The rusty cart trundled the long roads between scattered villages, weaving its way through the towering, white-capped mountains and valleys filled with the wavering tips of evergreen trees. Its driver was a weather-beaten man, his skin furrowed by deep scars, his brow heavy as iron. For years he had transported the contents of his cart: mighty timbers, narrow beams, splintered planks.
In the wooded mountains, they were garbage, thrown aside without regard. He could not sell there, but he could buy – buy for a couple tin pennies, fingernail-thin.
“Why buy such trash?” the villagers would ask. “A woodsman could get better in a day. You’ll never sell it.”
He did not listen to them. He drove his cart on, over the rising mountains, until white snow and grey stone gave way to a sea of barren beige, where the wind scattered sand over empty skies.
There, his wood sold.
Word Count: 149
This is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Yinglan for providing the prompt photo!