Red flakes fall like leaves from the body of the truck. Rust creeps relentlessly over the old metal. The flag is still bright: he replaces it with a new one as often as he can, tries to make sure the colours are vibrant, the white pure, the red still like blood and not pink.
He buys flag after flag, but the truck is still falling apart. Putting a new flag on it won’t make it run. He knows this – he has to. But he won’t accept it.
“The truck will run again soon,” he says. “It used to be able to haul a mountain and handle like a cloud.”
This is a lie – perhaps he knows this. Perhaps it’s a lie he’s told so many times it has become a memory.
The truck is stuck, engine dead, wheels unable to turn.
Deep down, he knows it will never run again.
Word Count: 150
This is for Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Mike Vore for providing the prompt photo!