Wrecked Motorcycle With Barnacles and Rust
The sky was gray and rain was softly drizzling upon the beach. Above cars sped to and fro, between Charlestown and neighboring Chelsea. But here on the sand , beneath the bridge, everything seemed quiet. Time wasn’t passing. Nothing much existed other than what was in front of me. The mangled motorcycle stared back at me with shattered headlights, beneath a rusted metal hood. Someone must have driven it off the bridge above and left it to die. But it hadn’t. Barnacles were growing on its limbs, seaweed peaked out from its smashed rib cage. This thing was now more beach than bike. It was terrifyingly beatiful.