fly. A cat sat silent and still watching the drama unfold. Hearing the tiny creature buzzing and shaking and watching as it stopped and started again, trying to release itself from the sticky silky fibre now encapsulating it.

The sun shone through small cracks in the side of the shed, which was held up with only memories and luck. Dust particles danced in the air. The cat now sitting on the window sill much closer to the fly, watched only.

A storm the night before had forced open the rickety door, allowing the animal inside to shelter and then rudely slamming it shut behind him.

It was the first Sunday in May, a beautiful morning.The clouds had been blown away by the gentle breeze. Church bells rang out joyfully across the village green.A healthy bee buzzed, a young blackbird called out for snacks. Robin surveyed his estate.

A young girl entered the garden, seven maybe eight years old. She spotteda favourite summer dress on the washing line. It was dry now, she must remember to tell Grandma.

She tugged at the door to the shed until it opened. ‘ There you are!’ she said as the cat nonchently walked passed her, without so much as a thank you. A little squeak? Maybe a tiny one.

As the cat headed off up the garden path the girl went further inside.She could hear the buzzing at the window and stepped forward. Her hands carefully reached for the fly and then gently she relieved it from the tangle of threads.

She turned for the door, stepped outside and the fly found freedom.