She wanted to touch it, that rust-caked, high rolled, weird wheel (remnant of a blown up grist mill?), sitting there like a steam punk manifesto. It had to be some misfit sculptor’s joke. A view-blocking public object, not a public work of art. Just as painting one red stripe in blood on canvas is not art. Or shouldn’t be.
Still, the belligerent structure lured her. She wanted to rub the rusted surface, watch her palm turn ochre, feel the tiny iron flakes form delicate patterns, like henna on the hands of guests to Mehndi Night before a wedding.
Written for Friday Fictioneers, a weekly flash fiction organized by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields on Addicted to Purple. This week’s photo is by Jennifer Pendergast. If you click the frog logo below, you can read everyone’s 100-word story about the image.
Word Count: 100