The Silver Dream Machine

This is a piece adapted from a flash fiction entry for Flash!Friday.  When I re-read it, it sounded more like a piece of free verse.  My writing group agreed.

I once was that must have,
the absolute latest in automotive technology.
The silver, dream machine.
I rolled off the production line,
to pride of place in the polished glass show room.
I was centre stage, taking all the plaudits.
I was admired and coveted.
I was washed and waxed, driven with pride.
I carried hopes and aspirations to the working city,
the weekly shop and elegant frocks on special nights out.
I carried precious new babies, safe within my cage of steel.
I laboured on long journeys,
packed with luggage and excited children for holidays by the sea.
Fish and chips on the back seat watching the rain run down my windows.
I kept them cosy, warm and dry.
Another took pride of place, cosseted and adored.
My duties the school run, rubbish to the tip and driving lessons.
Then a new life of teenage parties,
too fast through corners, the odd dent and scrape.
The stories I could tell of young love, of tears and euphoria.
Finally, too old to repair a play thing for grandchildren,
the setting for so many imagined adventures.
But now even that is past,
too dangerous, missing windscreen, torn seats, rust and exposed wires.
A family of mice are my companions these days,
not much for conversation,
At least they appreciate what I still have to offer.

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

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