Photo by Alex Fedorenko @ Unsplash
There was a time when I was useful. I only had one family that owned me, and I felt like I belonged. They used to wash my pristine blue paintwork and till I shone. I travelled to so many destinations and was a loyal servant.
How was I repaid? As soon as I got older, I became discarded and forgotten about. Now here I am in some scrapheap just waiting for to a time when I will rust away, becoming nothing more than a stain on the ground.
Without the family needing me, the waiting makes the silence Is deafening.
I wrote this inspired by this week’s flash fiction for the purposeful practitioner and this week’s writing Wednesday.