He hung there like a wet towel.  All droopy, damp and depressed. If he got the chance he was going to speak up.  It was about time they heard what he had to say. The places he had been, the things he had been asked to do.  But he couldn’t speak up.  He couldn’t talk, because he was a towel.  A sad little damp disgusting towel.

Towel rack © by michaelfranks6