Rust Red

The bicycle lay on its side, rust showing through red. It had seen rough usage in its lifetime, but nothing like this. From the mud caked on the fender to the tires bare of any tread in the middle, none of it spoke the real story.

Laying on its side, the handlebars, one pedal, and seat propping it up; a tripod of abandonment, the bicycle’s rear wheel defiantly balanced diagonally in the air; slowly spinning. The bent rim threw off the wheel’s inertia. Gravity pulled the bend down, but the broken frame wobbled and brought the bend spinning back around. Endlessly cycling, the ghost of a good long ride wailed a long metallic screech forlornly to the breeze.

It couldn’t be ridden anymore, and was left in the grass, forgotten. The end had drawn the curtain on the bicycle’s usefulness and value as a mode of transportation. The sky turned a shade of rust, paying tribute to the fallen simple machine, before darkness cloaked it in a memory.

Lights and sirens long gone, the haunting squeal spoke to no one.

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