It was a sad day when It died.
They gathered around the carcass. Inert now that the spark of life had left.
It looked abandoned. It looked suddenly old and unintelligent. Younglings who had tiptoed by its parking, suddenly sped by in wheeled exuberance, impervious to the loss.
It was the way it was, perhaps.
The way of time.
Still the closest friends held a sort of vigil. They hummed a monotone of song, in memory of speed’s potential and of what could no longer be ignited.
Then they left. To let It be. Disjointed. Parted. Never to move on.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Ted Strutz