The Crimson Flag

A wretched crimson metal flag jutted upright on the rusted mailbox, daring to salute the morning like an insolent beacon. Disgusting optimism. I lunged at the post, hauling my boots up the rotting cedar until I seized the metal blade in both fists. Gritting my teeth with pure malice, I wrenched the flag downward, grinding the frozen rivet against flaking rust until it shrieked in agony. To ensure it never salutes again, I jammed a jagged iron washer scavenged from the weeds straight into the swivel gap. It hangs crippled and dead now. No signals of hope pass through my frontier.