by Beth Sherman
The first thing we did was buy a wire trap at Walmart. It came pre-assembled and had an easy to carry handle. We put the trap in the darkest corner of the backyard and the rush of anticipation made sleep an impossibility. But the next morning, all we’d caught was an opossum, which looked at us with wary, reproachful eyes. The kids wanted to keep him for a pet but we said no, we’ll get you a dog, a cat, a goldfish, though we never actually did.
We decided we needed something bigger, more imposing. So, we went on Amazon and spent $274.99, plus tax, on a bear trap with steel jaws. It took both of us to lug it into the woods behind our house, where we covered it with leaves and crouched behind bushes, waiting. We were concerned about the ethicality of our purchase. Those jagged teeth could cause a world of hurt. And we didn’t want to injure him. We just wanted to grab hold so he wouldn’t move, fastening our suction tentacles to his slippery body. Turns out we worried for nothing. Hours passed, our knees achy from all that crouching. Years passed and we figured Time must have gotten wind of our plan. He never showed.
We should have started earlier when the kids were babies. Only we didn’t realize it then. Diapers, spit up, mush, burps, naps, stroller walks, no sleep, no life. We thought how long will this baby phase last? How soon can we get out of it?
Change of tactics. We needed to be stealthier. Sticky traps would work, hidden around the house during the kids’ birthday parties, on Easter, Thanksgiving, the 4th of July, Christmas morning. Lugging the traps to the beach, to Disney World. We took so many pictures we used up all the available space on our cameras and had to upgrade to the Iphone 17 Pro. We pretended the sticky traps weren’t there though we saw them out of the corners of our eyes, gummy and clinging, rectangular symbols of failure.
Next, we bought some rope. It was hard to figure out how much we’d need. Three feet? Seventeen feet? The kids said, don’t be silly, we’re only going to school, to the mall, to the prom, to college. While we waited, we bought cowboy hats, made slip knots, learned how to lasso each other. We took up running, sprinting like we were training for the Olympics. Bursts of speed that left us exhausted and gasping – two fish flopping their futile tails on land. But Time was always a little bit faster, whooshing by us on the track, coming in first in every race, eluding our grabby fingers.
When the grandkids came, we thought, now we’ve got him cornered. Retired from our jobs, with fewer friends to distract us. Nothing to do, nowhere to go. Wrong! The days tumbled together, grandkids got older. Where was Time? How could we catch him now that we were so much slower? The fiend! Always one step ahead. A shadow in the park. The ghost behind the door.
In the nursing home, the aides park us in the day room. There’s pudding, chair yoga, rock painting, TV reruns. The kids visit. The grandkids visit. They bring pictures of who we used to be. In the background we see all the snares we laid, all the ways we tried to catch him. Don’t worry, he says, every day when he comes. Persistence breeds success. Sometimes he brings tulips, other times a pencil. A lovely fellow. Very polite. We worry about hurting his feelings when we ask him to leave. But he doesn’t take the hint, says let’s play one more round of Bingo.
He’s feeling lucky.
Beth Sherman is the author of the novella-in-flash, HOW TO GET THERE FROM HERE (Ad Hoc Fiction) and BRING ME HOME A SLOTH (forthcoming from Alien Buddha Press). She has had more than 300 stories published in literary journals, including Ghost Parachute, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and SmokeLong Quarterly, where she’s a Submissions Editor. Her work appears in Best Microfiction 2024 and 2026 and Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also the author of five mystery novels set on the Jersey Shore.
Featured image Tima Miroshnichenko at pexels-tima-miroshnichenko-8327950
